Texas: Part 1

The decision was made without my input.  My husband and my parents and perhaps his parents made the call that I was to go back and live with my parents where I could receive 24/7 care for what I was dealing with.  I felt betrayed by my husband and was scared what it would mean to live with my parents again at 32 years old.  I was going home again and I didn’t like it.

My dad flew into New Orleans so he could drive my car back with me in it.  We stopped off in Austin to stay with my brother for a night because it takes 17 hours to drive between where I was coming to where I was going.  I was still rail thin and remember the meal that my brother made us for dinner that night: grilled brauts with grilled cabbage.  It was good and it felt weird to eat an actual meal.  I remember taking my medication and looking at my brother and he was shocked in how my eyes looked after I had taken my meds.  I guess my eyes dilated or something when I took my anxiety medication.  I don’t know.  I was treated with kid gloves.

My dad and I got up the next morning and packed up and made our way up to the Texas panhandle.  It’s really flat there and there are no trees. You can see a thunderstorm rolling in from miles away.  Sometimes I miss being able to see the weather roll in like that.  In New Orleans, there are too many trees and houses to really see anything roll in before it hits you.  But, I digress…

I arrived back home to my mom who was so worried about me.  Of course she was.  She had come to stay with me a few times leading up to my final return to Texas.  It turned into a fight between my husband and her as to who knew better how to take care of me.  I still don’t know who won that argument.  Me?

I slept a lot when I first arrived.  I didn’t have much to contribute to what was going on in the household and my mom let me be.  I appreciated that.  I was in no place to worry about laundry and dishes and chores and all that I was supposed to be doing as a resident of that household.  She just let me sleep.

I fished out my old library card and started going to the library weekly checking out a handful of books that I could escape into.  I picked out books that I didn’t know anything about and books that I loved and books that I had been meaning to read.  That’s actually where I found the name of my blog.  I read the “Poisonwood Bible” by Barbara Kingsolver.  She has a line in her book about the river being a “slippery crocodile dream” and I just changed it to alligator because I live in New Orleans and that is  what we have here.  That book was a brilliant read for me and I would recommend it to anyone.

So, I spent my time sleeping and reading.  My mom tried to get me to go to the grocery store with her and I couldn’t even manage to do that because I was so overwhelmed by the outside world.  I reconnected with a few old friends, one of which flaked out on me, but that is another story entirely.  I had one constant friend who I still have to this day and is one of my biggest cheerleaders.  I love him immensely.

I was still reading into the cars and the radio.  I found a new psychiatrist and a therapist.  I would go see him I don’t remember how often but I would see my therapist weekly.  I liked my therapist alright, I just didn’t like my psychiatrist.  He would maybe take 10 minutes with me and he always had med students in our appointments with him.  I get that I was going to a teaching hospital but I wasn’t of sound mind enough to be able to handle their presence.  If I had been, I would have asked them to not be in our appointment, but I just endured the time I had with him so I could get my medication.

My husband and I were pretty estranged at that time because of me cheating on him and him trying to wrap his head around what was going to be the new normal.  We still spoke daily but it was short and tense.  I know he wanted me to get better but wasn’t seeing results and that frustrated him.  I don’t really know to this day what he went through during that time.  He tried to stay in touch with our friends in New Orleans but they eventually dropped him/us.  It’s funny how those things tend to happen.  Major crisis and the rats go running away…

So, Texas was proving a slow process.  I was just barely functioning and going through the motions of existing.  I took walks, read books, and slept.  Not much progress was going on during the first month and a half that I was there.  I was still paranoid and emaciated.  My mom was cooking for me and made me eat avocados every night.  Not that I complained about that, because avocados.  But, things were slow moving.  My parents were doing their best to hold their tongues and just let me be.  I think that is one of the biggest gifts they have ever given me.

More Texas soon…

Advertisements

Did You Know I Could Be…

I have a good rapport with my psychiatrist.  I trust him completely and I feel like he lets me be in the driver’s seat of my journey with Bipolar Disorder.  I have been seeing him since I returned from my sabbatical in Texas.  He is very knowledgeable and calm and all the things you want your psychiatrist to be.  He spends about 30 minutes with me each appointment, which is not what I had experienced previously with my other doctors.  He really talks to me and jokes with me and I am really lucky to have found someone so very much in my corner.

