Another Mile part 3

For a while, Stanford had a sitter for me, someone who follows me around everywhere I go to make sure that I stay safe, medical lingo for "not harming yourself."


With the psychologist here on the Unit, someone I've known for years, had me list all the things that makes me want to harm myself. The list was long and included everything from hearing rabid voices to gaining seventy pounds when put on Seroquel. Then there was missing my dog, Beck, and on and on.


The psychologist thinks that the reason why I'm having so much anxiety is because I have these emotions that I don't want to deal. And, she said, I am avoiding conflict with my parents. My mother pretty much rules the house, and most of the time, I don't feel like starting a fight. I told the therapist that I didn't want her to think negative characteristics of my parents because since my psychotic break in 2011, they have been exceedingly helpful. According to the psychologist, it's okay to be angry with someone you love, it doesn't mean that they're a bad person or you're a bad person for standing up for yourself.


I will probably withdrawal from my classes this semester, and I've decided not to go back until I can get more stable. Instead, I'm going to study for my real estate exam.

Another Mile, Part II

I keep getting asked why I tried strangling  myself with a towel, and I don't have any good answers. I'm depressed. I have problems with anxiety and hearing voices, I feel hopeless, lost and alone--

Another Mile

I've been at Stanford's G2P for almost two weeks now. My admission date was Oct 22nd. I was forced to go by my then therapist who gave me the option to go up to Stanford or she would call mobile crisis, which would have put me under another 5150 and thrown into the local mental hospital, of which I've never heard anything good about it.


Things have been rough with the voices, changing from being anonymous voices to hearing voices of people around me, like my parents and friends.


I was in the shower, finished and putting clothes on when I got up the stupid idea of strangling myself with a towel, which I did for a few seconds. It was more of curiosity than anything else. But what surprised me was how easily and thoughtlessly I decided (don't have you have to thoughts to decide?) to harm myself. It was just this compulsion.


The staff wasn't alarm, but they have paired me with a 24/7 sitter so something like that doesn't happen again.

Three Different Antipsychotics

My doctor up at Stanford Psychiatric Outpatient believes that the drugs I'm taking affect me cognitively.

For instance, I failed my first reading quiz in my American Lit class, and had to go to the professor personally and apologize. I told him I read the material, even if that's not reflected in my score. If you check on the school's website for class, I currently have 30% in American Lit.

One of the biggest culprits is the Ativan I take for my moderate-to-severe anxiety. I live on that shit because I'm almost always in a shade of anxiety. My doctor told me that taking Ativan was like downing a shot of whickey. (I wanted to ask him if I could just switch the Ativan for Grey Goose, but I didn't want to push my luck).

I'm now on three different antipsychotics, Abilify, Seroquel and clozapine, the heavy hitter.

Because I've been struggling so much, with my mood, with the voices, with the anxiety--and the pain--I've decided not to return to college next semester. I can tell that I'm just not on the top of my game. My grades are reflecting that.  I'm going to try to obtain a real estate agent license.

Maybe Someday

A few weeks ago, I received a "Restricted" call around midnight. Someone blocking their caller ID.

I've been puzzled by this for a while. Honestly, I think it was Morpheus having a nostalgic moment in which called but doesn't want further contact from me.

He's done this before, but it was years ago.

So, I waited for an email, a TXT-message, something to follow up the call, and so far there's been nothing.

This all falls back on my desire to be unforgettable, and special.

There's no proof that it was Morpheus, but I magically jump and say it was him. 

It also deals with the fact that I can't let him go. I still love him despite the fact that it's been a year and over eight months since we have had any contact.

Maybe some day I can put this behind me.

Beck is Dead, Part IV

That day I prayed to God that I would find my dog.

I forgot to pray that she should be alive when I found her.

Beck is Dead, Part III

I had thoughts, fears about Beck dying because I didn't know how I would cope without her.

I guess that day came.