Thank you Eleanor...

"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face... you must do the thing you cannot do..." -Eleanor Roosevelt

Psych Patient vs. Psych Nursing

So nursing school has pretty much taken over my life. I have not even had time to think about writing on my little blog here. But now I feel I need some sort of outlet for all the things that my psych nursing course is stirring up. Which is why writing has become a priority again, and hopefully will help me make it through this course while keeping a clear head.
I know I am not the first person/ nursing student to have had severe bipolar, or to have gone through ECT treatments, and I surely am not the last. But that doesn't make this journey any less... I'm only two classes into my psych nursing course and already have bitten all of my nails off, and nearly bounced myself out of my desk due to my anxiety level. Not good considering I am wanting to become a psych nurse. No one in my class or even at the school knows what I have gone through. It is so frustrating, wanting to stand up in class and tell everyone about my disorder and journey to wellness just so that they possibly may not add to the stigma of mental illness. But I know I will never do anything of the sort simply because of the stigma. My story would not change any of the jokes that the other students make, or the things they laugh at... All that would result is that they would then be making jokes and laughing at my expense.
Some of the questions others ask in class are so ignorant I want to scream! But again, that would just support their misconceptions of those with mental illnesses.
The entire reason I even want to become a nurse is so that I can help at least one person along their journey to wellness like so many nurses have helped me. My desire to  make that journey a bit smoother for someone else most definitely outweighs any anxiety I am experiencing. I know that all of the hard work, stress, and anxiety from nursing school will be all worth it one day.

Real Addiction

“GROUP!!! GROOOUP!!! GROUP TIME EVERYBODY!!!  SAME ROOM AS YESTERDAY…” This scrawny black guy, wearing scrubs like he is a nurse, but he’s really only a tech, yells through the hall. His voice gets louder and more annoying as he makes his way to my room. His smug ugly face peers through the crack in the doorway, and starts talking at me- me who is lying face down in my pillow: “Come on ladies group time… ”

…What the fuck is group? Who the fuck is he to tell me what I have to do? “I’m not going.” I mumble.

“Everyone has to go to group Jessica.” He says, acting like he owns the place, and leaves.

I hear my roommate head for the door. “Hey Jessie,” she says, mispronouncing my name. It’s Jessica you cunt.

“If you go to group you can get out of here faster… trust me I know.”

Ha. Ironic; advice coming from a skinny crack head. Her skin looks like an old worn out baseball glove. And her hair, well she either needs to finally admit to herself that she is not a blonde or seriously consider getting her 4 inch roots done as soon as possible. But even still, that would not help her much…

“How old are you Jessie?” She asks.

“It’s Jessica.” I say.

“Yeah, that’s what I said Jessie… soooo… how old are ya?”

“23. And it’s Jessica.” I sit up in my bed “NOT Jessie. JESSICA. Three syllables. Got it?” I can’t even look at her anymore. I feel like I may vomit.

“Mmhmm, sure thing Jessie.” She says, obviously not listening, or is simply too ignorant to get the difference, and heads out to the hallway.

I follow her out of the room, and down the hallway where I continue on, trying to make her say my name correctly, which I see is a lost cause. Then I realize I’m actually heading for this group thing.

What’s the harm, I suppose I can just sit there and see what it’s all about anyway. And if it actually does help me get out sooner, then hell, I’ll do it. My psychiatrist and mom say the stay is only going to be for the weekend. Today is Friday… so at most I’ll have 2 more days in this hell hole.

I don’t know if I will make it that long though. These people are fucked.

I walk into the room. I look at the two people in front of me, - a real life cowboy and Malibu Barbie! But why would Malibu Barbie be in this shit hole? She would go to a place that gives a mani-pedi-facial treatment rather than “GROUP”. 
And the patio wouldn’t smell like an overflowing ashtray.

This place is so ghetto.

The group room is the size of a cubicle, with two brown scuffed up, fold out cafeteria tables. And brown fold up metal chairs lining the walls.  Why are there so may chairs? Do they seriously think that this many people are going to come in this tiny little room?

