99% Crazy, 1% Insane

"Face"ing Yourself

2007-08-03T16:02:00.000-07:00

I rarely develop attachments to people or things. I am not sentimental. I am sure it is part of the disease because I look at other people who are not ill and they have friends that they have had for years. They will travel hours to go and hang out with them, they will go camping, shopping and holidaying with them. They talk on the phone for hours and trade pics of their kids. The only people that I have developed and inseparable attachment to are my children and my husband. With anyone else I lose the memory trail that I may have had in my mind.

When I graduated from highschool, I eventually severed all ties with everyone there. Up until the last few months I have not really spoken to anyone from my class. The only bits of information I have gotten are from my mom. I have wondered about them, and sometimes I have searched for them on the internet or in the phone book. I search for pictures or bits of who they are without having to make actual contact. I get them to touch me, to give them a piece of themselves without me having to reciprocate.

I am not cold-hearted or sociopathic. I am not a stalker. I thought it was something of a social anxiety; just another bullet-point for the lunatic resume.

Not so. The revelation of what it was has caused a minor meltdown. It caused me to leave a job and to try to make more friends. It has stretched me to make myself important and know outside the walls of my home.

All crisis ' have a trigger, and mine was at facebook.com.

If you haven't heard of it, it is a website developed for social interaction. You can message, show videos, pictures. You can send virtual gifts and play games. It is like myspace.com but much easier to use.

I began searching for people in my grad class from school.

When I think back to highschool, it does not fill me with great feelings. It was a horrible time. I was very sick, cycling up and down several times a week. I hurt myself and often thought of killing myself. I knew there was something wrong and had tried to approach a counsellor at school but ended up getting turned away as there was not enough time to see me. My high cycles weirded people out, and the lows alienated me. I would stay up all night obsessing on what to wear, or bawling for reasons unknown to myself, other than I just wanted to die. I was very paranoid so I often thought that people we talking about me, and really just hated me.

I was so desparate to be liked but into my adulthood I believed that no one did. I knew no one would end up remembering me.

Our school tended to seat people alphabetically, so often if we had the same classes, this one guy and I were seated near each other. We even had the same intials, TC.

I think every girl in our class at one time or another was in love with TC. He had the greatest feathered mullet. (Remember this was the 80s....) His biggest asset with the ladies was his ability to just seem like he did not care. He didn't care about the girls, he didn't care about sports, he didn't care about school. He could be funny and nice one minute, and then cool and uninterested the next. The bad boy.

Facebook was fairly new, so when I looked online there was not many people to look in on, but TC was there. I wanted to see what he was up to but before you can look on someones profile, you have to add them as a friend. I do not know why I did, but I reached out and asked to be added to his list. "Hi [TC], this is Tiffany. You probably don't remember me, but I thought I would say hi."

I expected to not be added, or at the least to get a message back saying he did not remember me. Maybe after some coaxing I thought he may have a sliver of a memory or me.

That day I got a message back from him. "Of course I remember you..." he said. Of course he remembers me? Me?

He does not know it, but with that comment he gave me value, value I was seeking in highschool. Value that I actually had the whole time I was there, just didn't realize. I had been avoiding old friends not because of a detachement issue, but because I had felt so insignificant in highschool, that I did not think that I would even be remembered.

But I was remembered. By TC one of the most sought after guys in highschool, the guy who did not seem to care.

We sent several messages back and forth for several weeks, and what I learned about him changed how I think about myself presently in highschool.

TC lost a brother in the later years of highschool. Shortly after that his sister had a child that his mom, even though she was a single parent decided to keep in the family. So when TC was late for school, it was not because he didn't care, it was because his mom went to nursing school. She left early and TC stayed back to make sure his new baby sister could make it to daycare. The school staff still insisted on giving him detention, so no wonder he appeared distant. At 16 he had gone through a lifetime of pain, and like alot of us, was devastatingly misunderstood by the adults around him.

He wrote to me many kind things about me now and even more surprising to me, of when I was in highschool. This sent me into a small identity crisis.

I have been competing my whole adult life, with an image of myself as a teenager, that I find out does not exist. This image has influenced decisions I have made for jobs, clothes, and cars. I have tried for years to show myself that I could be good enough, but it turns out I was.

There was a weight taken off me, but then I did not know how to cope without it. The person who I thought I was did not exist. I have allowed myself to be abused by bosses and an exhusband because my disease convinced me I was not good enough.

