Before getting on with this post, I would like to thank Deborah over at Dnd and Lisa Marie over at Lisa's Chaos for the awards they so generously bestowed on me. Thank you both for thinking of me when handing these out. I have posted them on my sidebar with pride once more!
I would also like to thank Crazycath for pointing me towards the correct terminology for the electric shock treatment that was given on the ward. When I wrote the post I couldn't think of the correct terminology - I could only remember that I was threatened repeatedly with shock treatment. Crazycath has it correctly when she told me that it was ECT - or Electroconvulsive Therapy - that was administered on the ward. The IV connections that the patients had in their arms allowed for easy administering of anesthesia instead of having to start an IV every couple of days. I know that my aunt did not have this kind of shock treatment during her early days as my uncle told me in detail of watching her being given shock treatment while she was awake. I have no idea - and really who would - if all that shock therapy contributed to her brain tumour, all I know is that it certainly changed her.
For anyone who is interested in ECT - I am including this link to Wikepedia's description of it.
When I returned to the hall I felt an immediate peace and was glad to be back where it was safe from the outside world. I can’t say what my fears of the outside world were, and even today I can’t exactly say, but I have been affected by this experience and still deal with it daily. I don’t often leave the safety of the barn except to do things with which I am familiar. But that is getting ahead of myself once more.
After I had been back on the ward for a week and my medications had been adjusted and I had grown accustomed to my new room, my doctor decided it was time to deal with the problem of my mother. When he first suggested this I cried and cowered in my chair, shrieking that I couldn’t. He took his time with the issue and eventually called my mother during one of our morning sessions. He got the response I knew he would get and was not pleased at all with the conversation. My mother knew I was in the hospital from the staff that came to visit. She also knew that she wasn’t allowed to visit or call me in the hospital. My fear of my mother was so great that I needed extra medication every time she was mentioned.
My doctor and mother met in his office without me. When he told me he was planning this I was almost uncontrollable. I paced and wrung my hands, wept and worried myself to the point of throwing up. I was wild-eyed and frantic. When he told me the meeting had finally taken place, I sat frozen to my chair, afraid that I was going to be turned over to her or chastised by him for something in my past. I felt like a small child and that I had been bad.
When he told me that she had at first been cold and trying to stare him down, I thought I would wet my pants like a little girl. I knew that look and those tactics. But they had eventually talked and I looked at my doctor with eyes as big as saucers and thought how brave and smart he must be to face my mother and come out the winner.
I was given the task of writing a letter to my mother. In this letter I was to tell her all the things she had done that upset me or hurt and how I felt about her. I worked at this letter for two weeks and when I was done I presented it to the doctor. When he told me I was to give it to my mother, I was terrified! There was no way I could show her how she made me feel and I tucked it away in the bottom of my nightstand.
Then he asked me to write a letter to anyone I could think of that had hurt me and that I couldn’t deal with. I wrote a letter to my younger sister. When I was finished, I presented it again to the doctor for his review. We took those two letters and worked on the problems I had written about. Eventually I learned a lot about myself from them and about the people who affected me the most.
One afternoon, shortly after visiting hours began, my mother appeared in the doorway of my room. I had been in the hospital for six months and had not seen her for the entire time. I looked up and saw her standing there, looking the same as she always did, except for the look on her face. Her eyes were sad and full of tears and I stared at her, speechless. She came into the room and sat beside me on my bed and put her arm around my shoulder and hugged me. I cried hysterically to the point where I had an asthma attack. While I fumbled with my inhaler, my mother went and found a nurse and they gave me some fast-acting medication for my anxiety. Mom sat beside me, holding my hand until the tears finally stopped and I was able to take a normal breath again. When I had quieted enough to be able to hear, she said “I’m sorry”. I leaned into her, unable to speak, yet somehow safe once more.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
'The Man' Tales - Reality Hurts
Sometimes at night, the nurses came and shut our doors and told us to stay in bed. In the morning a breakfast tray would be unclaimed and left to grow cold on the racks that brought our food to us. Sometimes I noticed the missing person; sometimes I didn’t remember them at all. I didn’t realize what was going on until years later when I attended the funeral of a friend’s daughter who had been on the same ward. But that is a story for later.