“Come on, pull up a chair.” A skinny man with white hair and hippy clothes says.

I suppose this is the guy running this thing. He seems alright. I think he’s a priest. He’s wearing that little collar. Maybe he is just that confused and likes to dress up like that. Who knows in this place… not me.

“So. Now we’re going to go around the room and say our first name, and why we are here. I’ll start. My name is Father Tim. I am often the one here at Focus that runs these meetings. I also hold mass on Sundays in the cafeteria. And… I am a recovering alcoholic.”

…Hold on, what did he just say? He’s a… what? What the hell is going on?

“Hi, my name is Wendy, and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hiiiiii Weeeendy,” the room murmers.

…God dammit, shut the fuck up people. I got scammed into coming to an AA meeting.  I’m not an alcoholic though…

“Hi, my name is Jon, and I’m a heroin addict.”

…I’m not even addicted to drugs. There is a total difference here between doing shit occasionally and being in this 12 step bull shit…

“Hiiii Joooon.”

 “Hi, my name is Sam. And uhm, I’m addicted to marijuana.”

“Hiiii Saaaaam.”

…Get the fuck out of here, that shit is not addictive, try a real drug. Pansy. And who says that, MARIJUANA. No one says that, no one that really smokes, unless you are like 60, and still say shit like far out dude or sooo groovy.

“Hi, my name is James, and I’m…”

A crack head… come on say it.

“I’m addicted to crack.”

 Damn I’m good, maybe I’m fucking psychic. That could be cool…

“Good. Keep going around the room just like you are. I have to step out for a moment. I’ll be right back,” explains Father Tim.

Oh, great…

“Hi.” Here goes Malibu Barbie.

“My name is Kimberly…”

You know she likes the coke.

“And I’m addicted to…”

I will shit if she says COCAINE. Like pot-hea… oh no sorry marijuana-head over there…

“I’m addicted to cocaine.” Ahaha I fucking knew it. Yeah Barbie, no worries, who wouldn’t be addicted to that shit. It’s cool. Been there done that. If I can get off that shit anyone can. It’s not too tough. This crazy shit is much harder to deal with. But seriously, no one says that shit. It’s COKE Kimberly! Not COCAINE. Wasn’t Kimberly the name of barbie’s best friend? I swear it was something like… Oh fucking shit, I’m next. What the fuck am I going to say? Why am I even on this druggie side? I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here, I shouldn’t be here.

“Hi, uhmmm… My name… uhmmm.”

Across the table is Barbie’s BFF. She is nodding with so much anticipation that she looks more like Malibu bobble head than Malibu Barbie right now… Did I say my part yet? What is my part? AAAaaaahhh!!! I shouldn’t be here. “I shouldn’t be here.” FUCK, I said that outloud. Here it comes…

“Wale, whut’s yur name daarrrrlin? Just start wit that,” says the cowboy from the head of the table.

That was not what I was expecting. “Uhmmm, Jessica.” Fuck, now what? Just wait til he asks you another easy question… wait for it… wait for it…

“Now, why shouldn’t ya be heer daarrrlin?” I said easy, that one wasn’t easy. Shit Jess, your losing your psychic powers. Now how will we make it through this?

“Well, I was supposed to go on the other side, the psychiatric side but I was like, going to fail the drug test when I came in, and when they asked me I, like, told them straight up sorta, so I don’t really like  remember much from my intake I was like really manic and I’m not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be on the otherside…”

“Slooow down daarrrlin, nuuuun uh us folks er s’posed to be heer, we s’posed tuh be out theer…”

Can he talk any slower? I may scream if he doesn’t talk faster. He is worse than Trill’s dad, Pa. And I can’t even understand Pa. Trill has to translate for me. I miss her and the girls. I should call them from here. Maybe they can come down and break me out of here and take me back up to NC. I miss it up there so much. I hate it down here, where ever I am. I don’t even know where I am. I know there is an airport nearby. I saw some Cessna planes like Dad’s flying over me when I was outside before group. Shit I’m still in group…

“I’m not an addict, and I’m not an alcoholic. To be addicted to something it must interfere with your life or your ability to accomplish day to day things.” I finally say.

