life
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I am in recovery. That is what the doctors say, the IOP therapist. They say it can take time to recover from a mental health crisis. I should know this, I’ve had severe crises in the past and barely survived some of them. But sometimes I’m not sure what recovery even means. Does it mean
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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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I could not sleep today. I take the meds, I make a bedtime ritual, I try hot showers and meditation and even masturbation but today I could not sleep. When I finally did, I had terrible dreams. I take a medication, prazosin, for bad dreams but it can only do so much. Pills only pack
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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 visited my mother today. At my house. I am not living there. She was drunk. She is often drunk. And I just brought her more. More rum, more cigarettes. I visit at least every Saturday with another load of both. She’s been a smoker since she was a teenager. She’s a broke penniless widow
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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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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 