I learned things on that ward that I might never have learned on the outside. I didn’t know that people cut themselves, or why. It was usually young girls with their arms bound with bloodstained gauze who chatted animatedly and manically. For the longest time I just looked at them without realizing what they were doing to themselves. One day I asked a girl why she had bandages all over her arms and she told me she had to get the demons out of her body so she tried to cut them out. I stared at her in astonishment, trying to imagine how that must feel mentally and physically. Another girl told me she knew she had snakes inside her and she was trying to get them out. Sometimes there were guys with bandages, but more often than not it was a young girl. Their nurses never left their side during mealtimes when they had the use of utensils. Yet somehow they managed to still cut themselves and they sported their bandages proudly. When the bandages were removed their arms and legs were scarred and I wondered if they would ever heal.
We noticed that whenever anyone took the urge to dress themselves properly and make themselves look good for the day, they were sent home. Inevitably they screamed and cried and everyone got in on the act, not wanting them to leave. I saw people dragging their bags through the door as they cried and held out their arms to their friends and the nurses, begging to stay; scared to be going back out into the real world. It kept many of us in sloppy clothes or pajamas so we wouldn’t get kicked out. We may have been crazy but we weren't stupid.
It seemed safe on that hallway. We didn’t have to accept responsibility for anything or anyone. We let them do to us what they wanted so we wouldn’t be sent home. We were a sad mixture of just about every type of mental illness and we accepted each one mindlessly.
As time progressed, I was allowed to make crafts a couple of times a week instead of going to the group session. I looked forward to this change as it kept my hands busy. Sometimes we went up to the top floor of the hospital and used the exercise room that was there. Some nights they took us swimming on the bottom floor. This made me the happiest. I was the one who went around and talked people into swimming when I learned that if there weren’t enough people going it would be canceled. I have always been happiest when I am swimming and even though it was a small pool, I was content.
I lived in sweat pants and t-shirts and didn’t realize that my medication was putting weight on me. By the time I left the unit I had gained 60 pounds. This was not uncommon at all and everyone moaned about their weight gain. Depression and weight go hand in hand. We got more depressed as the pounds increased, so they increased our medication which put on more weight. I was just another statistic.
D visited often during the week and Cid came down nearly every weekend. When I was taken off ‘close observation’ I was often allowed to go home for the weekend. If I didn’t make it back in time on Sunday evening my bed would be given away and my things packed up. This threat made me nervous all weekend and by Sunday afternoon I would be watching the clock and reminding them every minute of the time. It didn’t matter to me that they were both trying desperately to keep me calm and entertained – trying to bring my mind back to reality. All I could think about was the safety of the hall.
After five months – my doctor released me. Cid and D were ecstatic that I was getting out. I spent a week at home, terrified of everything. By the end of it I had worked myself into such a state that I begged to be taken back to the hospital. I was such a pitiful mess that I never noticed the pain in the eyes of the two men who loved me as they checked me back in to the hall.
I learned things on that ward that I might never have learned on the outside. I didn’t know that people cut themselves, or why. It was usually young girls with their arms bound with bloodstained gauze who chatted animatedly and manically. For the longest time I just looked at them without realizing what they were doing to themselves. One day I asked a girl why she had bandages all over her arms and she told me she had to get the demons out of her body so she tried to cut them out. I stared at her in astonishment, trying to imagine how that must feel mentally and physically. Another girl told me she knew she had snakes inside her and she was trying to get them out. Sometimes there were guys with bandages, but more often than not it was a young girl. Their nurses never left their side during mealtimes when they had the use of utensils. Yet somehow they managed to still cut themselves and they sported their bandages proudly. When the bandages were removed their arms and legs were scarred and I wondered if they would ever heal.
We noticed that whenever anyone took the urge to dress themselves properly and make themselves look good for the day, they were sent home. Inevitably they screamed and cried and everyone got in on the act, not wanting them to leave. I saw people dragging their bags through the door as they cried and held out their arms to their friends and the nurses, begging to stay; scared to be going back out into the real world. It kept many of us in sloppy clothes or pajamas so we wouldn’t get kicked out. We may have been crazy but we weren't stupid.
It seemed safe on that hallway. We didn’t have to accept responsibility for anything or anyone. We let them do to us what they wanted so we wouldn’t be sent home. We were a sad mixture of just about every type of mental illness and we accepted each one mindlessly.
