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I did something that has nothing to do with managing my bipolar disorder and PTSD. Something that doesn’t have to do with my bitter mother or hospitals or medications or WORK. I went to a ball. This is the kind of thing I’m supposed to do as part of my therapy and putting my life…
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My first week in the hospital, a living nightmare, had passed. On day seven I felt so groggy, so heavy and sedated, I barely noticed when they came for vitals at 6am. The doctor came to see me first thing. “How are you feeling?” “Shitty,” I could barely mumble. I kept my eyes closed. “Dirty?”…
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“Please, don’t make me take seroquel anymore, the RLS is unbearable. Please,” I begged the doctor on my sixth day, plagued with jerking and twisting legs all night, kicking, moaning, and walking around my room in anxious desperation. Room checks, where I was offered more PRNs, startled me every 15 minutes. “Okay…okay,” the doctor said…
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My fourth, maybe fifth, day in the hospital came. The meds had slowed me down significantly. I was pacing less, groggy and sedated. I suppose that was the goal, get me to slow down a little. I was hearing the voice less but he did still pop into my head to remind me I was…
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When I was released from the mental hospital last month, it was with the understanding I would be enrolled in intensive outpatient treatment to maintain and continue learning coping strategies, distress tolerance, and better impulse control, among other things. I had my assessment through the mental hospital’s IOP program on Thursday, which lasted over two…




