The Bunn Coffee Maker, Made in 1980's

As I clumsily attack the Bunn coffee maker without exception at the beginning of each and every day (I am sensitive to my sugar intake, but always promise tomorrow, I will cut back what I put in my coffee, and yet, tomorrow is like that hazy ocean beyond the horizon we will never see. I still spoon powdered chocolate into my coffee, and for gods' sakes, are there worst faults??), groggy from my nighttime medications that still have ahold on me (primarily the beast of clozapine), stiff and sore from being in a bed for twelve hours (thank you fibromyalgia), I dislike the idea of any company that requires mental and/or emotional stimulation--or a coherent, polite thought process. I'm too out of sorts--and God! I hate life.

 It is usually about this time when my father walks through the room, having been awake since five am, says invariably, day after day, "Good morning." He always says it first when in company. He bursts with a strange energy that I cannot connect with. Doesn't he have a freakin' hang over?

I pour my mocha mix in and maybe some half-n-half (it's for baking) from the refrigerator if I'm feeling really fragile, looking both directions and around to make sure my mother doesn't witness my disgrace. I put the can of mocha mix away in a drawer in the kitchen. I sit and suffer through two giant cups of coffee. I need at least two. By then, Hope will start bugging me. The day begins.

Death is Everyday [Updated]

Ike died yesterday, our twenty-eight-year-old gelding, who we've had since he was seven. As far as cutting horses go, he was exceptional. His breeding was even exceptional as his mother was well known in cutting horse circles, Moria Sugar. He was born with the enormous pressure to do great things, and to a certain extent, he suffered under this pressure.

A giant of an athlete who consistently scored 76's which is very high in the cutting horse world. In his younger years, he was abused physically in the selfish intent of making him turn faster and stopping him harder, and he bared scars to prove it. Permanent scar tracks on his sides from spurs, and most horribly, wire marks on his beautiful sorrel nose. There were many injuries that only showed up years later as painful arthritis. 

No matter what had happened to him during those greener ages, he remained a sweet and kind soul who cared for humans, and wanted a genuine connection with them beyond just who was feeding him. He would nicker for you if he saw you had a halter in your hand, which proved to me that he loved the soft, easy exercise, just walk/trot around the arena. Sometimes we would go for the mild trail rides about the ranch. Enjoying them much, he would get very excited and sometimes sweat profusely. A few times, he didn't think about his age or condition, and started to crow hop. I was often just afraid he'd lose his balance and fall or not paying attention or not looking in his excitement, find a squirrel hole and break a leg in one.

Standing very tall for a cutting horse, in his old age, furring up into a thick coat for winter (he had Cushing's disease), he was a little too fat. My mother shaved him this fall, everything but his head and legs, making him look like a poodle (she had just tired out at that point and we made promises to finish the job and never did).

 His favorite time of day was lunch. This is usually my chore as both of my parents are busy with work still. He loved his bucket of grain and sugar beet pulp. He would incessantly nicker at you if he thought you were mixing his bucket (I always gave him extra because he was older, and I don't regret that one bit). Sometimes I would tell him gently and teasingly to shut up. He was a very talkative horse.

Dad, being busy with work, left many of the chores with me. I cleaned Ike's stall, and in addition to feeding him at noon, I usually fed in the evenings. I also rode him, almost every weekend, and made sure he was shampooed from withers to hoof and his tail was braided. He was one of the few horses I ever knew that loved getting a nice warm bath. He would stretch his head out slightly and curl his lips in pleasure. He especially liked his face being washed, if you were careful not to hose him directly in the eyes. We both felt better after a clean horse!

Ike was the first horse I climbed on after taking such a long sabbatical from riding. Truth be told, I was scared to ride any horse, much less one so tall and Ike alleviated those worries in an instant. He plotted around quietly, one hoof up, one hoof down, easy does it, and only did what I asked of him. My riding relexes and skills flooded back, and once again, I was a rider. He gave me a gift I can never repay. He gave me my confidence back on top of a horse. 

He died of colic. It was an impaction that might have been surgically removed in an younger horse; however Ike probably would not have survived the operation. Because he was in pain, he was humanely euthanized.

