My Habeas Corpus

I like short haircuts. I have had short hair the majority of my life. However, when I had my breakdowns, the hair got a lot shorter than the ol' chin length bob. The first breakdown was marked with me cutting it really boy short. And when I went through the next set, I think I cut it some then. Weirdly enough, in distant pop culture world, it was around when Britney Spears cut her hair short, had her life hiccups. There have been these strange moments of feeling extremely connected to celebrities. Britney Spears showed a rage that I was feeling. Hilary Duff released an album about frustration with her dad. Amanda Bynes had her strange wig moments and erratic behavior where she was in court. Hell, even later when Miley Cyrus had moments I felt like these women were acting on very normal rational impulses. The public eye was showing a vulnerable side to people that I felt connected to. So I didn't full on shave my head like Britney, but in the past, each manic breakdown was

The 15 Year Itch It's 15 years since my diagnosis. Mental illness strikes again. The survival imperative kicks in. I march uphill - the only path ahead is that of a warrior, a soldier, a fighter. Somehow I am finding my way to the other side. God is answering prayers. My psycologist and psychiatrist helped me to feel heard. Work allowed me to take time off. My husband gave me grace, courage and support in every achy moment, and there has been many. I'm walking onto the other side of a two-month climb out of depression. I think am learning how life stress can weigh on me twice as much as the not so bipolar person. It takes extra extra extra self-care and awareness to honor my needs and keep pressing forward.

Ok, so remember back when I mentioned how during the first breakdown I fell for this Australian guy named James? I often look back at that time and think it was a perfect storm that began with discord between my mom and I, dramatic food/workout changes and feeling intense romantic feelings. When everything began at that apartment with those two roommates, I was developing feelings for my assistant manager at work. Now, I think I mentioned the tension I felt because he kissed me and had a girlfriend and was my manager, but I didn't fully divulge how much I was affected by it all. Right before I was hospitalized, I was stuck in thought circles about Vinnie. And one night it went from a crush to sudden very deep emotions - the kind that, like with James, made me start to basically live from the world of fantasy briefly. It was all one bad evening, but I went down the rabbit hole and basically started imagining our wedding. I made a list of my bridesmaids, I started to write invita

Another hospital stay I remember was especially terrible. They all were, but this one had more agony to it. I remember acutely feeling rock bottom. Not like suicidal or depression, but like end of the universe lostness and confusion without any idea how to climb out. This one was where I believe the meds they gave me were at odds with the chemistry within me.  I have never felt as scared, terrified, alone, and unprotected as I did when I was in the hospital. Anyone who says, it is better than being out of the hospital where you could hurt yourself or do something wild doesn't really understand what they are suggesting. They might think it's a time-out, a retreat, a safe place. I assure you, it is not safe.  Forcing someone to stay in a hospital against their will teaches someone that you are not safe, people are not safe, the world is not safe. Exerting physical force to put another person's body where they do not want to be can be a monstrous act. No matter how bene

I was thinking about explaining a little more about the hospital. It's an unusual experience. There's an intake time where they take your clothes and make you sign forms. I think they say that in some cases when you cannot be responsible for yourself, it's recommended to write and Advanced Directive, which means your care is entrusted to another person who will have essentially power of attorney over you. The problem with this is that I didn't have someone who I trusted to do that. Docs always tried to push this stuff towards my parents and only release me into their care. It was always trading one hell for another (back then anyways). Once you're in the hospital, you wear a gown or scrubs and those little footy socks. The rooms are barren, much like a prison. It's set up so there is not way to harm yourself. At night there are checks every hour or so to make sure nothing is wrong. Sometimes there was a flashlight. There's basically a group of rooms with a

Back in school there were great moments of discovering Alan Ginsberg, reading Marx, visiting the Keys, learning about the mental health struggles of Zelda Fitzgerald, being part of Winter with the Writers, passing a chemistry and stat class. It was rebuilt. I had roommates. There were two. we got a tree for Christmas. We had friends over. One met her future husband, watched Friends, talked about how tiring the teaching was. The other went on dates with nice Christian guys (the ones that never seemed to show any interest in me, but who I think I was supposed to like), read good books, planned a non-tv-centric living room. We visited Coral Gables. I was working, trying to finish college. We did the South Beach diet together. I was doing the diet and also running a lot. I've been a runner since I graduated high school. I never went far or fast, but I always go back to it. Well, I was running farther and more frequently. I was stressed with school I guess. I started developing feel

