I am somewhat depressed. I think all the recent work in therapy and what I have been doing on my own has resulted in some depression. Not unusual in the Dog Days of Summer. Grief issues abound in terms of dealing with the inadequacies of parenting. And dealing with Patricia, AKA the former Clovella, has proven to be difficult on my own. I just couldn't get motivated to play music this morning. I laid in bed, or couch as it were, and couldn't get moving for over an hour. Good thing my ride won't be here until after 6:30, late for me to get to work.
I think what I am lacking right now is a sense of belonging, a connection, also a sense of being in control. I have done a lot of things in my past that I am not proud of, like the head banging, which I am sure has resulted in some permanent damage to my head and its contents. All in the name of feeling something, anything, but not depression. Thankfully I think I am past such self-injurious behavior, but not the depression. But a summer's morning like this, soon to turn cold and gloomy by tomorrow as a harbinger of things to come just pushes me over the proverbial edge. Again, must I remind you, days are growing shorter by two minutes a day. I hate Fall and winter is not much better. At least winter has a certain promise of spring. But Fall, crap, it's just death and dying, not to mention the dreaded back to school.
So I feel disconnected. Hopefully Hyphen can put some of this in perspective. I am overwhelming her with books. Things I have read that I want to share with her. Brody's Mom and I had a good talk on Saturday and that helped some but I am cast adrift right now. Dare I eat a peach? Maybe a nectarine? Measuring my life out In coffee spoons,
I have yet another few books I want to read. One, a graphic novel on being bipolar and another on a mindful path through depression. I will try reading both at once, depending on my state of mind. I was reading another book by Susan Forward entitled Toxic Parents and laughed out loud at one point. The woman was saying how she was depressed but didn't want to commit suicide as she was afraid she would only run into her deceased parents and have them start in again on her. I said that years ago. But that passage made me laugh. Maybe as I droop I will bring that to mind and laugh all over again. That could have been me.
One other thing I should add. My oldest cat, Gonif, is hyperthyroid, but just so. I give him ground turkey a few times a day In lieu of kibble else he will scarf and barf. Friday he was scarfing and barfing the turkey and puking every time he thought about it. And I, sweet rational me, was screaming at him for puking. At least I didn't hit him. But I was just furious at him. Really, it wasn't his fault, but it was my problem. Depression does that to me, makes me irrational. I just gave him some turkey and he is laying calmly in front of me grooming. All is right in his little world.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Sunday, July 13, 2014
I am ready
I think...to start playing again. I took a week off and now I am emotionally and intellectually ready to begin again. Mayhap a session playing with a friend can be arranged. But I think starting again is right. Slowly to begin with as my left hand is a tad bit sore from all the weather changes.
So yesterday I finished reading "Mean Mothers" and have fodder for therapy. I had one, damn straight. I will work on writing some thoughts out for the session tomorrow as it helped last week to keep me focused. And only ten minutes will be devoted to Patricia, now to be known as the former Clovella. I did have a two minute conversation with her regarding phone calls at work and constantly bothering me. I feel like I have really set some good and lasting boundaries.
And speaking of fodder, Donna Duck now will have duck feed to feast upon. Five pounds of it. Now Donna and her friends will have the right food, fit for ducks, and not the bread sticks that will foul her fowl.
And finally here is Mr. Simcha in full belly whore formation. I am off to the farmers' market.
So yesterday I finished reading "Mean Mothers" and have fodder for therapy. I had one, damn straight. I will work on writing some thoughts out for the session tomorrow as it helped last week to keep me focused. And only ten minutes will be devoted to Patricia, now to be known as the former Clovella. I did have a two minute conversation with her regarding phone calls at work and constantly bothering me. I feel like I have really set some good and lasting boundaries.
And speaking of fodder, Donna Duck now will have duck feed to feast upon. Five pounds of it. Now Donna and her friends will have the right food, fit for ducks, and not the bread sticks that will foul her fowl.
