A Day in the Life in a Looney Bin

It's been nearly 10 years since my last post. Today, I read many of my old posts. It's amazing how my life has changed over the years.

I have Bipolar Disorder. Twenty percent of  people with a mood disorder end their life by suicide. That's 1 in 5 people. I think of the statistic and wonder about the people around me. Who of my family and friends have a mood disorder...depression, bipolar disorder, or schizophrenia? 

In what seems like a lifetime ago, I spent 10 days as a patient in a mental health facility. I am healthy now, but at the time I was in crisis. 

In the emergency room, I was admitted into the hospital. I changed into a gown without strings. They made sure I removed my bra and took my clothes away. I waited for a social worker to interview me. After some time, I saw a doctor. Calls were made to different mental health hospitals; some hours away. When a bed would become available, I was interviewed by a facility over the phone to see if we were a good match. When I was ready to be placed, I left the hospital in an ambulance to go to the other one.

When I arrived, sitting on a stretcher, I looked around as the other patients watched. After taking me to a private area where I took off my clothes so two nurses check my body for injury, I saw the door to the padded room. YES, there is such a thing! I then changed into a set of scrubs. Elastic band without strings. All the patients wear an identical color. I was told that if anyone escaped, the police could tell where we were supposed be.

What was it like spending time there?  

We had roommates. Some never left their room and spent most of the day sleeping. I was told that it was because of medication. The bathroom did not have a door or mirror. The toilet paper did not have a cardboard center. There was no toilet paper holder; it was stored in a small slot in the wall. We were expected to make our beds every day. They made sure we showered daily. They dispensed small amounts of body wash and shampoo in little paper cups. We had to go to the front desk to ask for them. 

We were heavily monitored. They had a list of every patient in the ward. Social workers were assigned to a group. They had a checklist to mark off all the places we were during the day. They kept track when we woke up, made sure we attended all the activities, and what time we went to sleep. They would check on us while we slept. Showers, making of the bed, laundry, and what, when, and how much we ate were noted. It was to see how we followed the rules and measure our degree of rehabilitation. 

We were on a strict schedule.

After waking up, we would stand by the nurses’ station and chat while drinking decaffeinated coffee or hot cocoa while we waited for breakfast. No caffeine! There was a running joke that chocolate had a bit of caffeine in it. I guess they wanted us to stay sedated. Coffee would have counteracted with our medications.

After breakfast it would be time to stand in line to take our medications. One at a time, we would step up to a little window. The nurse would check our wristbands to make sure we were who said we were. She would watch us closely as we took our medication. One time, someone tried to hide their pills. The nurse questioned her about it. A supervisor had to come over to make sure she took the them. If you missed your medications, they would find you.

Afterwards, we would go to group therapy and share our feelings and goals for the day. Every day we had a different group of people. Some would be well enough to go home and different people would be admitted and replace them.

Then it would be time for the morning snack. It usually consisted of fruit, crackers, or granola bar. We could only pick 2 items. Thursdays were a treat! We got ice cream. Can you imagine how excited were?

Every other day we went to music class. We played instruments; Mostly small percussion types. Some could not wait for their turn! We'd follow the beat of the music as we listened to song lyrics. We would discuss what we heard. The topics were about feelings. It was kind of depressing. With different people in and out of the program, we studied the same songs over and over again to accommodate those attending for the first time.

The other days of the week, we attended art classes. We would draw as we the speaker talked about coping skills. I don't think we had scissors. Looking back, we did not have pens or pencils, either. We used crayons. Nothing had staples on it. No sharp objects.

Then came lunch. As we lined up to see the menu, people would discuss the food options. If we didn't like what they were serving, we could ask for a turkey sandwich. It was pre-made. The food service worker would unwrap it and put it on our plate, No plastic wrap for us! They did distribute plastic forks and spoons, though. After we ate, they watched as we threw away our eating utensils.

In the afternoon, it would be time for another group therapy session. We would talk about how we are doing with our goals for the day. There would be discussion about our plans and others could chime in with suggestions. Another activity we could take part in was exercise. Yoga was offered. Some would fall asleep during the class. An afternoon snack would be served.