As time progressed, I was allowed to make crafts a couple of times a week instead of going to the group session. I looked forward to this change as it kept my hands busy. Sometimes we went up to the top floor of the hospital and used the exercise room that was there. Some nights they took us swimming on the bottom floor. This made me the happiest. I was the one who went around and talked people into swimming when I learned that if there weren’t enough people going it would be canceled. I have always been happiest when I am swimming and even though it was a small pool, I was content.
I lived in sweat pants and t-shirts and didn’t realize that my medication was putting weight on me. By the time I left the unit I had gained 60 pounds. This was not uncommon at all and everyone moaned about their weight gain. Depression and weight go hand in hand. We got more depressed as the pounds increased, so they increased our medication which put on more weight. I was just another statistic.
D visited often during the week and Cid came down nearly every weekend. When I was taken off ‘close observation’ I was often allowed to go home for the weekend. If I didn’t make it back in time on Sunday evening my bed would be given away and my things packed up. This threat made me nervous all weekend and by Sunday afternoon I would be watching the clock and reminding them every minute of the time. It didn’t matter to me that they were both trying desperately to keep me calm and entertained – trying to bring my mind back to reality. All I could think about was the safety of the hall.
After five months – my doctor released me. Cid and D were ecstatic that I was getting out. I spent a week at home, terrified of everything. By the end of it I had worked myself into such a state that I begged to be taken back to the hospital. I was such a pitiful mess that I never noticed the pain in the eyes of the two men who loved me as they checked me back in to the hall.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
'The Man' Tales - Awakening?
The nursing staff tried to make our Christmas a little better by putting up (very high) decorations and bringing in some baked goods. Someone came around with stuffed toys and we each got to choose something out of the bag. I got a small stuffed cat that purred when you turned it upside down. It helped with the hole that came with missing my cats and just something to cuddle.
It was during this time that I noticed the drooling girl. I first became aware of her in the lunchroom as she sat drooling and staring off into space. Her psychiatrist was the replacement doctor I had while mine was off in Egypt. This doctor had her medicated to the point where she was nothing but a zombie. We later learned that he had damaged her heart with the amount of drugs he had her on. When he cut back on the meds she became coherent and we became inseparable.
D had returned from his Christmas holiday with his family and had registered for a computer course at the college that was located about a mile and a half from the hospital. He carpooled with a fellow from our little town and often walked over after school to visit for the evening and then caught the last bus home. Secretly he was taking lessons from this fellow on driving a standard/manual car and eventually he was able to drive my car back and forth and visit more often.
Once my psychiatrist returned from Egypt, things changed drastically for me. I had to participate in afternoon group sessions every day. These sessions involved everyone in the hall and we were herded into a large room and given lessons on ‘life’ or mental illness by the ward nurses. The group sessions made me so nervous I almost pulled my hands off. By this time the whispering had turned into rasping as my hands had dried out from all the wringing. One day, as we sat in our circle, someone shoved a bottle of lotion into my hands and everyone applauded when I applied it and the sounds disappeared.
With the proper drugs in my system, my thoughts of suicide diminished to the point where I wasn’t considered a huge risk to myself and I was finally allowed off the hallway. That first time I pushed through that locked door, I panicked. I was immediately lost and scared and I ran back to my room and huddled under the covers. After that I took my inseparable friend with me and we set off on my quest to find the morgue. My suicidal thoughts made me fascinated with death and the need to find the morgue haunted me and burned like a small flame deep inside my brain. We spent countless hours searching for it after visiting hours had ended. The nurses and our doctors lied to us and told us there wasn’t a morgue in this hospital. I refused to believe the biggest hospital in the middle of central Alberta didn’t have a morgue. But they insisted it was in a separate building somewhere in the city.
When we finally discovered the morgue and we realized that these people who were supposed to be ‘helping’ had lied to us – well – not only was it disappointing – but it also confused us. Our helpers were liars. It threw both of us into a tailspin and our progress forward towards mental health was halted for a bit. How could we trust anyone but each other?
As I became more stable myself, I started noticing others on the hallway besides the drooling girl. I was in the lunchroom when I first became aware of the people who had IV connections dangling from their arms. To me, these people seemed to come and go. In reality they spent a lot of time in their beds, and it was only when they felt well that they came into the lunchroom or entertainment room. I would see them being pushed down the hallway in a wheelchair and through that door at the end. Later I would see them being pushed back up the hallway and into their rooms. A couple hours later they would appear all happy and animated. They were like big dolls with a huge windup screw on their backs and they would eventually wind down again and slump over. Then they were pushed back down the hallway and off the ward. The cycle never stopped.