Stanford's staff and G2P team recognized my relationship with Ike, even though my parents or anyone on Facebook did not. One of the social workers was kind enough to get permission for us to leave the unit and go to the chapel in the hospital. While in the chapel, I wrote about Ike, making the notes that wrote this blog entry. Ike was my friend too. He was my horse too.

Because I'm depressed, I keep thinking about one memory,  and I hope Ike forgives me. Until rather recently, I was a materialist, but I have changed my thinking. I'm not sure I believe in souls, but I believe we don't know all the answers. Ike, forgive me. Months ago, I was out at the pens, and I was in a bad mood, probably in pain, and not feeling well. Ike was his typical self, in the way, wanting to be fed. I open the gate to his house with the manure cart behind me, and the gate gets away from me with some momentum and hits him in the ribs. I instantly feel terrible, but also angry. If he saw the gate coming for him, why didn't he move? And then sad that I might have hurt him. He looks a little spooked, and distrusting. And I would never want to add to that poor baby's pain. He has been through so much. Thank you, Ike.

The Weekend Doctor

"You put a handsome doctor in front of you, and you salivate like Pavlov's dogs," James said.

I'm sorry, but the weekend, covering psychiatrist is attractive. 

Doctor Consult, Just Thoughts on Leaving

"Are you gonna stay with us until we both decide you're ready to leave?" He asks, staring at me kindly.

I had already admitted that I came close to leaving the unit the day before, feeling overwhelmed. Wanting more than anything to escape my emotions, not necessarily my surroundings. I never left my room, but cried and wrote angrily in my notebook, cussing away.

I nodded, and suggested he should take my car keys as a precaution.

He repeated himself. 

I realized then that "stay" had multiple meanings. I nodded again, moved that anyone would care if I was suddenly absent from this world.

The Best of The Best

Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I am greeted with a nurse giving me a cup of coffee. Two creamers. Two sugars.

I know. No words.

Decisions, Decisions

My therapist and I had a phone conversation on Tuesday, even though I'm still inpatient at Stanford's G2P.

"Can I be honest? I think you need to move out of that house. It's too isolating for you on that ranch. You need to be around people your own age." She offered the example of living on the dorms back at the University. She didn't make the conversation about my parents (how are they okay with disconnecting themselves away from the rest of the world and not because of COVID?), and their psychosocial problems, but I wondered.

I don't know how difficult it would be for me to re-register there.

I shied at the notion that I could ever be stable enough (again) to carry a full load, which would be required, in order to live on campus (the disability department maybe able to step in at this point).

I brought up the idea (if I would ever have my symptoms manageable enough to finish school) with my psychiatrist here, and he thought it was totally a possibility. "Yeah, sure," he said, nodding his head enthusiastically.

What would that look like? For a few years, yes, I did it (the period of 2016-2017 is a good example), but I would need an extra pinch of something magical to boost me through the rigors of the stress that comes with full time university-level work.

Is Ritalin just that magic?

If I wanted to be a nurse, I wouldn't go back to the University (they don't have such a program). I would head off to either an easier target like Fresno State for a BSN or if I wanted to really stretch my wings, there are other options.

I could delay these decisions longer by getting my RN at the local community college, be able to stay at home with my dog and horse but that is a lottery system, and I could be waiting years, even with good grades.

Seroquel and That Girl [Updated and Redo]

At some point, it became apparent to the team that even though I was doing relatively well, and I don't remember who started the conversation during a standard psychiatric appointment, someone mentioned (maybe even me) that I had gained weight on Seroquel (and stop taking the medication was not an option). I was probably around two hundred and ten pounds to two hundred and fifteen pounds. Those days, I was doing my best to hide my weight gain with lots of layers, and desexing myself. If I didn't draw attention to myself, if no one noticed me, all the better. I would just hide behind a spoonful of Ben&Jerry's, a pair of friends who visited me frequently in my bedroom for a threesome, who kissed me diligently, sweet breath, thick on my tongue and gave me immediate pleasure but left me feeling like a used, if bloated and beached, whore.

