What Do You Do With a Broken Brain? Part I

Forget all about asking what do you do with a drunken sailor and consider what one is supposed to do with a broken brain that hides its secrets from CT Scans and MRIs. Having no visual cues, Neurologists must depend first upon what the patient describes as symptoms and then secondly on what symptoms present themselves through various tests. I find it all tremendously fascinating.
The Neurologist impressed me from the beginning.
I told him my symptoms; he told me exactly what other symptoms I had and gave me a general outline of what was wrong with my head. In addition to knowing these things by seeming supernatural ability, he also told me a few things about my past with all the confidence and  genius one might attribute to Sherlock Holmes.
He told me that I was born early and probably didn't really catch up developmentally until after the first or second grade.
I know I must have been staring at him. I said, "As a matter of fact, I was born three months early, and I repeated first grade."
"But you've got a high IQ so your grades didn't suffer after that."
Well, give credit where credit is due and all. This guy must be a genius to identify my genius.  "I was good in school unless it was a math-related subject. Science I got Bs in without even studying, but in everything else I got As."
"Your GPA?"
"I think 3.6."
He sat back cooly and observed, "It would have been higher if your family life weren't so strained."
Seemed like quite the risky and tactless assertion to make, but as I've always thought that was the case myself, I didn't argue with him.
"What about when you were in college?"
"About the same. It was a 4.0 until I took that crazy History and Construction of the English Language course. And then recently I'm working on my Master's Degree in Curriculum Design and Evaluation with a reading endorsement, and some special education credits so that I can work well in integrated classrooms."
He made a note and remarked, "Your IQ is probably around 125, 130 --" He got out a list and a sliding scale kind of protractor and then added slowly "We'll give you some leeway and say... about 125..."
He sat back again and explained, "Women are smarter than men. It's a proven fact. Girls, for instance, when born early, almost always bounce back by first or second grade, whereas the males of the species generally take until they're about fourteen or fifteen years old to catch up. For you, being a woman, and being highly intelligent anyway, it should be a lot easier for your brain to repair itself over time."
I was tickled both to be called highly intelligent and to be told that women are smarter than men. Just as I have always suspected. Ha ha
I asked him to elaborate on that point, and he readily did so. He said that whereas men have a sort of credit card-thin slot in their brains that hold their memories and accept them "Ka-chunk! Ka-chunk! Ka-chunk!" one at a time and of the same general variety, women, on the other hand, have an entire War and Peace novel up there with many pages, many different kinds of slots, and many different types of memory including all the sensory details, ambiance, feelings and reactions in minute detail. Additionally, there is a thin wall through which thoughts pass in a man's brain from side to side, whereas a woman's middle wall is so thick that their thoughts have to travel around and around the brain in order to make their connections.

"So you're saying that all women think in circles?"
"No, I'm saying that all women's thoughts encompass the entire length, width and mass of their minds, and that is why, if you tell your husband or boyfriend out of the blue that you just had a thought the other day about how the blue rug in the dining room was the perfect illustration of what you were saying about that issue in the kitchen, he is going to respond by saying 'Huh?! What does the blue carpet have to do with... what?!' Not because he wasn't listening to you or doesn't care, but because he literally does not have any idea what you're talking about...I really ought to write a book one of these days. I'm sure it would be a best seller."
I can't tell you how highly amused I was. All I can say for sure is that I would certainly buy that book, and share it with as many people as possible.

"How's your balance lately?" He asked next.
"Um, fine?"
He cocked his head and gazed at me thoughtfully for a few moments and then said, "Come over here to this empty corner with me, please."
 I did.
"Now, stand in the corner with your hands on your hips and your elbows against each wall, facing your body toward me."
I did. Obviously he was about to test my balance somehow.
"Okay, now put one foot directly in front of the other, like you are on a tightrope."
I did. Ta dah!
"Now try doing it with your eyes closed."
My elbows kept bumping each wall as I struggled to stand in place.
When I opened my eyes, the Neurologist was writing on his stenopad and saying "Thirteen... All right, now balance yourself on one foot."
Easy. Again, "Ta dah!"
He smirked at me. "Now with your eyes closed, please."
I nearly pitched forward on my face.
We went back and sat at the table.
"Did your family often note or tease you for being uncoordinated?"
Damn. The man was psychic.
He sat back and crossed his arms. "What about your other concussions?"
"What other concussions?"
"How many other head injuries have you sustained in your lifetime?"
"None that I remember."
"Then how many other accidents have you been in where you lost consciousness? I'm guessing at least one other time."
Suddenly I remembered that roll-over accident I had a year or two before the divorce, when the kids were in the car with me. We'd landed upside down, but I had had no idea that this was the case until I unbuckled my seat belt and fell into a foot of water and had to crawl along the broken windshield to make my way back to my terrified children and get them out of there. Chris had been really mad at me for nearly getting us killed and wouldn't hear of going to a hospital because none of us were bleeding (although later it turned out to be his fault the van broke and went out of control), but I remembered just then that I couldn't remember what happened from the moment the van tipped into the ditch and the moment I found myself sitting buckled into my seat, confused and entirely unaware of how we'd ended up tipped over. Most likely my confusion was due to some loss of consciousness.
"ANY loss of consciousness in any kind of accident is due to concussion," the Neurologist explained. He plucked a kleenex from a box on the table and held it out to me. I took it hesitantly, wondering what he was offering it to me for. Did he somehow know that I was going to sneeze within the next couple of moments?
"Take each end of that kleenex and pull in opposite directions a little bit."
I did as I was told, watching the tissue flex against the slight force from my fingertips.
"Your brain has a certain amount of 'give' to it; it can handle a stretch here and there. Now rip a couple of small vertical lines into it and flex it a little again."
I did. The kleenex still held, but it flexed out a little further than before.
"The more concussions or damage your brain undergoes, the more it loses its ability to bounce back and
recover itself. That's why it's so strongly recommended that people do everything possible to avoid hitting their head again during the first year after an accident. And, in your case --" He held out his hand for the kleenex and peeled the two layers apart, then handed one of them back to me. "--because you've got PTSD, there's a part of your brain that isn't working quite as well to begin with, and it's been that way since birth."
I had never told him that I had PTSD, and he had never to my knowledge had access to my mental health records. I would have had to have signed a release form and been asked permission for him to do that.
He explained that several of my symptoms, combined with my medical history, pointed strongly toward the condition because the part of the brain that affects speech and coordination is also the part of the brain that regulates memory, and fear. Having been born prematurely, I had a greater chance than most to have developed PTSD in my lifetime, particularly since no one is ever born that early without some kind of trauma taking place, and PTSD is born and raised in the undeveloped brain that cannot easily process trauma. My sensitivity to light and noise that I only started noticing since I had one of my first flashback experiences is  a symptom of PTSD which, consequently, meant that working as a telemarketer at a computer screen under blinking florescent bulbs for eight hour shifts had no doubt exaggerated my symptoms, as had the job I held at the factory two summers ago. Additionally, I've been in two accidents that involved concussion, and my most recent one was obviously a double concussion based on the number of times my vehicle had been struck. "Your brain cannot simply snap back like a rubber band every time that area gets injured. It works more like that one ply of tissue paper with the vertical rips in it. However, this kind of damage is not necessarily irreversible. With proper tests to determine exactly which parts of your brain have been injured, and proper rest to your brain to prevent further neurological stress, we will be able to develop a treatment plan to help you heal and adjust to your brain's altered condition."