Transitioning to working at Starbucks was a growing period in my life. I was adjusting to a new way of life. I wasn't in school for a few months, I was processing sadness, confusion, new meds, and a loss of friends, but I was working. Knowing I could work again after two firings and two times dropping out of school was such as relief. I could make money. I could hope to take care of myself. I could imagine the possibility of not being stuck at my parents. I woke up at 4:45 am, had espresso and went to work. I worked with some really kind people. My identity was changing. I wasn't showing up as the straight A student who thought she had her shit together and was just making summer cash. I was there trying to survive, pushing through the daze of what felt like a difficult and somewhat unappealing existence and just following the training I was given. The structure and culture at my work then worked well. The manager was my favorite manager I have ever worked for. He was a s

Today was a particularly brutal day at work. I am in pain, feeling weak and exhausted from a recent dental procedure. There was an awful conversation that really made me feel like I was on the ropes. I hate that feeling, kinda vulnerable, not treated the way I like to be. That level of weakness really cuts deep. Beyond all that, I suppose is still the ever present memory and struggle of managing my mental health, emotions, stability. Always striving to maintain that evenness, that keel that I'd say comes more naturally for other people. Between my waves of passion - which I have full measures of - there is a calm eye of the storm that I know I have to live in. But sometimes that eye seems so small, and the storm of life surrounding me feels so so big. Practically speaking, I have doctor's appointments I have to schedule into my life, my day, my time. I have medicine I have to pick up. I have prescription appointments every 3 months. I have counseling appointments I schedule

For parts of this story I've thought through over and over, I don't like telling it as much. It's just facts I am unleashing from me brain. I want to move forward, but I will get this out. Um, well, I have always loved singing. Really really loved it. I sing in church most Sundays. A few weeks after my attempt, I was trying to sing and my voice would hurt, feel like a tiny guitar pic was like poking in my vocal chords or something. It seemed like certain notes. And it felt kinda hoarse, and just like catching, so I couldn't create whole round sounding notes. maybe like something inside was choking my singing voice. So we went to a doctor to evaluate it. My mom did haul me to an awful lot of appointments those days. Anyway, this guy stuck a camera up my nose and down the back of my throat. I think he might've looked down my throat too. I think he was an ENT. He found scar tissue he thought was causing the problem. The scar tissue was from when I was intubated follo

In between all of the depression, med visits, doc appointments and my mom dragging me grocery shopping, clothes shopping or to lunches, I had the trouble of what to do with time. My mom had enrolled me in community college classes, but then the medication was making my mind fuzzy and I couldn't concentrate. I had to drop those classes and try to get a refund. My mom marched me to the college office to plead my case as a bipolar depressive who couldn't hack it. It was miserable. There was something so shameful about how she had me keep the illness quiet unless there was money to get back. I don't know. Maybe I am misremembering parts of this. Anyway. I had to drop out of college a second time which was a blow to the ego. Meanwhile, she was pushing me to get a job. I had started out wanting a job, just as I had wanted college, just as I had wanted to live, just as I had wanted freedom. But with all the steady, deep and unexpected blows, I wanted very little. However, my mom

It's a bit hard to tell this whole story amidst the fog of time, sadness and medically altered reality. Some of the events I remember after. Before my attempt there had been another time I was almost hospitalized. It had been a late night of feeling trapped, painting and the feeling the frenetic energy of someone imprisoned in their own home because of their own mind. Oh, wait, now I remember more pieces of this stretch. It actually happened maybe 6 years later. If I don't have to discuss this bit not, then I won't.

