The Feel Better Box

Depression.

Anger.

Guilt.

Hopelessness.

Grief. 

Hurt.

Melancholy.

Misery.

Sadness.

Agitation.

Rejection.

Suffering.

Hysteria.

Overwhelmed

Agony.

Shame.

Apprehension.

Regret.

Anxiety.

Worthlessness.

Alienation.

We all have all of these feelings at some point. The majority of people struggle to keep them hidden, because no one likes a "Negative Nelly." (Puh-lease! This is a social network, a public forum. How can you be so crass as to express such negative emotions for me to stumble upon in the midst of my cute kitty pictures and inspiring quotations?!) 

To be clear, the Feel Better Box was not my idea.

It originated in therapy for PTSD and Borderline Personality Disorder, and I'm sure they got it from some other place as well-- possibly Marsha Linehan, creator of Dialectical Behavioral Therapy.

( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marsha_M._Linehan ) There's both good and bad in this model -- one of the bad things being that group therapy can sometimes have a detrimental effect for people who are shy or severely damaged, and because in the hands of the wrong therapists the model seems to me to undermine all progress some people who are brain atypical have made. But that's all a subject for another blog entry -- Tonight I'm simply telling you how and why the idea of a "Self-Soothe" kit appealed to me, and also that it works.
The process of creating your own Feel Better Box (My daughter named it that) involves learning how to be kinder toward yourself and to make healthy choices when experiencing powerful emotions or a personal crisis.

A personal example: I ask someone for the 5,000000th time if they can please help me get to an appointment (I haven't been able to drive since my car accident almost two years ago now). They turn me down rather sharply. Doesn't sound like much of a crisis compared to the Twin Towers, does it?  But I'm feeling as if the sharp end of this rejection has punctured my composure, releasing the all of the emotions listed at the beginning of this topic in a hiss of steam, and I'm feeling them all at once, like a punch in the face. These feelings have been building up for nearly two years now, and this one additional crush of shame and helplessness breaks my composure. I've been toughing things out for a long time now, pushing back anything that might be misconceived as weakness or drama queen material by others. I know that this moment won't last forever, but in the moment I feel helpless and dependent, and all the shame society places on that state of being. What should I do? Well, Marsha Linehan says this: 

A more serious example: A couple of years ago I lost my fifth apartment since my divorce and had nowhere to go. At one point I had spent all morning looking for a new place to live, a better job to afford living there, transportation, food, and help moving my things as well as figuring out where I was going to store them this time. Five o'clock rolled around and I still hadn't solved anything. I was alone in my apartment with no heat or electric, one stick of butter in my fridge and one random of watercress in my cupboard. I couldn't do anything else that night to solve my problem -- I just had to wait it out and survive it. My primary instinct was to to curl up in a ball under my quilt and sob. I tend to want to suffer somewhat, tend to believe my circumstances are my own fault and I should be ashamed of myself for not having it all together like everyone else seems to. But really what I needed to do was simply get through that moment, move through those negative feelings and embrace a more positive outlook on myself and my life. I read Number 3 in the blue text box above as: "You could fall into a deep depression and never leave your room again!" but different people might express their fear in different ways -- You might scream at someone who is trying to help you, you might consider doing drugs or drinking if you have an addictive personality, you might be a cutter, you might be suicidal, you might isolate yourself from all your friends instead of reaching out and asking for help because, like me, you aren't so sure that you deserve any help." I have been depressed before. Although I've never abused alcohol and never tried drugs for fear of my addictive personality getting the better of me, I do know what it is to be so depressed that you don't know how you're going to get through each day. For a long time the only way I could cope with my feelings of worthlessness ultimately was to isolate myself so no one would have to see me that way, to ignore the problem and power through, or to try snapping myself out of it by being stern with myself. All of these approaches seemed only to make things worse. I was emotionally distraught, overwhelmed, and I just couldn't think anymore.