So maybe the neurologist isn't Sherlock Holmes, but he certainly conveys a sense of knowing what he's talking about and helping me figure out what's going on in my head. He's an MD in Neurosurgery, a Doctorate in Neuroscience and a Doctorate in Neuropsychology. He says that in his day all Neurosurgeons also had to have a Doctorate in Neuropsychology, because the two were considered so closely related.
Next time I post, I might talk a little about the tests. Again, a very fascinating process to me, so much so that I sometimes forget that my life is hanging up in the air waiting for the results. I've had three test dates so far, and I'm waiting for the final one that's scheduled for a month out from now. If I don't come out of this any better neurologically, I will certainly emerge with more personal insight and patience.

A Word on Neurological Integrity

Every week I go to Lansing for tests to determine the extent to which my brain is damaged.
As the weeks and months go by, I feel better and better. I can do so much more, so long as I don't get overtired. And I don't get tired as quickly, but when I do I definitely know it; it makes me feel nauseous and dizzy, and I get "ping-pong eyes" again.
Once a week, though, I pretty much have to go in for those tests, and also therapy for the PTSD and other issues plaguing me. On those days, I am a stumbling, babbling idiot by the end of the day. Reality lands on me like a piano and I forget which side of the car is the driver's side, or I forget the difference between a lion and a tiger. On those days, I don't tell myself "Why am I wasting so much time at the neurologist's office taking all these tests when I feel fine? Are they just telling me something's wrong with me for the money, or to meet the requirements for insurance coverage?....um, what color is a stop-sign again?"
The funny thing is, though, that the part of my brain that's supposed to regulate and inform me of how well I'm doing is one of the parts of my brain that's damaged. Now doesn't that sound like a handy diagnosis to give someone who has a brain injury? "Oh, your brain is in denial. It says you're fine, but you really aren't."
But again, my brain is obviously addled on long days.

Brain Matters

Four weeks since the accident, my symptoms were dawning on me as severe and somewhat frightening. There were some increasingly scary symptoms that were driving me crazy with frustration.

1. My eyes were frequently dilated. (This is actually still an issue three months later.)
2. I had vertigo, and I still get really dizzy if I stand up quickly.
3. Sometimes I slur words.
4. Sometimes I forget words.
5. Sometimes I would forget what I'd just said and repeat it.
6. I still forget what I'm saying in the middle of saying it and have to stop or change the subject.
7. Sometimes I'll switch a word for a word that rhymes with it, but doesn't mean the same thing, like "kite" for "fight."
8. I often had a kind of stutter when I used any kind of alliteration in a sentence, like "the b-big buh-all. Ball."
9. Headaches every day, but in different areas. Today felt like a drill in the back, while yesterday it was a dull ache up front, and the day before as if the drilling was going into my right eye socket.
10. An intermittent nauseous feeling 
11. I kept repeating  things people say to me, especially if they were plans or directions, explanations, as if I was confirming that I understood them correctly, even though I think I did. The Neurologist later said that my brain was overcompensating and trying to memorize those types of communication because it identifies them as a type of list and thinks that if it repeats and studies the words it will remember or re-learn them. It was involuntary, and once I started I felt bound to finish sounding the words or idea out.
I had to learn how to do less, trying to let my brain rest as the neurologist recommended. I prayed. I stayed in bed longer. I soaked in the tub for awhile. I resorted to meditation. I painted my nails.
One  afternoon I was so restless that my sister took me shopping with her. The whole experience turned out to be frustrating and gradually scary for me because I couldn't seem to convey my thoughts into speech as quickly or correctly as I'm used to. At one point I was trying to tell  my sister something about my teeth, but after three tries all I could do instead was repeat the word "feet."
In another instance, she asked me to get a sales associate to help her ring up purple carrots (first I'd ever heard of them). I meant to go to this woman and say "My sister needs help ringing something up in (whatever lane it was)," but instead I said "Hey! This lady over here? The one with the red hair? She needs help. I don't know why --I can't remember her name." 
And then I felt my face get hot because I was embarrassed to have said that when of course I know my own sister's name, but it just popped out all wrong like that.
Part of my problems were caused by trying to do too much, but it was so wonderful  to see my kids again over their spring break, and physically I felt good other than tiring easily. It made me forget. 
And If the kids and I miss a weekend, that eats up two whole weeks. I hate that.
The other problem, of course, is that I need to get so much more done than what I've been able to do. I have to put my Master's Degree on hold, but there's lots of simple things that feel harder now. As people say, the love and support of my family is helping me get through this strange experience. Certainly wouldn't be the only strange experience I've ever had.
Conveying ideas is such a critical element of my personal and professional life that I keep telling everyone and myself that I'm doing better, while my sister says I'm "still junk" at ordinary conversation and haven't really improved at all... 

Three months ago I was just getting worse from simply doing things that I always do, but my perception of my progress was, and is still, distorted.
Forced rest and relaxation. Limited reading, Internet or TV (screen time in general).
 I did all those things a lot because I felt fine.Then I would feel foggy and like I had motion-sickness. I got a prescription for that, but it makes me very sleepy.
At this point I still will get dizzy and nauseous if I'm out and about too much.
My primary care physician referred me to a neurologist and scheduled an MRI, but closed-injury traumatic brain injury doesn't necessarily show up on an MRI, and mine didn't.
But my brain was addled, all right. 
Both Jane Austin and Cervantes wrote in jest that too much reading of books causes severe mental strain. In all seriousness, my condition frightened me because of my love of communication. Writing, reading, teaching, painting and public speaking have always been my passions.
I'm now officially off work for a minimum of three months.
I'm not supposed to go to a big grocery store like I did with my sister that day because my brain is unable to filter out all the noise, light and activity. 
Although I had a recent crisis of faith, I can't help but note that God is known for taking things that seem ugly and broken and makes them beautiful all the time.

The Neurologist prefers I stay in my own home with a set routine. I have to stop and sleep frequently throughout the day. I'm seldom up more than eight hours, and seldom all in one stretch, which the Neurologist says is good. All that I'm permitted to do during my waking hours would be

1. Chores, unless I become tired.
2. Walks, until I become tired.
3. Painting, drawing, or crafts, until I become tired.
4. Audio books, until...

And that is it.

Getting work compensation through the insurance company is naturally taking a great deal of time to arrange.
Now that I'm sleeping so much, my symptoms are much less pronounced. At one point I couldn't even carry on a conversation. And the Neurologist says that, based on my IQ, I have a higher than average chance of recovery. Ha! My family has teased me for years for being an airhead, but now I' ve got validation from a guy with three doctorate degrees related to brain research that I'm a pretty smart cookie!

You know, one of the things that frustrates me is that the accident was like a Pause Button on my life, and it didn't stop the movie in a good spot. I was right in the middle of trying to circle my wagons until I had enough energy and resources to get out of the wilderness. The plan was to work at the Cancer Society to pay the bills while I was looking for better work. Now I'm stuck in some kind of ravine when really all I wanted was to climb out and try to spot a safe place to settle.
I was willing to put in the necessary work. I've never been ashamed of honest work, but I was trying to switch up my game plan so I could find some way to work smarter instead of harder. Because clearly what I've been doing up until now hasn't been working for me.
But it almost did. I was substituting in every school and earning long-term sub jobs that were likely to develop into permanent positions. Just a couple years ago I was at the top of my game, subbing full-time at a teacher's salary, getting my kids every weekend and all the holidays,eating healthy, running and working out regularly, making great progress in counseling, in a play, and making headway painting and working on my novels. I've been trying to get back to that place, but I'm wondering if that's even a realistic goal right now. I heard they laid off 18 teachers in St Johns recently.