And finally here is Mr. Simcha in full belly whore formation. I am off to the farmers' market.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Dad's bithday
Today would have been my dad's 83rd birthday. In another six days my mom's 80th birthday. Two peas in a pod, they were. An alcoholic living with an enabler. Too wrapped up in each other to have much time for a third wheel like a child. Or like a wild child like me. I am thankful I had my grandmother, who could be warm and loving but who could also pull guilt out of the pocket of her house dress when she tended to be the disciplinarian. But today is for my dad.
It hit me a while back that when I was going through college my mom was only 38 and dad was three years older. Still young. But I can never picture them as being that young. But starting when I was 16 my dad, then 39 and I would play tennis on Sundays before going to his mother's for a visit. In the warmer months, something we did until I left home at 22. We'd arrive at his mother's sweating and still out of breath. And then dad would re-read the newspaper while his mother grilled me about the past week. It was charming.
But I digress. My parents were very young when they had me not uncommon in the 1950s. I remember being still stupid and fixed in my thirties. And I cut them, after the fact, a little slack. And then beat myself up for not appreciating their youth.
Dad died ten years ago in April, He had been a smoker most of his life. The day he told me it hurt too much to smoke any more I thought that was the beginning of the end. But he was a young man at one point, full of hope and love, both for his wife and his child. But so much for his wife that I felt and was treated like an outsider. As was her mother, Dorothy. I remember being told we had to sneak out of the house on a Saturday night, just like I would years later it for other reasons, so we wouldn't have to take Dorothy to dinner with us. And to be honest I was a little jealous of the insular relationship my parents held. They had no friends they would socialize with, just the occasional cousins. And never with his brother and sister in law.
I don't know where I am going with this. Maybe just to pause and acknowledge dad and his youth.
It hit me a while back that when I was going through college my mom was only 38 and dad was three years older. Still young. But I can never picture them as being that young. But starting when I was 16 my dad, then 39 and I would play tennis on Sundays before going to his mother's for a visit. In the warmer months, something we did until I left home at 22. We'd arrive at his mother's sweating and still out of breath. And then dad would re-read the newspaper while his mother grilled me about the past week. It was charming.
But I digress. My parents were very young when they had me not uncommon in the 1950s. I remember being still stupid and fixed in my thirties. And I cut them, after the fact, a little slack. And then beat myself up for not appreciating their youth.
Dad died ten years ago in April, He had been a smoker most of his life. The day he told me it hurt too much to smoke any more I thought that was the beginning of the end. But he was a young man at one point, full of hope and love, both for his wife and his child. But so much for his wife that I felt and was treated like an outsider. As was her mother, Dorothy. I remember being told we had to sneak out of the house on a Saturday night, just like I would years later it for other reasons, so we wouldn't have to take Dorothy to dinner with us. And to be honest I was a little jealous of the insular relationship my parents held. They had no friends they would socialize with, just the occasional cousins. And never with his brother and sister in law.
I don't know where I am going with this. Maybe just to pause and acknowledge dad and his youth.
Friday, July 11, 2014
On to other topics
Patricia has recently gotten into the habit of calling me at work. The first time she called I said I was busy. The next time she called she left me a rather pathetic voice mail as I was away from my desk. Basically she wanted me to say a prayer for a nephew's dog. Yes, this was certainly worth calling me at work. Hopefully I will have a chance to talk to her, calmly, this weekend, and let her know that is not acceptable behavior. My work phone is for work and then only for emergencies, not to ask for a Jewish prayer for dead, a Kaddish, as the dog was not dead. When the dog does die she will be a wreck again, saying the boy doesn't need that pain. Well who the hell does? It happens. Get over it. And it isn't your frigging dog. I often say she has the worse empathy of any social worker I know, but if it is in her family she goes off the deep end. I may be a cold and indifferent person, I don't know. I do know I don't need her calling me at work with such bullshit. Yes, more explicit boundaries need to be set. But not this week. I am taking a Patricia vacation. And working on stuff for me. Monday is another therapy day and I want to have anothrer book read. And I have some plans with a friend. Not to mention the farmers' market and getting together with a friend and playing guitars. Until Tuesday I do not have time for Patricia. And that is firm.
