health
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I managed to sleep with the assistance of the following medications: melatonin, vistaril, gabapentin, and ativan. That was Thursday – I went to bed at about 4pm and woke up at 10:30pm, getting a whopping six hours of sleep, and I only woke up once in that time. Then I went and picked up my
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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
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Week four of IOP and probably one of the more important modules, at least for me, is about to close tomorrow – Emotion Regulation. I have really struggled with some of the concepts and incorporating them into daily life. One exercise involved drawing concentric circles and in the inner, writing the emotions we do not
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“How are you doing?” “I’m good, I’m good. I called my brother; I need his help. I can’t do it alone anymore. I don’t know what I’m going to do about my living situation. I want to move out. I think I’ll move out.” “How about the meds, any side effects?” “Just from that artane
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I’ve been experiencing an upswing, an increase in hypomanic symptoms. I am not lost in the sauce yet, but I am hearing voices every day if I don’t take a PRN seroquel for it, and my libido is insatiable despite meds commonly known to kill sex drive. In my psychologist appointment with Dr Black this
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My first few days in the hospital passed in a blur, a fog of medication adjustments, sluggish pacing, and intermittent crying. I felt most suicidal, yet safe. At least that’s what I reported in my daily nursing assessments. It’s a strange juxtaposition of feeling – that given the chance, I would kill myself, yet in
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I still remember quite clearly my first morning in the hospital. I woke up after restless, fitful sleep, in which I was frequently startled awake by room checks. I just wanted coffee, so I went to the dining room. The kitchen would bring a large carafe of coffee in the mornings and it would be
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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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“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
Documenting my journey through the mental health system 