Here I am, tending the fire and looking up at the stars, wondering how to make my life work out. All I know is that quitters never prosper, so I plan and I wait and I try one day at a time, sometimes even just a moment at a time.
I was in the crisis unit because I was unhappy with my life. It was a terrible choice I was considering. It took me a couple of weeks to convince myself that I was capable of making a successful alternative choice. And the choice sounds easy enough: I'm taking on the responsibility for my own life. I'll change what I can and then learn to accept the rest. "My life didn't happen the way I wanted it to" is an incorrect past-tense on circumstances I still have power to alter. I've heard it phrased that we will continue to encounter the same messages over and over until we learn them.
Maybe the accident was a check-engine light instead, an opportunity to focus on things under the hood that need fixing. I can get my brain back in order in more ways than one, and I can paint like a fiend to express myself until I'm allowed more time on the computer. Painting is damn good therapy.

 Here are some positive things about my brain injury:

1. Time to process and sort out my priorities.
2. An opportunity to practice Mindfulness, to focus on one thing at a time.
3. Quality time with my kids.
4. Appreciation of simple pleasures
5. Time to practice meditation.
6. An opportunity to seek better employment.
7. The possibility of getting help with the PTSD.
8. Learning to love myself for who I am instead of how "productive" I am.
9. Practicing coping skills
10. Getting to focus on my painting
11. Realizing once again that If I can't control all the circumstances in my life, I can at least learn to take charge of how I choose to perceive those circumstances.

The brain is so beautifully complex that doctors and scientists have only a basic idea of how it

functions. As it turns out, this type of injury doesn't show up on ct scans or MRIs, and isn't repaired through any surgery. The brain repairs itself only as we Sleep. It's like God slips in as we sleep and tidies up, sweeping bits of images into our dreams and gently working all the wrinkles out of our jumbled everyday thoughts. How is it that I have such trouble saying "fork," or even remembering the word fork sometimes? Why do these problems come and go, and why are some days so much easier than others? How is it that I get confused trying to do or say simple things, but I still can communicate so well in writing? Only God knows, and He will heal me in His way and in His time, but meantime I have to admit it feels like an awfully long (and often frustrating) wait. I keep doing too much when I'm feeling good and then suffering the consequences later. For example, I've more than used up my limit for writing and "screen time" for the day, so I will stop now, but I will continue to pass along thoughts and inspiration as it comes to me.

The Car Accident

It happened three months ago, and it pressed the "Pause" Button on my Life.

I was out running errands when apparently I ran a red light.

I do remember part of it: I remember seeing the light turn red just as I was passing through it, and I remember a black car rapidly approaching on the right.

I had that "Oh, fuck!" moment where I realized that I was not going to be able to avoid impact, and squeezed my eyes shut as I heard the screech of metal on metal. I think I felt the impact, but everything else drifted as my consciousness swept it all from view.

An older woman with white hair and large brown eyes was tapping on the window.

I stared at her for a moment and then pressed the window control. As it was scrolling down, I thought, "Why is she tapping on my window? My car is still running. I must have stopped for some reason..." My foot wasn't on the brake.

I looked at the dashboard.

The car wasn't in park.

The engine was running, though, and I wasn't going anywhere.

"Did anyone call 911?" the lady out my window asked.

I stared at her.

It felt like some kind of test.

"No?" I suggested.

I looked around.

I seemed to be sitting at an angle, right in the intersection.

Oh.

That's right.

This is an accident.

I ran the light at the four-way stop.

Right?

Maybe the lady was the person who hit me.

She went back to a black truck.

She apparently was calling 911.

The sky was cloudy but there was no rain yet. I left my window open so that I wouldn't have to roll it down again when the police came.

Wait.

It was a black car that hit me.

Where was the car?

I looked to the right, the direction I remembered the car coming from. 

The entire right side of my car was smashed inward, air bags deployed and seeming to make a hissing sound. Or was that my engine? The radiator?

I looked over my shoulder toward the back right, trying to see the other car, but then I saw the busted out back window and the smattering of hexagon bits of glass overlaying everything. 

I saw my  right red blinker pressed up against the back of my car. It seemed that my trunk had somehow folded back and broken the window...

I picked up my purse which miraculously was still sitting in the passenger seat and pulled out my cell phone to text my boyfriend and my sister and her husband: "I've been in an accident!"

"M'am?" 

There was a police officer bending toward me and peering through my open window. 

I pressed the "Home" button on my phone and shoved it back into the purse.

I put the purse back on the passenger seat.

He asked if I was all right.

"Yes?"

He seemed dissatisfied with this answer, because then he asked, "Do you know where you're at? Do you know what's happened?"

"Uh, in my car? There was an accident... It was my fault. I ran the light..."

"Do you know your name?"

I stared at him. Why was he asking me that?

He held up two fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two?"

"Do you know what day it is?"

I considered this question for a moment, then said slowly, "It's Wednesday."

"M'am, there's going to be an ambulance here soon. Just wait for a few more minutes, and we'll get you some help." He took out a little notebook and scribbled something on a sheet of paper. Handing me the paper, he added "Put this somewhere where you can find it again later. How about your purse?"

He nodded at the passenger seat where I'd left my purse.

It seemed funny that it was still sitting there when everything else was so out of place. I opened the front pocket and slipped the piece of paper inside.

I waited, just as the officer said.

Soon there was an EMT peering in through the open window frame. "Ma'am? Are you all right?"

There it was again.

"I guess so...I think I am."

"Can you tell me your name?"

Oooh! Oooh! Wait a minute... I know this one!

Um...

"Heather...Hockin?"

"Do you know what day this is?"

Oh, what a relief! I knew this one; I'd just answered it a moment ago...

"Wednesday?"

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two!"

Oh, wait. 

Wait, that was the other guy...

"Three."

"Ma'am, you've been in an accident. Would you like to be taken to the hospital?"

All I could think about was the time my ex thought he was having a heart attack and called the ambulance, and then found out that it was just an anxiety attack, only now he owed a huge bill for the ambulance ride.

"Um, I guess so? Do you think I need to go to a hospital?"

"You've been in an accident, ma'am. I would recommend that you go to the hospital to make sure you're not seriously injured, but I need to know if it's all right with you that we take you to the hospital. Would you like us to take you to the hospital to get yourself checked out for injuries?"

I hesitated.

I didn't want to owe a huge hospital bill.

I didn't think I was hurt.

But the EMT seemed to think it was a good idea.

I glanced over at the air bags dangling down on the right, quivering in the breeze from my open window and the broken window in the back. 

"Okay. You can take me to the hospital."

They had me open my door and then they rolled me onto a stretcher. I remember seeing the faces of the EMTs silhouetted by the clouds in the sky, and little drops of rain falling onto my face as they encased me in a neck brace. I tried to roll my eyes back toward where the other car must be surely sitting, but they hoisted me up and carried me to the ambulance.