Throughout the day, some people would go to an appointment to be evaluated with a doctor. The psychiatrist would talk about our behavior and adjust our medications. The medications my doctor at home prescribed me were expensive. One of them was a high dose of a benzodiazepine for my anxiety. It is addictive and can be abused. I was given a different drug in its place. My anti-psychotic was substituted for another. I was given a mood stabilizer and something to help me sleep. We would take our meds in the morning and again at night. 

After our evening meal, we played board games.  A couple times a week, a small number of us would get visitors. It was a chance to see family and loved ones for an hour during a designated time. One of those days my family came to visit. Guests have to be 18+. Some of my children passed as being adults even though they were underage. My youngest son had to wait in an empty hallway outside the psych ward alone. There were no chairs for him to sit. He was under 10 years old. My husband brought me some things I requested. A few children's coloring books from the Dollar Tree and packs of crayons. They were a hit with the other patients! Everyone was bored during the day with nothing to do but watch television. Some of them ripped pages out so anyone interested could color at the same time. 

Everyone there were from different backgrounds with different mental issues. There were people of all ages. Some young adults; some in their later years of life. Some of the patients did not have a place to go after being released. Many of them were homeless. They were sent off in a cab to be taken where ever they decided to go. I wonder what happened to them. The thing that we all had in common was the attempt to end our lives. Some are admitted to hospitals like this more than once. 

I spent 10 days in the psych ward of a mental hospital. I signed myself out even though they wanted me to stay longer. I felt that I was out of crisis and was no longer in danger of harming myself. When I left, they made sure I had appointments with my doctors before they released me. I had professional help outside the hospital. I had a place to go. I had a family to support me as I healed. I was one of the lucky ones.

You Are Not My Friend

I told my therapist that I am nice because I want other people to like me. I go the extra mile to please people. For that reason things are expected, underappreciated, and taken for granted.

Stick to my plans. Do not be coerced to do more. "No" is a complete sentence.

Many have given this advice but when the time comes I cave in. I make concessions. I get overwhelmed with anxiety. I end up in tears.

I bend over backwards for others who would not do the same for me. If they cared they
would not treat me that way. Respect.

Being nice to everyone means I am not being nice to myself.

Down the Drain

I flushed my MEDS down the toilet.

In the 5 years since I found out that I have Bipolar Disorder, I have been a good girl adhering to treatment. I hated it the whole time.

My therapist moved in what seems like forever.

My psychiatrist retired. His DEA (Drug Enforcement Administration) Number is inactive so my prescriptions can't be refilled. 

I need to find other people to replace them. Explaining my life once again.. I do not want to go there. Great excuse. I have been talking about quitting medication for years.

Now that I have no one to watch over me, I don't have to follow the rules.

My husband is pissed.

I Wish You Were Never Born!

My oldest son recently turned 25. A milestone birthday.  He did not want to celebrate his special day.

A few weeks before, he reminded me of something I told him long ago.

"I wish you were never born!"

I yelled those cutting words as he was leaving for school. Elementary school. I cannot imagine how he managed to get through the day. 

I am his mom. I should love him with all my heart and all my soul. Be his soft place to land. 

Instead I caused him heartbreak. Those words are burned into his memory. He will never forget. 

"I wish you were never born!"

I am the cause for him to feel that his birthday is not important. "It's just another day." His words spoken without emotion.

I think about it and I cry. I am selfish. This is not about me.

It's about him. How he felt then. How feels now. How he will feel for the rest of his life.

What kind of mother would ever tell her child...

"I wish you were never born!"

I Wish I Was Dead

A friend posted on my facebook wall that she thinks of me often. She also said that she didn't see many posts from me. I cried.

I could have easily responded that I was doing great. In the cyber-world she could not see the look on my face or hear the tone of my voice. In the real world I would force a smile, hoping to look convincing.

In the privacy of my home, I let my guard down. My husband looks at me and asks , "What's wrong?" I say, "Nothing", and look away.