I take Fridays off in the summer so I don't know if Donna Duck showed today. I got some feedback from folks at work and Donna will be getting cracked corn next week, not breadsticks. I hear you folks. Bread and crackers are bad for waterfowl and I will follow the will of the library's concern for Donna. Sometimes a pleasant story is taken to extreme by some and turned into a negative. Oh vey, as one woman said, is there such a thing as too much empathy? Is there Patricia?
I take Fridays off in the summer so I don't know if Donna Duck showed today. I got some feedback from folks at work and Donna will be getting cracked corn next week, not breadsticks. I hear you folks. Bread and crackers are bad for waterfowl and I will follow the will of the library's concern for Donna. Sometimes a pleasant story is taken to extreme by some and turned into a negative. Oh vey, as one woman said, is there such a thing as too much empathy? Is there Patricia?
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Return to the Cuckoo's Nest Part IV
Safely ensconced in the ambulance I was taken to another local hospital to drink more charcoal and be put in their version of isolation. Why the drivers took me Club Dread instead of back to the Cuckoo's Nest is beyond me. I was given a private room that wasn't really private. The room was encased in case, locked and I had a commode to accommodate my pressing needs but absolutely no privacy. I was feeling pretty stupid about what I had done and just wanted to go home to my cats and resume therapy and not drink ever again. The staff psychiatrist visited me after two days and told me I had to commit myself again because of the suicide attempt. I was less than happy. Actually, I had a shit fit and was calling the beautifully dressed and coiffed psychiatrist a variety of names and they sedated me and gave me a phone so I could make arrangements to get some clothes and have the cats cared for in my absence. I did not call my father at this point.
So, another ambulance ride later I was at Saint One Flew for what turned out to be a short term commitment. Their psychiatrist, seeing how absolutely contrite I was, and how unlike the other inmates I was, recommended outpatient treatment for a week and I was sent home with more drugs and a hardy hi ho silver. Of course they sent me home in a cab that dropped me at a pharmacy not to be named by my home. And, of course, they were out of the medication so I had another hissy fit, this time with the pharmacist who was a former companion of my Ex. My God, they were all over the place. The Good, The Bad and the downright Ugly.
Come the following Monday, bright and early, I got a cab and went to the outpatient unit for the day. Unlike the inpatient unit, this unit actually functioned well. I met my current psychiatrist, Dave, and he immediately took me off the Lithium and put me on another mood stabilizer. We also met in group in the morning, had a lunch break, did various forms of therapy in the afternoon. One common element is most of the people in that unit were recovering alcoholics, like myself now, and much of the group focused on drinking and the problems it caused in our lives. I did outpatient for a week and felt well enough to go back to work.
I did, however, have to talk to my dad as the hospital had notified him of my mistake. He came up that following Monday after I was released from outpatient and came to take me to lunch. He was amazed I was depressed enough to consider suicide and for a not too religious man gave me numerous religious reasons for me not to kill myself. Thus was lunch and he went back to Detroit thereafter.
I did try to go to AA meetings. I tried. It didn't take. I felt the groundwork was too christian in orientation, generic christian, and I didn't feel like I was getting the message. And much like when I quit smoking, I just set my mind to the task and haven't had a drink since January 6, 1997. I initially felt like I had failed in AA, but I realized it just wasn't the right path for me. I have sought out other sobriety agencies and books but the religious tenor always put me off. Even the Jewish Twelve Step programs didn't fit my needs. But I have remained sober.
This is not to say that I haven't been depressed since and felt mildly or acutely suicidal; I have. But with the help of first Pat and then Hyphen I have pulled back from the brink many times. I have used this blog as a sort of journal to work some issues out and have been grateful for the feedback. I can't seem to find the energy to keep a journal but blogging seems to suit my needs better.
Thank you for following me through this process.
And now for something completely different:
Me and my new buddy Donna Duck. Yes, My Duck returned today and much to my surprise came up onto the loading dock and let me feed her again. Actually, while I was running to get more bread sticks, Gastric coaxed Donna with her duck whisperer voice and up she came. And she waited while I opened the package and calmly took the food right out of my hand.