When my doctor threatened me with electric shock therapy it suddenly dawned on me what was happening to these people. Their shock treatments juiced them up until they wound down again and needed another boost. My doctor tried to make me believe the shock treatment opened paths in the brain. I was terrified and had to be sedated every time he mentioned it. My aunt had received over 80 shock treatments in her life and had just died of a brain tumor. When we watched ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ – well – I knew I would rather kill myself than let them do that to me.
My sanity flew in and out of the sealed windows and my doctor threatened to send me to Ponoka which is the province’s mental hospital. I cowered in my chair and begged and cried and made promises, almost throwing myself at his feet. At night as I lay in my lonely bed, I sobbed. Lost and alone
It was during this time that I noticed the drooling girl. I first became aware of her in the lunchroom as she sat drooling and staring off into space. Her psychiatrist was the replacement doctor I had while mine was off in Egypt. This doctor had her medicated to the point where she was nothing but a zombie. We later learned that he had damaged her heart with the amount of drugs he had her on. When he cut back on the meds she became coherent and we became inseparable.
D had returned from his Christmas holiday with his family and had registered for a computer course at the college that was located about a mile and a half from the hospital. He carpooled with a fellow from our little town and often walked over after school to visit for the evening and then caught the last bus home. Secretly he was taking lessons from this fellow on driving a standard/manual car and eventually he was able to drive my car back and forth and visit more often.
Once my psychiatrist returned from Egypt, things changed drastically for me. I had to participate in afternoon group sessions every day. These sessions involved everyone in the hall and we were herded into a large room and given lessons on ‘life’ or mental illness by the ward nurses. The group sessions made me so nervous I almost pulled my hands off. By this time the whispering had turned into rasping as my hands had dried out from all the wringing. One day, as we sat in our circle, someone shoved a bottle of lotion into my hands and everyone applauded when I applied it and the sounds disappeared.
With the proper drugs in my system, my thoughts of suicide diminished to the point where I wasn’t considered a huge risk to myself and I was finally allowed off the hallway. That first time I pushed through that locked door, I panicked. I was immediately lost and scared and I ran back to my room and huddled under the covers. After that I took my inseparable friend with me and we set off on my quest to find the morgue. My suicidal thoughts made me fascinated with death and the need to find the morgue haunted me and burned like a small flame deep inside my brain. We spent countless hours searching for it after visiting hours had ended. The nurses and our doctors lied to us and told us there wasn’t a morgue in this hospital. I refused to believe the biggest hospital in the middle of central Alberta didn’t have a morgue. But they insisted it was in a separate building somewhere in the city.
When we finally discovered the morgue and we realized that these people who were supposed to be ‘helping’ had lied to us – well – not only was it disappointing – but it also confused us. Our helpers were liars. It threw both of us into a tailspin and our progress forward towards mental health was halted for a bit. How could we trust anyone but each other?
As I became more stable myself, I started noticing others on the hallway besides the drooling girl. I was in the lunchroom when I first became aware of the people who had IV connections dangling from their arms. To me, these people seemed to come and go. In reality they spent a lot of time in their beds, and it was only when they felt well that they came into the lunchroom or entertainment room. I would see them being pushed down the hallway in a wheelchair and through that door at the end. Later I would see them being pushed back up the hallway and into their rooms. A couple hours later they would appear all happy and animated. They were like big dolls with a huge windup screw on their backs and they would eventually wind down again and slump over. Then they were pushed back down the hallway and off the ward. The cycle never stopped.
When my doctor threatened me with electric shock therapy it suddenly dawned on me what was happening to these people. Their shock treatments juiced them up until they wound down again and needed another boost. My doctor tried to make me believe the shock treatment opened paths in the brain. I was terrified and had to be sedated every time he mentioned it. My aunt had received over 80 shock treatments in her life and had just died of a brain tumor. When we watched ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ – well – I knew I would rather kill myself than let them do that to me.
My sanity flew in and out of the sealed windows and my doctor threatened to send me to Ponoka which is the province’s mental hospital. I cowered in my chair and begged and cried and made promises, almost throwing myself at his feet. At night as I lay in my lonely bed, I sobbed. Lost and alone
Monday, April 21, 2008
'The Man' Tales - Christmas in the Hall
That cruise ship waited for me for at least three months. What it was doing in the middle of the dry prairies never entered my mind. I just knew that it was there for me. The man with the accent couldn’t see it when I pointed it out to him – but it was plain as day for me. Although he couldn’t see it – it certainly surprised him that I believed it was there.
