Yes, I got too depressed to continue my blog. Nothing good (except for meeting some wonderful fellow-patients) seemed to happen with the out-patient clinic and I couldn't stand writing nothing but negative stuff. Some good things have happened since I finished the clinic, but I'm going with the dramatic first and then I'll back up and fill you in with later posts. Maybe that will give me the incentive to actually write the posts and you the incentive to come back and find out what happened. I wrote the following to friends and family one night when I couldn't sleep, so that's why it has references to things as if you know me. The two things I should first explain, after managing to stay out of mental hospitals since 1988, I found myself in one again (after January '11) in April. Second thing--I no longer sleep. Last count was ten hours and fifteen minutes in 144 hours. I can only sleep with drugs, and I metabolize them super fast so they only work for a couple of nights. The condition is called tachyphylaxis. Okay, so this is what I wrote a few nights ago after I just got out of the hospital for the SECOND time:
Since I'm not sure I'll ever sleep again, I've been lying here thinking about my experiences over the weekend at D and cracking myself up laughing (which as many of you know is one of the reasons I have an intact personality and won't need psychoanalysis once I'm cured of depression--oh happy day!) I wasn't always laughing of course at D--Dan knew it was me calling because there was either this long pause after he said hello where I was trying to quit gasping out sobs and begin talking, or I was already in the midst of hiccuping words trying to make myself understood. My first day's goal was to not cry. At the end of the day we were asked if we'd met our goals. I said yes, I hadn't cried at all, merely sobbed, gasped, and hiccuped. But that was just the first day. Things got better of course. We had art projects. There was a whole box (not the big one with the built-in sharpener) of crayons worn down to the nub. You may think you only need sharp crayons to stay inside the lines, but let me tell you, you can't do anything with a nubby crayon. Borrow one from a child and try it. Unless you write REALLY BIG you can't even tell what you wrote. There was plenty of evidence of this where people had written phone numbers in very big numbers next to the telephone. Of course, some of the numbers you couldn't still read beause people had knocked out the sheet rock with their fists, I assume in a pique of anger. I swear, I really am laughing about this now; I'm not just going for the sympathy vote. There were two phones, but the other one just hung from the wall where I guess someone had pulled it out. You could use it if someone would hold it up to the wall for you while you dialed and talked.
On Sunday this nicely dressed lady brought in a whole bundle of word search puzzles. I noticed later they were all Christian-themed puzzles and I'm sure she came straight from church. Of course there wasn't a chance in hell you could have circled only one word with those nubby crayons, but she didn't know that--she would probably have brought us more crayons. I asked her if she had the New York Times Sunday Crossword Puzzle. She gave me the oddest look and I was immediately repentent and said, "I'm sorry, I'm just a smart ass." And then I realized I should apologize for that but thought it would just make matters worse, so I shut up. There was quite a variance of inmates at D--we had a number of shaved and tattooed heads, necks, and arms, a couple of old geezers in wheel chairs, a few teenagers, a couple of schizophrenics, maybe a few alcoholics and druggies and then your usual crowd of the depressed and anxiety-ridden. One day in group we were supposed to be telling our talents (this is good for our self-esteem). The old geezer in the wheelchair behind me said he could hotwire a car in 24 seconds. How can you not get hysterical about that?
None of us had any belts so we were all "saggin'". The doors were always locked of course, but I had this vision of us making a break for it--two of us pushing the wheel-chair bound and everybody trying to hold up their pants while the security guard (no spring chicken himself) chased after us. It would have been a sight to behold.
All of you know that I don't leave town without at least one deck of cards, but not realizing my shrink was going to freak out on me and put me in the hospital, I had no cards. Neither did D. It was just sad. They had 4 UNO cards and two decks that contained about seven cards each. Inexplicably, there was an extra Jack of Clubs in one deck. But even expert card shark that I am, I could think of no game to play that involved fourteen cards and 4 UNO cards. Maybe if I'd had more time. My goal of teaching the card game of golf to every mental health facility in the state was stymied. After I'd been there a few days, I found out there were two sides to D--there was the side for the good kids and the side for the bad kids. The staff denied there was any difference, but I never let an opportunity go by to point out the lavish facilities on the good kids side. They had a piano and a book case of hymnals and many true romance novels. They had two phones, both attached to the walls. Their furniture had stuffing and ours was reduced to the boards with a bit of fluff and that fake leather stuff. They could have visitors. They even had a Jeopardy game. It didn't have any cards and I couldn't figure out how the pieces were supposed to go together so you could secretly read the cards had there been any, but by God they had an intact box. They had magic markers. They may have even had ink in them--I never tried them out. I think it was Monday night I actually got to move to the good kids side. I don't know what precipitated that unless it was that I finally took a shower. I said I was in protest not changing my clothes until they let me out of there, but really that big communal shower just freaked me out. I know there had to be spiders in the corners and all sorts of fungal growth, probably most of it microscopic. But by Monday I couldn't stand the stench of me any longer and broke down. Then I got scrubs to wear and my saggin' days were gone. Don't think you get scrubs with drawstrings, however--strictly elastic.
My first roommate was a kleptomaniac. The nurse warned me about her, but I said it didn't matter--all I had were the clothes on my back. The hospital gives you body wash, toothpaste, toothbrush and deodorant (I realized they would also give you a comb if you asked for it once my protest days ended and I finally washed my hair). But my second day there I noticed my toothbrush was gone. They give you the damn toothbrushes! Why would she want my used one? There is no explaining those crazy people.
Okay, I've sent almost all of you my Personal Affirmation (another exercise good for our self-esteem), but for those who have yet to receive it, here it is in all its glory. I might mention that by the time I wrote it all the tattooed, bald-headed guys had been discharged. I'm not crazy, after all. They could have mopped up the floor with me.
I am the toughest, Xena Warrior Princess in this place because I have fought depression for 35 years and 6 months and am still alive to tell you about it. The only time I broke was Jan. 2, 2011, and while it's true they had to bring me back kicking and screaming and I was mad as hell to be alive, I still got back up and started fighting again. So I think that makes me the biggest bad ass in here. And if you think you can top that, let me know and we'll go head to head.
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