Inside I had one EMT on either side of my body. One was putting in an IV while the other was holding my arm and checking my pulse and blood pressure.

"Ma'am, do you know what your name is?"

For some reason that question was getting harder to answer every time someone asked it.

I waited for the answer to float back up from the murky depths of my Magic 8-Ball brain.

"Heather."

"And your last name?"

Shit.

Okay, just a minute...

"Hockin..."

I remember being taken out of the ambulance and rushed across a parking area. I knew it was a parking area because of the grey cement ceiling and then the sensation of stepping into an elevator and going up. We were inside the hospital, and when it opened into the hallway I saw that same confusion of passing under ceiling tiles and florescent lights that they show in the movies when someone's had an accident and are being pushed through the halls toward the Emergency ward. 

Then I was in a room with machines and lots of people, all speaking Hospital Language more quickly than I could catch most of the words.

There was a woman in a breath mask and dark blue scrubs talking to me. I could see her great green eyes and the freckles on her nose, and wisps of blonde-highlighted hair. "Ma'am, can you give us your name?"

It came in really slowly this time. 

I kept feeling as if I was getting a pop-quiz on some kind of test that I hadn't studied for.

Why did they think I had the answers?

"...Heather?"

I waited to see if I was right.

Then I remembered that I was the only one who knew the answer.

"Hockin?"

"Heather, we're going to check you for injuries now..."

I don't remember what else she said after that. The room seemed dim and the voices and shapes of people were like ghosts to me because I couldn't turn my head and see who or what any of them belonged to. 

At some point I was wheeled into some other room and rolled onto another stretcher. A table, I guess. Some of the people would talk to me, and some of them didn't. 

"Heather, we're going to do a CAT Scan on you now. Try to hold still. It will only take a couple of moments."

"She's got on a sports bra."

"Good. She can keep that on."

"Woah! It looks like she wet her pants."

That last voice felt too far away for me to be mortified over it.

They wheeled me down another hallway and into another room, brighter than the one I'd just been in, and then rolled me onto a bed and left me lying there staring at the ceiling. By this time I could feel that my pants were wet. I wondered how long they would leave me lying like that in my wet underwear.

Eventually doctors and nurses drifted in and out to check on me.

A male nurse in dark blue scrubs came in and said, "Good news! You don't have any injuries on your body, and your brain isn't bleeding out or swelling. You've probably got a little concussion there, but other than that you're good to go. If you lift up your head, I can take that neck brace off you now."

He reminded me of Tony Danza for some reason. Maybe it was his voice, or maybe his kind of dumb cheerfulness. 

It hurt so badly when I tried to move my neck that immediately I rested it back against the bed again.

"You're okay, ma'am; you're just a little sore. You can do it. Give it another try."

This time I got it up, but I was relieved when the brace was gone and I could lay flat against the elevated bed a little bit. I was suddenly really embarrassed about my soiled pants. "Can I get some clean clothes?"

He had either just offered me a hospital gown or had been just about to. He left and came back with a shirt and pants that matched the curtains around the bed, and then directed me to the bathroom. I moved slowly as he advised, and dressed slowly in the bathroom. When I came back out, he was gone.

I waited.

A man from a church came in and asked vaguely if he could do anything for me. I asked if he could get my purse off the counter for me so that I could find my phone and call my family. "Is it okay if I use my cell phone in here?"

"I don't really know," the man said with a smile, "If they say anything, just blame me for it."

He was a nice guy. He said he'd check back in on me later and left me to my phone call.

I got my sister on the phone. She'd gotten my message but then because I hadn't given any details she had nervously began her daughters' baths as she waited to hear further from me. Once she knew where I was at, she got the girls dressed and drove to the hospital.

The doctor told us that I had no injuries but did have a mild concussion, and that I would need to rest for a few days, and to follow up with my family doctor. 

When Thea tried to ask me about what had happened, I didn't remember. 

The doctor said that it was normal not to have any memory of what happened immediately before, during, or after an accident.

He hadn't seemed to notice that I don't do normal.

Death's Waiting Room

Eight months ago my PTSD got the better of me and I ended up waiting it out in a crisis unit for the new therapy and medications to kick in.
I spent my days waiting.
Waiting to die.
Waiting to live.
Waiting until I made up my mind.
While I waited, I did what I always do when I'm distressed: I wrote.
I didn't share this information with anyone but family and three close friends because I was afraid of being judged or looking bad. There is such a stigma surrounding mental health in this country.
I want to share my experience because I want other people who can relate to read it and get help, or at least feel like they aren't alone. I mean, I've got the handy excuse that I'm an artist and a writer, and that we are supposed to be just a little bit crazy, but what about everyone else?

After this, I will be doing a series on Dialectical Behavioral Theory, the therapy that is helping me to improve the quality of my life.

October 2013...

Day One

On the weekends here they aren't particularly attentive so far as the timeliness of food and medications go.

The nurse gave me my morning meds around eleven and I have no idea when lunch will be except obviously not at noon.

Doesn't matter much.

Dead girls don't need lunch.

You may well wonder what a place like this is like.

Just at the moment there's a guy on the phone out in the hall who has a voice just like Barry White's. It's amazing. Only probably he says "fuck" more often than Mr. White.

The crisis unit a strange cross between a homeless shelter and a nursing home, really. and a nuthouse, I suppose, since they have so much group therapy and the nurses and the shrinks on hand. It's always cold, and my blanket is one of those thin ones they hand out on airplane flights.

They've upped the dosage on my anti-depressant and I have a counseling appointment on Monday.

It doesn't sound as if anyone has actually tried to kill themselves while in care here in a long time, if ever.

They've got my meds, so there goes the easy way out.

I'm keeping a journal as the lady who checked me in suggested. I'm recording my most horrible thoughts. I know I need to stop, but the suicidal stuff doesn't ever seem far from my mind. The thoughts are intrusive and seem to have no connection to the woman in glasses with the greasy hair hunched over in her chair. She looks like a stranger. Her hair hangs down in her face because she can't look anyone in the eyes.

I have spent most of my day sitting in a chair staring at a spot on the carpet. It's a blue-green outdoor-type carpet room, there's a framed print of a putty-colored mountain scene on the wall. The furniture, two twin beds, two chairs, two dressers, a wardrobe and a desk, are all made of heavy blonde wood. The back wall is dominated by two picture windows with vertical blinds looking out on a small yard covered in pine needles. Beyond that there is the sound of traffic.
with a geometric pattern to it, and when I stare the entire thing undulates like the ocean floor. The walls are a light putty color. In my 

They came and woke me up around 11:30, telling me it was time to go eat lunch. Then a lady brought me to this room and left me sitting in a chair, telling me she would come and get me when it was time for lunch.

I sat there eying the carpet until it shifted beneath my gaze, going deep inside where it felt safe and familiar.

An intercom called residents to lunch, but I stared at the floor and waited for the lady to come back. Lunch is pointless when you're waiting for an opportunity to kill yourself.