That being said, I have lately been feeling like I want a little mania in my life.  Irresponsible thoughts really.  I take medication to balance me out, but I have yet to find my true happy self since this has happened.  I always have that depression lurking in the background and it makes me sad to think that I will never be the spontaneous girl who moved to New Orleans on a whim and a dream.  But, I want to change that.  It is just going to take a lot on my part to find that joy from within.

My medication consists of one pill to control the mania and one pill to control the depression.  That equals a well adjusted individual.  I don’t feel as balanced as I should be because I still have anxiety.  I have another pill I take to quiet my nerves, which is a big help.  When I feel anxious, it makes me feel like I’m having my break all over again.  I probably shouldn’t rely on this magic pill for everything, but it’s what works and I’m sticking to it.  I don’t use it all the time, just when I am feeling anxious, which is about 2 -3 times every two weeks.  Not a whole lot of pills on that part.

Back to mania.  I think I want the mania because I want that uptick in energy and self confidence.  My self confidence is rock bottom right now which is making me kind of stall out in what I am supposed to be doing (i.e. finding a job).  Perhaps I am just making excuses, but I am so afraid of being fired from another job.  I have a pattern of this happening and I could try to go on disability, . but I’m not disabled and my doctor would never sign off on that anyway.

I try to put on my best face for my psychiatrist to show that I am functioning well.  I am always afraid he is going to prescribe another medication and I think I am numb enough.  Speaking of numb, it takes me a lot to laugh out loud and to cry.  He recently upped my depression med because I was crying at every little thing.  That is not the way to function so I am happy to have that edge taken off.  But, I want to laugh.  I want to be silly.  I want to dance around my kitchen singing silly songs with my husband.  That hasn’t happened in a long time.  It will come back, but I don’t know when.

I want to be manic but I don’t want to pay the price of being manic which means I would go back to the mental hospital.  Every time you have a mental break, it damages your brain and I don’t want to do any more damage than has already been done.

I guess being an adult means you have to create your own happiness.  Find things that bring you joy.  I’m just having a hard time because I have few real life friends and I like to hide behind my computer.  It’s easier that way and I can create the image that I put out into the world.  I’m not perfect, not in the least respect of that word.  I just want that high of being manic.  My doctor is not going to let that happen and I’m not going to stop taking my meds because the consequences are too great.  It would just be nice to feel good about myself, even for an afternoon.

I Don’t Blame New Orleans

My husband and I moved to New Orleans on a whim.  I had finished my master’s degree and was working at a symphony  but was not seeing any upward movement and he was working at the hospital.  We were in a good place financially and we both looked at each other and said, “Where do you want to go?”!  I said New Orleans and he agreed.  So we quit our jobs and moved.  No real plan.  Just moved.  It was crazy and romantic and everything I had hoped it would be.  He found a job quickly, it took me a bit longer to find something.  I didn’t realize that I was on the beginning of a psychological roller coaster that would lead to my ultimate demise.

We moved and it was hard.  He was working, I spent my time cleaning the house and thought I was the next best thing to June Cleaver.  Ha!  Then I found my job and we were thrown into opposite schedules and the downward spiral began.  We worked and worked and put an offer in on a house that we loved and the day we were to sign the closing papers, I lost my job.  Apparently I wasn’t cutting it.  I tried so hard at that job but I wasn’t quite getting what I was supposed to be doing because I had received 2 days training.  Big mistake on their part and big mistake on my part for not speaking up more about my training.  In hindsight, the mania was starting to creep it’s way in.

I lost my job and was left with being June Cleaver again, only it wasn’t so glamorous.  The house wasn’t as clean as when we had first moved down.  I was finding means to numb the situation and that was not good.  But, I kept looking for work and eventually found something part time that was really rewarding.  I worked there about a year before I quit because I couldn’t take it anymore. What couldn’t I take?  I couldn’t really answer that question to this day.  It was a good job and I did well working there.

I finally found a job that was honoring my educational ambitions and intellectual ambitions and I worked really hard at making that job stick.  I would stay up all night thinking of new ways to make things better and they were well received, but then I completely came unraveled.  I was going into a complete manic meltdown in front of my new co-workers and I didn’t even quite realize it at the time.  I knew something was wrong but I chalked it up to not sleeping.  They fired me after 6 weeks.

That was the turning point.  That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.  I lost my mind before I knew I had lost my mind.  The rest you can read in the archives.

Bottom line, I don’t blame New Orleans for everything that happened.  It is hard to live in this city with the prices of housing and the pay that doesn’t reflect that.  But, this is a city of rebirth and a fighting attitude.  If you can make it in New Orleans, you can make it anywhere.  I love this city and I have no plans of leaving it anytime soon.