My doctors know about my feelings. Whenever I see one of them, they always asks me how I would rate my feelings of suicide on a scale of 1 - 10; I always give a high number. The other asks if I am in danger of self-harm. I say no. Every time I use the same reason. 

Over a year ago, I lost a son to suicide. Our family was devastated. I wouldn't want something like that to happen to us again.

I will not kill myself, but I often think about ways I could die.

I cannot kill myself, but I wish that I could go to sleep and not wake up in the morning.

Even though I know better... 

I Wish I Was Dead.

How are you? I am fine......... NOT Really!

I know it's been quite a while since we have posted any new blogs. Our family has been trying to work towards getting back to normal after losing my son to suicide earlier this year. When you lose a child unexpectedly to suicide, it rocks your world in ways you could never understand until it has happened to you.

A week or two after Jon's death, I went to see a therapist to help me deal with my grief. I am glad to have found a psychologist that meshes well with me.  As I began to open up to him about what I was feeling he helped me look deeper into myself. I am filled with feelings of deep sadness and sorrow.  The depth of my depression felt crippling with no way out. No one knew this because I smile and pretend like everything's fine. I put others needs above my own. I hide behind a mask of being a tough guy and deflect anything that would make it look like I need help.

My counselor knew why I started seeing him. I was under a lot of stress with everything that had happened. After a few sessions he suggested I get some testing done. The first couple of times he ask me about it, I blew it off and said no thank you. I know I am depressed, but I am doing just fine.

A couple of weeks later at my next visit, he gave me a homework assignment to watch The Perks of Being a Wallflower . I thought it was cool since I like watching movies. I looked it up on Youtube. The movie trailer seemed fun and interesting. It took me a few weeks till finally found it on DVD at my local Barnes and Noble. Later that week I sat down with my wife to watch it together. I was pretty excited since it took a while for me to find a copy.

Unfortunately as I watched the plot of this movie play out, I already knew what was going to happen. As we watched the film together I grew uncomfortable. The movie wasn't poorly done.  I realized several of the themes and plot mirrored my own life, minus the nice middle class living in an upscale neighborhood.  By the end of the movie I was pretty pissed off at my therapist for suggesting I see it.

At my next visit I asked him why he asked me watch it.  I was angry at him for tricking me into seeing a film that would upset me.  He pointed out that my problems went deeper than what had happened in the last few months.  I knew he was right.  Since my maternal grandmother was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, I agreed to take the psych tests.  I wanted to understand what was going on in my head so I could get the best help possible.

The next time I met with my therapist, we started going through my tests.  He told me that he was shocked going over my results.  My doctor said that if any other person had read my results that they would not believe it based on how I appear on the outside. I don't show what I am thinking or feeling very often. I joked that I had lied while taking the test.  He said the tests would have caught me if I was lying, and that I was incredibly honest. 

Then I asked him how crazy I was. He told me I am NOT crazy.  Yay for me! I am not crazy, LOL!  I have been through alot in my life, and I think very differently than most people. I developed many maladaptive behaviors and thought processes. My official diagnosis: severe anxiety, depression, paranoia, addiction, and PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). All of these things are labels that help explain my struggles, but they do not define me.

I am not a war veteran. I am just someone who has been through some VERY crazy shit in my life. I saw and lived in the darker side humanity. I am a survivor.  

The Effects of Retail Therapy

I have not blogged much in the last three months. I would start and then stop. More often than not it would be because a cascade of tears running down my face would overcome me. 

Many thoughts about my son's suicide rush through my mind. I feel overwhelmed. Not a day goes by that I do not think of him. 

I cry at the grocery store. Jon was a big eater and I would fill the cart as if he were still here. It took me by surprise when I looked in the freezer one day. It was full. I then realized that Jon was no longer here to eat the food faster than I could buy it. I cry again.

Every summer I buy an inflatable swimming pool. The pool sits empty in the yard. In previous years Jon frequently filled it. He enjoyed splashing in the water.