It turns out I am more than good enough. People remember me and people like me. People like me enough that if I make them mad they will forgive me later. My husband isn't with me out of pity, and when my children are adults they will not turn out to be serial killers because I am a bad mom.

I quit my job and sought out something that I wanted. Turns out the people at the new job wanted me too, enough to create a space for me that does exist. I am joining clubs and trying new things. I am going to take up archery. I am done waiting to be good enough, because I found out I already am.

My husband tells me daily how smart, funny, and beautiful I am. Now I believe him, and now I believe that I deserve him.

"Fret"ting

2006-12-16T04:34:00.000-08:00

I am working nights right now. After my husbands doctors appointment I layed down.

I had been asleep for about an hour when Paul called me. This is odd because he is very careful not to bother me when I sleep.

"Don't be mad" was the first thing he said. Its never good when your husband starts off a conversation with "Don't be mad".

My husband is a musician. He is classically trained on guitar and has recorded some things with known musicians. I have heard him play on recording but the entire time I have known him I have never really heard him play.

He was in a car accident over a decade ago and with it he broke his back and his neck. He wasn't supposed to walk but did but continued to have trouble with his hands for years.

He started to get some of it back about 5 years ago but was then hit with the diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis.

After his accident he was pretty angry, but the thing that sent him over the edge was not be able to play guitar. He has had a rough life. I would not discuss most of it publically without him knowing but his upbringing was violent and invasive. So much so that if I did not trust this man with my life I would think he was making it up.

He turned to music for comfort, esteem, solace. Then it was taken away from him twice.

Over the years he realized it could be much worse. He has a family, great job, crazy wife. There all lots of things he throws himself into now for value.

I didn't realize how much he mourned it until the car ride home when he said he wanted a base guitar for Christmas. I have already tried twice for a Christmas present for him and he keeps blowing it by buying it or changing his mind so I told him he should wait just to make sure that he was feeling better.

When I got home I did some reasearch and tried to find money somewhere to get him one. When he came home with the car me and the girls were going to get him one.

"What do you mean don't be mad." I don't know why people say that. I was instantly mad.

He was guitar shopping. He had found one and had obtained financing for it and everything. I yelled at him, telling him he ruined his Christmas present again. He apologized and then I thought it was over. I could go and get it later.

Then he came home. And he had a bass guitar in his hand.

I was so angry and the old me would have screamed and freaked out. I would have made him see what a tool he was being. (I had previously called him a "dick" so 'tool' wasn't out of the question.

However it seems that God has granted me some sense and I saw how great the loss of not being able to play must have been to him. He has never really complained but it was obvious it pained him.

It hasn't been the not being able to play. It was the loss of the piece of himself that got him through all the terrible times.

So we talked. And he is keeping the guitar.

And he was happy.

And now I don't have to buy him a Christmas present.

And the guilt he is feeling has got to be good for some favors my way!!

The bass players are always the hottest too.

Scurvy Dog

2006-12-15T09:10:00.000-08:00

My husband has never been well.

As a kid he had a spine deformity. In his early adulthood he was in a terrible car accident. He died on the table, and a back injury that was supposed to render him paralyzed causes him pain everyday.

Three years ago he was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. Severe rheumatoid arthritis. We were told that he would need joint replacements and end up in a wheel chair in the next decade.

We made plans. We pushed my career, and we pushed every drug that was available into his body in hopes of a cure, we pushed him not to sit around and feel sorry for himself.

The drugs were brutal. They made him lose his hair, brought him down to 120 pounds. They were immunosuppresent drugs and when one month he got the flu he nearly died. He says he didn't but he was too sick to listen to what the nurses were saying when they were hooking up the ecg machine to him. He had to take four months off of work to rest and still let me inject him twice a week because he wanted to get better so he could take care of us.

For three years I have watched my husband stretch himself everyday just so he can be a good husband and father to daughters he chose rather than created.

His sickness seeped into every pore of our lives. Every decision we made was made with the question "Can he handle it?"

My husband is a great man. He put himself and his pain last so we could have a better life. He waddled his way to work everyday so he could be productive.

He was having a hard time a couple of months ago and went to go see his doctor. She told him he was in remission and should start taking flax seed as a maintenance therapy. He told her he thought this was weird because he was in so much pain. She left the office and came back in and told him in fact he was not in remission and started signing him up for a drug that costs 3000 bucks a month.

He left the office uneasy and decided to get a second opinion. About 3 weeks ago he met his new doctor and after some poking and prodding he mutter that Paul was not going to like what he was going say. He didn't think that Paul had RA. The doctor refused to say anymore until tests were done.