I don't understand the routine here. There are four "groups" a day that I'm required to attend, but I don't know when or where. Maybe they'll announce them on the Intercom, like they did for lunch and the "Group Walk." So far, I've had lunch (beef rolls, coleslaw, and chips with a glass of kool-aid. I thanked the cook and cried a little telling him that the coleslaw tasted like my Mom's.), got a tour (hallway, bathrooms, showers, laundry room, tv room, kitchen and dining area. Patio for the smokers), had a nurse "take" my "vitals," spoke with a "Mental Health Worker," wandered a little, napped a little, but mostly just sat in that chair. They've given me paperwork for health insurance and a number for a counseling office near my sister's house. I've filled out forms releasing my information to doctors, detailing my physical and mental health history, and signed a contract promising not to harm myself while in their care. I wonder what happens if I go back on my word... I try to think as little as possible, but the Mental Health Worker gave me a journal and told me to write in it, and I can't resist bleeding my life across a blank page.

It's cold in here and all I have are the clothes I came in wearing. Luckily I can wrap my airplane quality blanket around my shoulders.

All I know about tomorrow is that I'm supposed to make that counseling appointment, call the health dept about getting insurance, and possibly see the psychiatrist. My treatment plan involves lowering depression and suicidal thoughts, increasing coping skills, setting up community supports and straightening out my meds.

I don't know how to explain why I feel so bad. There's nothing new here. Problems with getting a good job, a decent vehicle, getting to see and talk to my kids, letting another apartment go and moving into another basement. All I can think is that the repetition is getting to me. Maybe something's triggered the PTSD, but I just have no perspective this time.

I agreed to come here because I couldn't tell them without a doubt that I wouldn't try to kill myself the moment my sister wasn't watching me. I've been lying awake thinking about killing myself. My sleeping pills come in thirty 25 mg tablets. Takes only one bottle to kill yourself. You eat a light snack an hr beforehand, grind the pills into powder and swallow it all at once. Using a plastic bag is a sure thing, but I couldn't get past the creepiness of that. You may suffer convulsions, vomiting, irregular heart-beat and ultimately death. I lie awake trying to decide if I would really kill myself, trying to remember why. Don't want to die. Don't want to live. Tired. Don't feel worth the effort. My life spins around in pointless circle, and the bottle never points directly at anything. I'm not sure how to describe how I'm thinking. Not sure it constitutes actual "thought."

The lady I talked to today said that we can manifest things in our lives just by thinking them, but that sadly most of us waste time and effort manifesting only negative things. She told me to stop thinking about suicide and start thinking of ways to take care of myself. I'm not as sure about her theory as I have been in the past. It's starting to feel as if I've been deluding myself. It seems as if all these positive platitudes have only landed me right back where I started from. I can't figure out what I'm doing wrong. I've tried my best and it just hasn't been enough.

I think I'm done.

My sister and her husband came with their kids after dinner, bringing my clothes and my vitamins. They confiscated my vitamins.
I don't have deoderant, a toothbrush, or a hairbrush, but I don't much care. Dead girls don't care if they look like beauty queens. It was nice to see the baby, and my other niece uncharacteristically held her arms out for a hug.

I wish I could feel something. This place is so cold. They're only giving me one pill at a time here, and they're watching me swallow it.
There's a sharp wire sticking out from the broken catch on the handle of my purse.

I signed that agreement not to harm myself, but I can hardly look these people in the eyes because I just don't know if I can keep it. I want help. I don't want help. I just don't know."

~Day 2~

8:30am.

I think I just saw the psychiatrist.
Dr. Somebody.
She came and got me out of bed. I followed her back to her office, greasy-haired and dry-lipped, wiping sleep out of the corners of my eyes.
Probably the fifth person in 24hrs asking me my history and why I want to die. Also if I'm hallucinating. They all want to know if I'm hearing or seeing things.
Well, obviously. I can see and hear THEM well enough.
She asked me when was the last time I was ever happy, then started writing in her notebook as I stared blankly at her, trying to figure that question out.
I smiled a little, remembering that it was just last week Thursday when I was meeting my boyfriend for dinner and I didn't know yet he'd given up on me.
The tricky part is that I'd been depressed ever since my car broke down and it dawned on me that I could not afford to replace it. And no car would mean no job and no apartment and the cycle perpetuates itself. I was just sitting around my old apartment waiting for my Mom to go back to Florida after her visit so I could kill myself. I'm ashamed to be so hopeless and helpless about my circumstances, but I've lived all my life with shame and at least it feels familiar.
That lady I spoke with yesterday told me that I've experienced three of the top stressors a person can deal with in their life, that she felt I was just a little overwhelmed right now. Losing a home, a job, and a loved one. That last part is bullshit, though. I lose my home and my job over and over again. I'm not sure if anyone I've ever dated has loved me exactly, and I haven't lost my boyfriend per say. He's still my friend...
The first meeting of the day should be soon, and they expect me to go.

Sat around the TV Room for about half an hr waiting for that meeting to start. Then someone turned on The Green Mile. I had to leave the room. I've got my own mile to walk.
I notice that all the female residents seem to have pieces of me. My Audrey Hepburn shirt on an older woman with silver hair and no teeth, my PTSD in my roommate with her rainbow-striped pajamas. My blue striped socks on the feet of the woman wearing scrubs with the 80's hair. Suicidal tendencies. Anger issues in the man with tattooed sleeves. Depression in the man from Africa, muttering to himself that "Dey say I depressed cause a trauma from war. Das bullshit.  Give me a gun,  put me back in dat war and somebody shoot me, I shoot dem . End of problem."
I keep on eating as if I have a reason to.
I even took a shower today.
I'm trying to take up the least amount of space possible in this world. Become invisible. Forget they ever told me I was born. Stop pretending to live. I'm not, really. In time I will fade into the trees and the sky and my existence will make sense.
It's hard not to act as if everything's fine so that they'll let me go long enough to get a bottle of pills back into my hands .

I don't understand what this place is about. Some of these people are just homeless. Some schizophrenic.
I feel no anxiety here at all.
Nothing to fear any more than myself.
I feel like this is Death's Waiting Room. Killing the hrs till it's dark and people are asleep and then see if I can rip the skin open over my wrist. It feels good to focus on something constructive like that. This is something I can do right. It reminds me of Brittany, a girl at the juvenile detention facility where I worked, who explained how she used to be very good until she realized how much faster things happen for you when you're bad. Need to talk to the counselor, your caseworker, your Mom? Pitch some kind of a bloody awful fit, she said. Hurt someone else, or hurt yourself. I'm not doing any of this on the say-so of a 14yr old juvenile delinquent. It's just that it's reminding me of that conversation just now.  I don't want any attention, don't want everyone to know. All I know is that I need to stop needing so much, stop asking or expecting so much.

I thought this group would meet and we would discuss our daily goals. Mine is to stop thinking of killing myself and get whatever help they can offer. The thought that there might actually be help for me strangely doesn't make me feel any better. Nothing touches me.
My children need me but I can't be there for them. Can't call them. Thinking of them makes me feel very little at the moment besides hopeless and sad. I've stopped seeing myself ever getting a good job, a home I can keep, a car that will run, or friends that will stay close. I don't see myself ever finishing the novels. I don't see myself ever having any extra money for paint and canvasses, or selling any paintings anywhere. I have no resources, or I'm just lazy and worthless. It's what I really believe. I'm tired of pretending any differently.

There's a blind or a strip from a blind missing. They're looking all over the rooms for it. I find I'm eyeing the blinds and seeing that the looped pull cord would work like a noose. With the pills I could have gone quietly. Now I'm trying to think what else I can do.