The man with the accent told me that he was going away for a while and that someone else was going to look after me. Even though I could barely understand him, the thought of having to deal with someone new frightened me. The new doctor didn’t know me or understand my hands like the doctor with the accent. And while my doctor went off to Egypt for a month, the new doctor loaded me down with drugs and left me to deal with the hall. The only thing the increased drugs did was make me less frightened by turning me into a brainless blob.
The days melded into the hall, the lunchroom and the entertainment room. Occasionally I would be sought out and herded to the entertainment room where the only phone for the residents was found. I would sit and listen to voices I thought I recognized while I cried and cried. I cried as I listened to the voices expressing love and I cried for the loss of myself. Cid and D called every single day, sometimes two and three times a day, and I sometimes remembered who they were, and sometimes I forgot.
D was stuck back at the barn without a car. Having never learned to drive a standard or manual car, my little red sports car sat in the driveway taunting him. Occasionally he managed to catch the bus in to the big city so he could visit. But, for some reason, the head male nurse took an instant dislike to D and would kick him off the unit if he arrived a few minutes before the official visiting time of 3pm. The nurse didn’t care that an extraordinary effort was made for the visit in the first place. He just didn’t like D.
On weekends, Cid would drive down from Edmonton and spend the day with me. Sometimes he went further south and picked up D and the two of them would come to visit. They would sit and pat my hands and hand me Kleenex, or walk me up and down the hall. Eventually I remembered them as the men who loved me and I didn’t stare up at them as total strangers. I know my brother came to visit a couple of times, but he couldn’t deal with the loss of his sister and it was too hard on him. Other visitors are vague but I know they were there. I just can’t remember much about it.
My mother was not allowed to visit.
When the doctor came back from Egypt, he reduced the amount of drugs I was on, taking me from that somnambulistic stage to a more animated zombie stage. The morning meetings with him resumed and he began to delve into my history and what had caused this meltdown. He took me off ‘close observation’ although I was still not allowed off the hall without approval from him. These conditions came with the promise that I not injure myself, and if I felt like I might, I had to promise to tell someone. I did this daily, sometimes many times a day. I just wanted to end it all and be free of the anxiety and depression and the guilt.
When Christmas rolled around, Cid asked for permission to take me off the unit for a couple of days. D had bought tickets before my meltdown to return home to Ottawa for the Christmas season and it was decided that he would do that as I would only be allowed three days off the unit. I know he felt guilty leaving me, but in my state it didn’t matter. I didn’t have the mental capacity to care or notice that he didn’t come to visit. Instead, Cid picked me up and took me to his mother’s.
I don’t think he knew what he was getting into when he decided to do that. His mother certainly had no idea what to do with me and as she spoke more Italian than English – I think it was just plain awful for her. I cried continually and wrung my hands nonstop. Cid did his best to keep me calm but I was terrified of the unknown – of his mother, of being off the hall. I was terrified of the countryside flashing by as he drove us to Lethbridge and back. I’m sure he was grateful to get rid of me when he brought me back to the unit, like handing a crying baby back to its parent, but I know he had tried hard. Most of the time was spent with his arms around me, shielding me from my terror, calling my name to try to reach me. And even now, all I can remember is how terrified I was of everything.
When he got me back to the unit, I almost ran to my room and huddled in my bed. Safe.
Poor Cid.
The man with the accent told me that he was going away for a while and that someone else was going to look after me. Even though I could barely understand him, the thought of having to deal with someone new frightened me. The new doctor didn’t know me or understand my hands like the doctor with the accent. And while my doctor went off to Egypt for a month, the new doctor loaded me down with drugs and left me to deal with the hall. The only thing the increased drugs did was make me less frightened by turning me into a brainless blob.
The days melded into the hall, the lunchroom and the entertainment room. Occasionally I would be sought out and herded to the entertainment room where the only phone for the residents was found. I would sit and listen to voices I thought I recognized while I cried and cried. I cried as I listened to the voices expressing love and I cried for the loss of myself. Cid and D called every single day, sometimes two and three times a day, and I sometimes remembered who they were, and sometimes I forgot.