I have been dealing with a bit of depression lately.  I don’t have a job right now and I’m trying to find the inspiration to find another one, but it’s not coming.  Eventually I’m going to have to take the first one that offers me a job, but until then I’m going to try to write all my comings and goings.  Writing helps center me and I have forgotten that.  Anyway, if you have read this, thank you.  I’m glad to have you check out my blog.  If you are an oldie but goodie survivor of this blog, thanks for sticking with me.  I’m trying to pull out of my funk.

I Will Never Be Trusted

I lost my mind.  It sucks.  I have been fighting for the past 4 years to regain my sanity.  It was bad.  I did bad things.  I’m not proud.  I said lots of crazy shit when I was dropping my basket.  No one knew what to do with me, other than take me to the crazy hospital.  I swallowed a handful of Tylenol PM meds in an effort to go to sleep.  Not the sleep of the dead, to actually go to sleep.  The doctors didn’t believe that I hadn’t tried to kill myself.  My husband believed me, but he was, at the time, clueless to how very far I was actually gone.

I was gone.  I flew the cuckoos nest.  I did bad things.  I am not proud.

You see, the problem is that I have regained my sanity.  I am sane.  I take my meds.  I visit my doctor.  I talk about what is going on with my doctor.  I don’t see a therapist right now because my last one was full of shit and made me do workbooks, rather than talk to me.  Maybe I should find someone better, but who has time when you are working full time in construction and you have a deadline and are already a month behind on completion.

If you have been following, I am still having a hard time sleeping.  I talked to my p-doc about it and he associates it with my anxiety.  I have been fired from every job I have had since I got sick.  I actually like my job.  I don’t want to get fired.  But, being extremely sleepy doesn’t make me a good employee.  I can’t sleep at night but I’m falling asleep at my desk in the mornings.  Something isn’t right.  I will get it figured out.  Things have been improving.

But, you see, I was talking to my husband tonight about being okay and being sick, and he pretty much admitted to me that I am not ever going to be trusted for my word.  If I make a joke about something, I will receive a raised eyebrow until I explain that I was making a joke or being sarcastic, or making an observation about something that might be a little out there.  I used to be allowed to be silly and make jokes – it was part of my charm.  But that has been stifled.  I cannot make jokes when it comes to my sanity because “what if she needs to go back to the hospital.”

I will be the first person who knows if things don’t feel right and because I don’t ever want to feel as bad as I did when I dropped my basket, I will announce it to the masses.  You guys will even know.  If my meds stop working, I will be the first person to admit that I am not feeling okay and need more help.  I will gladly go check myself back into that hell hole so that I don’t end up damaging everything that I have built up since my first break.  I simply do not want to ever feel as scared as I did.

My husband and I have been through the wringer.  I cheated on him.  He forgave me and treated me like shit for about 2 years.  This is my blog, I can say that.  It came to a point that I couldn’t apologize any more, and finally things have gotten better.  But, it hurts when he says to me that he will never fully trust what I am saying when I say something a little “out there”.  Even if it was my personality prior to having my break.  I am quirky, I am silly, I used to be funny.

I am not those things anymore because I have to watch everything that I say to all the people who are closest to me.  They will always have in the back of their minds that maybe I’m losing it.  So, it’s like a chip on my shoulder that I never put in place.  I will never, ever, ever, ever be the same person that I used to be because I cannot be trusted.  I might “lose my mind” again.  I am not to be trusted.  Because even if I feel firm in my recovery and how I am feeling, I will always be questioned.

It is stifling.  Trying to get back to the person that I used to be has been my goal.  But, I am met with resistance because, “WHAT IF”.  What if I drop my basket again?  What if I cheat again?  I’m sure it will probably happen again in my lifetime (not the cheating), but I’m not doing anything to help that along.  I take my meds.  I go see my doctor.  I’m fighting to get enough sleep.  I’ll get it figured out.  The sleep thing, that is.

I should be trusted.  I should be allowed to make a joke and my sanity not be questioned.  I am a human being.  I am better.  I should be trusted.  It is just very frustrating.  I am frustrated with this road block in my recovery.  I want to be trusted.  I haven’t done anything wrong since my trip back to Texas.  (More on that soon…)

The only person who has not questioned me, to my knowledge, has been my mom.  Perhaps it’s just her encouraging spirit and fighting for her daughter, but she has trusted me.  She gave me space when I needed it back in Texas.  She gives me space now.  Our dynamics have changed, but she is truly my #1 cheerleader.  Not that my “peeps” aren’t my cheerleaders, they are just very quick to not miss anything.