Today we went to the doctor for the results. I had to go with Paul. I couldn't let him take the diagnosis alone. The other diseases we looked at with the same symptoms were horrible and what if it was a new disease we hadn't thought of.

He was visibly upset in the office. His doctor came in and opened the incredibly organized file. He started going through the list of all the tests he ordered and confirmed Paul did not have RA.

Liver function, kidney function, and immune tests all normal.

Then we were told.

Paul has rickets. Osteomalacia in adults, severe vitamin D deficiency. Common in these parts due to the lack of enviromental vitamin D.

He said that this diagnosis may not be exactly it. But reading between the lines we could see that there really is not anything else.

5000 mg for three months, 1000 mg for the rest of his life. If this is the problem my husband should be feeling better in 6-8 weeks.

I have tortured my husband for years giving him needles. For three years his life has been an exisitence only for some of the time.

All he needed was a jug of milk.

I am very angry.

Check it out!

2006-12-10T16:46:00.000-08:00

Today at the Mission by rhymes with kerouac.

Tired

2006-12-01T05:40:00.000-08:00

I am so tired. It is Christmas time, and as anyone knows who has worked in retail, Christmas is it. Everything that the business does is to just get it to Christmas, to make the most amount of money possible. My job is to get the stuff out to sell and to do that is to work overnight.

I have enough trouble sleeping and the flipping from days to nights has nearly ruined me. I had a terrible spell this week and thank God for my patient husband. I lost my mind temporarily. I became horribly irritable and had alot of trouble sleeping. Because of the lack of sleep, the problems my mind face become worse. I was terrible to my husband, impatient with my kids, and just wanted to spend all of my time in bed not sleeping.

When I start peaking on mania, I start to hallucinate. Its not so bad that I think that it is real. I just see stuff. I saw squirrels in my car, and people where there couldn't be anyone. The last day that was the worst I could hear the electricity.

Luckily with some drug induced sleeping I pulled out of it. I am feeling better.

Really though, I am just sick of this. One of the reasons that my husband and I decided that we should not have a child to blend in with the children I brought, is because I am crazy. Sometimes we don't go out because I am crazy. We don't watch certain shows, or visit with certain people. I have to do the driving sometimes, and the tv has to have a certain level of voluem because I am crazy.

I try to stay away from the drama of it, lamenting day in and out of all the things that I have been help back from because I am crazy. Of how bad I have it. Sometimes though, it does control my life, and the fact that I cannot control this bothers me. It smacks me out of no where and it makes me angry. I do not like ruining the time out with my family because I freak out on the way in the car. I do not like not going on vacation because I do not travel well. I feel stupid when we get to a movie theater 45 minutes early because I obsess about standing in lines and being in a crowd.

I feel as though I hold my family back and that makes me sad.

I want to be good.

I don't want to be myself.

Eating Me Up Inside

2006-11-04T06:53:00.000-08:00

My weight is constantly on my mind. Everytime I eat, I enjoy and at the same time I feel guilty. It is a way that I comfort myself, and ease the tension in my mind and body. Buying grocercies and making meals for my family is a way that I feel successful. I wish to be thinner, healthier but also do not want to let go of the feelings I get when making dozens of cookies, or watching my husband who has spent his life at 130 pounds, make it to over 150.

I also eat to punish myself. During dark periods, sometimes after seeing myself in a full length mirror, I eat to prove to myself how disgusting and horrible I am. I eat to prove how ugly and worthless I am. How no one will ever really love me and how my husband just feels sorry for me and that is why he stays with me.

During the Sleepover I found women that used food for comfort and punishment just like me, but it came by not eating it. There were several anorexics there; the point ways to dually treat the eating-disorder as well as the reasons why they had an eating disorder. They don't eat to punish some sort of defect they feel inside of themselves and feel satisfied when they are able to control what they do not eat.

In the ward they would be made to sit in the kitchen for a period of time in hopes that the food that they ate would make it through them and nourish them.

Unfortunately they did not want to be nourished and would go back to there rooms with contraband knives or toothbrushes to push down their throats and purge.

The women that had made a life of it were obvious to all of us. They were thin with big joints. Their hair was falling out, sometimes pulled out, causing sores on their heads. They seemed dried out, worn out. Ghosts.

I learned another lesson while there. Starving yourself to death was did not always come from being anorectic or bulimic.

