voices
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A man knows not where he is. Drifting through a conscious unawareness, confused at why these people are in his house. Calling out to his long dead wife. Do we live too long? Have all our medical advances only prolonged the life of our bodies at the cost of our minds? I don’t know. We
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I had a bunk bed with shelves and new mattresses, all picked out. Then my mom goes and throws a bunch of shit in there. Not so bad but right in the way of where the bunk bed will be. I peeked in the boxes, and it appeared to be mostly Liam’s (my nephew) old
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I’ve been reading a book popular in psychology circles and recommended to me by numerous doctors and therapists. The Body Keeps the Score, by Bessel Van Der Kolk. It’s thick and complicated and right up my alley. Triggering, too. He’s talking about the patients in psych wards and hospitals in which he’s worked. Talking about
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I have a manic patient. I am simultaneously triggered and yet in my element. I had so much training. Experience. I was able to calm the patient before sedatives. I told Ceila about the flashbacks. They just don’t stop. Told her about the visions of the future I get, but not in great detail. She
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I suppose I see myself as some sort of renaissance man, an eccentric philosopher. I’m a regular Jean Paul Sartre, who argued life is an unwelcome interruption to a peaceful nonexistence. I’m not suicidal right now, but even in manic moments I am reminded of what a dark burden life can be. Everything has to
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I started this blog a year ago today. Hard to believe a year has passed since I had a violent and devastating mental break from reality and tried to kill myself, ending up hauled into the hospital by police. I felt the need, later, to write it all down. The aftermath was intense as well.
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Don’t look. Don’t look at the mental hospital. Don’t look at the signs in Sacred Heart pointing down the hall to the psych unit. Every fucking day, triggers and flashbacks. Even flashbacks of the future. I take my meds religiously. But my sleep meds are quickly losing their power. Even the Ativan is just not
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Today is my birthday. I’m 40 years old. I am amazed I’ve made it this far. I never would have imagined I’d make it to 40. But here I am, scarred but alive. My mother made me a special dinner to take to work. We are trying to get along. I’m soaking up this break
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My brain is churning with thoughts. I have an internal monologue; talking to myself but not out loud. I converse with the voices in my head silently. I’ve finished the first quarter of grad school. Mostly – I talk to one of the teachers in the morning to get more guidance on the eportfolio. Turns
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I feel like a fool sometimes. Taking on grad school, taking on this other job, moving back into my house. Everything compounds. Everything is a lot. And I have so many intrusive thoughts and feelings. This job. I don’t really need it, but I want it. A sick part of me insists on the exposure
Documenting my journey through the mental health system 