As always, I purchased pool toys. When I arrived home I gave the toys to the kids. There was an extra one. I realized that without thinking I automatically bought one for Jon, too. My eyes tear up.

Summer vacation is coming to an end. It is time to begin buying clothes and shoes for the upcoming school year. Someone jokingly told me that I will save money because I am buying for one less person. A set of school pictures will not have to be ordered. I don't care about the money. I would pay anything to have him back.

I choke back tears as they well in my eyes. As I try to hold them back the tears run down my face. The pain will never go away.

Retail therapy. 

Most find joy at the prospect. 

For me it brings sadness.

A Picture Of Too Few Words

A family portrait. I had planned that someday in the future our family would have that special photo. It would be one of those cheesy ones where everyone would wear coordinated outfits; all smiles and perfectly posed.



I wanted a family picture that I would be proud to showcase on a prominent wall in our home. It would be a picture that would be a remembrance that we would cherish forever or something we would laugh about in the future. We would comment on our hairstyles and our choice of clothes. We would talk about how young we looked; how old we are now.

For our family, that picture will never exist. Not by a professional photographer. Not even a candid shot taken by a friend. I wish that we had taken a picture; even if it was imperfect.

I lost my son to suicide. If we take a picture now it would be incomplete. A part of our family would be missing. Jon. 

I urge you to take many family photos. Even if they are far from perfect. In the future you may regret not having a memento from the past.

A picture can be worth a thousand words. A missing picture can be worth much more.

It's Just a Load of Shit

A few weeks ago I spent a day training for youth mental health. I was excited to learn about the subject. I wanted to learn how to help others with mental health issues. I looked forward to spending the day with my husband learning about a topic that I am passionate about.

The first thing we did when we walked into the conference room was sign-in and collect various papers, pamphlets and a book. I found a seat in the front row. I was eager to learn.

Many of those who attended held fancy titles. My husband and I were some of the few who were "just" parents. We did not have any impressive letters after our names. We were not part of a network in the community that worked closely with youth.

The premise of the program was to cover "first aid" for youth in crisis until the situation is resolved or appropriate help has been received. I realize that there is only so much that can be taught in one all day session. The meeting only touched on a basic range of information. I would have preferred that they would have spent more time on key subjects instead a watered down, hodgepodge of ideas. 

I challenged them. Do school counselors, coaches, and parents hold the level of expertise adequate to help a child in crisis? When is a band-aid not enough? At what point is it necessary to reach for a higher degree of help? Where do they go to find it? The information was lightly touched at the end of the class. By then, people had left the class or were too busy gathering their things to take notice of the information.

We were there to gain knowledge about the topic of mental help for youth. I cannot say that I learned absolutely nothing. I was not expecting to gain an epiphany, but instead of discovering a wealth of gold nuggets, all I collected was a light dusting of the treasure of which I thought I would find. I expected more. Much more.

The instructors taught us how to handle situations where someone needs help. Whenever I questioned the presenters they gave me generic answers. Life does not follow perfect step by step scenarios. I know that from experience. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to throw-up. I wanted to leave. 

I learned a lot of things that day. I learned that my experience and emotional connection to the subject dominates whatever can be taught from a textbook. I learned that it is more meaningful to listen to someone who has been through the experience speak from the heart.

I have decided that occasions like these do me more harm than good. I brought home various papers, pamphlets and a book. I will throw it all in the recycle bin because it is something that I know I will never read. In my opinion, almost everything I heard that day was just a load of shit.

My Failure as a Father

The loss of my 14 year old son Jon has pretty much preoccupied my life. He ended his life on January 10th of this year. Many things, if not all things, have become less important to me. I have been going to therapy to help work through my grief over my son's death. Early in the process, my psychologist was quick to point out that I do not take much time for myself. I focus most of my efforts on supporting my family.

Up until the last few months it seemed as if our family's life was fairly uneventful. I went about my life doing the usual things; work, school and being involved with youth groups. We lived an average life. My life was not always like this.

I learned to be street smart early in life. As a boy, I had to take care of myself and my younger sister. We lived in rough places. I was in a lot of fights. Bullies and intimidation were all part of my life.