This is Donna and me. Ain't she a cutie?
So, another ambulance ride later I was at Saint One Flew for what turned out to be a short term commitment. Their psychiatrist, seeing how absolutely contrite I was, and how unlike the other inmates I was, recommended outpatient treatment for a week and I was sent home with more drugs and a hardy hi ho silver. Of course they sent me home in a cab that dropped me at a pharmacy not to be named by my home. And, of course, they were out of the medication so I had another hissy fit, this time with the pharmacist who was a former companion of my Ex. My God, they were all over the place. The Good, The Bad and the downright Ugly.
Come the following Monday, bright and early, I got a cab and went to the outpatient unit for the day. Unlike the inpatient unit, this unit actually functioned well. I met my current psychiatrist, Dave, and he immediately took me off the Lithium and put me on another mood stabilizer. We also met in group in the morning, had a lunch break, did various forms of therapy in the afternoon. One common element is most of the people in that unit were recovering alcoholics, like myself now, and much of the group focused on drinking and the problems it caused in our lives. I did outpatient for a week and felt well enough to go back to work.
I did, however, have to talk to my dad as the hospital had notified him of my mistake. He came up that following Monday after I was released from outpatient and came to take me to lunch. He was amazed I was depressed enough to consider suicide and for a not too religious man gave me numerous religious reasons for me not to kill myself. Thus was lunch and he went back to Detroit thereafter.
I did try to go to AA meetings. I tried. It didn't take. I felt the groundwork was too christian in orientation, generic christian, and I didn't feel like I was getting the message. And much like when I quit smoking, I just set my mind to the task and haven't had a drink since January 6, 1997. I initially felt like I had failed in AA, but I realized it just wasn't the right path for me. I have sought out other sobriety agencies and books but the religious tenor always put me off. Even the Jewish Twelve Step programs didn't fit my needs. But I have remained sober.
This is not to say that I haven't been depressed since and felt mildly or acutely suicidal; I have. But with the help of first Pat and then Hyphen I have pulled back from the brink many times. I have used this blog as a sort of journal to work some issues out and have been grateful for the feedback. I can't seem to find the energy to keep a journal but blogging seems to suit my needs better.
Thank you for following me through this process.
And now for something completely different:
Me and my new buddy Donna Duck. Yes, My Duck returned today and much to my surprise came up onto the loading dock and let me feed her again. Actually, while I was running to get more bread sticks, Gastric coaxed Donna with her duck whisperer voice and up she came. And she waited while I opened the package and calmly took the food right out of my hand.
This is Donna and me. Ain't she a cutie?
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Gentle Flyover Owosso Part III
Well, the second psychiatric hospitalization went much better than the first, but was necessitated by an overdose of Lithium on my part. Overdosing on lithium is much like having an short term amnesia. I could hardly remember my name. I showed up for therapy that day pretty much out of it and my therapist contacted my psychiatrist and arranged for me to go someplace safe for a while. When I did have some wits about me I said NO Saint Lawrence. The psychiatrist did some wrangling with Blue Cross and said something to the effect that I was too stressed out by city life and I needed the country setting of beautiful downtown Owosso, subject of numerous songs by me. I was given an intake interview there in the ER and given liquid charcoal to drink to flush the Lithium out of my system.
Now Owosso is a small community about an hour away from Lansing, way out in BFE. I was dropped there by my soon to be Ex and had no way to get back home so the idea of sneaking out was not an option. Besides the floor was locked. I had no visitors this time, although my therapist, Pat, did phone me once to see how I was doing. The locked unit is referred to as the Stress Unit and not the loony bin. And the difference between them and the Saint One Flew was like night and day. Owosso's staff was good, responsive to patients needs and not antagonizing them like Saint One Flew. And there was structure. Right after breakfast the whole floor met as a group to assign jobs for the week (mine was to wake people up for breakfast) and have group. After group we had a break and that was followed by various forms of alternative therapies: art, music and more group. And, although I had quit smoking by then, the smokers' lounge was a great place for us to gather in-between therapies to talk amongst ourselves and engage with each other. I was there for two weekends and on Sundays the patients made dinner for ourselves. We had a meeting during the week to decide what we wanted to make and the staff bought the ingredients and we made dinner and dessert.