My psychiatrist himself tried not to scold me, knowing that it was hard to maintain a healthy weight on antipsychotics even for the most dedicated, and only prescribed 25mg of Topamax (which isn't a high enough dosage to do anything). He also told me he didn't know how it worked for weight loss.

Later, after he left, I was alone with the resident. The only features I remember about her: her thinness, her beauty and her youth.

"Try to eat about fifteen hundred calories a day," she told me. "And realize that you are going to be hungry sometimes...You'll lose weight."

Yes, I would lose weight if I ate like this. I wondered if she ate like that, if that what it took to be her.

If you know anything about dieting: this is a plan for starvation. People who eat these few calories obsess about food all day long, and it completely takes over their lives. It is not a plan for sustained weight loss. (Please read Secrets From the Eating Lab: The Science of Weight Loss, the Myth of Willpower, and Why You Should Never Diet Again)

Did she obsess about food? Was she just casting her doubts, hyped up fears and infatuations unto me? Did she see in me what would happen to her if she just loosened up on her rules just a little bit? One bite more, and bingo--you turn into obese patient A.

I was just grossly overweight, and embarrassed--I had had my confidence completely stripped from me. Those days of dancing naked in front of a crowd? Who was that girl? Would I ever see her again? I doubted that very much.

 I had never been in that fat girl role. I couldn't imagine feeling attractive again like the young doctor before me. That September 2007 on the beach was so long ago that it never existed. God had struck me down because I was once vain and haughty.

(Today, I am only a few pounds heavier than what I was when I danced.)

The Charge Nurse

It was twenty minutes until group, and the charge nurse wanted patients to go outside onto the patio for some fresh air before we all had to be dragged in for the day.

The resident had just walked up to me, and wanted to talk to me during that time instead.

"It's really important for [Jae] to spend time outside," the charge Nurse said in response to the resident wanting to speak to me. 

"Okay, well, I can come back after group," the resident said.

I had never seen a nurse stand up to a doctor like that before, and for me. She stood up, for me.

Talking to Ghosts

And that's just it. Something I don't talk about with anyone. How I feel unlovable because of my disease.

There's a tangled mess of hurt, sadness, hopelessness, loneliness--The feeling of being the other--Tainted. Awashed in blood and filth.  

Don't look at me. You can't know me.

You take your clothes off, but they don't see anything. Just a shell. A handsome distraction. A party favor.

What Would Happen to James

I'm afraid to lose James--because what will I have then? Normalcy? Bought at the cost of dull drowsiness and drooling at night. Am I pretty at such a state? Would anyone want me?

Blood Levels of Clozapine [Updated]

When my blood level was tested a couple days ago, the results showed that I was at half the therapeutic dose for clozapine, which probably explained James. But there were other more bizarre possibilities that accounted for James. I couldn't rule out everything.

I sighed, and admitted to myself, and my mother over the phone (who had no reaction to this), that perhaps (a perhaps that is and remains to be however small) he was just a real function of technology and the government spying on my neurons and inner thoughts because I was very special and an interesting subject. Something about psychosis makes us very narcissistic.

 James is buried in there like a fat, shiny tick, pleased with his meal of flooded blood. I asked James that if I got a brain MRI, if he would show up. He replied yes. I asked him when he slept. He said he slept when I did (I do sleep a lot). What about family? Friends? It's just a temporary assignment until I can convince you to die.

I halt at giving James too much time and attention. I want to strengthen and give notice to the sane parts of my brain, not engage and thereby engorge the flat out madness that my illness brings.

Of course, I did not share my theories with any of my Stanford doctors. I almost confessed my craziness to the charged nurse, but changed my mind at the last minute. The psychiatrists are on top of it, and have increased my clozapine by 100mg. I just can't help but wonder what happens if James doesn't go away. What does that mean? Clozapine is arguably the best antipsychotic we have.

Talking to James

"Can I talk to James?" The charge nurse said, leaning forward slightly and tugging at one of her ears.  

I told her about James' helpful hint of telling me to strangling myself in the shower. "Sure," I replied, trying not to look completely surprised.

"How was James' feeling when he told you to harm yourself?"

I listen for a moment, and sure enough James responds. "He says that he is angry."