D was stuck back at the barn without a car. Having never learned to drive a standard or manual car, my little red sports car sat in the driveway taunting him. Occasionally he managed to catch the bus in to the big city so he could visit. But, for some reason, the head male nurse took an instant dislike to D and would kick him off the unit if he arrived a few minutes before the official visiting time of 3pm. The nurse didn’t care that an extraordinary effort was made for the visit in the first place. He just didn’t like D.
On weekends, Cid would drive down from Edmonton and spend the day with me. Sometimes he went further south and picked up D and the two of them would come to visit. They would sit and pat my hands and hand me Kleenex, or walk me up and down the hall. Eventually I remembered them as the men who loved me and I didn’t stare up at them as total strangers. I know my brother came to visit a couple of times, but he couldn’t deal with the loss of his sister and it was too hard on him. Other visitors are vague but I know they were there. I just can’t remember much about it.
My mother was not allowed to visit.
When the doctor came back from Egypt, he reduced the amount of drugs I was on, taking me from that somnambulistic stage to a more animated zombie stage. The morning meetings with him resumed and he began to delve into my history and what had caused this meltdown. He took me off ‘close observation’ although I was still not allowed off the hall without approval from him. These conditions came with the promise that I not injure myself, and if I felt like I might, I had to promise to tell someone. I did this daily, sometimes many times a day. I just wanted to end it all and be free of the anxiety and depression and the guilt.
When Christmas rolled around, Cid asked for permission to take me off the unit for a couple of days. D had bought tickets before my meltdown to return home to Ottawa for the Christmas season and it was decided that he would do that as I would only be allowed three days off the unit. I know he felt guilty leaving me, but in my state it didn’t matter. I didn’t have the mental capacity to care or notice that he didn’t come to visit. Instead, Cid picked me up and took me to his mother’s.
I don’t think he knew what he was getting into when he decided to do that. His mother certainly had no idea what to do with me and as she spoke more Italian than English – I think it was just plain awful for her. I cried continually and wrung my hands nonstop. Cid did his best to keep me calm but I was terrified of the unknown – of his mother, of being off the hall. I was terrified of the countryside flashing by as he drove us to Lethbridge and back. I’m sure he was grateful to get rid of me when he brought me back to the unit, like handing a crying baby back to its parent, but I know he had tried hard. Most of the time was spent with his arms around me, shielding me from my terror, calling my name to try to reach me. And even now, all I can remember is how terrified I was of everything.
When he got me back to the unit, I almost ran to my room and huddled in my bed. Safe.
Poor Cid.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
A Saturday Post!!
First of all I would like to thank Irene for the two awards she has honored me with this week. I have posted them on my sidebar with pride and am terribly humbled that she has awarded me one that says I Cheer Her Up!! (in spite of my subject matter right now) Thank you Irene!
As you have noticed, I have not posted much this week. Not only has it been a busier than normal week for me - what with my picnic with Joy from A Spot of T....and thanks Joy! I needed that day of laughter desperately!
I have found it almost impossible to continue with the story. I have pecked away at my next post, but it is hard to type when you are wringing your hands. And the whispering noises coming from those hands is bothering me, making me anxious. Every single word I write is making me anxious and I am trying my best to deal with it. I know I can and I must as this is like the Reader's Digest condensed version of The Wailings (my book in progress).
Pitiful excuses I know - but the truth. The next post will be out soon - I promise. I will quit running away from it and get the words onto paper. I will stop listening to my hands and use them for typing instead. So - if it looks like I am struggling - believe me - I am.
As you have noticed, I have not posted much this week. Not only has it been a busier than normal week for me - what with my picnic with Joy from A Spot of T....and thanks Joy! I needed that day of laughter desperately!
I have found it almost impossible to continue with the story. I have pecked away at my next post, but it is hard to type when you are wringing your hands. And the whispering noises coming from those hands is bothering me, making me anxious. Every single word I write is making me anxious and I am trying my best to deal with it. I know I can and I must as this is like the Reader's Digest condensed version of The Wailings (my book in progress).
Pitiful excuses I know - but the truth. The next post will be out soon - I promise. I will quit running away from it and get the words onto paper. I will stop listening to my hands and use them for typing instead. So - if it looks like I am struggling - believe me - I am.
Monday, April 14, 2008
'The Man' Tales - In The Land of the Unknown
The next day the vultures came to my room and got me out of bed. They listened and knocked continually as they stood outside the bathroom door. Eventually they led me to a little room where the man with the accent was sitting and looking through files. Somewhere in my memory I remembered the accent and the dark circles around his eyes, but I didn’t know who he was. What I soon discovered is that I still couldn’t understand him.
