depression
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In the summer of 2014, I was 28, nearly 29. I had lost everything – my grad school program and friends therein, my self-respect, my hope for any kind of future. I nearly lost tangible things like my job and apartment as I quit my meds and descended deeper into a manic depression. The social
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My 7th night saw me pass out shortly after meds, practically asleep before my head hit the pillow. I pieced together my episodes of sleepwalking from medical records, chart notes, and verbal reports. That night I actually got up and started walking around my room. I went out and headed straight for the main doors.
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I was born August 19, 1985, in Spokane, Washington. My three brothers and I grew up poor, and my family was and is dysfunctional. There is a great deal of mental illness and substance abuse in my family. My father was an alcoholic and died in 2006 after getting drunk and wrecking the BMW he
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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
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I had been in the acute care psych unit – a smaller 8 bed unit for acute crisis cases – three days. My 5-day hold was nearly up, and you guessed it – the doctor petitioned up to two weeks. I paced nervously in my room, slowly descending deeper into madness. I conversed with the
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I woke up slowly, wrapped in blankets up to my neck. I blinked and looked around and tried to roll over. This took monumental effort, and I didn’t get very far. I tried looking around. The room was spinning, and I moaned – the room was bare, white, small, and empty save the bed I
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“They’ll never let you go.” My eyes flew open at the voice. No one was in the room. My head was throbbing and I was confused, not remembering where I’d been taken the day before and where I was. “You will be their guinea pig. They’re going to experiment on you,” the ominous voice said
Documenting my journey through the mental health system 