I saw her sitting in her wheel chair in the kitchen. She was one of the thinnest people I had ever seen. Her glasses engulfed her faced and her clothes hung on her. I automatically thought she was starving herself, but she was sitting by our stove, cooking, and later I saw her eating.

I found out that she wanted to eat, badly, but she had developed a fear of food. A food phobia. She had gotten ill from several intolerances she had to different foods. She had gotten sick of being sick from food. She found three things that didn't make her ill, and was sticking to those things: rice, lentils, and some sort of oriental cabbage. She steamed them on the stove herself, while the rest of us ate greedily from the cafeteria.

The calories that she was taking in were not enough to sustain her through the day so she was not allowed to walk anywhere. She would sit in her wheelchair outside of her room until one of us would walk by and give her a ride.

I pray they found their way. I pray that I find my way to eating better, eating because I need to and that be the main reason.

Terrible Day

2006-10-27T17:08:00.000-07:00

This morning I was walking around feeling sorry for myself. I was mad because my husband and I had gone to a "mixer' for work last night and we had to leave early. I missed out on winning a door prize that was a trip somewhere.

This morning I was convinced that my life was pretty crappy. I didn't win the prize, I had to wear the same outfit that I have worn over and over, I have a crack in my windshield that I can't afford to get fixed.

This morning I was jealous of my boss and a coworker because they just came back from a trip and each got a gaming system that I want. The one coworker won a tv.

This morning I found out that another coworker I work with just called in and told us his son just died. He was only 8. It was something related to pneumonia and it was fairly sudden. We knew he was ill but thought he was getting better.

This morning I realized I am self-centered and selfish.

Takes one to know one...

2006-10-14T17:34:00.000-07:00

This part of me is very difficult to write about. It comes to me when the depth of my sorrow, the enormities of who I can be beats me down and I can no longer bear it.

This part of me is not acceptable, not an appropriate way of handling life, and by no means do I condone it. I have to say it has been over a year since it has happened to me, and I am glad for that.

During the Sleepover there was a young girl in with me. She was not allowed to leave daily like I was. She was pretty but wore her hair stringy and her clothes baggy and large. She was terrible thin, and when she came into the TV room where I was, the large yellow shirt only enhance how ugly she was trying to make herself. Her main reason for staying was for anorexia, one of several girls that were there for that.

She stood beside me while I kind of watched TV.

"Your a cutter too."

I looked up and saw she was speaking to me. The t-shirt I was wearing didn't cover my arms entirely and the self-inflicted cuts that I had made on my arms were visible. In the psychward there wasn't much need to hide who you were.

Her shirt was a v-neck and all over her chest I could see cuts much deeper than I had done on myself. They were many. She lifted her her shirt some and I could see that they were all over her abdomen and arms. She said they were all over her legs as well.

"Yes I am."

It seems to be a gift that we as humans have to pick out those who are like us. My gay friends say they can pick out other homosexuals. Racists and pedophiles seems to find each other in droves. I can pick out another crazy person at a hundred yards.

We spoke for a bit and she told me she had been raped. We didn't talk about the details much. I don't know if she was telling the truth or not. Sometimes at the Sleepover the truth of how we ended up in there became blurred. What was 100 percent true was she was having a very difficult time.

"They don't get it do they?"

"No they don't", I replied.

Most think that we do it for attention, that we hurt ourselves so that others will feel sorry for us. For the most part, at least for my part this is completely not true. I have hurt myself in private and my husband has never known. Sometimes he has not found out until I am nearly healed.

What is does for me is help tame the demons in my mind that are telling me to put the knife to my wrists instead of at the soft skin of my arms. When the abyss has no bottom, the cutting causes a physical pain that shocks and then takes away from the emotional pain. The emotional pain is far worse, the physical has an analgesic effect. The result lasts for a couple of days. When I dress and my clothing rubs against it or someone in my family touches it, it reminds me that there is another pain besides the one that usually controls me.

I have chose to become healthy so I have chosen not to do this anymore. I have taken the weapon that I have hidden in my room and thrown it away. There have been times that I have wanted to, but I simply cannot allow myself to do it. I have little girls that I need to be an example to, and by no means can I allow this to be an acceptable practice for them. They rely on me to be healthy, and I am doing my best to be the best mom that I can for them. I don't want to be that mom, the mom that hurts herself anymore. I do not want to lie to them, to tell them it was our cat that scratched me.

So I am taking this year of not cutting as a positive milestone. I want to me normal so badly.

Not Up To Current Standards

2006-10-07T14:51:00.000-07:00

I have spent most of my life with my thoughts twisted. My perceptions have been off and because of this I have learned not to trust what I am thinking.