My sister packed me some dark chocolate sea salt caramels. I was going to stick with one a day to look forward to, but that doesn't make sense in this context. I think of eating them instead of being dead. Dead girls can't eat dark chocolate sea salt caramels.

Maybe I am here because I'm lazy. I love my job. I wasn't doing quite as well as they would have liked, but I was going to be so impressive that they were going to beg me to stay on. I did a fantastic job last Saturday, and that was even after my boyfriend broke up with me. I was just going to try harder.
Then I was abruptly too depressed to finish what I'd started.

I could sit in this chair and stare all day long.

My phone is dead.

If I eat all my caramels I won't have anything to look forward to.

11:25pm.

The group meeting lasted all of twenty minutes and was held two hours late. The Peer Support Specialist wrote down our goals. Mine is to make phone calls for counseling and insurance. And not to kill myself, which I didn't actually say out loud.

There's a lot of things I'm writing that I NEED to say out loud. My sister said to tell them the whole truth or they can't help me.

They can't help me. No one can.
We're approaching the hour of day when I arrived here yesterday. I feel less spaced out, but no more hopeful. My phone won't work. I'm alone now.

One chocolate left.
Reminds me of one of my favorite short stories, The Last Leaf, by O'Henry.
The sick girl lying in the bed stares out the window at the last leaf hanging precariously against the wall.
The angry, failed artist went out in the rain and painted it there, subsequently dying from pnumonia.
But the sick girl hung on and got well, and that leaf was her inspiration and his masterpiece.
Thinking of that story makes me wonder about my life. Sometimes I'm that sick, hopeless girl and sometimes I'm the artist.
I look dead on the outside, but the connection between my head and my hand and my heart pouring onto the page insists that I still breathe in and out.

The only reason I don't slit my wrists is that I keep thinking of the person who might find me like that. I don't mean to trouble anyone. I'll go quietly if I can.
My roommate just shut the light off wwhen she walked out just now. I think she forgot I was here.

I kind of miss the version of myself that people love. I know she's beautiful and smart and talented and compassionate and funny. I know all that, but I'm still ambivalent about her. When she steps out and embraces everyone she meets, she gets hurt pretty badly. She makes me vulnerable to abandonment or attack.

The lady from yesterday told me that none of the things that have happened to me are my fault. I have a hard time believing that. The cars, the jobs, the apartments and basements. The divorce. Losing my children. I don't really believe her, but I would like to.

It's so cold here.

I think about my life, and I think, "I'm 38 yrs old, with no job, no car, no home. How will I ever retire? What have I ever done that mattered?" No connections. No roots to tie me to this earth. No life, no chance, no change, no hope.
Negative thoughts.
They're like poison, The Secret Garden says.
I read that, and I grew up believing what I read.
A friend of mine said to stop claiming to be an optimist because it's bullshit coming from me.
Isn't trying to be an optimist good for anything?
I actually want to just sit and stare, but my mind keeps moving so I write instead.
If I think about suicide long enough and often enough I'll do it. And then I won't have to disappoint anyone anymore, not my parents, siblings, children. No one.
I can't believe my self-esteem is so low. I thought I was starting to feel better about myself than that. I could diet and exercise my way into health like I did before. Lot of work and no time or money. A part time job seems the best I can swing. The chocolates are gone.

I'll jump the hoops today. Do the groups. Talk to the staff whenever they want. I have nothing to think about except what they're having for dinner, and I feel I'm writing in circles. I think of those juvenile detention kids I used to work with, trapped alone in their cells for an hour or more at a time with only a book for company. They weren't even allowed to have a pen and paper in there. 

I wonder if I'll cut my wrists tonight when everybody else is sleeping
I think of him and then I'm happy with the company I'm keeping
Bits and pieces of songs and stories run through my head all the time now, like those in-between spaces on the car radio as you turn the dial.

The afternoon group was about quitting addictions and the cycle of change. There is a stage after Maintaining the change that is called Relapse/Recycle. I wonder if I am at that stage. It seems that some people Maintain happily ever after, but for some, like me, there is always this relapse that they never seem to shake. I push through it, but it always happens again.

It's around one o'clock. Nothing to do but stare at the floor or write, or talk to other residents. I don't want to reach too far out. I don't want or need anything. I wish they would let me sleep, but they want me to stay awake all day to see if I can sleep at night. No use telling them it doesn't work. Gotta show them.

I think of my children again. I should work harder to get better so I can take care of them and be a better Mom. They need me. They need me healthy and successful. They need me happy.
I can't afford to do anything for them anymore. Couldn't afford to buy them school clothes. Couldn't afford to get them another phone so I can talk to them every day. It's been two weeks since I last saw them.
My siblings and my children are all that tie me to this world.
If I were to kill myself, would my babies spend all the rest of their lives feeling abandoned, or not good enough, too?
I'm going to have to accept all the help I can get from this place so I can get well and do my damn job and be an awesome person for my children. Kick ass and take names. And don't quit. I just have to do it, that's all.
I have a counseling appointment on Monday. The Crisis Prevention Team is going to work closely with me.
If they can really help me pull myself together.
I don't know if I'm worth it, but my kids are.
I don't know how I can get to see them tomorrow. They won't let me leave, and with good reason. I've spent most of the morning trying to come up with a way to kill myself. Can I be strong and reassuring for a couple hours tomorrow for my kids?
I've done it before.
Shoot, I could easily fake a full recovery just to get out for a weekend with my kids.

One scary thing a counselor told me my first night here is that ultimately suicide is my decision. That if I really want to die, I'm certainly capable of making that happen.
I'm here because I don't want to die.
But I can't seem to stop thinking about it.

Is there some way that someone could please tell my children in a way that they could believe it, that they have been the best of my life and it isn't their fault that I'm unhappy? There's a chemical imbalance in my brain, my brain is broken, and I've held it all together this long just especially for them. And maybe I just got too tired to do it anymore, but that isn't ever their fault.

I've just realized that I feel no anxiety whatsoever about being in a strange place with all these disenfranchised misfits. It feels as if I've done it all before. It feels no different from the Trauma Recovery group or any one of the homeless shelters I've been in. I am unruffled within. Not only do I not know how to cope with trauma, I have also lost the ability to recognise it as I encounter it. I am so out of touch with my real feelings it is unbelievable. How do I learn to cope with an endless cycle?

In my novel, I can't get past the court scene where I lose my kids. That might be true of my life as well.
I can't get past that, and I can't see my way around that sad, confused little girl that I sometimes realize is me.
If I can find acceptance and unconditional love and peace and develop self-confidence, maybe I can save myself. I just have to accept that relapses happen.

This is a relapse, not a repeat.

It's so cold in here. I'm sitting under my blanket. The sun is out. I glanced out at the patio but didn't step out.

This place isn't so safe.

Now I'm eyeing the noose-like pull on the blinds and the exposed light bulb on my bedside lamp. They seem to be taunting me. Ha ha. You aren't really going to do it.

Breaking the lightbulb would make a noise. Maybe not the shattering sound when a bulb is dropped, but surely a sort of popping sound. I'd have to do it when the nurse wasn't at the front desk and my roommate was down in the TV room.

These doors can lock from the inside.

I hope to god my children find and read every good thing I ever said about them. I hope they can forgive me for all my mistakes.