"Why is he angry?"

"He says because the nurses don't understand how severe the physical pain is."

"Uh-huh," the nurse says, taking it all in. "You know what? James is a part of you. He is like a small child, bugging you. And if you don't listen to him, he is going to get louder and louder just like a child would."

"I never thought of it that way."

Things Got Out of Hand

"A good bulimic would never let herself end up like me," I would tell myself as I weighed over two hundred pounds. It was an insensitive statement, but I made it. My tummy looked like it never had before, a visible crease and bad bulge of fat, a sad smile on my lower abdomen.

The Shower Room and the Towel

While I was showering this morning, a rare moment where I'm by myself, James whispers in my ear, "If you strangle yourself with a towel, all your painful thoughts and feelings will dissipate." My physical pain had ratcheted up to a point that I was beginning to get nauseous. Just by standing there on the hard brown tile.

In a previous admission, I've done just that--played around with the towel, feeling the tightness against my neck, but never long enough to pass out or to leave any permanent marks.

Upon admission, you have to sign a safety contract--that you will not harm yourself while on the unit, and that if you get close to doing so, you will contact one of the nurses or doctors.

The first time I tightened the towel around my neck and confessed my sins, it was excused. The second time I owned up to it--I was thrown over to H2 for a few days until I was "better." 

The resident handling the situation at the time asked me if it was a "cry for help." A part of you obviously doesn't want to die, he would tell me. So, what are you doing?

(Morpheus) [Updated]

Judith Grisel in Never Enough talks about what an addict, who might be in recovery for many months, many years, may feel and experience when he/she sees a spoon in a bathroom. Flooded with the taste, the feel, the explosion of coke all through the body. Even though there is not a speck of cocaine for miles.

I see his face through video chat, his beard, the flecks of grey, how he's aged just a little bit. He smiles, and says my name.

I remember--the pull. I cannot escape the pull. The air leaves me, and I take a breath in. Lungs full. There's light, warm light, and when it's shining on me, I feel safe and happy and whole like a little baby barn animal under a heating lamp.

I can't help but feel like he got a whiff of it too, felt the old jolt to his veins, the dampness of sweat gathering on his brow, and found he preferred sobriety.

Yuppieville Donut, Co. [Updated]

While attending community college a few years back, having gained probably over sixty pounds at that point, I would stop at a Yuppieville gourmet donut shop that was super popular. There was always a line. A line of men and women in colorful lycra, having probably just come back from the gym or from a hike or bike ride. Thin, athletic people. Tan with thick, rope veins. And then me. In jeans that were too tight because they once fit (and if i committed to buying bigger jeans, I committed to buying a bigger self), and a top that tried to hide everything. At a donut shop. I could never see the draw for them.

 What are you doing to your blood sugar? Are you really willing to consume all the calories that you just so diligently burned off?

They happily order their cake donut's, their old fashioned's, their apple fritter's. If they were really worried about their gut, they could order gluten-free. As if that made a difference. They were seemingly oblivious to the health consequences of their actions, and it just made me more jittery. More guilty. It was as if being bad now belonged to those who earned it, sweat it out.

I would wonder, standing in line, that if all their consumers were like me, fat like me, what kind of message would that send about their business? Wasn't it better this way? With thin people milling around, grazing on the sweets, everyone believed, it's okay to treat yourself. Donuts are safe to eat. They don't stick to you. To your gut. To your thigh's. You can enjoy the flavors, and that's it. No worries. Like it never even happened. A lover who always uses a condom.

Me? I couldn't even pretend I was there for the coffee.

This Morning

This morning, I woke up so depressed, the words were caught in my throat, and they were invisible to me and everyone else--

The self crumbling, pieces falling into ash--

--and I could feel my heart beating from the Ritalin, and I took a long sigh--

Another Doctor's Consult, Part II

I don't know if he's asking these questions about my life because he's genuinely interested or because he feels an fiduciary duty to spend an allotted amount of time with each patient every day, talking about something, anything. My symptoms were just more of the same, every day. And we covered that crap the first night. Depression. Voices. Will you or won't you hurt yourself? It's all really boring after a while.