“Well, do you drink?” asks my crack head roomie.”

…Well fucking DUH!

“Yeah, occasionally, but I’m in college. Isn’t that what you are supposed to do when you are in college? But it doesn’t interfere with the stuff I have to do. And I don’t have to drink; I can stop if I wanted to.”

The room begins to mumble under their breath like I can’t hear them

“She’s in denial, the first step sweetheart; she needs to admit it…”

I’m guessing that was the wrong thing to say in a room full of people that can’t quit if they wanted to. But I don’t want to, it’s fun, and I’m young. What else would I do at night?

“What about drugs, you said you were goin’ to fail the intake test?” The longer they sit and mumble as if I were deaf the more I get annoyed, so I blurt out

“PASS.”

“You can’t pass, Miss Jessica,” announces Father Tim, as he pokes his head in on us for a millisecond. 

Noooo wait. Father… please come back. They’re going to eat me alive!!!!

Ugh. “Fine… I guess you could, possibly, like, say that I am maybe kinda addicted to… mania.”

“What?” “What is that?” “That’s not a drug!!!” “Drinkin or druggin or get out.” “Are you mocking us?”

Aaaaaahhhhh! bLA BLa bLA bLA!!! BLA bLA bLA bLA bLA!!! bLA bLA bLA!!! bLA bLa bLA bLa!!! That’s all I hear from the whole room.

“It’s when I’m manic, that’s the only thing I can like think of that I cannot quit on my own that I need like help with.” 
Malibu Barbie shouts, “That’s not a real addiction! Boooo! Next please!” yes, yes, yes… NEXT please! Dear gawd! PLEASE!!!


“I agree, NEXT!”

“Hi, my name is Bobby…”

How dare they! I gave it my best shot. Did I really just get boo’d off the stage by a bunch of addicts? I was rejected by a group of rejects. How fucking ironic… How fucking dare they!!! I tried to explain that I was not supposed to be here, I’m not. I need to be on the other side, learning how to deal and get over this mania. I can’t take this bull shit. I am never getting roped into going to group again.

They totally lied.

It’s not a therapy group it’s a fucking AA/NA meeting of people that have the smallest brains and least amount of consideration for others that I have ever met!!!

Fuck, is it hot in here.

Why does everyone keep looking at me and rolling their eyes? If they only knew what I really thought of them, these people are such assholes.

That’s fine. Fuck them. I don’t need this shit anyways. I’m going to get better and these people are going to still be crying over how much they miss their bottle or needle.

Group sucks, fuck this.

I’m outie!

Blurry Coma Memory

We are nearing the end of March, and it is almost exactly 4 years since I last attempted to kill myself. It seems like an eternity ago, but that is far from accurate. I still to this day have no recollection of the entire day leading up to my hospitalization, my actual attempt, and much of what happens after my coma. It used to be that every night as I lie in bed trying to fall asleep I would rack my brain in search of any memory or even a glimpse of what I may have done, or been thinking that day, but nothing ever has come to me. I can now see things as a very vague and old revisited dream based solely on what I have been told and from the few memories I do have of when I came to after my coma.

