Wednesday, October 26, 2016

A Room of One's Own

After my parents filed for bankruptcy, we moved to a mobile home on a large multi-thousand acre ranch. The place was so small that I was forced to sleep in the front room on a old twin bed, and every morning, when my mother woke up at four am for work, she woke me up too because she'd turn on the kitchen lights in order to make a pot of coffee--a mere few feet away from where I slept. Because the doctors at Stanford took me off of the clozapine, I couldn't sleep well, and therefore would be unable to fall back into dreamy bliss. So, up at four am I was.

We moved in April of this year to a nice home while staying on the same ranch. I have my own room now, although it's not very big once you cram in my nice, queen bed. The only drawback is that I have to pay $500 in rent per month. However, when my mother wakes up, I never hear her.

I've had opportunities to leave home, and to live at a residential program ran by county mental health. My mother was ardently against that idea, citing previous damaging treatment I received from their doctors (including being drugged to the point of being unable to walk without assistance from a walker, being unable to speak clearly because I simply couldn't find the words, and being sent to the Stanford ER after blood results showed my electrolytes were dangerous out of balance--oh, and yes, the vomiting). She wanted to be able to monitor me for any relapse, saying that she would do a much better job than any employee working for the county.

I had to agree with her there, although I explained that it may come to the point again where I can't be left alone for safety reasons. Was she willing to take that responsibility even when I could be in a house with 24-hour supervision? She said she was.


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