In my maturing with this illness I have learned to adapt. I asks those around my that I trust if what I am feeling is right, and also watch them to see if what I am feeling is applicable to the situation. This has taken a very long time to happen, and I have a ways to go.

Up to this point my feelings were so messed up and people kept telling me what I was feeling was wrong, so I began to doubt my thoughts and my feelings. And really, though my feelings were and still sometimes are inappropriate, they are still feelings that I am having. They needed to be acknowledged and dealt with. I would have my parents and teachers telling that I wasn't sad, or didn't have any reason to be sad. I shouldn't be angry and that person wasn't being mean to me. This may have been true, but I needed assistance in developing the skills to see the difference between my illnesses perception and what a normal perception should be.

Into adulthood, I struggle with asserting myself effectively because I doubt my decisions and then my thoughts get messed up. Thankfully now I have a husband that I run my thoughts through with and he lets me know if they are appropriate. I have people I trust at work that I get to read my emails and bosses that role play situations with me to help me through.

I see my friends that are ill struggle with this. They have difficulty standing up for themselves when it comes to their health and their life because they too are doubting who they are and their decision making process.

I am lucky to have found a fantastic family doctor that believes me when I tell him what I am feeling. He believes in the truth that your mind get sick too. I have several friends that are all struggling in getting their doctors to understand and help them cope with who they are.

There is no shame in being mentally ill.

I am angry because currently I have two friends that are being proactive in getting their mental health under control and they are being let down by their doctors. One of my friends needs to go for her own Sleepover. She needs to go in as an inpatient and take the time to get leveled out. She is going up and down multiple times in an hour. She is either crying or laughing hysterically. For some reason her doctor is not open to this and because she has been doubting herself for so long that she just trusts her doctor.

Another friend I have seen struggle for a few years. He had thought it was hidden from us but we could see. He is deeply creative and intelligent. He goes through periods of hyper-involvement, like writing several songs at one time or blogging constantly, to completely separating himself from everything. He talks of giving up his music and stops talking to his friends. He has taking the steps to go and see someone because he has decided that he needs some assistance.

His doctor told him he has allergies.

Because my friend is unsure of what is going on with himself he is trusting this. Maybe he does have allergies. (I really don't think so but...Here I go doubting myself.)

There are going to be people who doubt the significance of our disease, even doctors. For some reason even doctors believe being mentally ill is shameful and will do anything to avoid a diagnosis.

Well its not.

It is like they think you are going to marked for life if you are treated for the crazies. It is like the episode of the Simpsons when Homer wears the pink shirt to work and ends up with INSANE stamped on him.

I have been through the psychward and the worst thing that is happened to me is I cannot carry a gun and cannot join the police force.

Well I have already been in the police force and it wasn't so great. What do I need a gun for?

We need to start trusting our feelings and demanding help. As we get better then we will trust the rest of our thoughts.

Soon, we will get the SANE stamp on our hand and wearing all white shirts again.

Designer labels

2006-09-25T08:14:00.000-07:00

I really have no medical proof of this, just my opinion, but it seems to me that illnesses just don't come one at a time. It seems that once the body and mind become ill it opens the door for many more. My husband has rheumatoid arthritis and is treated for depression. A friend of mine is bipolar and has anxiety issues.

About 2 years into the adventure throughout the mental illness wonderland I was sitting down with my third or fourth shrink. Getting in to see a psychiatrist is hard, and you do not get to see them very often unless you are high on the spectrum of crazy. He did not know me very well, and I am sure that he did not even read my file when I went in because he kept asking me questions that he asked me every time I went in.

By this point I had been labeled a Post-partum, Bi-polar, Obsessive-Compulsive, with rage issues. The doctor asked me some questions and decided that I also had Seasonal Effective Disorder. This made me a winter-hating, germ-fearing, step-counting, moody, wall-punching mother. Apparently he was going to prescribe a giant lamp which I was suppose to shove my face in and that would make my life a lot better.

It was at this point I realized that I could be caught up in the labels for the rest of my life. You can see that in the people around you that get stuck in the name of the sickness and the whole idea of being sick rather than looking for the path of being well. You see them get wrapped up in being a victim instead of being a person.

We all have that aunt who in 1987, her husband had an affair, and because of all the awful men in the world her life has been crap, and she is going to have to stay on welfare and have a bad perm, and if only 1987 didn't happen she would be 30 pounds lighter and have that job at the bank but the boss is a man, and probably in 1987 he had an affair on his wife and she would have to spend all day covering up her boobs because he is just a big perv anyways.