When I was eight years old a group of older boys beat me up. I was determined to never let them hurt me again. I went home and stole one of my father's pocket knives. The next time they tried to jump me I was ready for them. Even though I began fighting back, something inside of me died. I was not born an angry violent kid, but that is what I became. Who said that bullies never hurt anyone?

In my preteen years my grades dropped. I was always in detention. As hard as I had become, I could not deal with what was going on in my life. I turned to drugs and alcohol to ease my pain. I lived with friends and on the street.

At age 16, I entered a rehabilitation center for drugs and alcohol abuse. I was expelled. At that point of my life I was on a fast track to jail, prison or an early death. Even though those years were rough, I lived.

In 1990 I made a decision that changed my life. I left everything behind and moved halfway across the state for a new start. As cliche as it sounds, "I found God" and with help of new friends I was able to become civilized again. I put my knife away and learned to use my hands for other things than making fists.

After I graduated from high school I served as a missionary for two years. I came home, went to college and married my wife. I was as far from my previous life as possible, or so I thought. I raised my kids in a nice school district with nice people in nice neighborhoods surrounded by everything nice. I never thought that my children would have to experience the kind of hell that I did growing up. 

The comfy image of my life was shattered on a morning in January when I had to pull my knife from my pocket to cut down my son's lifeless body. I thought my children had a good life. I thought they were safe. I did not think that I needed to protect them from the world. I was wrong. 

Who says bullies never hurt anyone?

Disclosure. When is the Right Time and Place?

Last month my mind raced with endless possibilities. I announced lofty goals that others may have seen as impressive. I believed that I could accomplish anything. I fought aggressively toward my goal to make a difference. Lately those aspirations have waned.

My passion has not changed. I am frustrated because there are many roadblocks that I did not take into consideration. I feel as if I am fighting a large problem with little support. I am grasping for anything that will help. Many times I feel helpless, but yet at the same time I still have hope. 

I aspire to make a difference in the world of mental health and suicide prevention. Many times I have thought that I do not have the right credentials to speak about these subjects. I am not properly educated; I am not trained.

I have a mental illness. That does not qualify me to speak about mental health issues. Talking about my experiences comes easily but I cannot speak for others. Everyone has their own unique story.

What information can I offer on the subject of suicide prevention? I did not recognize any signs when my son decided to end his life. Would that make me a hypocrite? 

I look for opportunities in my community to hear what others have to say about mental health and suicide. When I go to the lectures, should I keep my illness and my son's suicide to myself or do I disclose everything? I believe that what I can share could be valuable because I have personal insight that cannot be learned from books or lectures. 

Is there a right or wrong answer? Will my decision be well thought out or impulsive? I don't know. I just I hope that I make the correct decision when the time presents itself. I will just have to wait and see..

You Think I'm Crazy? Tell Me Something I Don't Know.

It has finally happened. Someone called my family crazy. Although my son was the main target, our family was included in the statement.

My son and I both have bipolar disorder; it is a heritable mental illness. It is one condition where crazy is a suitable description. Maniac. Psychotic. Bat shit crazy. These are other excellent examples.

Many people have a mental illness. Does that make people with a condition crazy, too? Possibly.

Every member of our family call each other crazy all the time. My husband calls me crazy as a term of endearment. Is our whole family crazy? I would not be surprised. We embrace it. 

Let's be real. Everyone in the world has a touch of crazy inside of them. Some are crazier than others.

We admit that we are crazy. Does that mean that we are weak? I don't think so. Abnormal? That may surely be the case. I believe that the exposing that we are an anomaly makes us brave. 

So, you think I'm crazy? I willingly admit that you are correct. Tell me something I don't know. I'm not insulted, I am flattered. Thank you for the compliment. 

By the way, it takes crazy to know crazy...

Maybe I Am Crazier Than I Thought

When I started this blog I thought I was writing from a good place. I was seeing a psychiatrist. In my mind, I was stable because I was on medication.