I was very anorexic then and I was about 95 pounds soaking wet. They had trouble getting me to eat and additionally I was sick with a UTI while I was there so I really had no appetite. I just wanted to go home. And the Lithium haze persisted for days while I was there. I kept trying to recall my passwords for work. I kept trying to call my Ex at home but I couldn't remember the phone number. And for the good that would have done me as the Ex was having yet another liaison and was never home.
The Stress Unit was kinder and gentler than Saint One Flew. The ambiance was nicer as well and they had like a atrium connecting the sleeping area to the dining and group areas. And the people on the floor actually needed to be there, not merely there for a rest. One woman, a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Philosophy was there and she constantly picked the flesh off her face which resulted in nasty open wounds. She needed to be there. One man was there because he recently had a leg amputated above the knee and was suicidal. He needed to be there. One woman never spoke and was so withdrawn I thought she would never open up. By the time my week was over she did, in fact, speak during group and was starting to get better. She needed to be there. I needed to be there.
I spoke to one of the nurses about the Lithium Haze and she said it was not uncommon for that to happen with that kind of overdose and that the haze would lift in time. I fully participated, as much as I was able to, in group, art and even picked up a guitar in music therapy. Family night was Wednesday when the families of patients would come in and have a session with their loved ones and a staff psychologist. No one came for me. We saw movies on Saturday night, complete with popcorn. In other words, it was a good experience and I highly recommend the therapeutics of the place.
I finally got out on a Monday and realized the I was still not quite 100%. I kept repeating to my soon to be Ex that "I am doing okay, right?" I wasn't. I went back to work and kept a low profile. Soon a bank statement arrived and I actually looked at it and was surprised to find that a $5,000 withdrawal had been made and I had no knowledge of it. I went to the bank that day and closed the joint account out and opened my own account with what was left. I didn't tell the Ex that until the Ex tried to get more money out of the account only to find it had been closed. Pat, my then therapist encouraged me to move on with my life and within a week's time I had located a new place to live, thanks to my late buddy Jerry (I was going to be his neighbor in the condo building) and started packing. The only problem was I had three months before I could take possession of the condo. We acted as if we were still friends and the Ex continued to deny any affairs, current, ongoing or in the past. Of course the day I moved out the new love moved in.
Needless to say I didn't feel grounded. I went from and large home to a small condo; a place where I could lay in bed and see out the living room windows. I felt like the walls were closing in on me. I started drinking again. The Ex wanted to remain friends and I said that the only way I could hurt the Ex as much as the Ex did was to deny that relationship. (Years later the Soul Sucker told me she maintain a relationship with the Ex and two years ago said the Ex wanted to get together with me to work things out...another nail in the Soul Sucker's coffin).
In any event I commenced drinking lots and began giving stuff away, like my guitar, as I was seriously suicidal. By Christmas I was bereft and by the 6th of January I took another overdose of Lithium very impulsively, and immediately phoned my psychiatrist and the ambulance was at my door in a matter of minutes. And therein lay the next chapter of this narrative.
Now Owosso is a small community about an hour away from Lansing, way out in BFE. I was dropped there by my soon to be Ex and had no way to get back home so the idea of sneaking out was not an option. Besides the floor was locked. I had no visitors this time, although my therapist, Pat, did phone me once to see how I was doing. The locked unit is referred to as the Stress Unit and not the loony bin. And the difference between them and the Saint One Flew was like night and day. Owosso's staff was good, responsive to patients needs and not antagonizing them like Saint One Flew. And there was structure. Right after breakfast the whole floor met as a group to assign jobs for the week (mine was to wake people up for breakfast) and have group. After group we had a break and that was followed by various forms of alternative therapies: art, music and more group. And, although I had quit smoking by then, the smokers' lounge was a great place for us to gather in-between therapies to talk amongst ourselves and engage with each other. I was there for two weekends and on Sundays the patients made dinner for ourselves. We had a meeting during the week to decide what we wanted to make and the staff bought the ingredients and we made dinner and dessert.
