mental health
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“The universe knows. You’re a good person.” No. The universe doesn’t know of our existence. The universe doesn’t care about our existence even if it could know. Justice is not inherent to anything. According to biocentrism, the universe and all within it might not exist at all till it is observed, similar to the results
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I finished my first week of intensive outpatient, or IOP, through the mental hospital’s outpatient program. Tomorrow I start my second week. I am still processing it and how I feel about it. I am still just not sure. Everyone is very friendly, very supportive. Almost too much. On the first day the therapist running
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Sleepwalking again. Wandering into other rooms, trying to get out of the heavy, locked double doors to the psych unit. An MHT following me, attempting to talk to me. Not redirectable, I eventually wandered toward and attempted to get through the door to the interior part of the nurse station. Seclusion was right there and
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I started to write. Frantic, hurried writing, as though my memory had an expiration date and it was fast approaching. As though I were making up for lost time. And in a way, I was. A few days into my detainment, psych ward staff gave me a notebook to use as a journal. I wrote
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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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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
Documenting my journey through the mental health system 