Okay, so we're more or less caught up on the "unfortunate incarceration" (God help me I just quoted from Designing Women) I'd like to explore what happened in my head leading up to that fateful moment. This is a section of my Tumblr blog from earlier that day.
http://www.tumblr.com/blog/renderedthoughts
I still can't decide if I stand by this or not. I think I like it, I just feel like an idiot for espousing the idea of universal consciousness equaling God. I mean, it seems, hell, it is, blasphemous to even consider becoming an equal of God's. Seems to me someone tried that before and it didn't work out so well *coughs, Lucifer*. I think maybe we're just at a point in our evolution as a species that we can even think of meeting God. There are a couple of religions that believe your final incarnation is as a god-type awareness. Perhaps that's where mankind is headed, who knows.
Having hashed out in my head what I could remember about that day and talking to my therapist, I believe I have an "answer" (for myself, at least) to what happened. The medications that had been prescribed to me were patently wrong and caused/allowed a mental break. That chemical badness was further exacerbated by my line of thinking during that time. While I thought I had life, the universe, and everything figured out, I also thought/believed that the world was going to go *poof* in my children's lifetime unless I could get the right people to make the right decisions.... Now, all of that was going through my head at about a million miles an hour. I had not slept well, I was stressed b/c of my unemployment, we have a baby on the way, my brain chemicals were topsy-turvy, and I thought my children would see the end of the world. Hell, anyone would have had a break-down at that point.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
More self-aggrandizing bullshit
I keep thinking that I must really be important for others to waste their time on me. God knows I don't see it that way. But somehow, for some reason, people keep coming to my aid. To give me comfort where and when it's not deserved. To help me when I least want it and most need it. Advice is freely given and freely ignored if need be. I'm not good at being on the receiving end of emotional generosity. I'm not entirely sure I'm good on the giving end either, I have simply told myself over the years that it' the side of the coin I'm better with. Since my kids were born, I've kinda had to become more aware of my emotional "score". I can't be all giving, neither can I be all taking. That is a really hard concept to wrap my mind around. I may get around to accepting it sooner or later, but for now, I'm just really confused and scared. Not neccessarily about anything specific. Simply amazed and humbled at the love that has been out there for so long and that I've ignored, thinking I didn't need it. It has taken a wife of infinite patience to show me that I can't love without being loved back, not in any true manner. My mind and heart are having one hell of an argument and I'm really hoping they work it out. My head hurts.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Whenever you might wonder
What bothers me most about having been in the loony bin is the more or less complete destruction of my self-image. I have always prided myself on my mind and my control thereof. Having been first diagnosed as clinically depressed, then bipolar II, I have slowly watched the traits that I once prided being slowly degraded by my perceptions and the perceptions of others (whether those perceptions are real or not hardly matters.) I can no longer trust my own thoughts and/or memories. This is quite frankly terrifying. I feel like I am losing who I am. I don't know anymore what my mind is coming up with. I find myself chasing thoughts that I have no interest in re-living and then beating myself up for doing that. I hope the new med regimen begins to help things, because right now, I'm scared to death and pissed off about it.
Why mental wards suck, and other musings
Last post I explained how I ended up in a mental ward after an involuntary admission. The term "mental ward" can be somewhat misleading, so let me clarify. Most hospitals have what can best be described as "mental health facilities". These facilities usually consist of a secured floor (or floors) where folks that are not necessarily in touch with reality can go to get better. The ward that I went to was sub-divided into three areas. There was 3rd floor, which was for the people that may have voluntarily committed themselves or otherwise showed no danger to themselves or others. On the 2nd floor there were two areas, the portion in which I resided and the Dark Side. My area was actually just a really bad hotel. We were the folk that were more or less okay, we had simply been labelled "may harm self or others". I was re-diagnosed within 24 hours of my admission as not likely to pose a threat to anyone, myself included, but still stayed on the floor. Best I can figure out why is because I'm kind of a big guy and the 3rd floor has no "emergency" contingencies for out of control patients. Yep, I was kept in a secured ward because I might be scary to some staff. The Dark Side is exactly what it sounds like. It was the area where folks that said bye bye to reality a loooong time ago lived. These were the folks that were not going to be released after the weekend, they were in for the long haul. We would occasionlly hear a ruckus from the DS since the two wards shared a wall and windows through the nurses' station. I'm reallly glad I wasn't over there.
For me, the worst part my stay in Maison du Cucu was the boredom. There simply was nothing to do but eat and watch TV. Now I like TV as much as the next person if it's a program I want to watch. Unfortunately for me, the popular viewing on the ward was reality TV. FML. I finally convinced the recreational therapist that some crosswords would be really great for my recovery. He proceeded to provide me with loads of crossword puzzles.... that a 2nd grader could solve. FML again. So boredom kicked my ass for 3 days. At the end of my 3 days, I got to talk with my doctor for a grand total of 15 minutes. Do the math. That's 5 minutes per day to get me well. Yep, the system works. Wait, no, it doesn't. If I had been truly dangerous, I could simply have bullshitted my way through 15 minutes of therapy and be released. My wife was afraid that I would do just this, tell them what they wanted to hear so I could leave ASAP. I told her not to worry because I was sure that the staff had well-honed BS detecting skills, and for all I know they did/do. Just during my time there I never saw their implementation. I was basically left to help myself.