As I look around the room I cannot recognize a single thing or a single person. I can feel myself frantically blinking trying to clear my blurry vision but nothing seems to help. I feel as if the weight of a thousand elephants is pressing on my chest. The heaviness in my lungs is almost unbearable. My chest burns to the point that I want to flail around and scream at the top of my lungs in pain as if I were burning in flames from the inside out. But when I think of moving nothing happens. “Move your right hand. Move your right hand. FUCK!!!! MOVE YOUR RIGHT HAND!!!” But nothing happens. I am so extremely parched that there are no words to describe what I would do for a sip of water right now. My mouth feels as if each surface was a piece of sandpaper. As I try to close my mouth to swallow in an effort to reduce my aching thirst I feel that my mouth will not close, my tongue is pressed down, and as I attempt to swallow I can feel myself gagging. I think to myself “Wow I am really fucking thirsty if it is to the point that it makes me gag.” But as I try to maneuver my tongue to push out this thing I feel in my mouth, again there is the sensation of gagging. “Ok, seriously what the fuck is going on here!” “I can’t see, I can’t move… What about talking, can I talk?” My attempt at talking was quite pathetic. Every time I would see something around me move, I would give everything I had in making an effort to say “Hey.” But I would not hear anything. “Ok, I know what this is, I know what is going on, it’s one of those totally fucked up dreams where you are paralyzed and can’t move. I hate these dreams. But why does my chest hurt so badly?” Instead some lady with nasty ass bangs and stringy hair came over to me and was I swear about ½ and inch from my face. This was nice it was the first person I was able to see or even was able to realize that it was a person. I later overheard someone say something about pneumonia. “Oh, that’s it. I must have really bad pneumonia that is probably why my chest is hurting, and I am guessing I am in a hospital, that is probably why I do not recognize a single thing.” So I try to swallow again and immediately have the sense of gagging. But this time to my surprise, my arm moves. It moves toward my face and then to my mouth and attempt to pull on whatever is consistently making me gag when I swallow.  I did not even get to touch whatever it was in my mouth before there were a swarm of people on me holding me down and in slow motion I see this needle with a full shot of some sort of fluid go straight down toward my right collarbone. Then this tingly float-y feeling and it was lights out for me. 

Bipolar Time Warp

Rip Van Winkle theory

It has been 7 years since I was first diagnosed with bipolar. But only 2 years since I underwent 9 ECT treatments. I have never felt as balanced as I do now, in my entire life. “Thank gawd for electricity.” But since I’ve come back to reality, I have noticed something. I seem to be about 6 to 7 years behind where I am supposed to be in more than one aspect of life. I have mostly noticed with the company I keep, or don’t keep would be more accurate. I seem to be lacking in the area of close girlfriends. Mine all left at the first sign of trouble with this bipolar thing. Same goes with the guys… I had a serious boyfriend before and during this bipolar thing began, and he left too, about 5 years ago. And I just don’t have much of anything in common with most people my age anymore. Everyone my age seems so grown up, and I’m so… well… not. 

Needless to say, all things happen for a reason. Now I have a wonderful boyfriend. He just happens to be about 6 years younger than me. As are all the people I tend to surround myself with at school. School, another thing most people at my age have finished and started careers. But I have a bit of time to make up.

Well a few weeks ago I was at the psychiatrist for my 3 month appointment. This is a drastic change from when I had to go two to three times a week. My last appointment was an awesomely uneventful appointment. There was nothing to report, and no meds to change. Now my appointments go more along the lines of a casual conversation you have when you ask “so, what’s new with you?” Rather than discussing my most recent manic episode, new side effects, or my long list of bipolar signs and symptoms.

While talking we got onto subject of me playing catch up in life, and having younger boyfriend who’s age coincides with the same amount of time I was so ill. I told him I had noticed this with many of the people in my life now… He said he calls that his Rip Van Winkle theory. I thought how brilliant, absolutely brilliant. That perfectly explains this. So, for those of you not so familiar with the story here is a very general summary.

The story of Rip Van Winkle takes place during the years before and after the American Revolutionary War. Rip, was a colonial British-American villager. He was a regular guy who enjoyed solitary activities in the wilderness. He had this tendency to avoid all professional labor, despite his wife’s constant nagging. Because of this his home and farm were pretty much falling apart.

So Rip went and tried to escape his wife's nagging, by heading up the mountain with his dog, Wolf. Then there was this other guy calling Rip’s name… This guy was carrying a keg up the mountain, and needed Rip's help. So, the two of them hike up the mountain to where there is a group guys. Somehow these guys know Rip’s name too. Rip drinks some of the guys’ liquor and falls asleep. 