It was then I decided to stop living in the labels and start living for the path to get well.

Now this took a while. I felt sorry for myself and lived in the drama for quite a while, but the decision was still in my mind. I kept coming back to the main objective and I am getting closer all the time.

There are some things I know that I am. I am diagnosed Bi-polar. I know this because when I am off the meds for Bi-polar I am mega-crazy. I know I am diagnosed Obsessive-Compulsive and this is for a whole bunch of reasons which I will talk about later. Diagnosed is the key word, meaning it is something that can affect my day and my health but does not define me.

I am also a mother, and a wife. I am a leader, and a supervisor. I am a friend and caregiver. There are many labels that I can give myself, but I need to define myself by the better ones, the more productive and healthier ones. If I don't I can get sucked up in what the label is rather than what I can be.

So what are you? Have you been sexual abused? Has your ex-boyfriend hit you? Did your dad drink too much and spend his paycheck booze? Did your mom yell too much and hug too little?

It is exhausting to live as a victim. It is exhausting to live as title instead of yourself. It takes time to heal and it takes time to get better but we cannot let what happen to us complete us.

We are worth more than that.

Excuses, Excuses

2006-09-23T20:21:00.000-07:00

Everyday that I get up I have to make a choice to have a good day or a bad day. Some days are harder than others, and lots of times I fail to make the right choice.

There have been days that I have been unable to take care of myself and I have to entrust other people to make the right choices for me.

Even though I am mentally ill, I am still responsible for my behavior and the choices I make for this behavior. There are times where my mind is uncontrollable. I am angry and unbearable to my family. I am a danger to myself sometimes. This is not my fault. The choices I make about how to deal with this is responsibility and the bad choices are my fault.

For instance, it is not a diabetics fault that they have diabetes. It is not that persons fault if their blood sugar gets low and they end up in the hospital. It is their fault if they eat what they are not supposed to, don't exercise like they are supposed to, and don't take their insulin.

When I get sick, it is up to me to let the people around me help me with this. I must get take my meds, get enough sleep, and do what I can to get through the bad times. I must say that this is not applicable to all mental illness. For some people there just isn't the ability to know that they are not well. For a lot of us there is and we owe it to ourselves and our family to take care of ourselves.

I read and watch in the news far too often people using mental illness as an excuse for the crimes they commit. I have learned that there is a host of things I can do and use my mental illness as the reason. I can be a school teacher and have sex with my students. I can hide my boyfriend in the closet and later kill my husband. I can gamble and shoplift. I can hurt my children and have affairs. I can spend all my family's money or have sex with many people.

Again, I know that there are people out there that these things can occur because their illness has taken over. I do not think that most fit into this category. I think that it is an easy excuse to get away with behaviors that they do not want to be held accountable for poor choices. If they do not think it is wrong would they try to hide it?

Killing Me Softly

2006-09-15T20:33:00.000-07:00

Went I went for the Sleep Over I was amazed by the amount of ways there are to destroy yourself. As a society, it is assumed that suicide is a sudden, singular event, but I found this is not true. I found that people just did not try to kill their physical being, but also took on the task of killing their spiritual being. Sometimes the spiritual being became the primary target of destruction.

You can see spiritually destroying behavior in people around you. The promiscuous, the partiers, the risk takers. They drink too much, put themselves into large amounts of debt. Its the married man at work that is going for drinks alone with the new girl.

There was a young man I was in the psych ward with who was like me. He was bipolar but tended to run high instead of low like I did. He spent all his money, smoked doped, and drank like crazy. He had a wonderful girlfriend, but continually had unprotected sex with several partners. When he was doing these things, he knew that they were wrong. There was this hatred he held for himself that he set out to destroy what he had. You can see it in our eyes when we do it. You can see emptiness the day after.

I believe that there is a constant spiritual battle around us. There is Good and evil fighting in a continual battle for our soul. I know that this is dangerous ground to talk about it, because it becomes a defining line between the crazy and the truly crazy for some people. This judgment is fine with me. My defense is just because you cannot see it does not mean it doesn't exist.

Self-destruction is a weapon that evil uses to its favor. Evil cannot destroy you because your soul has already been bought and paid for; however, evil can convince you to destroy yourself. It can convince you to make your life on this earth as miserable as possible. If evil can get you to destroy your health, and spend your money or drink to much, then it maybe able to make you hate yourself. With that evil's can think that its battle for you can be victorious.

