Red Velvet Chair

“Hey Ya? Jessica? It’s already one o’clock.” My mother hollers from the kitchen. “Earth to Jessica?” Now face to face she asks, “Jessica, you have Dr. Augustine today at 2:30, right?”

“Yeah.” I answer energetically, as not to show that my mind is in 27 different places right now.

“Do you want me to drive you down there today?”

“Nah.” I holler as I skip off down the hallway and into my bedroom to get ready.

As I am ripping through my closet and dresser drawers for something to wear like I was trying to get dressed just before escaping a burning building, I repeat out loud, “Something that screams wellness. Something that screams wellness.”

Seconds later I am skipping out the front door with my mom chasing after me, “Sweetie, here’s my debit card. Drive safe. Good luck and I’ll see you when you get back.”

I hop into my forrest green 2001 Subaru outback wagon, turn up my music and whip out of the driveway. I don’t mind the long drive to the doctor today. I’m actually looking forward to the drive. On days like today the drive is more like a forty-five minute rave, once I’m in my “ru” that’s what I call my car, I just crank up some Tiesto and dance my way down I-95.

I arrive at the doctors nearly forty minutes ahead of time. I always seem to get there too early. Better than late I suppose. The earliness doesn’t bother me a bit, since I’m so early I can sit in my “ru” and continue the rave here in the parking lot. However by now I am feeling extremely anxious, nervous, and stressed as all the usual pre-appointment “what ifs?” begin to creep into my already racing thoughts. And now I’m no longer feeling overly euphoric, I am now walking a tight rope of emotion, any thought could trigger a plummet, possibly to my death.

 “What if he puts me back on Zyprexa, or worse, Depakote?  Then I’ll start seeing shit again, the guy outside my window, never again. What if he asks how I’m feeling? How am I feeling? I don’t even know that. How in the world do I begin to explain my feelings? What if he asks how I’ve been doing all week? One minute I was flying high, I made a mosaic table in one afternoon, the next minute I was down and I contemplated my death and the many ways to cause… NO! I promised B. So, what if he asks, should I tell him the truth, or my version of the truth? What if he can tell how bad I really am doing? What if he calls my mom to come pick me up? What if he sends me back to the hospital? What if? What if? What if? What if? Aaaahhhhhh!!! I wish I could scream.

Even though I have Tiesto turned up as loud as my mix-matched Bose and JBL speakers can handle the only thing I can hear are all of these “what ifs?” that squeeze themselves in between my always present racing thoughts. I have to get out of this car before I absolutely lose it.

I rush up to the office and quickly push on the glass door. I’m pushing on it as hard as I can and it simply won’t budge. It just makes a clicky noise each time. Oooooh, they must still be at lunch. I must really be early. But as I look up I notice there are nearly nine pairs of eyes locked on me as I struggle with the front door.

“Okay Jess. Deep breath. Assess the situation. Oh fuck! It says PULL. Yes, I’m doing well today, thank you.” I say out loud talking to myself.

I walk in and sit in the chair right in front of the receptionist’s window. I always sit in this same chair when I come in.

“Hi Jessica,” says Ms. Pat the receptionist.

“Hi.”

“I’ll let him know that you are here,” she says.

“Okay, thanks.”

“Hun, you know you’re a bit early…” she adds.

“Yeah, I wanted to make sure that was on time.”

“Alrighty hun.” she says as she smiles and returns to her paperwork.

The office waiting room is filled. He must really be running behind today. Or, I am really that early. Can I not tell time or something? What if he makes me go to the hospital here and not back to the one in Georgia? As I look around the room I begin to wonder if all of these people are here to see Dr. Augustine. If that’s the case I’m going to be here for quite a while. Doesn’t he have like three other people that work here in the office? I think it is like a whole psychiatric team in here. There is my doctor, another doctor, a physician’s assistant, and a therapist or two. What if I freak out? Did I just say that out loud? Did I just ask out loud if I had said something out loud? I glance around the room quickly. No one is looking at me too strangely so I guess not. Why are all of these people here? Are they all as crazy as me? They look pretty normal. Can they tell that I have all of this shit racing through my mind? For as many people as there are in this room it is still relatively quiet.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.

The anxiousness is taking over, going all the way through me and making me tap my foot uncontrollably.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.

The door to the back of the office opens. Tap tap tap tap tap. Oh please be me. Me next. Me next. Me. Me. Me… Dr. Augustine steps out from behind the door. I freeze with anticipation. Please me. Please me. “Jessica, come on back.” Oh thank fucking gawd, get me out of this sardine can of a waiting room.

“Hello Jessica, please have a seat” says Dr. Augustine as he points to the big red velvet arm chair across from his wooden spinning chair and laptop.

All I can see is a giant red velvet arm chair similar to those leather ones you would see old business  men in the 50s sit in while enjoying their 5 o’clock glass of brandy.

I am stunned when I look at it.

Dr. Augustine closes the door behind him.

“Please sit” he says.

As I sit in the red velvet chair it’s texture engulfs me. Now  with Dr. Augustine sitting across from me with his silver laptop resting on his knees he asks “ So how have you been?”

“Fine.” I quickly respond.