For me, the worst part my stay in Maison du Cucu was the boredom. There simply was nothing to do but eat and watch TV. Now I like TV as much as the next person if it's a program I want to watch. Unfortunately for me, the popular viewing on the ward was reality TV. FML. I finally convinced the recreational therapist that some crosswords would be really great for my recovery. He proceeded to provide me with loads of crossword puzzles.... that a 2nd grader could solve. FML again. So boredom kicked my ass for 3 days. At the end of my 3 days, I got to talk with my doctor for a grand total of 15 minutes. Do the math. That's 5 minutes per day to get me well. Yep, the system works. Wait, no, it doesn't. If I had been truly dangerous, I could simply have bullshitted my way through 15 minutes of therapy and be released. My wife was afraid that I would do just this, tell them what they wanted to hear so I could leave ASAP. I told her not to worry because I was sure that the staff had well-honed BS detecting skills, and for all I know they did/do. Just during my time there I never saw their implementation. I was basically left to help myself.
Monday, February 13, 2012
But wait, there's more
How can there be more you might ask. Fair enough. I know there's going to be much more of my life. Sounds simple, right? Four days ago I'm not sure how I would have answered that question. Four days ago, how to put this? Oh yeah, due to some bad meds and some really piss-poor self-medication, I lost my mind. Not the cutesy, "I'm going to lose my mind if I miss American Idol", but "Holy shit, call the authorities" kind. Authorities were called. I spouted gibberish every time I was asked a question. This led to some answers that put me firmly in the "may harm self or others" category. I don't remember any of this. I mean, I can recall bits and pieces if someone walks me through it, but on my own the day of February 7, 2012 might as well not exist.
My first coherent memory is waking up in the ER and being asked what I remembered (nothing, remember?). My wife and sister were both in the room looking a tad worried, and with good reason. Apparently during my delusions I had left my kids unfed for the morning among other things. Not the end of the world, right. Just kinda shitty. Wrong. As I sit here writing this I have to stop and get my emotions back under control. You see, the idea of harming my kids in any way, not matter how small, is a idea that absolutely appalls me. I literally cannot believe that I put them at any risk. I kinda hate myself when I think about it, so I try not to. I can assure you however, that thanks to medical intervention I'm on the road to "normal" (whatever that is) and can think about my life and what I need to do to keep my head in the game and to make good choices.
I was placed under an Order of Protective Custody (OPC). For those of you fortunate enough to have dodged the proverbial bullet of mental health issues, an OPC means that you go to a mental ward of someone else's choosing. Involuntary admission is the proper term for what happened. Involuntary doesn't even begin to cover it. All decisions and choices are no longer yours to make. You become a temporary ward of the state. Let me repeat that, ward of the state. This is the stuff of Pink Floyd albums and one of my worst nightmares. So I went from a delirium of confusion and fear, to a place that I was convinced was prison. Approximately 24 hours into my stay at Hotel de Nuts, I began to understand why I was there. I wasn't there as a punishment, I was there because my family loved me enough to make a really crappy choice for my sake. I have no doubt now that the decision to commit me was just as hard on them as it was on me. They saved my life and I can't thank them enough.
I'll talk more about what happens during a stay in a mental ward in the following posts. For now, I'd like to give you a couple of links just in case you feel yourself spiraling down into dark places. There are lots more than these, a Google search will give you plenty. These were the three that help me the most.
www.nimh.nih.gov/
www.mhatexas.org/
www.dosomething.org
My first coherent memory is waking up in the ER and being asked what I remembered (nothing, remember?). My wife and sister were both in the room looking a tad worried, and with good reason. Apparently during my delusions I had left my kids unfed for the morning among other things. Not the end of the world, right. Just kinda shitty. Wrong. As I sit here writing this I have to stop and get my emotions back under control. You see, the idea of harming my kids in any way, not matter how small, is a idea that absolutely appalls me. I literally cannot believe that I put them at any risk. I kinda hate myself when I think about it, so I try not to. I can assure you however, that thanks to medical intervention I'm on the road to "normal" (whatever that is) and can think about my life and what I need to do to keep my head in the game and to make good choices.
I was placed under an Order of Protective Custody (OPC). For those of you fortunate enough to have dodged the proverbial bullet of mental health issues, an OPC means that you go to a mental ward of someone else's choosing. Involuntary admission is the proper term for what happened. Involuntary doesn't even begin to cover it. All decisions and choices are no longer yours to make. You become a temporary ward of the state. Let me repeat that, ward of the state. This is the stuff of Pink Floyd albums and one of my worst nightmares. So I went from a delirium of confusion and fear, to a place that I was convinced was prison. Approximately 24 hours into my stay at Hotel de Nuts, I began to understand why I was there. I wasn't there as a punishment, I was there because my family loved me enough to make a really crappy choice for my sake. I have no doubt now that the decision to commit me was just as hard on them as it was on me. They saved my life and I can't thank them enough.
I'll talk more about what happens during a stay in a mental ward in the following posts. For now, I'd like to give you a couple of links just in case you feel yourself spiraling down into dark places. There are lots more than these, a Google search will give you plenty. These were the three that help me the most.
www.nimh.nih.gov/
www.mhatexas.org/
www.dosomething.org
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