My Feel Better Box: Everything 
You Ever Wanted to Know About 
Helping Yourself Feel Better 

The idea behind The Box is a simple one -- To have some good things available with which to distract and/or help yourself in times of emotional distress until things start getting better again -- And hopefully to feel better about yourself regardless of your circumstances. The goal is peace

To put together a Feel Better Box admittedly poses some potential challenges:  

1. Lack of creative ideas or imagination might make it difficult to put together, but you could always just use my ideas, or simply Google "Self-Soothe Kit" and use the best ideas you can find that way.
2. Creativity can often come of as seeming very childish and self-indulgent -- but pay no attention to that and everything will not only turn out fine; It might even turn out to be a lot of fun. The sillier you get with it, the better. Most importantly (from an amateur psychiatrist standpoint), consider the wounded child from within, or at least picture yourself as a child. Remember all the things that once made you happy, and revisit those things. It's only a visit, after all. There's no harm in that. In fact, it's a beautiful feeling.
3. It's easy to get hung up on the idea that you have to have money to buy fancy stuff for the box, but really you could make one that doesn't cost you more than paper, pen, and maybe a Ziploc bag for easy storage. 
4. Probably the hardest part of making a Feel Better Box is making yourself use it. You will come up with all kinds of excuses, including that it's actually easier to be upset than to get up and do anything about it. Or maybe you are so depressed that you can't act in your best interests. 






5. You have to make something in that box worth getting up for, worth going to when times are tough. And it's kind of like getting up and going to the gym -- If you have everything set up in advance and get up and go first thing in the morning without thinking twice about it, the momentum can help you get it done.

Here are some examples from my own personal box, and also some items I'd like to add eventually. Because of these things, one break-through idea for me was to create tickets to cover the items I couldn't fit in the box. Because I really didn't have a lot of extra income at the time I put together the box  that I've got now, I created some tickets for free things that had the 

potential to cheer me up. With these tickets, I was 

giving myself permission to take care of myself. 
I highly recommend it -- You can really get used to this taking care of yourself business after a bit, and not know why on earth you haven't been doing this all along in the first place -- but be kind to yourself about it.
That's the whole point.

Lilac-Scented Wax to Warm

SMELL

In Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, they suggest that you try to fill your box with things that soothe all five of the senses. Not that you have to be soothing them all at once or anything, but I like the idea anyway. Who knows in any given moment of anxiety or depression if you might be uplifted by something as simple as the smell of the lilac bush in the yard of your childhood?

We can't all go to Ireland,
but you can purchase things
 that make you think of
someplace pleasant that you'd
like to escape to for awhile.

I've got a sachet of sweet-smelling heather plucked from the purple and yellow hills of Ireland that I bought while I was there. This eternally fresh odor brings back happy memories and a sense of being part of a world too beautiful to be overcome by misery or fear -- memories of standing on the top of the hills out on the moors with the wind blowing in my face and rolling hills of bright green, yellow with the gorse and purple with all the heather. It was such a strange and wonderful feeling to stand there on that spot and think of how ancient were the castles and outposts -- older than the oldest of stone buildings at home in the States. Along with the sachet I have a little ornament that depicts the Celtic letter "H," and some Euros that I brought home in my pockets. Do you own anything that always reminds you of something that was absolutely perfect from your past, from moments in time when you felt as if you should live forever and ever because you were strong and beautiful and full of hope and promise? Keep those things. Tell yourself that you will have even more adventures in time, for you will, one day. And if nothing else, you had those moments that no one else can take away from you. Be proud of that person that you were, be proud of  who you have become. The rocks and the rolling hills and the heather have survived so many years -- and so can you. You'll always have ground underfoot.

Bubbles! How about a little plastic container of bubbles, smelling like summer in the backyards of my childhood? For for some reason I find the smell also bring to mind those little plastic, water-filled bird whistles -- I should find one of those and put that into my box, too.

Cinnamon sticks. That's for Christmas and French Toast and multiple other delightful things -- apple pie, apple crisp... I just have to be careful not to go running for too much to eat when I smell them. I had some cinnamon sticks in my box, but I think they were hijacked by my daughter. I fully intend to keep after that child to create a box of her own for days when things don't seem likely to go right for her. I think passing along this one important concept could make a huge difference in the lives of my children -- The sensation that bad things do happen, but you can get through them without self-abuse or shame. In fact, you get through the mood created by trying times just that much more quickly, and in the space it leaves behind you can find peace.
How about a really good, soothing lotion with a fresh, clean smell -- or something flowery if you like instead? Other things I mean to pick up and add to the box over time: More scented candles and candle warmers, scented bath oils or salts, and room spritzes with pleasant odors. Maybe one of those misters.
How about good old-fashioned scented markers to color with? Coloring is very soothing if you can get past the fear of appearing childish (If I troubled myself to worry about that my life would be very dull indeed, and I fear I could never paint again. Not worth the loss!) I imagine a visit to Bath & Body Works just might possibly be in order.

