My Habeas Corpus

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