Once I was released from the hospital - and back into my parents' care - my mom and I went and stayed in a guest house/mother-in-law suite on a church friend's property. The house had light pastel colors and a very peaceful feel. It was clean, it was a little comforting. It was good to not be back in my parents' house yet. My mom and I stayed their maybe 3 nights. The second day a friend came over. Becca was in massage therapy school. She brought her table and gave me a full body massage. Something about the act and experience was so healing. I think it helped that I knew her. I think she was praying for me and maybe sharing kind words. I felt strengthened. The first night there, I had gone to sleep craving the nothingness of sleep, still so antagonistic towards the thought, concept and act of existence. When I woke up though, I felt refreshed. I decided I wanted to live. Hell, I even wrote a poem about it. Maybe it was the medication stabilizing me finally. Maybe it was

After the attempt there was the mandatory 72 hour watch of being on lockdown in the hospital. It's good I was there. I still wanted to die. I found a drawstring on my basketball shorts. I was in the shower area. I tried to form a noose type thing. That rope was so weak and there was nothing to jump off of and really it was too much effort to try and figure out how to end things, how to escape the pain of the reality I abhorred. So I went back to napping. A conversation with my psychologist who had been meeting with me at the time actually helped wake me up. He actually came to the hospital and visited - he's the only doc to ever do that. It said a lot. He asked how I was doing. I made small talk. I made jokes. I was always trying to see the funny part of life, find the joy, laugh at the bad...there was so much bad. And he stopped me. He stared me dead in the face and asked why I was laughing. I said because I said something funny. He told me none of it was funny. I had just tr

Do you remember how I said that this all began with a day I was supposed to be lifeguard at the pool? This was after the sweeping the floor day, which ignited the whole series of events. On D-day, which I suppose means diagnosis day, I had such an ironic job of being there to save other people's lives. And yet I was losing mine that day. But that was 15 years ago. Today at work I was writing about summer camps, about safety rules, about lifeguard stations and keeping the pool area safe from hazards. It's so bizarre how far I fell, how far I've come, how unusually life unfolds. It's been a good day. Outside of work I've been involved in the business of life guarding a friend - helping her manage the things that could cause her to drown. Sometimes this fills me with a sense of peace and security to know I have a cushion of years between me and some of the darkest memories. But other times I'm just dazed. I have to fight back that fear of if and when it all mi

They told me what happened while I was asleep. My youngest brother came in and found me. He tried to wake me up. I wouldn't wake up. He knew something was wrong. They called 911. This time an ambulance was warranted. This time I did need to go to the hospital. They gave me charcoal. I think that means I must've thrown the medication up, but I didn't remember that. When I came to I was intubated. I was in a hospital bed with my parents and my sister staring at me. My sister was so terrified. She was so sad. I remember her face, her eyes so vividly. It's strange to look back and consider where my mind's eye was. I didn't really see my parents. I saw my sister. I saw how much she loved me. I think she told me never to do that again. I still felt so empty inside, and like I'd tried to escape life but I was still so trapped by it. I went back to sleep. They took the intubation tube out. I remember using the restroom and noticing my shit was black. Guess that wa

The first time I was prescribed xanax, the medication hit me hard. It was like things went a bit slow motion but I was still awake. I think it was supposed to be a low dose. I went to my friend's mom's house to meet her for tea. At that time my mom set up various plans for me. I believe it was during that tea that I showed that friend an emancipation document I wrote stating that I did not want to be in any kind of custody under my parents. It was kinda my own little bill of rights and throwing off of the family shackles I felt. If memory serves. I know when I showed Carolyn that document she told me it was a "very serious document". That's all I remember her saying. Nothing about looking into the situation of investigating what was going on with my parents. Carolyn served us tea on some very nice china in a sitting area where she had new couches. The medicine was effecting my movement. I was lifting the glass and spilled some. I couldn't control my arm. Carol

Google that term. You will read about how anti psychotic meds can cause jerky movements. Now a doctor never shared that term with me. But I found it one of these times I was trying to make sense of everything. I don't know if that's what happened, but I do know I had a side effect of uncontrollable leg shaking. It may have looked minor, but my knee would jerk/vibrate/ making jittery reactions whenever I was just sitting. It was terrifying. My physical body was not in control. This was new. This was in fall of 2004. Between the months of June and maybe August, I'd try to go back to college, given up headed home, tried meds on meds, my mom tried to baker act me, I talked my way out of it - because I was literally beyond stressed about living in an abusive home and no one would help - and I was sent back home, my mom enrolled me in community college, meds made me drooly, zombie like, unable to concentrate. Would I ever be able to sit in church again? Would I ever be able to