When he wakes up his dog is gone, his beard is long, and his gun is rusty. Rip goes back down the mountain to the village and notices that he doesn’t recognize anyone. He finds out that his wife died, along with most everyone else. Rip doesn’t know that the American Revolution has taken place and that George Washington is in charge of things now. And now there is this other guy being called Rip Van Winkle who actually is his son, but all grown up.

As it turns out the guys up on the mountain were the ghosts of Henry Hudson’s crew. So Rip had been “asleep” and away from the village for like 20 years. So basically, Rip picks things up in life right where he left off about 20 years ago. 

Another Manic Night: 2005

All is quiet in the house, just as it should be; everyone is asleep, except me, like usual. I’m going on five days now, or is it six? If it’s three something in the morning do you count it as the next day or do you still count it as the night of the previous day when you are trying to keep count.

I am so incredibly exhausted.

Every muscle in my body is tense. I swear not a single muscle has had a single moment of relaxation in over a week. My eyes are bulging out of their sockets. They have been open as wide as possible for as long as I can remember, just as if someone has been holding them open all this time. When I try to close them all I see are strange flashes of light in neon colors. The flashes are so distorted that I try to make out what they are but can’t because it is too painful to look at the random images I see with my eyes shut, the contrast of black and neon makes the flashes so incredibly bright. This is ridiculous, its hurts to keep my eyes shut.

My stomach is burning. Much like the feeling you get in your throat from the carbonation when you drink a soda entirely too fast, only multiplied by like a zillion. When I sit in an attempt to relax, if I can even sit in one place for any amount of time, my legs are running a race against each other it seems. Both feet arched with the balls of my feet pressed firmly on the ground. Bouncing both of my legs faster and faster, as the left one is bouncing trying to bounce faster than the right, then the right leg trying to go faster than the left, imagine the calories I must be burning.

There is this disturbing feeling of guilt for hating everyone that is so peacefully asleep as they should be. I know I have done nothing wrong, but it sure feels as if I had.  For some reason the quiet hours of the night that slowly turn into morning, they are the loneliest and hardest to make it through, especially when I’m alone.  As I see the sun coming through the window my eyes begin to hurt, and I begin to cry, another sleepless night has passed making it six, when will this end?

That was a journal entry of mine from March 5, 2005. It was between hospital visits, and I had come down from NC to stay with my parents in FL until I could get well enough to go back up to my life in NC again. If I remember correctly this stretch of sleepless nights was not the longest I had been awake due to mania. I think the longest may have been nine or ten days. After a certain point it's impossible to keep the days apart.

I still worry that nights like that will return. Especially now with the schedule I am keeping because of nursing school. It's a constant source of stress for me. Everyone struggles with a sleepless night here and there, but when you have bipolar a sleepless night can trigger a cascade of symptoms that will make even the most balanced person become unstable again. 

And my asking, when will this end... well that's the thing about the stretches of manic sleepless nights, they always come to an end, a crashing end. Cycles are simply the nature of manic depression. I used to try and make it seem like things weren't so bad when I was on a manic stretch by joking with my parents and saying, what goes up must come down.  

Excuse My Mania

BEFORE DAWN

It’s dark out still

But for me it’s the birth of a newday

Between the highs…

Between the lows…

I will try to fall somewhere between the lines

On a good day my goal is met,

Between the lines I fall.

On a bad day I fall from the highs;

Just as quickly as the flicking of a switch.

To whom this may concern:

Please excuse Jessica from class today, for she is swinging from the highs and lows as if they were trees, and if you catch her in between, please tell her how things have been.

In high school if I was absent from a class it was necessary to have a note signed by a parent stating why you were absent. Usually, my parents were unaware of the fact that I had even missed class, so it was actually me writing the readmits. Whether I had crashed due to exhaustion from not sleeping the previous 3 nights, or if I was manic-ly moving at the speed of light through my hectic high school schedule, the writing of readmits was a regular weekly event. Not aware of the underlying reason for my truancy at that time this habit continued into college and was so cyclic that it could easily be predicted. If only life were as simple as having my mother write a readmit for the day to excuse my mania.