SIGHT

So many lovely things to see! I've been creating an illustrated dream journal, which is really just a fancy way of saying that I cut and paste things out of magazines into a book. There's this theory that if you visualize something often enough and with enough concentration, you can manifest that thing in your life. With that in mind, I'm cutting out pictures of my dream house, my favorite writers, and various works of art in random forms.


One year I created 100 Positive Self-Affirmations and then strung 100 pretty beads into a bracelet for myself. When I'm feeling especially crushed and miserable, I lay my hands on these and feel their smooth surfaces as I tick off each happy thought like a rosary bead. Another spin on that would be to use the beads as a tactile gratitude list. "I'm grateful for the love and support of my family, I'm grateful for my friends, and for the sunshine..."
I can always go back to the bubbles, blow only one or two at a time, and then just do some deep breathing as I watch them float effortlessly away and pop, imagining each one to be a fear or worry that has now disappeared right before my eyes.

A book of my favorite photos of my children and family, and optimistic pictures for me to color  and then use as stationary for my letters to my kids

Decorated stationary that I use to write "Thinking of You" notes, letters of encouragement or gratitude for my friends and family, and letters to my children. I've actually got an entire box of stationary and stickers to send love letters to the kids. When I focus on them, my problems fade a little, too.
Pictures of my children and my family -- all my favorites.

I go to my book of family photos, but only the ones that make me feel happy instead of bittersweet.

I can put on nail polish of several different shades. I could buy one small jar a week and have all kinds of colors to play with. Anything can really be soothing if you focus solely on that simple act.
I wrote myself a love letter one day. Or here's a thought --- Write yourself an encouraging letter and -Mail it to yourself. Silly waste of money? Or you could see it for what it is, which is deciding that your happiness and well-being are well worth the price of a postage stamp? I hope it's worth much more!!!
--

Positive or encouraging little notes and quotes. You may have noticed that I've got an obsession, Each quote connects us to both the wisdom and the folly of the past, lest we "forget and live to repeat it."
A mandala coloring book -- very soothing. You'd be surprised. You can turn on some peaceful music and get right to work coloring an intricate picture with some colored pencils. Don't let yourself get so hung up on being an adult that you forget what made coloring fun for you as a child. Hum to yourself as you work.

Be sure to keep and save every special card or letter you ever get from a friend, or any other memento from when someone did something special that made you feel loved. Write down every single compliment you ever hear and stick that in the box, too. You never know when you might find yourself needing to see it and be reminded to believe it for yourself again.
If I could add anything else to my sight collection, it would be pretty little postcards, illustrations of pretty places, pretty colored pens, a fun activity book, and a magazine on a favorite topic.

TASTE

You could store some of these ideas right in the box. I'd go with dark chocolate, Jelly Bellies in all my favorite flavors, mint chocolate, raspberry chocolate, dark chocolate orange, minty gum, packs of hot cocoa or tea, a snack bar -- or maybe some Pop Rocks!
Because I have some self-control with food issues, I generally use my tickets in the box in place of actual edible items. If I grab one of those things from the box, it would say"Eat one square of chocolate, mindfully."

"Make yourself some homemade chocolate pudding and eat a bowl of it warm, get some crisp, fresh fruit, some sugar snap peas in season, or some sour candy." Whatever you like, but make sure first if you're doing it for the right reasons, and if you can have enough self-control not to eat it ALL. Stuffing your body with junk food is only stuffing your emotions inside someplace where they don't belong, and that can cause you over time to turn into a person you never meant to be.
Oh, but for the chocolate!
Dark, rich, delicious chocolate!
My absolute favorite is Godiva's raspberry granache truffles...
Yes, So, anyway, I write myself a coupon for such things, and I give it a lot of thought beforehand to make sure that I'm not going to eat an entire box or bag of something.
Love myself, love my body, etc.

TOUCH

Well, this one can sound really weird or maybe mildly inappropriate, but let me
show you:

The little pebble on the right I plucked from the sand back when I
was 12 yrs old. It's smooth surface feels like a time capsule to me.

Fuzzy fluffy stuff to rub against my cheek. Is this a toddler'type coping mechanism? Yes. Yes, it is. But I've got PTSD, and I can tell you for a fact that in that case you need to resort to childhood's comforts, because when you're thinking out of anxiety, fear, and a sense of helplessness, that's the wounded child inside of you crying for love and comfort. Give the poor kid a blanket or a lovey, and for pity's sake don't judge yourself for that.