Another Doctor's Consult

And, of course, the only concern I have on my mind is whether or not I'm being an interesting enough patient. Is he entertained?

In the Fucking Hospital

Yesterday was a bad pain day, and those crop up once in a while. I was dealing with them regularly while at home before the hospitalization. They usually coincided with riding. I tried to save my pills for such an event, but that was hard. It seemed like I was always in pain, and the pills only lasted for four hours. I was just deciding when I wanted relief. When I wanted to hurt. Sometimes the pain is so bad, it feels like I hurt, me, my whole being. From my head to my toes. I can't distinguish any feeling except this. Pain. Like it's always been there and will never leave.

Stanford G2P is not the best at managing pain. As I was told yesterday, and have been told in the past, they do not give out additional opioid pain meds, even to people like me who are already taking them (with a prescription from a Stanford pain management doctor).

That being said, I decided to take a chance. I went up to the nurses' station, and asked the charge nurse to contact the doctor for something. I told her I realized he/she would probably say no, but I thought I would ask anyway.

The psychiatric resident ended up stopping by my bed a few minutes later, and I took a chance and told her I was in pain.

"Is it because of your mood?" The psychiatric resident asks me.

I laugh at her bitterly.

"Is that funny?" She says.

"Yes, because the next thing you're going to be telling me is that it's because I'm a woman." Which is true. Most people with fibromyalgia are women.

"Well, it's true. Mood can impact pain." She kept saying, "I really want to help you. I know you're in pain."

But she didn't understand.

She offers me Tylenol and lidocaine patches (both of which don't help). She asked me, "What would you do at home?"

"Suffer," I said truthfully. But I'm not at home. I'm in the fucking hospital.

Eventually, I get so frustrated with her, I ask her to leave.

When she came around the second time, I had to apologize for my rude behavior. I knew it was rude, but I didn't feel it was rude.

Would Anyone Notice?

Months ago, in a less desperate time, I was sitting on a friend's couch when he told me exactly where he kept an extra bottle of Norco pills, left over, of course and for emergencies. He said he never knew what day he might get bucked off and need something to buffer the pain.

At the time, he knew that I took Tylenol #4 for my own daily pain, and was concerned I didn't hurt myself too much riding. I couldn't help but think in telling me the pills were in the shaving kit in the bathroom that he was giving me quiet permission to skim a few off the top. Really, would he notice a couple missing?

Of course, this was just justification, and I tried to push those thoughts out, but hungry little demons kept clawing at me.

On 60mg of Ritalin [Updated]

It took me a while to figure out what was going on. The first divergence I notice was the fact that sounds were sharper, and somehow more distinct. Louder, yes. Like a migraine. At first, that's what I thought it was. The beginning of a migraine. But lights bothered me more. As if the whole hospital hallway had turned into a spotlight.

Then the people. They seemed to be crowding into me as if we were all on a jammed subway car, even if they were meters away. I couldn't explain it in any other manner. Like their breath was on my shoulder and their hair got matted in my mouth and their stinkin' and red body heat overwhelmed my cool, dainty, fragile senses. They were invading my space, and they were dangerous. People are wild, uncontrollable creatures. They can harm you at any time! That guy there can easily overpower me and rape me, doesn't anyone care? He was staring at me. He continued to gaze and lean in invitingly like he might pick me up for lunch, devour me the minute his thin domestication fails and his id takes over.

I wanted to hide in my room, and not come out, but found that was not a good solution. I put on my headphones, and listen to my audiobook, and walked the lonely hallway, up and down and up and down like sanity was just habit forming. I tried to stay away from everyone, and closer to the staff. They would help me if one of the patients tried to assault me. Even the female patients are alarming. They could loose their wits, and have fits and act out. You just can't trust anyone.

Mood by Scale [Updated]

One thing everyone in the hospital notices about me is the weight loss. And yet, inside, I haven't lost a pound.

You see, Seroquel is the devil's dust. It made me gain ninety pounds (a woman from NAMI at the local county once gave a talk to our unit, G2P. She gained 100 pounds on clozapine, the drug that I'm currently taking and the one that allows me to sleep through the night). It helped me so much with my sleep and with my symptoms, but it wrecked my confidence. I refused to have sex weighing that much. I quietly put myself away. I wrapped myself up tightly. I was for no one.

