My Habeas Corpus

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