Rock I got in divorce care group.

Seashell buttons. The ridges and smooth contours felt wonderful on my fingers, but I seem to have misplaced them. Lucy gets this box out and uses it sometimes, so she's a prime suspect. I think it was worth it if it helped.
Tactile rocks are solid and grounding in the midst of a panic attack, after a nightmare or a flashback.
The affirmation beads come back into play here because you can physically feel their cool smoothness as you tick off your positive traits in your mind.

Floam like I've got, or Play-Do, if you prefer. How about clay? Take up pottery-making -- the feel of your fingers slipping along the outside of a pot with the wheel in motion is one of the most soothing sensations I've ever experienced. A bean bag or stress ball are helpful, or you can use a rubber ball like I do, to bounce ideas up against a wall (Yes, I got the idea from House MD, but it works!)
Other ideas I've had but either not been able buy or not able to fit into my box would be: My great, big fluffy blanket, one of those heated neck pads, magnets if you believe in them, bubble bath doubles as a touch-related experience, exfoliating scrub for your face or your feet, soft, warm clothing, or a nice warm heating pad. A travel-sized Mancala game, or marbles, or a bag of jaxs. A pair of warm fuzzy socks! Your imagination is the only limit, which is why I'm lending you so much of mine.

HEARING

This category universally brings to mind rain-sounding mood music,
a waves on the beach track, crickets, a tinkly little music box if it makes your heart glad. I think a white noise machine would work equally as well, or a sweet-sounding little bell or chime, or the sound of drums, or fluting, and music from your childhood that brings up only your happy memories. I've got Celtic Lullabies, and I listen to Deep Relaxation music on Pandora or You Tube. I had a little i-Pod Shuffle that I liked to listen to on brisk walks when I was especially troubled. I put only happy, fun-

loving songs in there, and then a few Girl Power types as well. Unfortunately, mine is broken and I'm left waiting in hope that someone remembers to get me a replacement for Christmas.
And I made a little ticket for myself to seek out of video of a laughing baby on YouTube, because almost everyone I have ever met has not been able to resist smiling at that bubbly, uncomplicated burst of joy that pours out of a happy, healthy child.

Frankly, I made this box because I reached a point in my life where it felt like I was ensnared in an endless loop of misery that was never going to go away. Time really does heal most things -- But wouldn't it be better if we stopped passively waiting out the storm and instead started actively pursuing our happiness?

 The Artist's Date Book  is a Great Resource for Adding Variety to Your Box!

I am mostly happy these days, when once it seemed I would be crushed under the weight of my own grief.

I hope that you are inspired to create a Feel Better Box for yourself --or a drawer, or cabinet, trunk, or a child's wading pool just chuck full of happy thoughts for yourself. Decide that you are worth it and get it done. I'm always available for thoughts, kind words, encouragement and advice. And give me a message or a post on my wall any time you run out of positive thoughts about yourself. I know plenty, and I'll bet a lot of other people do, too.

Pictured last is my original Feel Better "Box," created for me by my daughter when she was only seven years old. She said that it was mine to keep for when I miss her and she's away at her dad's house without me. I never once complained, and have always tried not to let them see how much sadness I have tied into their comings and goings from my house to his, but somehow her sturdy little heart found me out and created this magical bag that brings her close every time I open it and look at its contents. It is full of photographs, little drawings all folded up to squeeze them in, a note that says "I Luv yoo,"tiny little toys that she one played with and enjoyed, a Scooby Doo Valentine, a bracelet that she must have found somewhere out on the dirt road her dad lives on (It was missing several fake diamonds and crusted with dried mud), the "Love" pillow that she ripped off an old teddy bear, and my very own Frog Prince in case I should ever get lonely and decide to settle down with someone again. These days the entire bag resides right inside my Feel Better Box with the rest of my things for me to take out and look at whenever I'm sad, anxious, or simply missing my children. Looking at this bag once again brings to mind what I said when I was discussing money at the beginning of this entry, when I said that you don't need a whole lot of money to create a box that will lift your mood and help you carry on. This simple little bag  with my daughter's huge heart sprinkled inside really warms my heart for me exactly as it is. No, the really important matters of the heart only need a little bit of love and a lot of patience and kindness toward yourself. 

With Love, 

~ HH

"Reach Out In the Darkness!"

