writing
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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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Sometimes all you can hang onto are the little things. I got up early despite my meds making me feel a little groggy. I went to bed at 1am and actually slept until 8am, only waking up twice in the night, but able to fall back asleep. This new sleeping med, Lunesta, is helping. I
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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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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
Documenting my journey through the mental health system 