What evil doesn't want you to know it that it has never completely won. From every sexual encounter, every addiction there is a pathway back bought with the blood of Jesus. You are saved and you are loved by Love itself. You are created in His image. What is more esteem building than that?

You are Loved, and this makes you worthwhile. You are so loved that He has a name just for you in Heaven waiting for your arrival.

With every mistake you are already forgiven. There is always a path back from your mistakes.

The picture above is of my husbands addition to his sleeve. He wears it to remind himself of this battle for him. Sometimes the angel is on top, sometimes the demon, but ultimately Good is going to win this battle.

Blindsided

2006-08-31T18:40:00.000-07:00

I remember being happy.

I remember going into elementary school and having friends. I remember learning how to play the triangle and maracas. I remember coloring and hamburger lunches. I liked my teacher and and my teacher still liked me. I was still smiling in my school pictures.

In grade three we had our pictures taken at two different times. The first was the individual picture, the one for dad's wallets and grandmother's tables. This was taken in the beginning of the year. The second was the class photo and this was taken in the spring.

Sometime during the fall photo and the spring photo the demons grabbed a hold of my mind and started to divide me into pieces that I would only understand 15 years later. I gained 20 pounds. My smile was false. The first trickles of dark thoughts began. I lost all my friends and struggled in school. My teachers hated me because of my unpredictability.

My question is: Why the fuck didn't anyone notice?

I was normal and then I wasn't.

I was thin and then I wasn't.

I showered and then I didn't.

I had friends and then I didn't.

I know it was a different time then. Mental illness was talked about very little, and certainly not in children. I was told to 'cheer up' and 'grow up'. I was supposed to shake it off. But after 3 years of the same behavior in a school of 60 kids, there was no way I could fall between the cracks of an overloaded system. There was me and 3 other kids in my grade four class. There was me and 4 other kids in my grade five class. I was never sent to a counselor. I was never sent to a doctor. Nothing but blame for my behavior. Did they just think I wanted to be like this?

Now please listen.

My anger is not for me. It is not for the 15 years I spent suicidal fence.

I just want to know who is taking care of the 8 year old Tiffanys now?

I can see them in the school that my daughters go to. I can see them in the mall with their moms and in the grocery store.

Kids just aren't bad. Kids aren't continually disruptive without a reason. We need to ask questions.

Are they like me? You just cannot think that mental illness is an adult disease. Kids are struck everyday with diseases that only adults should get. If a kid can go into kidney failure or get cancer, how can it be justified that their mind cannot also be altered by disease.

Are they being abused? Are they being neglected? Are they unloved?

I cry thinking about 8 year old Tiffany; however, I am not crying for myself. I cry for the 8 year old who is in his room right now, listening to the voices in his head, and wondering how he will be able to go on. I am crying for the little girl who is hearing her dad come up stairs and wishing she had a lock for her door.

It is our job to protect all children. All children. Children do not have the words to talk about what is going on so they use their actions to tell their story.

We need to listen to their story.

Scratchy

2006-08-31T14:19:00.000-07:00

I don't feel well.

It feels like my brain is on its own axis. I turn my head and my brain keeps going. Even though everything is moving faster, my thoughts and my speech, my brain seems to process the movements slower. Maybe it is because its overwhelmed and the movement is too much.

It is hard to write. The thoughts are going through my head like a freight train. I am trying to put something down and I keep having to erase it because it has nothing to do with what I am trying to express.

I am avoiding conversations. I have usually started thinking of something else and ignored most of what they have said. Luckily I have come up with a coping mechanism that has allowed me to pick up on certain words. I use these words to ask questions and start the conversation over so I do not appear rude.

I am able to work 10 hours a day, and then come home and work just as hard.

I sleep poorly. I am riddled with dreams and wake up exhausted. I can see my doctor about getting some help but the priveledge of getting sedatives must not be abused.

I know I am close to the end because I am starting to see things. I see bugs in my food and people in a room when I am alone. My brain feels scratchy.

It is the end that I fear because what is there to meet me is terrifying. I may just slide out of it.

I may not.

I don't want to be sad. I don't want to want to hurt myself. I don't want to make my family hate me.

I just want to be normal.

I need a crazyectomy.

Marilyn Munster

2006-08-26T18:21:00.000-07:00

"Cleaning the bathroom relaxes me" my youngest daughter tells me.