I went from being so thin that I didn't have my periods (I am trying to figure out some other explanation for why I wasn't having them, but as soon as I gain ten pounds, I got them back, so?) to being clinically obese.

My relationship with food remains fraught. I stare every day at my mother, who is underweight, deal with her issues around food ("Oh, I'm not hungry," she will say. "Oh, I'm stuff," she will say after eating very little. "I can't gain weight because I don't gain it in the right places.").

My day's mood is set by the scale that I step on every morning in the corner of my room. It's a bit like appearing before a hanging judge. Waiting. Watching. Knowing. Forgetting all the work it took just to get here. Doesn't matter because I already gain four pounds back. Gained it. Lost it. Over and over.

If Stanford was paying attention, which they are not, they would have noticed that for lunch yesterday, I had a dark cupcake, banana pudding and two (small) chocolate cookies. It's not that I want to gain all the weight back, I'm studious about my calories--always--but I find the stresses of the hospital weighing on me. The anticipation that I should be getting better (the everyday interview from the psychiatric resident of any and all signs of that pending fact), and the daily disappointment when I shake my head and say, "I'm still the same. I'm still depressed." 

The resident's dissatisfaction and frustration has been at times palpable. If she gives up, if she runs out of answers, what happens then?

Doctor's Consult [Updated]

He's looking at me, seemingly deeply or falling asleep by some off shore dream, private and close to his heart as covered by the white coat, and then suddenly he jumps from his chair as if alarmed by some thought in his head. "Well, we should try the forty milligram Ritalin..."

Shaken, I stand up too.

Family Problems

My uncle is an addict, whose sole existence revolves around getting high. This is his life's fix.

What the Fuck Do I Matter?

My uncle who never had to sit alone, stranded, in an ER as long as I was around has yet to bother to even send a fucking text-message to me. 

Late Night TV

Every night, I go to bed early so I can lie down on my heating pad and watch TV before I take my evening meds and fall asleep. Across from my bedroom is a bathroom (one of two), which is mine (I have to clean it).

The house is small, so we don't stake claims.

After I go to bed, Mom retires next. At this point, everyone is watching TV at different sides of the house.

Instead of going to the bathroom across from the master bedroom where Mom resides, Dad just uses mine. It saves five steps, and he doesn't have to worry about cleaning up after himself.

He's coming. I listen to his thick, heavy, boots outside of my door. No matter how many times I explain it away, it comes back up like vomiting from bad sushi. I feel a little bit of anxiety rise hearing him. It won't go away. I don't know why or where it comes from. Did he burst into my room once when I was little? Did he hurt me or Mom?

Sometimes I stop what I'm watching and freeze. I wait for him to be gone like a deer that pauses in the meadow, living in suspension for the red fox to be gone.

Early Morning Wisdoms, Part 2

"Jesus Christ, [Jae], You need to get a grip on your sanity."

--James

Early Morning Words of Wisdom

"You're really a piece of shit, you know that, right, [Jae]."

--James

Coffee (Morpheus)

From Poetry Group, something that obviously did not end up as a poem:

"(An as-if experiment) So, I bought black panties and shaved and lost the last five pounds in anticipation of seeing him. I thought of all the things and topics that could keep him entertained during our conversation. I debated what coffee I would buy. Would it be a diet Americano with whipped cream (always allowed) or caramel macchiato (care-free, daring, I don't count calories)? Where would we meet? Starbucks (It is his favorite)? It has to be somewhere where I can hear well (I'm deaf in one ear). What do I wear? Oh fuck. Everything is too big, and I can't afford to buy new clothes. The sweater and jacket from White House Black Market will have to do it. Should I have my makeup done at Sephora? (My makeup is too old and needs to be thrown out) Is this a job interview? Will he respect me more now? Will I be stoic? Will I be funny? Will I be flirtatious?

