I haven't written anything lately...and that's probably because I've been busy with my new job. I am extremely thankful to be working again after 13 months of unemployment. The new job is far from exciting...but it's steady...alas, it's not very inspiring. So I guess that leaves me looking for inspiration everywhere else.
I cleaned out the medicine cabinet the other day. I threw out a large supply of antidepressants. Seriously....probably about $500 worth. Before anyone gives me grief about it...they were well past their expiration date.
You may be wondering why I had them in the first place. Well, if you know me well, you know I've lived with depression my entire life. Most of you would never guess it...probably because you don't understand what depression really is. I don't mope around and recite bad poetry or anything like that. My serotonin gets out of whack and I get depressed. Sometimes it only last minutes, sometimes it lasts months. I've learned how to live with it and control it. The pills, though...they were from a period when I couldn't.
About 6 and a half years ago, I had a nervous breakdown. I went through a 6 week period where I slept, at best, 20 (nonconsecutive) minutes per day. OK, I wasn't exactly living a good life at the time. I was partying a lot and still trying to be 20. I guess it was my own midlife crisis. Little did I know, one of the long term effects of the coma I was in (result of the Great Nashville Beef Incident of 2002) was reduced serotonin levels. My insomnia was worse than ever and kept getting worse and worse (over the course of 4 years) to where I only slept the wee bit I mentioned.
Long story short...I put my head through a door (trying to knock myself unconscious) and a friend finally called an ambulance and the cops to have me taken to "the hospital".
The hospital in question was Western Psych. Over the years, I've sent many of my clients there. It was my turn. I really wasn't thrilled at the prospect but the last shreds of clear thinking I had left, told me this was where I needed to be. My intake took hours. I vacillated between goofy, angry, and delusional (serious sleep deprivation'll do that to a fella).
Finally, the doc gave me a shot of something...to this day I couldn't say what...and I was taken to the 8th floor (a locked ward) and shown to my room. I passed out and slept for 26 hours straight.
Waking up locked in the nut house is a truly eye-opening experience. Luckily, I had a good roomie (a junkie with a heart of gold) who talked a lot of sense to me. During the 3 times a day we were allowed to smoke, I got to see my fellow nutters. There was the lady who tried to remove her own head with an axe, the madly giggling little black guy with the crazy teeth, a lady who killed her boyfriend because she was SURE he was fucking the dog (turns out they didn't even have a dog), a few run of the mill depressives and addicts, and my buddy the junkie.
If you've never been locked up ("hospitalized" is a kind misnomer...you're locked up. Period.) I can tell you...it sucks. You're told when and what you can eat or drink. You're told when you can and can't sleep. Your entire day is regimented. At medication time, we were allowed 2 cigarettes. We'd be locked together in the smoking room...a disgusting hole if there ever was one. No air circulated through there...just all of us smoking. It was disgusting...but it was also, I believe, the only time any of us were truly honest and open. The others would jokingly call me "Blockhead" for having tried to knock myself unconscious in the manner that I did. We joked and teased with each other about our diagnoses. Again, I hadn't been "diagnosed" yet. All they had to go on was the police report and my psych records from when I was a teen.
Group therapy sessions were a joke. From both sides of the coin I can tell you...group sessions are not a good start. One should need to work their way up to them. One needs to become comfortable with the label one becomes branded with. "Psychotic", "Depressive", "Suicidal", "Bipolar"...they're all just labels. Disgusting labels at that. Anyhoo...group therapy...where we would all sit and try not to stare at each other while none of us talked. Some young therapist would try to get us to "open up"...but not a one of us trusted him. He was in over his head. We knew it and he knew it.
My 2nd day, a friend brought me some spare clothes and thankfully...cigarettes!!!! My roomie (the junkie with the heart of gold) had been supporting my habit. He truly was a good guy. He'd been in my spot and he was paying forward a kindness he'd received. I learned a lot from him in the 4 short days I spent at the Ha Ha Hacienda. We'd spend a lot of our time just talking between the two of us. He told me about his addictions...heroin, opium, morphine, and his latest...Oxycontin (aka hillbilly heroin). He told me about the Hell he lived in. I won't spill his tea...suffice to say, he went through a lot and came out the other side a better man. 6 months after I got out...I heard he finally ODed. Some demons are just too strong.
My 4th and final day, I experienced one of the most mortifying situations of my life. I knew that my best friend's mom worked at Western Psych. Just my luck...she worked on my floor. I'd just come from the bathroom (after having to practically beg one of the nurses to unlock it for me) and there she was...standing in the hall waiting for me. I was so embarrassed. She knew me as not only her son's best friend, but also as a colleague and fellow MH worker. We'd talked shop so many times in the past...and here I was...I'd become a "client". She asked what I was doing there...and I told her. While this was probably against regulations, she gave me a big hug and assured me it would all be OK.