I have been reading some of my past posts. I now realize that I was crazy...very crazy. I was delusional. I heard voices. I hallucinated. I believed that an unknown force told me to do irrational things. I did not know that I was experiencing psychosis. 

When I think about my current life I realize that I am still crazy. I don't think the crazy will ever go away.

Stop Hiding. Admit That You Have Bipolar Disorder!

Over the past two years since I found out that I have bipolar disorder I have had many reactions. Most of the time I am greeted with compassion from people who have a family member or close friend who also possess a mental illness. They understand the struggle. 

Yesterday I saw an acquaintance in a parking lot. He looked different. The upbeat guy that I once knew looked like he was a zombie. He told me that he had just lost his job because he had a episode. He said that he had a brain disorder and his doctor put him on medication. He did not like the side effects. He told me that he needed the meds to control his mania. I asked him if he was bipolar. He was embarrassed and said, "Yes". Without hesitation I smiled and told him that I had bipolar disorder, too. He quickly relaxed and held his hand out for a fist bump. I reassured him that it takes a while to find the right medications to manage the disorder. Before we parted ways, I gave him a hug. I wish that he did not feel the need to speak in code to hide his illness.

I wish that people did not find shame about having a mental illness. I wish that there was not a stigma regarding mental disorders. With understanding, people will realize that there is no reason to be afraid.

Bipolar disorder, formally known as manic depression, is a mood disorder. A person with the disorder experience extreme mood swings between depression and mania. Most people are familiar with the term depression. I like to refer to it as depressions because there is more than one type.

There is unipolar depression (what most people are familiar with) and bipolar disorder. Unipolar depression has one pole (a unicycle has one wheel) and bipolar disorder has two poles (a bicycle has two wheels). Imagine that those poles are at an extreme distance from each other. 

A person with unipolar depression would stay at “one pole” and experience moods that are low such as severe and chronic sadness, feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, worthlessness, lethargy and a lack of energy or motivation. 

The other pole is OPPOSITE of the first. It displays inflated self esteem, decreased need for sleep, racing thoughts, increased goal-directed activity and excessive involvement in pleasurable activities that have a high potential for painful consequences. This is considered to be mania. 

A person with bipolar disorder experience phases of mood swings between the poles, the lows of depression and the highs of mania. Individuals without the illness do not exhibit the extreme shifts in mood.

I have bipolar disorder. I am on medication to help stabilize my moods. My mental condition does not dictate who I am. I wish people did not feel ashamed. In order for that to happen, people need to educate themselves; not only the ones who do not have a mental illness, but the people who have one as well.

Ending the Relationship with my Psychologist

I am not looking forward to saying goodbye to my psychologist. Next month we will decrease our weekly sessions to twice a month. Soon it will taper off to tune-ups now and then.

I will no longer plop upon his couch when he invites me into his office. I have always fantasized about lying down on his sofa during our sessions. I will soon miss the opportunity to walk into his office wearing my pajamas with my pillow and blanket in tow. 

I will miss scarfing down my caramel frappe while he sips his tea.
I will miss discussing my life. I will miss our conversations about the options I need to consider while making decisions.

"How do you feel about this?"

"What do you think you should do?"

"Why do you think that?"

Oh, those open ended questions...I will miss them the most. I let him delve into the depths of my soul. He knows my struggles, my weaknesses. He understands me better than I understand myself, but yet I know almost nothing about him.

I will miss the front office staff. The way they welcome me. How they call me by name as I hand over my debit card to cover my copay. I do not know how I will survive without our interactions. 

I am grateful that my doctor did not force me to do relaxation techniques. Early on I told him that I would walk out the door if he ever tried any of that crap on me. I do not believe that sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce, chanting ohmmm with hands on our knees and palms towards the sky, on plush green grass while a gentle breeze surrounds us would make me a better person.

Thank you, doctor, for the great times. You have affected me more than you will ever know. I hope that you will acknowledge me if ever we cross paths when I see my psychiatrist next door for med checks every few months. I wish that I could say that you will miss me just as much as I will miss you, but I understand that you are my therapist and not my friend.