Instead of trying, I spent my time staring out the window. I didn’t recognize anything. I thought I had been transported to a foreign planet by aliens and perhaps I was being interviewed by the head of command.
I wrung my hands harder, afraid.
The sound they made as one washed over the other fascinated me. It was dry and rasping and whispered strange words into the air. If I wrung them harder - I could feel the energy of my anxiety warming my stomach. I felt as if I could almost direct the flow of my anxieties into my hands and wring it all away.
I worked at it.
Those dark circled eyes stared at me and through me. I checked the corners behind me but there was no one else in the room. They stared some more. Eventually he wrote something in the file and let me out of the room.
And suddenly, I was lost again.
The vultures took me to a large bathroom and forced me to undress. They ran the water and tested it, making sure I wouldn’t get scalded, and then they put me under the shower and made me wash myself. It had been a long time. Somehow I had forgotten about washing. In fact, I was told later I hadn’t bathed in almost two weeks. When I was finished, I promptly forgot that it was something I was supposed to do.
I wandered the hall again, lost and alone. There were many others that wandered that hall with me and we would bump into one another in surprise, so lost in our own little worlds that we didn’t see each other.
As long as I was in sight of one of the vultures, they didn’t hover in my face. But as soon as I entered a room, they were there. I couldn’t understand it. Why did they have to follow me around like that? What did they want? It wasn’t until much later that I discovered that I was on ‘close supervision’. I was considered to be a threat to myself. And much later I was told that I had been suicidal before they had admitted me.
I didn’t know any of that.
Meals were delivered to the hallway and we joined in one large communal room to eat them. In the beginning I never noticed just how many people were in that room. I was just happy to be able to eat something once more. One of the vultures sat beside me while I ate because of the utensils I was using. I thought she wanted my food and I hunched over it while I shoveled it into my mouth.
While the light faded out of the foreign sky, I sat listening to my hands as they talked, and stared out the windows. Slowly the lights came on in the buildings that surrounded me, and I suddenly had a revelation. I wasn’t on a foreign planet! I was waiting for a cruise ship! I could see its lights in the distance and I knew they would be coming for me to board it. Obviously dress for this cruise was casual. My pajamas and housecoat were what was required. And everyone else on that hallway? They were going on the cruise as well!
Recently Stephen King published Lisey’s Story. In that novel, he takes us to a place where there are depressed or mentally ill people sitting and watching a ship – waiting for it. When I read this – I wrote to Mr. King and asked him if he had done research on this. Had he found that this was a common thought among those who were suffering mentally? Unfortunately he has never answered me. But how I would love to know!
Instead of trying, I spent my time staring out the window. I didn’t recognize anything. I thought I had been transported to a foreign planet by aliens and perhaps I was being interviewed by the head of command.
I wrung my hands harder, afraid.
The sound they made as one washed over the other fascinated me. It was dry and rasping and whispered strange words into the air. If I wrung them harder - I could feel the energy of my anxiety warming my stomach. I felt as if I could almost direct the flow of my anxieties into my hands and wring it all away.
I worked at it.
Those dark circled eyes stared at me and through me. I checked the corners behind me but there was no one else in the room. They stared some more. Eventually he wrote something in the file and let me out of the room.
And suddenly, I was lost again.
The vultures took me to a large bathroom and forced me to undress. They ran the water and tested it, making sure I wouldn’t get scalded, and then they put me under the shower and made me wash myself. It had been a long time. Somehow I had forgotten about washing. In fact, I was told later I hadn’t bathed in almost two weeks. When I was finished, I promptly forgot that it was something I was supposed to do.
I wandered the hall again, lost and alone. There were many others that wandered that hall with me and we would bump into one another in surprise, so lost in our own little worlds that we didn’t see each other.
As long as I was in sight of one of the vultures, they didn’t hover in my face. But as soon as I entered a room, they were there. I couldn’t understand it. Why did they have to follow me around like that? What did they want? It wasn’t until much later that I discovered that I was on ‘close supervision’. I was considered to be a threat to myself. And much later I was told that I had been suicidal before they had admitted me.
I didn’t know any of that.