She pulled a string or two and got me to see the shrink the minute he got on the ward. I wanted OUT of there. I agreed to outpatient therapy to try to fix my serotonin/sleep disorder. The shrink didn't like the idea but agreed to me signing myself out "AMA" (against medical advice). He wanted to keep me there for at least 6 weeks! I really would've gone crazy!
The second they unlocked that door and let me out, I bolted! I called a friend and got a ride home. I never even picked up my clothes at the nurse's station. I did, however, make sure that the nurses gave my cigarettes to my roomie. I had a call from him some time later, thanking me for that.
I started into my therapy...was misdiagnosed a few times...and was put on antidepressants. Miraculously...they worked! Within 2 days, I was sleeping better than I ever had. No grogginess the next morning. Just a good night's sleep! Alas...my body doesn't like most chemicals and I developed tremors in my arm from them. I called Dad (a well-known physician and healer in his own right) and he told me to stop taking them immediately. Seems my body was gearing up for a seizure....NOT something I wanted to experience.
I kept up with the therapy for a few months until the shrink told me he was pretty sure I'd be OK. He reminded me that he was always there if I needed him. To this day, I haven't.
Having spent my adult life working in the mental health field, I studied all of the usual remedies and therapies. Cognitive therapy worked best with me. It didn't cure my insomnia or my depression...I still deal with both...but nowhere near as bad as either used to be.
So for the past 6 and a half years, I kept those pills in the medicine cabinet. I'm sure that those of you who have been to my house have seen them (yes...I know when y'all go peeping through the medicine cabinet! Especially when ya knock something over and I hear it clank in the sink! HAHAHAHA). They were a daily reminder of what I went through.
I decided the other day that I don't need them there to remember anymore. My life if pretty good...all things considered. I'm a happy guy. Sure...I could be happier...but not much.
Your past is part of who you are. You can't escape it. It's what has made you the person you are today...for better or worse. If you don't like something in your life...change it. Sure, it's the common norm to blame everything on our past. We weren't loved enough...or cuddled enough...or given enough time to toilet train. Hogwash. If there's a part of our life we don't like...it's up to the individual to fix it. A person might need help...but they have to know to ask for it.
If you think this blog has been long....just wait until I clean out the basement!
OK...I'm done rambling. For now.
I cleaned out the medicine cabinet the other day. I threw out a large supply of antidepressants. Seriously....probably about $500 worth. Before anyone gives me grief about it...they were well past their expiration date.
You may be wondering why I had them in the first place. Well, if you know me well, you know I've lived with depression my entire life. Most of you would never guess it...probably because you don't understand what depression really is. I don't mope around and recite bad poetry or anything like that. My serotonin gets out of whack and I get depressed. Sometimes it only last minutes, sometimes it lasts months. I've learned how to live with it and control it. The pills, though...they were from a period when I couldn't.
About 6 and a half years ago, I had a nervous breakdown. I went through a 6 week period where I slept, at best, 20 (nonconsecutive) minutes per day. OK, I wasn't exactly living a good life at the time. I was partying a lot and still trying to be 20. I guess it was my own midlife crisis. Little did I know, one of the long term effects of the coma I was in (result of the Great Nashville Beef Incident of 2002) was reduced serotonin levels. My insomnia was worse than ever and kept getting worse and worse (over the course of 4 years) to where I only slept the wee bit I mentioned.
Long story short...I put my head through a door (trying to knock myself unconscious) and a friend finally called an ambulance and the cops to have me taken to "the hospital".
The hospital in question was Western Psych. Over the years, I've sent many of my clients there. It was my turn. I really wasn't thrilled at the prospect but the last shreds of clear thinking I had left, told me this was where I needed to be. My intake took hours. I vacillated between goofy, angry, and delusional (serious sleep deprivation'll do that to a fella).
Finally, the doc gave me a shot of something...to this day I couldn't say what...and I was taken to the 8th floor (a locked ward) and shown to my room. I passed out and slept for 26 hours straight.
Waking up locked in the nut house is a truly eye-opening experience. Luckily, I had a good roomie (a junkie with a heart of gold) who talked a lot of sense to me. During the 3 times a day we were allowed to smoke, I got to see my fellow nutters. There was the lady who tried to remove her own head with an axe, the madly giggling little black guy with the crazy teeth, a lady who killed her boyfriend because she was SURE he was fucking the dog (turns out they didn't even have a dog), a few run of the mill depressives and addicts, and my buddy the junkie.