Maybe this place is bad for me. Nothing to do but write and think. And my thoughts keep cycling back to the wrong things. I feel like if I hang on long enough for them to put everything in place, these people really could help me. Suicide is a flirt. Shows a little ankle and then steps away again. Winks at me from across the room.

I hope someone here is keeping my sister up to date about  what's wrong with me. One of us has to get some insight.

Maybe I can just huddle underneath my blanket and stare for a bit. No one can accuse me of napping if my eyes are open. I swear to god these people are trying to bore me into submission. ...

I went on The Group Walk today. The light and the noise from the cars freaked me out, much the same as my brother-in-law's Mom rearranging flowers behind me around this time last year. Circles and cycles.

I find that I like every single one of the people here. I have a passion for the misfits of this world. They're my kind of people. Characters. Off the beaten path. I identify with them. I love people so much it seems a shame to leave this life just because I'm disappointed in myself.

I am waiting the two hours until Wrap-Up Group and then snack before I go to bed and wait up to see if I'm going to go through with it or not. Maybe it's like anorexia: So much of my life completely out of control, or lost, but here is this one thing still in my hands. Something I can do, if I'm not too weak or afraid.

The cloud outside my window is shaped like a skull.

Only twenty minutes and visiting hours are over.

I think there needs to be a special program for suicidal people. They should hike them up to a mountaintop to see how beautiful it is. Between the exercise and the view, I imagine most anyone would have a change of heart.

These people seriously are trying to bore me into choosing life. I think it may even be working. I hope when I'm dead that my journals go to family who will censor them a little for my children. I want them to know how much I love them and not how I've failed them. They'll find all kinds of truth in there. The story of me and their father and what was right and what went wrong. Those diaries hold every hope, dream, struggle and joy. Every boy I ever dated. Every mistake I ever made. Every movie, book, historical figure or play I ever loved. Things that I hated. Complaints about family. Love for my family. Guilt. Lots of guilt. Regrets. victories. Broken promises. Promises kept.  There are people who have loved me very much. I hope my kids look them up and listen to their stories...

Damn. Maybe they're not having Wrap-Up group tonight. I think I'll go brush my teeth. Dead girls don't have to have bad breath.

They claim it's hard to actually kill yourself, but I notice people often seem to do it by accident. Hell, I might get lucky one last time.

~~ Third Day~~

There isn't much to do here but write, eat meals, sleep, sit outside, sit inside, and stare at the floor or some other
stationary object.

I'm not allowed off grounds without a staff member until I can prove that I'll keep myself safe.

Last night I asked the mental health worker some questions, such as what kind of a degree do these people have around here. They're all psychiatrists and social workers, with degrees varying from bachelor's level to PhD. She's a cute little lady named Audrey, somewhere in her early twenties. Audrey asked if I'd been thinking suicidal thoughts that day, and I said yes.

Audrey asked if I had a plan for killing myself, and I thought about breaking that light bulb and cutting myself with it and told her no.

But I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I had to ask her "What if I were to have a plan but not want to tell you that because then I couldn't go through with it if I wanted to? What would you do then?"

I was staring at the tabletop when I asked it. I haven't been able to look many of these people in the eye since I got here. She seemed to be staring at me. I think I was unnerving her a bit.

She said, "I have to trust that you are being honest with me when I ask you a question. We're here to help. You might try giving us a chance to help you."

I was actually still mad at her for being patronizing when she asked me about my walk earlier. I'd told her that the sunlight and the noise of the cars was freaking me out and I felt exposed on all sides, and she'd asked if, all lights and noises aside, the walk maybe had been a good thing for me. I said sure it had. She wanted to hear that.

I went to bed and thought of seeing my children and grudgingly decided that if I gave my word to keep safe for the night then I would keep it. But that's only one night.

They're supposed to check the rooms every half hour, but they don't.

I'm not trying to be uncooperative. Just the opposite. I eat when they tell me to eat, dutifully pop my pills when they dole them out, and listen when they talk. I answer every question that they ask me, and I don't pretend that I'm feeling better just to get out of here, though I badly want to see my kids this weekend. Besides, part of me doesn't want to see them, because I don't know about them seeing me this way.

I'm not here to die, I'm here to live, but I feel dead. I feel like a ghost. Nobody really sees me or talks to me.

Maybe I'm just not letting me see them enough.

I have no idea how long they will keep me here.

I want to jump through the hoops and move on with my life, but the problem I keep confronting is that I don't know how to live my life. I feel like I've been moving in circles and that it's not ever going to get me anywhere that's better.
Plus I'm NOT really better, and I'm aware that pretending that I'm all right won't get me very far. Maybe that's the big secret to why my life feels so repetitive.

I feel numb.

like nothing

an absence of space, a pretext.

Maybe no one will make me promise to be safe tonight, but I want to see my children again tomorrow.

Why was I born?
Trauma.
Brain shuts down.
Strong person.
But the brain just shuts down.

Day Four

I spend a lot of time staring and not thinking anything at all.

Loucylle is having a bad day. Yesterday she was lucid, sounded well-educated and insightful, and spoke reverently of her Lord and Savior.

Today she's yelling at the staff for trying to control her food intake and her pill consumption and muttering to herself, "Mutherfuckers done tore me outta my momma's wound. Smells like shit..."

Otherwise it's strangely quiet around here on the weekend. My roommate has been gone all day. She was going to kill herself when her boyfriend died and she lost custody of her children, but she must be a little better because they let her out. Curfew's at nine o'clock.

"Here you a black woman and you sittin there talkin to that Caucasian woman and her ancestors done you wrong..." Loucylle again.

A moment ago she asked me if I could help her turn on the dryer. Guess I owed her the help, really, after all my ancestors had done to her ancestors and all.

I'm feeling better today than when I came in here. Seeing and holding my kids, I wondered what on earth I've been thinking and why.

Audrey said last night that a man on a tightrope balancing his daughter has to balance himself, not the girl. Meaning, she said, that I have to take care of myself for my own sake and not just for my children.
Well, what I say is, if I hold my little girl and I'm thinking I need to stay alive another day so I don't miss her visit, that's still one more day.

"I don't need no pills. I got my genetics to take care a me! They sittin there in they booth talkin. Huh! I talkin to myself. And I ain't crazy!"

You keep telling yourself that, Loucylle.

But at ten o'clock they came and took her away.
Oh, she was furious! She told them she was calling her doctor, her brother, her caseworker, and then, when none of those ruffled the policemen or the EMTs, she screamed, "I'll tell you what: OBAMA! That's right, I said it! You can all go straight to HELL!"

But then one clever fellow came up with the idea of asking her, "Don't you WAnt to get out of this awful place?"

She brightened right up at the thought, stuck her tongue out at the nurse, and walked out into the night.

I'm safe tonight. I want to see my children tomorrow.

Please don't be mad at me for any of the terrible stuff I'm writing.
I'm not trying to be a bother to anyone or to have a bad, negative attitude.
I will do everything I can to clear this sludge out of my brain and be a real girl again.

It's midnight and I'm exhausted from being normal from four to six this afternoon.
I'm going to bed.

Day Five
Well, for lack of anything else to do, and no madcap adventures with a cat wearing a hat forthcoming to cheer me up when it's raining out, I might just as well update you.
Yesterday before the kids came all I wanted to do was go back to bed, sleep being the next best thing to death.