Meals were delivered to the hallway and we joined in one large communal room to eat them. In the beginning I never noticed just how many people were in that room. I was just happy to be able to eat something once more. One of the vultures sat beside me while I ate because of the utensils I was using. I thought she wanted my food and I hunched over it while I shoveled it into my mouth.
While the light faded out of the foreign sky, I sat listening to my hands as they talked, and stared out the windows. Slowly the lights came on in the buildings that surrounded me, and I suddenly had a revelation. I wasn’t on a foreign planet! I was waiting for a cruise ship! I could see its lights in the distance and I knew they would be coming for me to board it. Obviously dress for this cruise was casual. My pajamas and housecoat were what was required. And everyone else on that hallway? They were going on the cruise as well!
Recently Stephen King published Lisey’s Story. In that novel, he takes us to a place where there are depressed or mentally ill people sitting and watching a ship – waiting for it. When I read this – I wrote to Mr. King and asked him if he had done research on this. Had he found that this was a common thought among those who were suffering mentally? Unfortunately he has never answered me. But how I would love to know!
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Another Award Winning Sunday!
Awards have been flying around the world fast and furiously this past week - and I have received my fair share of them. So without further ado I would like to thank the following for their lovely thoughts and contributions to my sidebar.
Sweet Irene, SITH, Mean Mom, Lehners in France, and finally, Crazycath who MADE me an award and said some pretty nice things too while awarding it!
Thank you all for thinking of me when you are handing these out. I get all goofy and humbled and everyone knows that. I really don't know how to take a compliment gracefully - but I'm trying. Just don't say it to my face.
I have been amazed at the comments my latest posts have been receiving! I know that depression and mental illness is something that was always kept hidden away from the world and that many horrendous institutions still exist out there.
I use to be incredibly ashamed of the fact that I needed to be locked away because I couldn't control my mind. I was ashamed of my weakness! If anyone asked me about that period of my life - I sidestepped and evaded the question. Now, 10 years later -I'm telling it like it is!
To all of you out there who have suffered from any of this - Please! Talk about it! We have learned that the talking is what helps the most.
I am more than grateful for everyone who is sharing their experiences with me. I have been emailed and one woman came to my door and thanked me for my blog and told me it has changed her life!
The pain that comes - from mental illness or at the hands of a beater - needs to be told! We need to tell the world - to expunge our pain and get it out of our bodies and mind! And we don't need to be ashamed of it! We all suffer from something.
If this blog is the place to vent - then do it! If you can't do it publicly - email me! Our stories need to be told!
And for those of you who have offered me a pat on the back and a huge hug! Thank you for all of those as well! I still struggle daily - and love and affection helps to keep me sane.
If you think that this blog would be helpful to someone who is suffering - by all means show it to them! Helping others is the reason I am telling it like it is!
Thank you all for your continued readership. Even if you don't comment - I appreciate your visits.
Sweet Irene, SITH, Mean Mom, Lehners in France, and finally, Crazycath who MADE me an award and said some pretty nice things too while awarding it!
Thank you all for thinking of me when you are handing these out. I get all goofy and humbled and everyone knows that. I really don't know how to take a compliment gracefully - but I'm trying. Just don't say it to my face.
I have been amazed at the comments my latest posts have been receiving! I know that depression and mental illness is something that was always kept hidden away from the world and that many horrendous institutions still exist out there.
I use to be incredibly ashamed of the fact that I needed to be locked away because I couldn't control my mind. I was ashamed of my weakness! If anyone asked me about that period of my life - I sidestepped and evaded the question. Now, 10 years later -I'm telling it like it is!
To all of you out there who have suffered from any of this - Please! Talk about it! We have learned that the talking is what helps the most.
I am more than grateful for everyone who is sharing their experiences with me. I have been emailed and one woman came to my door and thanked me for my blog and told me it has changed her life!
The pain that comes - from mental illness or at the hands of a beater - needs to be told! We need to tell the world - to expunge our pain and get it out of our bodies and mind! And we don't need to be ashamed of it! We all suffer from something.
If this blog is the place to vent - then do it! If you can't do it publicly - email me! Our stories need to be told!
And for those of you who have offered me a pat on the back and a huge hug! Thank you for all of those as well! I still struggle daily - and love and affection helps to keep me sane.
If you think that this blog would be helpful to someone who is suffering - by all means show it to them! Helping others is the reason I am telling it like it is!
Thank you all for your continued readership. Even if you don't comment - I appreciate your visits.
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