If you've never been locked up ("hospitalized" is a kind misnomer...you're locked up. Period.) I can tell you...it sucks. You're told when and what you can eat or drink. You're told when you can and can't sleep. Your entire day is regimented. At medication time, we were allowed 2 cigarettes. We'd be locked together in the smoking room...a disgusting hole if there ever was one. No air circulated through there...just all of us smoking. It was disgusting...but it was also, I believe, the only time any of us were truly honest and open. The others would jokingly call me "Blockhead" for having tried to knock myself unconscious in the manner that I did. We joked and teased with each other about our diagnoses. Again, I hadn't been "diagnosed" yet. All they had to go on was the police report and my psych records from when I was a teen.
Group therapy sessions were a joke. From both sides of the coin I can tell you...group sessions are not a good start. One should need to work their way up to them. One needs to become comfortable with the label one becomes branded with. "Psychotic", "Depressive", "Suicidal", "Bipolar"...they're all just labels. Disgusting labels at that. Anyhoo...group therapy...where we would all sit and try not to stare at each other while none of us talked. Some young therapist would try to get us to "open up"...but not a one of us trusted him. He was in over his head. We knew it and he knew it.
My 2nd day, a friend brought me some spare clothes and thankfully...cigarettes!!!! My roomie (the junkie with the heart of gold) had been supporting my habit. He truly was a good guy. He'd been in my spot and he was paying forward a kindness he'd received. I learned a lot from him in the 4 short days I spent at the Ha Ha Hacienda. We'd spend a lot of our time just talking between the two of us. He told me about his addictions...heroin, opium, morphine, and his latest...Oxycontin (aka hillbilly heroin). He told me about the Hell he lived in. I won't spill his tea...suffice to say, he went through a lot and came out the other side a better man. 6 months after I got out...I heard he finally ODed. Some demons are just too strong.
My 4th and final day, I experienced one of the most mortifying situations of my life. I knew that my best friend's mom worked at Western Psych. Just my luck...she worked on my floor. I'd just come from the bathroom (after having to practically beg one of the nurses to unlock it for me) and there she was...standing in the hall waiting for me. I was so embarrassed. She knew me as not only her son's best friend, but also as a colleague and fellow MH worker. We'd talked shop so many times in the past...and here I was...I'd become a "client". She asked what I was doing there...and I told her. While this was probably against regulations, she gave me a big hug and assured me it would all be OK.
She pulled a string or two and got me to see the shrink the minute he got on the ward. I wanted OUT of there. I agreed to outpatient therapy to try to fix my serotonin/sleep disorder. The shrink didn't like the idea but agreed to me signing myself out "AMA" (against medical advice). He wanted to keep me there for at least 6 weeks! I really would've gone crazy!
The second they unlocked that door and let me out, I bolted! I called a friend and got a ride home. I never even picked up my clothes at the nurse's station. I did, however, make sure that the nurses gave my cigarettes to my roomie. I had a call from him some time later, thanking me for that.
I started into my therapy...was misdiagnosed a few times...and was put on antidepressants. Miraculously...they worked! Within 2 days, I was sleeping better than I ever had. No grogginess the next morning. Just a good night's sleep! Alas...my body doesn't like most chemicals and I developed tremors in my arm from them. I called Dad (a well-known physician and healer in his own right) and he told me to stop taking them immediately. Seems my body was gearing up for a seizure....NOT something I wanted to experience.
I kept up with the therapy for a few months until the shrink told me he was pretty sure I'd be OK. He reminded me that he was always there if I needed him. To this day, I haven't.
Having spent my adult life working in the mental health field, I studied all of the usual remedies and therapies. Cognitive therapy worked best with me. It didn't cure my insomnia or my depression...I still deal with both...but nowhere near as bad as either used to be.
So for the past 6 and a half years, I kept those pills in the medicine cabinet. I'm sure that those of you who have been to my house have seen them (yes...I know when y'all go peeping through the medicine cabinet! Especially when ya knock something over and I hear it clank in the sink! HAHAHAHA). They were a daily reminder of what I went through.
I decided the other day that I don't need them there to remember anymore. My life if pretty good...all things considered. I'm a happy guy. Sure...I could be happier...but not much.
Your past is part of who you are. You can't escape it. It's what has made you the person you are today...for better or worse. If you don't like something in your life...change it. Sure, it's the common norm to blame everything on our past. We weren't loved enough...or cuddled enough...or given enough time to toilet train. Hogwash. If there's a part of our life we don't like...it's up to the individual to fix it. A person might need help...but they have to know to ask for it.
If you think this blog has been long....just wait until I clean out the basement!
OK...I'm done rambling. For now.
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