I have learned many lessons about people this year.
The most disappointing lesson is that not everyone is drawn to be supportive of struggling, marginalized misfits the way that I am.
The best thing that I've learned is that, in caring for people worse off than myself, there is the discovery that A.) No one is necessarily "worse off" than me, and B.) When I really need a friend myself, they are there for me in a heartbeat. All the best things that have happened to me in my lifetime have been because in my suffering and reaching out for support, I have also caught the reaching hands of others.
And my life is all the better for it.
I feel a mixture of pity and disdain for people who shelter themselves from anything or anyone that might really make them feel something strongly -- People who won't reach out to the loner out in the streets, the sobbing woman standing in the grocery line, the man in the suicide ward who was still trying to steal kitchen knives in order to off himself.
These people are "THOSE People," the ones you should never associate with, the ones who will drag you down, burden you, take more than they will ever give back, have bad attitudes, struggle with depression or mental illness.
It is just as easy for these people I disdain to speak about all kinds of altruistic pursuits -- Just so long as they don't have to get their hands dirty doing it. These are the people who recycle trash, but refuse to give broken people a second chance with them. These are the people who passionately argue for social justice from the safety of their nice homes, but who would never volunteer at a shelter -- or anywhere else for that matter. They talk about poverty in Haiti, but don't donate to any charities. They say that it's a shame that mental illness isn't considered equal to physical illness, but you will never see them befriending anyone they met in the waiting room who seemed a little unstable. And

they would never ever actually strike up a conversation with any of "THOSE people."
I make friends easily, and I make a lot of them. 75% of my friends are such purely because at some point in their lives they needed someone to be there for them, and I made a point of being that person. The people toward I feel so much pity are not the people I met in homeless shelters, not the people I met in psychiatrist's offices, on the suicide ward, and neither is it the people I love who seem incapable of fitting in, or of holding back their most naked thoughts. No, for these marginalized people are stronger than the ones I pity so much -- and far more interesting to talk to.
The people whom I pity so much, are the people who can't seem to see that.
How very lonely it must feel to be perfect, to always get things right, to sit in the waiting room and stare down at your phone for fear of having to meet anyone's eyes and be forced to talk to them.
How very limiting it must be to only associate with "whole" people, with "normal" people --- With only the people you can benefit from as opposed to people who could benefit from you.
How commendable of them to not associate with lower life-forms.
They will live and die bereft of true friends in their lifetime, having left the world no better than they found it.
And absolutely certain that they were clever enough not to become entangled with anyone who might need them.
How empty must their lives be, how depressing!
But how very neat and tidy.
I don't go into any friendship thinking to myself, "What can I get out of this person?"
I don't ask myself, "Gee, I wonder if they've got their shit together, or if they're going to create unnecessary drama in my life?"
I think, "That person needs a friend; What can I do for them?"
I think, "This is a complex person -- What can I learn from them?"
You learn a lot.
You learn, for example, how much you really have to offer to the world, and how important it is for you to do that.
You learn to value every person you meet, to learn from every experience you have.
You learn that the woman with the incurable, degenerative disease who lives on welfare and was once an alcoholic is also a beautiful artist, and a kind soul at heart.
You learn that the girl nobody else liked during your grade school years is the kindest, most generous person there is -- quite possibly because she knows what it is to be mistreated, and she knows how it feels to have nothing -- And she just might have learned from you what it feels like to just give anyway. Or maybe you learn that from her.
You learn that even drug addicts can love their children and hope for the best for them.
You learn that people who never went to college can still be geniuses, gifted people with a purpose in life.
You learn that people are more important than things.
You learn that acts of kindness have no statutes of limitations, that a kindness done for another can

round back up on you, years after the fact, and become something kind that that person will now do for you.
You learn that helping others takes away that nagging emptiness you hold inside.
You learn that your life isn't about feeling safe or being stable; It's meant to mean something, to care about something, to give something without expecting anything back -- but getting everything that you need anyway -- perhaps by realizing that you have everything you need.
I never turn down a friend, and I try to make myself the friend of anyone I see who seems to be struggling in any way, and I try to use my own struggles to empathize and encourage them.
I pay it forward.
And for that I am never sorry.
The ultimate pity I feel toward these Avoiders is that they look at their life and relationships as some sort of zero-sum game, as if they will run out of time, energy, resources -- love -- if they give to much.
Why can't they see that the more you give, the more you have to give -- that the more people whom you love, the more love that you have and you get?

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.