Fine. Yeah, like I’m fine.  As I plop my arms down on the red velvet chair’s armrests. I’m sure he can see straight through that answer. This fabric is so soft. I wonder if it actually is velvet, probably not though. We all know what fine stands for, freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional.  That’s such a good one. I think it was my mom or Al that told me that one. I wonder where they got it from. It’s a good one though.  How amazing would that be if this was real velvet. It’s like a carpet. I can brush it one way and it’s dark red. The other way and it’s a lighter red. Gawd, what is he waiting for? Is that all he’s going to ask me today?  I bet this is faux velvet. Is there such a thing? Is that what it would be called? What is taking him so long? I wonder what he is typing so vigorously on that laptop of his. “This chair is so comfortable.” Fuck. I think I just said that out loud.

“I’m glad that you like it.” Dr. Augustine quickly responds, as he takes what seems like a few minutes to look me over, then returns to his typing.

Yup, I definitely said that out loud, because he answered me, oops. He is still typing away over there. I wish I knew what he was typing. I bet it’s about how absolutely bonkers I am, or how I’m a dishonest patient trying to hide the fact that I’m not well right now. I love how the armrests on the red velvet chair are just the right height for my arms to set on. This chair is by far my most favorite chair I’ve ever sat it. It’s way cooler than all three of the fuzzy high back, assorted color, contemporary chairs at Dr. Kizer’s office.

“Alright, Miss Jessica” he begins.

As I look at the clock I see it has only been like three minutes. Crap. Here comes my  least favorite part, twenty questions. I think I may pass out. I can’t catch my breath. My heart is beating so fast and hard. I am surprised he can’t see my chest moving from it.

“So start with today, what have you done today?” He asks.

“Well…”

I can’t remember. My mind is blank. That’s the first. No response worthy of saying out loud to him is coming to mind. I love this chair. It’s so luxurious.

“…I was painting before I came down today.” I respond.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

What a silly question.

“How else would I have gotten here? I don’t have wings”
Dammit! I think that was out loud.

As he giggles I smile uncomfortably. What is he laughing at? Maybe he realized what a ridiculous question that was. This chair is amazing. I want to take it home with me. I would sit in it all the time.

“Jessica.” He says.

“Yes?”

“You are going to wear my chair out.” He states

“Uh, what, what do you mean?” I ask as he mimics the position I’m sitting in he moves his hands as if he were rubbing invisible armrests, and then points at me.

“Oh. Sorry.” I giggle. As I look down at my arms and then my hands I see beneath them the contrast of light and dark red faux velvet going in every which direction possible. I have been rubbing on this faux velvet chair this entire time as if I were making out with it or something.

“It’s okay dear.”

Oh my gawd. I’m so embarrassed. I didn’t even realize. “I didn’t even realize” I blurt out.

“I know dear, it’s okay.” He says. “What do ya say, I’ll see you back here in 1 week for your next appointment. Sound good?”

“Yeah, alright. Thanks.”

One week. That’s not bad. It’s farther apart than my appointments used to be with Dr. Kizer. And at least I’m not going to the hospital after that embarrassing make out session with the red velvet chair.

“Drive safe, and I’ll see you next week.” He says as he walks me to the receptionist window and continues on to call for his next patient.

BIPOLAR BLOG

“I am tired of hiding, tired of misspent and knotted energies, tired of the hypocrisy, and tired of acting as though I have something to hide.” 
― Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness

Quote for the day...

“He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.” 
― Friedrich Nietzsche

Bipolar Journal Entries from the Past

Bipolar Journal Entries from the Past

February 15, 2005

I guess everyone has their own reality that they have to face, that they have to live with day in and day out, for the rest of their lives. Whether it’s the result of past choices, something that has come up by chance, or something genetic… the fact of the matter is… that they alone have to live with it.

Some days I am quite alright with it, my craziness. As new and as big as it seems, some days I am… I am fine. Other days… it just overwhelms me to the point of, well almost an anxiety attack, or an emotional breakdown. 

Some days I don’t really believe that the “me” now; and the “me” that tried to kill herself in those early days of this diagnosis, or the “me” that went to the hospital 3 times since April of 2004, or the “me” that has had to change meds so many times, or the “me” that had to up and leave college along with my boyfriend, husky puppy… the “me” that had to leave her entire life and has been totally out of school since March 2004…

Seriously, some days… I really do not believe that the “me” now and that other “me” are the same person. There are times that I almost convince myself that I’m not…  that it’s not…  and that this is not really real, and for minutes at a time I actually believe it. Those minutes are are filled with such hope, and such pain. In those moments it feels as if any second I may wake up, and be back home with my boys (my husky puppy and boyfriend) in that quiet little mountain town I have grown to love so much and call home.

But unfortunately for me, my reality is medicine in the morning, noon, and night… scars on my wrists, no friends by my side, memories in my mind, and a longing in my heart that will weigh on me for the rest of my life I am afraid.

Reflection: October 18, 2011

“everyone has their own reality that they have to face, that they have to live with day in and day out, for the rest of their lives. Whether it’s the result of past choices, something that has come up by chance, or something genetic… the fact of the matter is… that they alone have to live with it.”

They alone, have to face this in the mirror each and every morning. They alone, must face the day wearing this “badge” on their sleeve. And they alone, will try to sleep at night with this weight on their soul. 

For those that left their side when they needed someone the most, know that they have succeeded without you. And for those that gave them support, know that they could not have succeeded without you.

But knowing that no one else can carry them through their day to day was what propelled them forward to where they are now. No one else could give them the courage to fight this illness, and no one else could give them the strength to endure all that it may possibly bring. 

On their journey to wellness they will come to the realization that they alone can beat their illness, and it is this realization that will set them free. 

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!