They say they were too close to see what was really going on.  I suppose that is true.  They don’t want to miss anything on my journey now, because they love me and they want to help.  Bottom line, they don’t want to miss what they missed before.  So, I forgive them of their questioning – to a certain degree.

But, when it stifles my continued improvement, I get a little angry.  A little resentful.  Don’t you know me?  Don’t you know that is how I used to be?  I’m coming back!  I’m fighting and I continue to fight!  I should be trusted, but I am not fully trusted.

That makes my heart hurt.

Can’t Sleep

It’s hot in our house.  We had the air conditioner replaced last fall (ok, our landlord had it replaced) but as the temps are rising here in New Orleans, the air conditioner is not keeping up with the temp we set.  I am annoyed.  I like my house to be frigid when it’s time to sleep – better sleeping weather, I say!  I prefer winter, when we don’t turn on the heater and throw an extra blanket on the bed.  I digress.

The temperature is not the only reason I cannot sleep.  I visited with my psychiatrist last week and told him about me being sleepy during the day time and not being able to sleep at night time.  The day time sleepiness, he couldn’t quite explain other than not getting enough sleep at night.  The night time awake schedule was more up his alley.  My mind races at night.  I think about all the things that were said to me during the day and all the things that were left unsaid.  I explained this to my doctor and he said I am experiencing some anxiety.  It was such a simple explanation and I didn’t really realize that I have been seriously dealing with anxiety for a while now.  I have a medicine I take for anxiety PRN (or as needed) and I try and take it sparingly because I don’t want to build up a tolerance or an addiction.  My doctor doesn’t want that either and prescribes me 2 months worth of pills for 3 months of not seeing him.  In an extreme situation, I could contact the pharmacy and get them to contact him for another prescription, but I don’t want to be THAT patient, so I choose what I take when it’s extreme.

Except, I can’t sleep at night.  My mind is racing.  So, my doctor prescribed me sleeping pills.  The first night they worked kind of okay, but ever since then they have done nothing.  I do believe they keep me asleep during the night (as I would wake multiple times during my sleep), but I am frustrated because I want them to knock me the fuck out.  I don’t think that is how those drugs were designed to work.  I’m not taking Ambien because I was too scared that I would get in the car and drive and not remember it, but given how I have reacted to this particular medication, I say bring on the Ambien.  I’m very frustrated.  I just want to sleep and not fall asleep at work in the mornings.

I actually kind of fell asleep at work during a phone conference meeting and my boss noticed.  I was so embarrassed and he made a note of talking to me about it.  It opened up a whole can of worms, at least in my mind, and I told him my doctor (he doesn’t know what kind of doctor) prescribed me sleeping pills.  It’s not helping.  So, I don’t know if I should continue taking the pills with the hopes that they will help, or give up on them.  I’m not one for taking a pill just because your doctor said you could.  I take pills because my doctor says I have to.  There is a big difference in that.

Also, I’m working in construction as a project manager.  Ok, there, I said it.  I am the only girl/woman/female working in a giant group of men.  They are crass and outspoken and like to tease me.  I should take it as a compliment that they are paying attention to me but my bipolar brain reads into it sometimes like they are frustrated with my existence.

I do like a couple of guys that surround me.  They are always very enthusiastic and call me by my name.  I am still learning their names, but the security guard is my favorite.  He tells me he is looking out for me.  Perhaps he is worried about my safety with all these men, or he is just really nice.  I don’t know but I enjoy our conversations.  He’s a joy.

Ok, I’m going to try to go to sleep now.  I just thought while I was up, I would clue you in on what is currently going on in my world.  I hope you all are happy and safe and well.  I’m trying very hard not to screw up this job.  I appreciate all the well wishes.  xo

My Brain Right Now

So, I’ve been working at my new job for a little over a month now.  It is really great – I’m the only girl amongst a slew of burly men, and I must say they don’t hold back with the curse words and dynamic personalities.  It’s interesting and I’m learning something new every day.

We have money in the bank and my husband seems less stressed.  We are even able to treat ourselves to a nice evening out each week.  But, we are still frugal.  I think all those times of us planning our menu around what’s on sale at the grocery store and living on pasta and beans has taught us how to pinch our pennies.  I have started trying new recipes out again, which is nice.  The rut we were in with our menu had become old and boring.