It began to creep up on me, that sensation of all this happening to me before: Alone in a strange place with strange people, without my children. I just want it to stop. I picture George Jetson on that out of control conveyer belt yelling, "Jane, stop this craazy thing!"
I wonder what time afternoon Group is. It's all I have to look ahead to.
I want to cry but I can't.
Inane conversation with my Contact Person today. I told her my anxiety scored a 6 on a scale of one to ten, depression's at a 10. Suicidal thoughts around a 6 as well.
"Well, that makes sense!" She said brightly. She asked if I was hallucinating. They all ask that.
Now that I'm out of her office, I realize that I'm doing this all wrong. I need to look these people right in the eyes and convey how I'm feeling in words instead of these numbers they want. I thought I already was, of course, but we really aren't quite connecting. She'd asked if I'd enjoyed the  "game" she found me "playing" on the computer earlier, and laughed when I said "No," but really I should have said it wasn't a game, it was my Gmail Inbox, and I was checking my mail for signs of life outside The Crisis Center. Instead I told her that I'm wondering what's going on in the outside world.
"What do you mean by 'outside world'?" She asked.
She KNOWs what I mean by that.
I explained it anyway. How on an average weekday my sister would be getting up with her small children and brother-in-law would be going to his office, only, today, my sister would be picking up my kids for a visit.
Thinking of my kids coming to see me sent me to my bed to nap away the anxiety and the time.

At lunchtime, Larry shared his chips with me. Larry's a nice guy.
My goals for today were simple: Do my laundry and see my kids.
I missed breakfast, not that it matters.
Today the kids will come again, and my sister will bring their school papers and a sweater and some deodorant.
I think I want to get better, though the odd thought of "I think I'll just swallow this detergent!" does run through my mind. To that thought, I replied: "It will taste bad and maybe upset your stomach. Big deal." But it keeps me unsure.
I try to understand myself but I simply don't right now.
If I live, I don't know what to ask for from life. I feel like anything would be too much.
There's a poor woman who has bipolar disorder who pleads over and over every day to anyone who will listen, "Please, I just want to go home to Vermontville!"
I gather that she has no home to go to, and is not allowed to leave for safety concerns, but she doesn't seem to understand that.
The weekend nurse came in and told me that I didn't come for my morning meds.
Confused, I asked if she'd called me.
She gave a "Can you believe the nerve of this woman?" laugh and said, "In the real world, you're going to have to take responsibility for taking your own meds. We don't call you to come and take them."
Oh.
Well, then.
I did my "Doh! Dummy me!" Act and took the pills, but inwardly it smarted because during the past four days I've been here the nurse has always called me on the Intercom to tell me to come take my pills.
Such is the pettiness of my days now.
I missed the Group Walk doing my laundry, but at least I got clean clothes out of the deal.

One man said that he never told anyone when he swallowed a bottle of pills to kill himself because he didn't believe anyone would help him.
I keep telling people.
I must believe that there's help out there.
The tricky part is not thinking about that light bulb, or the sharp wire in the catch of my purse.
I really have no idea how to rescue myself.
I need to do it, though.
I am getting lots of love and support from my family.
I have been reluctant to tell anyone else except my closest friend.
Maybe they would judge me for having a mental illness, or maybe some employer would find what I wrote about it online and use it as a reason not to hire me. Our country is not exactly supportive of people with mental illnesses. They get labelled as "crazy" and disregarded from there.
I catch myself sometimes thinking ahead a little.
"Ahead" is still kind of vague.
I seem only able to focus on one thing at a time.
I need to pack and move my stuff out of my old apartment.
After that I get overwhelmed.
If I try thinking about work, transportation, rent, my now ex-boyfriend, or even day to day at home with my family, I get derailed again. Anxiety.

Day Six

It's raining again today.
Group Therapy consisted of a relaxation video. Two residents fell asleep watching it.
Larry bolted right out of there.
Must not have suited him.
Or maybe the sight of flowers triggers memories from 'Nam.
Who knows?
I was glad of killing another half hour.

Today my Contact Person was a tall, brown-eyed young man with a beard and a tattoo on his arm that reminded me of my sister's Ancient Myths and Legends book about the Celts - a blonde depiction of Lugh, the Irish Sun God. Yes, indeed, this guy was cool.
He asked about my depression, which I rated down to an 8, and my anxiety and suicidal tendencies, which I think might be down near a 5.
"Are you having any side effects from the change in your meds?"
"No, but This is only Day Two of taking them."
"Are you seeing things, or hallucinating in any way?"
"Nope."
Sometimes I think that disappoints them.
He reminded me that I have two or three phone calls to make tomorrow, a counseling appointment, and a visit with the shrink.
It was WONDERFuL to see the kids again. They colored me lots of pictures and told me about school. I tried to get them to promise to go to sleep early and eat a good breakfast for their MEAP tests.

At the end of the visit hugs were dispensed - my daughter ran back with tears in her eyes and hugged me twice - and they ran out into the parking lot in the rain.
I sat in the silence of my room listening to the rain fall.
I realized that my two goals for the day were complete: laundry and visit with the children.
Nothing left to do but read, write, and wait for dinner.
I try to tell myself that out in the ordinary world I'd love to have time for nothing but reading and writing.
I sit and watch the rain fall outside my window.
I'm running out of paper again."

Day Seven

Good news:

Before the week is over, I will have:

1. Health Insurance Coverage
2. A regular therapist to speak to weekly
3. Group Therapy and Support Groups to attend
4. An appointment with the psychiatrist to determine how my meds are working and discuss how to maintain progress.

All things being complete, my release date should be Saturday morning.


Day 8


Audrey told me tonight that she herself has PTSD, and that she went to a therapist regularly for two years and has been able to actually heal to the point that she hasn't had a relapse for a long time.
Her point being that once I get a regular therapist, if I stick with it steadily, things really could get better instead of feeling as if they're always repeating themselves.
This was very heartening.
She also gave me information on how to cope with anxiety attacks, flashbacks, nightmares, and insomnia. Regarding the insomnia, the ultimate goal is to develop ways of calming myself to sleep better naturally, since all sleep medications are bad news long term, as you develop a tolerance for them.

Also, the guy with the anger management problems just blew up in his Contact Person's face and is now shouting and carrying on down the hall like a raving idiot. Excellent opportunity to start practicing those coping skills, since loud, angry men trigger anxiety attacks. I'm shaking and my heart is racing again. This happened a couple nights ago and I only slept three hours. bad dreams
Back to the old hand-out...

Day Nine

I feel entirely myself again.
I feel no need to remain through Saturday, but I'm willing to speak with the powers that be here and cooperate
All difficult residents have been released.
Spent a peaceful morning painting and reading.
Finally saw the Psychiatrist.
She will continue to see me on a regular basis after I leave.
Her plan is to take away my sleeping pills, as that particular brand really is lethal and also easy to overdose on anyway.
Sobering thought.
Did Group Therapy, which was on Relaxation Techniques.
Went to a Writing Workshop that turned out to be just me and the instructor. She was delightful.
Life is good after all.


I spent my last days at the crisis unit painting a picture with the materials my sister had brought for me. 
I wanted to leave something behind that expressed my gratitude and expressed my hope.
They returned my journals to me without comment.

When my sister came and I got into her car, the world looked brighter than I remembered. I saw things as if for the first time. I found myself reflecting on what life has to offer me if I am courageous enough to accept.