I was very anorexic then and I was about 95 pounds soaking wet. They had trouble getting me to eat and additionally I was sick with a UTI while I was there so I really had no appetite. I just wanted to go home. And the Lithium haze persisted for days while I was there. I kept trying to recall my passwords for work. I kept trying to call my Ex at home but I couldn't remember the phone number. And for the good that would have done me as the Ex was having yet another liaison and was never home.
The Stress Unit was kinder and gentler than Saint One Flew. The ambiance was nicer as well and they had like a atrium connecting the sleeping area to the dining and group areas. And the people on the floor actually needed to be there, not merely there for a rest. One woman, a Ph.D. candidate in the Department of Philosophy was there and she constantly picked the flesh off her face which resulted in nasty open wounds. She needed to be there. One man was there because he recently had a leg amputated above the knee and was suicidal. He needed to be there. One woman never spoke and was so withdrawn I thought she would never open up. By the time my week was over she did, in fact, speak during group and was starting to get better. She needed to be there. I needed to be there.
I spoke to one of the nurses about the Lithium Haze and she said it was not uncommon for that to happen with that kind of overdose and that the haze would lift in time. I fully participated, as much as I was able to, in group, art and even picked up a guitar in music therapy. Family night was Wednesday when the families of patients would come in and have a session with their loved ones and a staff psychologist. No one came for me. We saw movies on Saturday night, complete with popcorn. In other words, it was a good experience and I highly recommend the therapeutics of the place.
I finally got out on a Monday and realized the I was still not quite 100%. I kept repeating to my soon to be Ex that "I am doing okay, right?" I wasn't. I went back to work and kept a low profile. Soon a bank statement arrived and I actually looked at it and was surprised to find that a $5,000 withdrawal had been made and I had no knowledge of it. I went to the bank that day and closed the joint account out and opened my own account with what was left. I didn't tell the Ex that until the Ex tried to get more money out of the account only to find it had been closed. Pat, my then therapist encouraged me to move on with my life and within a week's time I had located a new place to live, thanks to my late buddy Jerry (I was going to be his neighbor in the condo building) and started packing. The only problem was I had three months before I could take possession of the condo. We acted as if we were still friends and the Ex continued to deny any affairs, current, ongoing or in the past. Of course the day I moved out the new love moved in.
Needless to say I didn't feel grounded. I went from and large home to a small condo; a place where I could lay in bed and see out the living room windows. I felt like the walls were closing in on me. I started drinking again. The Ex wanted to remain friends and I said that the only way I could hurt the Ex as much as the Ex did was to deny that relationship. (Years later the Soul Sucker told me she maintain a relationship with the Ex and two years ago said the Ex wanted to get together with me to work things out...another nail in the Soul Sucker's coffin).
In any event I commenced drinking lots and began giving stuff away, like my guitar, as I was seriously suicidal. By Christmas I was bereft and by the 6th of January I took another overdose of Lithium very impulsively, and immediately phoned my psychiatrist and the ambulance was at my door in a matter of minutes. And therein lay the next chapter of this narrative.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Saint One Flew...Part II
I was in isolation for one week. There I had limited talk therapy but lots of drugs. And lots of people who were genuinely crazy, much more so than myself. When I achieve the status of the open ward, as they locked the door behind me the chap who was harassing me tried to follow me out, which resulted in alarms going off and with him getting a very strong sedative to calm him down. I really do believe he would have assaulted me without being left behind and sedated.
On the open ward we were more responsible for ourselves. We had assigned tasks, like cleaning the kitchen and doing our own laundry. I got some talk therapy but not a great deal. Basically what it felt like was a holding cell for people who wanted a break from the "real world". I had a woman tell me in no uncertain terms that she was only there to get a break from her kids and her mother could handle them for a few weeks while she rested. She wasn't on medication and did not participate in group.