Because of this positive change, I have been riding a bit of a manic high.  I call it manic, but maybe I’m just happy.  I don’t want to trust it because I know that eventually, I’ll start feeling low.  But that brings me to the question: is being happy the same as being mildly manic?  I feel like my emotions are defined (by others) as either manic or depressive, so I find myself using those terms to describe how I’m feeling.  It is simply the aftermath of being diagnosed with bipolar disorder.  I am not rapid-cycling and my meds are good.  I am religious about taking them because the alternative is crazy scary, literally.  I walk the line, as it were.

I have an appointment in the morning with my psychiatrist so he can check in with me and see that my meds are still working.  I really like him – he listens to me and actually has a conversation about what has been going on in my life.  I’ve had other psychiatrists who spend 5 minutes with me simply to write in their prescription pads.  I’m very lucky to have the doctor I have in my corner.

I think in the morning I am going to discuss with him what it means to be happy and what it means to be manic.  I am not reading into things like the radio or seeing patterns in the cars, which is so very positive that I can’t express it in words.  Point one for being happy.  I find myself speaking rapidly and excitedly at work, simply because I haven’t had this kind of professional interaction in 3+ years.  I think I’d give a point to both mania and happiness.  But, I’m having trouble sleeping sometimes.  It’s like I can’t shut off my brain at night time to go to sleep – hence why I am up writing at 10:45 at night.  I have to be up for work at 5.  Score one for the Mania.

I have a hard time staying awake at work in the mornings.  One of my medications has to be taken in the morning and has been known to cause drowsiness.  I didn’t really experience this when I wasn’t working, but I am wondering if this is factoring into why I’m having a hard time staying awake.  I was at a meeting this week and I seriously fell asleep.  My boss asked me if I was okay afterward.  I gave the excuse that I didn’t sleep well and hadn’t had enough coffee.  But, this is a problem.  It’s EVERY day!  Another topic I shall discuss with my p-doc at our appointment tomorrow.

So, is it mania or am I just happy?  I hope it’s that I’m happy because I don’t want any of my meds changed.  He’s not quick to do that, but you never know.  All I know is that I’m pleased to have a job and excited to have a place to go each day.  That is a huge improvement from where I started with this whole journey.

I still have much to learn about my condition.  I can research all I want, but those are just studies about different people with the same disorder.  Applicable, yes, at times.  But does it always apply?  I don’t think so.  Everyone is different and every experience is unique – regardless if you suffer or not.

What I’m afraid of is the low that is on the horizon.  I can’t be this up forever.  The newness will wear off and I’ll become a little complacent, a little slower, a little less dynamic.  Sad, on all counts.  I can’t let this happen, but sometimes it is inevitable.  So, here’s to wishing I stay on the happiness trail and the sadness trail stays in the distance.  A girl can dream, right?

The Second Stay

Due to my lack of recovery in the time between my first stay in the hospital, I made the somewhat conscious decision to check myself back into the mental hospital. My paranoia about the cars and the church bells had fully encompassed my mind set and I couldn’t function being outside of my house.  It was like I had become a hermit invalid.    I couldn’t go to the grocery store, run simple errands, or do anything other than pace around the apartment trying to get out of my head.  I was manic and depressed and everything else that goes along with the aftermath of having a full on psychotic break.  This is why I decided to go back in – nothing was making me better.

My psychiatrist had finally come to the emergency room to see me and offered me a bed in his mental hospital, starting that night.  So, my husband and I came back home, I packed a minimal bag of clothing, ate a quick bite of dinner and drove to the hospital.  Upon check-in, I was told to kiss my husband goodbye and I was sent up to the same floor where I had stayed previously.  I didn’t sign any papers – not that I can remember, at least.  I don’t think my husband signed anything either.  I don’t know how they handle that situation.  I was always under the impression that you had to sign yourself in and you could sign yourself out, but that was not my experience.

I did the typical check in ritual where they weighed you, asked you what medications you were taking, took your picture and assigned you your room.  I was initially put in a completely private room where they handed me a set of sheets because I volunteered to make my own bed.  I started to make the bed and was then told I couldn’t stay in that room.  They moved me back to the same exact room that I was staying in before, only this time I was to have a roommate.

