Healthy

 Over the past four or five days, James has been unusually quiet and subdued. Is it part of a trend?

"What do you attribute that to?" My outpatient psychiatrist asked me during our last session. This was a trick question, and I fall right into it like an idiot. 

"I think it's the clozapine kicking in," I say, honestly. He would later state that it wasn't a medication that helped me, but rather being engaged outdoors with the horses and staying busy and social and three days a week therapy and all that crap that was saving my life, not the pills. The fact that he's a psychiatrist who doesn't believe in medical intervention--well, I continually have a difficult time swallowing this. What does he do, exactly? If he doesn't prescribe pills?

But, he gave me the big "told you so" during our session, an attitude I didn't particularly care for. Literally saying, "I told you..." He was impressed that I was doing so well, but if he knows anything about psychiatry, he should know that this is the most vulnerable part of the cycle, if you will, of depression because you have just enough energy and executive function and motivation to kill yourself. 

So much of my identity is my illness, so what happens to me when James goes away, and I am healthy? Well? Who am I then?

The Final Straw

 Morpheus finally blocked me on Facebook even though my worst defense was I asked him out to coffee. So, I had it. I archived our conversation, and then deleted my text-messaging to him. I did pause at deleting him from my contact list. I deleted the voicemails of his that I've had for many years (I did save the sound files in my email account). I figured the less I see of him or reminders of him, the better off I'll be. 

I didn't cry, I didn't even feel really sad, I just felt numb to it all. Like this is the end that we've all been waiting for.

Some Game of One

What if--

What the voices are saying--

Is true?? 

What if the voices are telling the truth?? Factual information? Correct interpretation? About your life, about yourself, about other people?

Game of Twister, Part V

Time had passed into our session in the conference room, and I was sitting next to him. He hadn't mentioned it. Did he forget? Did he not want to broach the topic? 

"So, yeah, about keeping in contact, we can email each other, I would like that," he said. "I'm not always the best at writing emails..."

Like that? I repeated in my head. 

He went on to explain that sometimes he was away from his email for a week or so, but that he always came back. 

James commented that maybe I should just hump his leg. 

 

Game of Twister, Part IV (Updated)

 I sent IP a copy of "The Devil Dyed Me Blue," and he told me that I was very talented. The social worker at Stanford who received the flash nonfiction just said in an email "Wow! [Jae].. That was really something! So many images and so much raw depth."

Is there a way to stand out of the crowd, even at a place like Stanford? I'm always haunted, by this idea, that I'm just like everyone else, even with this awful disease. I'm haunted by the idea that no one sees me for the person I am. That the people around me don't notice if I'm exceptional (am I exceptional? I don't feel exceptional.). That they don't value me. Or that I am worthless unless I do this great act like writing this outstanding memoir or completing this trying Ph.D.

Can I do one thing great? And belong somewhere among brilliant people like Elizabeth Wurtzel? One great book? Isn't that asking too much? Who put it in my mind to strive for such things? Why can't I be happy with my blog and my journal? What's with the craziness?

Is Nursing Right for Me?

 IP and I are talking in the conference room about my academic aspirations. I continue about my mother, "She thinks being a nurse is too stressful."

"I don't think that's true," IP says, lifting up his gaze to the ceiling, and then saying, "That's not the [Jae] I know. I think you would get into the groove of the job, and you would really enjoy it."

Not the person he knows? Has he been paying attention?

The End of this Admission?

 I did write in my last email to IP that I felt like my admission this time around can possibly be coming to a close. I say this with caution, and I hope I expressed that with IP. 

I recognized that the voices, the auditory hallucinations have not improved, and at certain times of the day, have gotten worse. James thrives on my feelings of embarrassment around the romantic transference. He thinks it's funnier than hell. 

The depression is still an 8/10. It has been at that level since the beginning of the admission.

What has improved is my suicidality. I do think about suicide, but I do not intend on completing the act as soon as I get home. That has shifted. If that's enough for IP to discharge me, then I will agree to that.

 I would rather have it be my idea, and under my control and what I want, then to be surprised by the team, and forced out. Also, there are other reasons for discharge. I would like to be home for Mother's Day, writers' group, and I need to give back my damaged phone, or they will charge me over $300 (this can be negotiated, but still, I would like to get my new phone). 

Game of Twister, Part III

IP shared with me about himself all week, thanks to my emails that I sent either the night before or that morning. I felt like that interaction lifted my mood in a genuine, therapeutic way. 

 IP talked about his journey into becoming a doctor, about how calculus wasn't hard for him (it was probably because he had a great professor, he said, trying to make me feel better). He gave me the advice that life takes us in different directions, but we can still end up in the right place. I'm not too sure what that means for someone who could have easily ended up a substitute teacher, but he pressed on, finished his pre-med courses, and applied to medical school.

While he never talked about his private life, besides drinking coffee non-stop all day long and rebuffing the science that coffee addiction exists, he shared what he thought made for attraction in a relationship (shared interests). (I'm more of a physical attraction type.)

All of this was enough for me to get the courage to ask in my last email if I could write him occasionally (very infrequently, maybe once every few months) once I've been discharged. If we could keep the line of communication open. I explained that I wouldn't contact him if I was in crisis (my regular psychiatrist is for that), I wouldn't contact him if I needed to be re-hospitalized. I have a number to call to see if there are beds available. I mentioned that it was perhaps crossing some line or perhaps he just didn't like writing emails. If that was the case, that was okay with me. I do have an agreement with my inpatient psychologist that I can contact her, if I'd like, when I'm on the outside, just to say hi. I brought that up as an example. 

I have no idea how he'll respond.

Game of Twister, Part II

 "Coffee and the news," IP says abruptly. 

He's referring to my previous email in which I inquired about his morning routine. I asked about coffee. I was so embarrassed about that after I hit the send button. 

Morning routine? Who am I to ask about his private life? He's my doctor! But there he was, the following day, sitting with one empty chair between us, answering my question. I moved closer to him in the conference room, mostly because with my hearing loss, I wanted to make sure I didn't miss anything he'd say, and I was losing words sitting across the table with the masks being on everyone. So, I went around and then sat next to him on the other side. "I like it!" he commented on the change of chairs.

 I was wondering if he went to the gym to catch an early morning workout or fucked his girlfriend before work. I pictured him showering. I hated these thoughts, but they came anyway. I wondered if he wondered if I was having them. He wasn't stupid. My latest book called them romantic transference. Easy, simple. Erase with one broad stroke. Gone forever. A little crush. We can work through this.

Somehow having an email between us opened a lot of doors. We chatted.