This is taking our relationship out into the air, out into the sun, into scrutiny. It's okay. Eat a scone. Drink a cup of coffee like an average person. It's not a sin anymore. We don't have to hide. The world can see me with you, and you with me, and it's all good.

To be honest (worn-out phrase), I don't know what would make me happier than spending a couple or a few hours talking to him. And how could such a simple thing bring so much joy? People take it for granted. They fall in love and have relationships and spend time with that person and date and get married. Some people. Some end up brokenhearted. But most have time. I never had time. "

(So, of course, he mentioned having coffee a couple of times, I did not initiate that)

Symptoms of Psychosis

It started Thursday with just one patient. The tall male patient who is heavy set. I just didn't want him around me. He came too close. He violated my space. Then the thoughts and feelings grew.

Yesterday, everyone was closing in on me. They weren't respecting me. They were in their little bubbles, and their little bubbles were colliding with mine.

Today, I was finally able to put thoughts to the feelings and anxieties: I was afraid of the patients hurting me. I realize these thoughts are not grounded in reality, but I keep having them.

The Elephant in the Room (Morpheus)

The psychologist I work with at G2P Stanford Hospital is probably my favorite psychologist of all time.

Not only is she extremely smart, but she is intuitive and picks up on the little things that others will miss. This admission, the last time we spoke, alone in the family room, she sent probing questions my way about my romantic history, which she may occasionally do over the years, and I deflected (as I always do), talking about my crazy twenties (the one night stands), and landed on an easy topic, Joseph, who I said flatly was "too good for me" (She replied with that was an hour long therapy session all onto itself).

But I never mentioned the elephant in the room. I never mentioned Morpheus. How do you start telling that story?

No Room at the Inn

I'm in the huge adult ER at Stanford hospital, wrapped up in multiple blankets but cold to the bone due to fear. I call my mom over duo. "There's no open beds," I explain. "And they want to ship to another hospital. I might be able to convince them that I'm okay to send home with you if you come and get me. I know it's a lot to ask with the drive and all...." It's a tricky balance. I spent fifteen minutes explaining to them how I was crazy enough for admission into H2, Stanford's locked ward, but now, magic, I was sane enough and safe enough, to go home by myself. And it was late. It would be a three hour drive for my mother to come get me.

"What's going on?" My father asks, showing up in the background. It was a question out of annoyance.

My mother explains.

"I have to work in the morning," he replies as he walks through the room.

It was like being hit with dead weight. It knocked you off balance, and it hurt, leaving you breathless. Did he care? Did he want to care?

Would he care when it was far too late?

I Need a Little Air (Morpheus)

"Who was that? That you were talking to and laughing?" My mother asks from the home office after I disconnected the call.

I don't answer. I must have been loud. I don't care.

The Old Sin [Updated]

Pine Summit Market is about five miles from where I live with my parents. It's on the edge of the ranch, and it properly stocked with needed-in-a-pinched items, and three rows of booze. A few weeks ago, I made the unfortunate discovery that every day, fresh donuts are delivered. The donuts are okay, not the best I've ever had, but for an addict, they'll do.

And that's just it--the sugar is sickening. The icing is over-the-top. There's too much of it. Makes a mess all over my hands. Every time I take a bite, sitting alone in the Tahoe with just me and the dog (who is rather bored by the experience, and just sleeps in the backseat), I think about the scale rounding out at 230 pounds. How easy it is to wake up one day, obese again. Just from a couple of donuts. It's beginning of losing control. Of the body winning. Everyone knows that losing weight isn't the difficult part, but keeping the weight off. So, my solution? Always be trying to lose weight. Five pounds. Ten pounds. Fifteen pounds.

It's not binge eating because it's only a couple of donuts, but it's not exactly healthy either--to do some sin off by oneself. Ashamed. Guilty. I didn't even like the donuts that much. I don't even get a decent high from it. But I might as well be filling my water bottle with cheap vodka and cruise all the local parks. Sit on the bench and waste a day.

I tell myself, it's not really bad. I go from there to cleaning three stalls and feeding and unblanketing horses. I haven't eaten. I didn't eat dinner from the night before. I'll be hungry. I'll starve to pay for it. It will all work out.