I've shared some very crucial parts of how my story began. I've shown those deep moments of anger, vulnerability, loss. And much of this in the name of defense - to once and for all defend my sanity. But I think, as I turn these pieces over in the cool light of morning, that I can't tell the whole picture reveals some strangeness, some caverns of instability that I may have become to intimate with. I guess what I am saying now is I see how these moments - taken merely on their own - show me how deeply lost I was back then. And how even now I feel a see saw of good and bad times that can make sometimes for a rocky day to day - and that is all the while with all my experience white knuckling this current experience to maintain stability. I won't say I'm bipolar. That is a defeatist term to me, when speaking of myself. That is a confinement just as the hospital is a confining space. I will say. There are times when the lense of bipolar can be a helpful tool. The world

I believe that I am a bit of a grandiose person. Here are some of what I consider sound reasons for this. First, I was valedictorian of my high school. Back then I battened my hatches and stuck to the books. Sure, it was a tiny private school, but that doesn't mean those latin, rhetoric and apologetic classes were easy. I grew up rather grounded in my academics and intellectualism - as much as you can in your formative years of personhood. And hell, I fought my way through 6 long years of undergrad to complete a degree in the face of massive life setbacks. I was also working 30 hours a week for 3 of those years. I even completed half of a master's in literary theory with a B+ average soon after. So, yes, I think my "mind powers" might put me a notch into the grandiose category. I think I have been pretty freakin good at some stuff. OK, was I a prodigy? I never really got close to that title, but a girl can dream, right? And why wouldn't that be likely if the uni

I am really tired. I supposed I don't always have a chest of secrets to spill here. Today my life is so different. So good. Much more peace, stability. Happiness. I have someone who shares these weights with me. I have to fight off the memories sometimes. There are so many memories stored, sifted, dissected, explained. Today my life is still impacted by the events of 2004. It hits me because I just went to the pharmacy to get meds filled so I don't miss another dose of meds. Sure I've gone off meds many times quite successfully. But it doesn't mean I haven't used them as a resources also. I have been responsible. And I deserve agency in these choices. Don't we all? I hate thinking of all the threats or warnings from doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, parents, friends, and others that all will be lost without meds. Why would they give me suicide stats? Why would they scare an already scared person. Did the ever think that all might be lost with meds? Man,

Bipolar is classified as a mental disorder. Some consider it an illness, condition or chemical imbalance. Psychiatrists diagnose patients with it and accompany that diagnosis with warnings that life without medication is impossible. The more time one spends off medication, the more "episodes" they will have. The more frequently one goes on and off medication, the more episodes and the greater the severity of episodes. The term bipolar is often used in connection with a series of symptoms that episodes are marked by. For examples, spending too much money, having too much creativity, grandiose thoughts, hyper activity,hyper religiosity, sleeplessness, reckless decision making, impulsive decisions, increased sex drive, irresponsible behavior. Those may be considered symptoms of a manic episode. A depressive episode is the general depressed stuff you might expect, but with a maybe deeper sadness and desire for hurting oneself. The term bipolar refers to those two polarities of i

It kind of feels too hard to try to explain all the little things that happened after June 17th. There was the drive home. Stopping meds. Living in fear. Being in my childhood room and feeling trapped. Nightmares from stopping medication. Eating less. Being thinner than ever. Not sickly, but for me much thinner. Having my brother tell me he was afraid for me. Him looking at me and telling me I was not myself. You cannot imagine what it's like having people tell you that you are not yourself. My brother told me I was scaring him. It was strange, this thing where people were scared of me. More than anything it made me scared of people - Terrified of people. People lock you up. People put you in handcuffs. Family demands you live as only a drugged up version of yourself. I heard this message from the outside world. Hey, YOU, you don't get emotions. You are not responsible with them. You don't get to feel. Feelings are your weakness. It's too risky. If you act out, we will

