Documenting my journey through the mental health system

I can’t slow down my mind. The anxiety is absolutely palpable.

The light fixture is installed and my desk moved into place. My mother bitched about the flooring restoration and all kinds of other things while I was there the last few days. I try to let it roll off me but the truth is, her behaviors take a toll.

It’s looking rather hopeless. There’s no fixing anything.

I have to just live with it. She mocked my new dining room table, asked if I was having dinner parties. “Yeah,” I shot back. “Maybe I will. Would be nice to have a functional dining room again, and by the way, I’m having people over for a fire in July. Just because you want to exist in isolation doesn’t mean I do.” (I didn’t say that last part, but I imagine it will be said soon).

Her response to that will be more passive aggression.

I am absolutely dreading moving back in, though a part of me is also looking forward to taking back what’s mine.

There have been constant triggers. At Sacred Heart, a horrific case of acute alcoholic encephalopathy has left the patient writhing in pain and agony, tied down to keep her from ripping out a feeding tube, a rectal tube, a foley tube, and an IV tube. There’s no medication for this. No recovery or hope. She is only 36 but palliative care has already been consulted and the family is making moves to transition her to comfort care. It’s one of the more horrific cases I’ve seen among the civilians in the wild world of Sacred Heart med/surg. I am not the only one deeply affected by that particular case. We’ve all had to listen to her screams and moans, and there isn’t a goddamn thing anybody can do.