Fight to Find a Voice

I had to fight to get on G2P this time despite the severity of my symptoms. My Stanford psychiatrist was on board, and told me to go--he knew, like any knowledgable person knew, that auditory hallucinations (especially commanding hallcinations in which the sufferer is being told to kill him/herself) mixed with depression and suicidal ideation warrant hospitalization.

My therapist was just dazed and bewildered. When I broke the news to her that I needed to go, she sent this in a text-message: "[Jae], I feel a little confused that you feel so distraught that you need to be hospitalized. That was not my impression the last couple of times I've talked to you..." I must admit I wasn't being entirely honest with her, and I acknowledged that fact to her in the conversation. I didn't tell her specifically about James, about his influence or about how frequently he bugged me, and despite the fact that she's been my therapist for over a year, she has no idea that Morpheus even exists.

Earlier before my admission, I had shown up to the ER at Stanford (under the direction of my Stanford psychiatrist who told me that there was a discharge on H2, and a bed potentially available), and after spilling my guts about all the magical things going on with me--I was told there was no room at the Inn, on either of the units.

 I stared into the face of a girl who was probably barely thirty, who looked like she just finished clearing her skin of acne. "Well, I feel it's my duty to put you in a bed at one of our sister hospitals," she tells me.

  "Okay, that's the last thing I want to happen," I remark frankly. I realize that I just did it to myself--they could put me under a 5150. I panic inside. "How about my parents come and get me and you release me in their care?"

The triage team calls my psychiatrist late at night, and he convinces them that I can be sent home.

I am told to contact the Inspire clinic social worker, who shall remain nameless. I go home, three hours of a drive, exhausted and scared.

Days later when the social worker calls, and ask what my plan is (social workers beat the dead horse by constantly asking, "what are your coping skills?" I always want to lie, and say, "Cigarettes and booze.").

Eventually, I'm tired of avoiding the question, and I tell him I'm planning on heading back to Stanford as soon as a bed is available. He gives me the proverbial "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" by telling me that going to my therapy session and a telehealth session with Stanford psychiatrist should be enough to "straighten me out." I hang up on him. Does he secretly work for Medicare? Is he worried about my medical bill debt?? Otherwise, what the fuck? If someone needs to go to the hospital, someone needs to go to the hospital.

Morpheus and the Fever

The genuises at Stanford don't have the whole picture because I haven't told them. Mostly from shame. He said (twice) we would have coffee together.

 That was mid-December.

 But he was going out of town for work, and wouldn't be back until mid-January.

 Nothing. I've heard nothing. 

 We've known each other for 14.5 years. In all that time, we've never met in public.

 Of course, I fantasized about it. Obsessed over it. Thought about all the things I would say (the things I would cautiously avoid saying). The roles I would play. I couldn't just be myself. No, I had to be someone else, and James was there to coach me. If you're wondering what an auditory hallucination would possibly add to a healthy conversation--lots, I'm telling you. Lots. James knows all those dark, gooey, soft spots in me that I have to keep tucked away. That no one can see. The festering wound that just won't close. Expectation turned to thin hope--and then to disappointment. Like a fever that broke.

Introduction to James

The voices, his name is James in particular, keep telling me, "Jump! You're a wimp for not following through with it! A coward!"

  I think about wandering off the unit (G2P). There's just a soft door between us and G2, and then the rest of the hospital. There's a nearby elevator.

Would it take me to the top? Surely someone has thought of this before. There would be precautions, of course. A nurse or a nurse assistant would notice my absence, and would call security. I wouldn't exactly blend in, in my hospital-issued PJ's.

Would hanging off the side of the building thrill me to finding new life, breathe sweet joy into depression? Or would it just driving the voices to new levels of psychosis and craziness? Would it only add fuel to the fire that is consuming more and more ground?

Swimming Thoughts

I take a short glass from the cabnet in the kitchen and fill it with cubes of ice. I walk out the door, down the steps and into the garage where the refrigerator is holding all the alcohol--vodka, beer, whiskey. I choose Tito's and orange juice. I swallow fast. I refill my glass and leave it in the frig. Then, I pay attention to the laundry in the corner.