Preamble If you ever decide to come down with a mental illness, a momentary degradation nearly akin to catching a cold, a brief spell wherein one experiences symptoms that are out of the norm, I would highly suggest first giving up all spiritual convictions, practices, rituals, supernatural belief and hope. In a mental ward, these things will only damn you. My callous nature, those nihilistic tendencies switch into autopilot as I near the moment of the past and consider the cost of seeking to uphold my belief system. I remember the moments when it shatters. They say I'd lost logic, my ability to rationalize, so what was it to let go of my connection to unseen? A mere loosening of the grasp of hands clasped in prayer? Abandoning, after all, my parents' religion, their denomination and all that went with it, wasn't much to lose, was it? Fucking rhetoric, daggers and a little spiritual warfare. Maybe some undigested meat bits sipping into dreams. These cold words come f

It's 2019 and I am safe at home. The air is quiet, still, peaceful. My home is mostly orderly. I see my things where I expect them to be. I have a closet with my own clothes. I have food in my refrigerator. There is a lock on the door, and no one will come in that I don't invite. It's just me and the pup. It's night. We are alone, but we are safe. We are free from harm, from anyone yelling at us. I have agency. I come and go when I please. I have a schedule I made. I sleep and wake. I work, I play, I watch tv. The ground is firm, reality is secure. I am free. 2004, Day 2 in the Hospital This is the first time waking up with a needle stuck into my arm. I am coming out of a deep, deep haze. I don't quite know where I am, and there is that disorienting feeling of not being sure exactly how I got there. They were taking my blood for tests and doing vitals. I think they did some intake tests, the day before but I don't know what it was. That part was a blur. I do k

Maybe if I tell this here, I will never ever have to tell it again. Maybe one person will say, how come no one saved you or helped you. Or, maybe I'll just be able to stop crying about it. I hear the cops talking on their walkie thing. They say, "Raleigh, Durham Hospital, we have a code 43." What is a code 43? Why am I in handcuffs. I don't want to be wearing these. Two cops walk me in a busy ER. Why am I here? What did I do? What do they want from me? I am so so scared. I try to leave, I don't want to be there. I am scared. I ask to leave. They ask me to put on a vest. I blindly do what they ask. It's a straight jacket. The cops check me in. The intake nurse and cop turn to me. The nurse says "Do you know where you are?" Me, "The hospital." The nurse, "Do you know why you are here?" Me, "No." Nurse, "What year is it?". Me, "2004." Nurse, "Where do you live?" Me, "Where do I live?

The events that happened the week it all started make me sick every time I recall them, but I keep replaying them. In about 4 days these things happened. So here they are: Day 1: I return to camp. Heartsick that I have no where to go once camp is over. I am trying to understand that my family is not there for me. I don't know how I will pay for anything. I don't know what work I will do. I am letting go of the idea of college, but passing up on education for emotional distress is confusing. I keep weighing the choices. At camp, I get back into running. I've never been a hard runner and I was doing 6 miles a day. I was eating less, because the guy I liked had introduced me to the diet he used to train soccer players. I was in the best shape of my life. I felt beautiful and broken. I'd stood up to my mom. There was some freedom, even if the consequences were unbearable. Day 2: In the morning we do swim tests and I receive my lifeguard certification. Later, we have a b

I've said it, thought it so many times. It all started over a fight about sweeping the floor. The destruction of my life, my mind, the havoc that would follow began with an argument about sweeping. A simple house chore, right? Clearly not something that would warrant the extreme reaction that would follow. But it is the truth. It is the catalyst for my fall from grace, or whatever position I had made it to at the age of twenty. Let me provide some context. I'm twenty, home for the summer after my sophomore year of college. It's that sweet spot where you transition from the new student to finally one who knows there people and can move more smoothly into who they are becoming. I'm an English and Philosophy Double Major and former high school valedictorian. The week before I leave school for home, I go hiking with friends. We climb to a summit on the side of Lookout Mountain. We can see the great blanket in front of it that is Chattanooga, but might as well be the the wo