Her name was June.  I don’t know exactly why she was in the hospital, she never talked about it, but I had known a June from my childhood and I found a connection to this person being my roommate.  She had a child and a husband and was from a couple cities away, I’m not sure how she ended up in New Orleans seeking treatment.  Not my business, anyway.  She might have attempted suicide or had a big fight with her husband, but I don’t think they put you in a mental hospital for fighting with your husband.  I digress…the point is that I had a roommate and her name was June and I was reading into the reasons for her being my roommate.

I was in the hospital with an entirely different group of people this go round.  They were more like me.  They all seemed sane, sort of.  I was trying to appear sane, but was having a hard go of it.  Luckily, I was away from cars and church bells.  I also wasn’t as manic, so I didn’t have the attitude that I was God’s gift to the Universe.  It felt like people were more on the same playing field this time around.  It made me uncomfortable.

The previous time, I had bought my protection with granola bars and the rest of my meals.  That sort of situation wasn’t going to fly this time around.  I remember that another girl named Sarah showed up a couple days into my stay.  I had also known a Sarah during my childhood, so I focused on her being there in the hospital as well.  I bring her and June up because I actually asked one of the aides if they put people together in the same hospital on purpose.  Like somehow, the hospital staff knew that I knew a June and a Sarah when I was little.  It all felt very connected and weird and like they were trying to tell me something with the addition of these people.  The aides answer?  “I can’t tell you that information.”  Now if that doesn’t make a paranoid conspirators bells and whistles go off, I don’t know what will!  His answer did not provide me with any solace.

I didn’t try as hard this stay.  I skipped therapy meetings in order to sleep and wasn’t as focused on my release.  I guess I felt safe among the insane.  They must have changed my medication half a dozen times during my stay, but I was still not seeing any improvement to my condition.  Of course, those meds take weeks for them to establish themselves in your system, but some relief would have been nice.

My husband still came to visit me religiously.  I was still a little angry at him, but most of the extreme rage had passed.  I still had a few times where I asked him to leave before visiting hour was over.  The staff always respected my decision and would escort him to the elevators, where I would hug him and kiss him good bye.  I don’t know how he put up with me asking him to leave.  It had to have hurt…but, he did what I asked.

At this point I had developed a new delusion in my thinking.  I thought the government was out to get me.  I met this one guy in the hospital who was ex military and I told him my delusions.  Big mistake.  He believed me, probably because he was just as vulnerable as I was.  Somehow, I ended up giving him my phone number to call me once we were both out of the hospital.  He actually called, I think in an effort to “save” me, but my husband put the kabosh on that budding friendship.  Looking back, I am glad he did.  I made a big mistake revealing my delusions to him and an even bigger mistake giving him my phone number.  If I ever end up back in the mental hospital, I will definitely be keeping my cards hidden.

The best part of the stay at the hospital were two aides that worked the night shift, Glenda and Lyndon.  Glenda was no-nonsense but I liked her name and associated her with The Wizard of Oz.  She was a good witch!  There was something very kind about her and I appreciated that.  Lyndon was my absolute favorite, though.  He would check on me at night time and make sure I was okay.  After the times when I asked my husband to leave, I was always very weepy and he would talk to me privately.  (As privately as you can get in that type of place!)  He told me, “Kel, you are going to be okay.  You are going to get better and this is just going to be a bump in the road.”  I needed someone kind to tell me that.  My psychiatrist never said anything like that, my therapist never said anything like that, my husband tried but he was too close to the source, and everyone else was freaking out because I was sick and not getting better.  I owe Lyndon a lot.  He motivated me to start working toward getting out of the hospital, when all I wanted to do was stay and hide.

So, I got my shit together.  I started going to every meeting and eating my meals.  I would participate in group therapy and would ask my psychiatrist every day when I was being released.  Finally, after two weeks, I was released.  I didn’t have the same kind of relief that I had the first time being let out of the hospital.  Mainly, I had fear.  I didn’t know how I was going to be able to function, because I hadn’t been functioning up to that point anyway.  I had resigned myself to the fact that I was too sick to get a job, so that just left me at home alone and by myself.  That was not a good situation for me.

So, it was decided for me that I would move back to Texas.  I went back into the mental hospital on October 22, 2011 and my dad flew in to drive me back to live with them at the beginning of November.  It was time to do some serious work and be around people who could watch me 24/7.  I wasn’t very pleased with the fact that I was being sent away, but what would come out of that sabbatical would change the course of my recovery for the better.  I had yet to realize it would turn out that way…