Documenting my journey through the mental health system

During my second week in the hospital, I finally called my mother. What a disaster.

I had been stabilizing pretty well on medication changes and Dr Floura’s careful dialing in of the right doses and times. I had learned a lot about myself and that this depression was largely existential in nature, exacerbated by my own cynical outlook (that’s my baseline) and the sense that I served no purpose in the universe whatsoever. My general mental state – pessimism, cynicism, nihilism – feeds my depression when things get bad. One time a doctor said I had a poor prognosis because of my generally negative outlook on life. I saw it written into my chart notes when I was reviewing medical records for my service increase.

During phone time, after taking a PRN for anxiety, I called her. We had been texting, but that was getting us nowhere. I told her she needed to do some things, make some changes, or I was moving out. She needed to see a doctor, and a counselor. She needed to get back to the dentist to prepare for partial dentures. It was time to stop with completely maladaptive behaviors – she sees herself as a perpetually abused victim, forced to “work” all day and therefore unable to attend to other needs like healthcare and basic hygiene. I’m not sure where her victim complex came from. I did not put any conditions upon her when she asked to move in back in 2017. I did not ask her to do anything toward maintenance of the house or yard. But she was quick to take on and take over my entire house – ripping down the white light diffusing curtains, adding a million potted plants, and feeling emboldened to criticize and critique how I did basic things like scoop a cat box or wash a dish. I literally could not do a single chore without her saying something. This led to fights and my explosive temper just threw gasoline on the fire. This had been going on for years now. I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t mind the plants, the obsessive gardening, changing the way my house looks, things like that – what I couldn’t stand was the victim complex and the intentional self neglect and self harm to prove a point on her sense of victimhood. What makes it so offensive is the implication – victims need victimizers, and that’s where I come in. I have stood by her, supported her, and been there for her all these years in ways literally no one else ever was, not even my brothers. But apparently I am so awful and so evil because I went to the hospital when there are leaves to be raked. I “forced” her to do all “my work” and she can “never take a break” or “get help” like I can. I called her out on this in our conversation. I told her literally no one is stopping her from getting healthcare and counseling but herself. That she is full of stupid excuses and passing blame on everyone and everything but where it belongs – herself. I sounded harsh, but she needed to hear it.

She was drunk and has been an alcoholic for some time. This means she would remember little of our conversation the next day, so I didn’t really hold back. She didn’t either – said I was only attention seeking and a faker and there is nothing wrong with me. The conversation devolved to yelling and I marched toward my room even though phones were only allowed at the nurse station, I didn’t even care. One nurse followed me, not because I was breaking the rules but because I was agitated and near tears. God I hated her so much sometimes. I missed my father so much, this was his job.

“Angel, I think it’s time to hang up. This isn’t good for you.”

I don’t remember what I was saying into the phone. Calling her out, calling out the ridiculous absurdity behind her victim complex and her laughable excuses for not taking care of herself. And to think, I am the one in the hospital! The absurdity of a mental patient telling a mentally ill family member just how fucking mentally ill they are was not lost on me. I finally hung up since the nurse was hovering there, and handed back my phone. I sat on the edge of my bed and just wept angrily for awhile. I resolved in that moment to move out.

I was getting my meds at the med window only a few minutes later when the nurse came up to me again, still holding my phone. It was blowing up with my mom’s drunk texting.

“We’ll need you to turn off your phone…it is constantly going off with texts.”

That was a little embarrassing. I had not rolled my eyes that hard since I was a teenager. Later I would look through all the texts – there was nearly 100 of them, I scrolled forever on my phone when I turned it on and gaped at it the next day. The substance of the texts was the same as I expected it to be – how much she is a victim, how she doesn’t get any help, how awful I am, when are the cops coming (she thinks I filed reports against her for abuse, classic projection) and other drunk ramblings. She did apologize in a text the next day but what was done was done.

Two days before I was to be discharged, I found a downtown apartment from my phone and asked to rent it, sight unseen, all fees paid in advance. They readily agreed and I signed the lease, also from my phone in the hospital, the next day. All fees were paid electronically and my discharge was scheduled for a day after that. My nervous excitement increased drastically – instead of discharging to go home, I was discharging to go home, pack up, and move out. I was going to have to leave my own house.