Gastric was visiting me every day. The soon to be Soul Sucker was there too. She was there when I was trying to commit myself. You see the Ex and she "decided" I need help because I would come home from work, take a bottle of vodka out of the freezer and lapse into unconsciousness. So one Friday they got me in the car and took me to Community Mental Health for an intake interview. I was initially told to come back in a few hours when I was more sober and could make the actual commitment. So about 3:00 a.m. I arrived at the psych unit and had a two hour intake evaluation. I didn't want to be there but I was pressured by the Ex and the Soul Sucker. And sure I managed to earn my commitment by knocking myself silly on any convenient wall. So there I was, alone, forsaken.
After I got out of the locked ward I made some relative progress and had one on one counseling. The staff still hated the inmates and the reverse was true. What I missed was being able to shave my legs and my furry eyebrows. Once, before I was released to go home, the Soul Sucker took me to her home to see how I could manage life on the outside. I immediately confiscated her shower, shaved and plucked. I felt like a new woman. The lithium was making me a little less manic. She took me back that night and after much wrangling I was released, not to my Ex, who couldn't bother to pick me up, but to the late Dianne. I got home and was greeted with a house that had not been cleaned in two weeks. I immediately went into manic mode and cleaned the house from top to bottom. A friend came over whilst I was cleaning and asked where I had been for two weeks and I related the whole ugly episode to her. She knew the Ex was sleeping around but was too sensitive to my state of mind to tell me. Basically everyone but me knew The Ex was sleeping around. But it would take another six years for me to finally wake up and move on. And that was only when I found The Ex had depleted a joint bank account to play around.
So that is the tale of my first commitment. There would be two more, once right before I moved out on the Ex and one almost as soon as I moved into my own place. But that is for another day. But unless things have remarkable changed since Saint Lawrence was absorbed by Sparrow Hospital I can't imagine a less helpful place to be committed to than that blemish on the ass of God.
On the open ward we were more responsible for ourselves. We had assigned tasks, like cleaning the kitchen and doing our own laundry. I got some talk therapy but not a great deal. Basically what it felt like was a holding cell for people who wanted a break from the "real world". I had a woman tell me in no uncertain terms that she was only there to get a break from her kids and her mother could handle them for a few weeks while she rested. She wasn't on medication and did not participate in group.
Gastric was visiting me every day. The soon to be Soul Sucker was there too. She was there when I was trying to commit myself. You see the Ex and she "decided" I need help because I would come home from work, take a bottle of vodka out of the freezer and lapse into unconsciousness. So one Friday they got me in the car and took me to Community Mental Health for an intake interview. I was initially told to come back in a few hours when I was more sober and could make the actual commitment. So about 3:00 a.m. I arrived at the psych unit and had a two hour intake evaluation. I didn't want to be there but I was pressured by the Ex and the Soul Sucker. And sure I managed to earn my commitment by knocking myself silly on any convenient wall. So there I was, alone, forsaken.
After I got out of the locked ward I made some relative progress and had one on one counseling. The staff still hated the inmates and the reverse was true. What I missed was being able to shave my legs and my furry eyebrows. Once, before I was released to go home, the Soul Sucker took me to her home to see how I could manage life on the outside. I immediately confiscated her shower, shaved and plucked. I felt like a new woman. The lithium was making me a little less manic. She took me back that night and after much wrangling I was released, not to my Ex, who couldn't bother to pick me up, but to the late Dianne. I got home and was greeted with a house that had not been cleaned in two weeks. I immediately went into manic mode and cleaned the house from top to bottom. A friend came over whilst I was cleaning and asked where I had been for two weeks and I related the whole ugly episode to her. She knew the Ex was sleeping around but was too sensitive to my state of mind to tell me. Basically everyone but me knew The Ex was sleeping around. But it would take another six years for me to finally wake up and move on. And that was only when I found The Ex had depleted a joint bank account to play around.
So that is the tale of my first commitment. There would be two more, once right before I moved out on the Ex and one almost as soon as I moved into my own place. But that is for another day. But unless things have remarkable changed since Saint Lawrence was absorbed by Sparrow Hospital I can't imagine a less helpful place to be committed to than that blemish on the ass of God.
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