She was the only baby in the hospital when she was born and this is the only way I know she wasn't switched at birth. She slept through the night the very day she was born. She knows when to stop eating when she is full, she likes to clean, and she makes friends easily. She is a grade ahead and reading and doing math 2 years ahead.

More significantly, in a house where 75% of us are being treated for some sort of mental illness, and belonging to a family that is plagued by it, she is normal.

To me, it is like watching a documentary on a different culture, being in awe of a societies practices and customs. Watching her is watching what could have been.

What is most amazing about her is the way she accepts the craziness around her and finds a way to help, instead of deciding to resent. I tell my children that it feels like there is sandpaper in my brain, or my mind is on fire when I am not doing well. I tell them that even though I appear angry at them, that it is not their fault, it is mine. I will not know for sure if these words mean anything to them until they are adults, but I feel that most of my words are making it to her. Now if she is fully tattooed, dropped out of high school and living with her crack dealing boyfriend at sixteen I supposed that will be a sign that I hurt her more than helped her, but for now, she is doing well.

At eight she can make a meal, do a full load of laundry, and go to the store for me. And yes, she cleans the bathroom to relax.

I find notebooks around the house where she has an itinerary for her day. She has scheduled playtime, showers, and snack time. What is really great, is she is keeping up on it. She is in a home where some days I am lucky if I show up to work wearing pants because my mind is pounding so hard I cannot remember my name. The breakdowns I have had where my mind has become separated from me has for a period of time stopped me from remembering the year she was born. She writes notes on the fridge for me to remind me of things.

I have to be careful with this blessing, a daughter who has the potential to take care of me instead of me taking care of her. It would be easy for me to put a huge amount of responsibility on her to ease my parental load. It would be easy for me to take her childhood away in my selfishness in not taking care of myself.

Every task I give her, I rethink, is this helping her, or helping me? Is this helping her grow into an adult, or is it helping me not be one?

I need to help her grow, but she is driven, and without me regulating what she takes on she will grow to be a unhappy adult. She has in the past taken on too much, and gone without sleeping because she was worrying too much. She was afraid she was going to miss the school bus on her first day of school, and laid awake for days, not wanting to bother me with her troubles. I finally got it out of her one night while she cried on my lap. Turns out she wasn't even going to take a bus to school, she was walking with her sister. She was worried about me more than her and I have to take that seriously. I am the adult and I am supposed to take care of her.

So at night when we all line up to take our meds, our Marilyn Munster puts on lotion. When we go to the doctor for our refills she comes up with a dire disease she may have just to be included.

She is lovely. I am blessed to have her.

Make up and Crayons

2006-08-19T20:11:00.000-07:00

I am overcome. It is simple and it is beautiful and I cry as I watch her.

My oldest daughter is riding her bike in the court yard where we live. The bike is too small for her and her helmet is off-center, but she pedals hard through the trees.

She is at that time where she is still a child but you can see teenage-hood following close behind. Her "Cream Soda" pink BMX bike and skirt that she bought in the adult section of Old Navy contradict each other. The time where she can be wearing lip gloss and swinging on a tire swing.

She has had a hard life and has a sensitivity and kindness of a child that has experienced such a life. She has moved too many times, been to too many schools and daycare. She has been going through the beginnings of puberty for a couple of years already. She has been through marriage, divorce, and marriage. She watch her mother crumble and put herself together again. She had one of the most important people in her life die.

She is just like me. Not just in the way she looks and talks, or in the way she moves, but she has inherited my illness.

She had a hard time coming into this world. She was a month early, and had to spend some time in the hospital. She was a good baby, but her anger became apparent early. Her dad and I were fighting all the time and she saw things that a child shouldn't see. I left him suddenly one night, and took her and her sister to a friends. She was only two at the time and her life was never consistent, never solid, and all of her behavior problems I thought were related to the divorce and my inability to be a good mother.

Good Friday, two years ago, I received phone call early in the morning. Her grandfather was in an ambulance coming to the city. He had had a heart attack and wasn't expected to live. They were very close. She changed a work-aholic into a toe-nail painting gentleman. He took care of her. Her was a buffer between me and her dad. He supported us financially when we couldn't take care of ourselves. He cosigned on our mortgage so we could have a place to live.

She was distraught for weeks. Her sister also mourned, but my oldest was devastated. She fell behind in school, and never wanted to leave her room. She sat in the dark and played video games unless we made her leave. She cried a lot.

One weekend she was at her dad's about two hours away. I was asking her how she was doing and I could tell she was not well.

"I want to die mom."

Time stopped. She was only eight and after a long discussion I found out that not only did she truly want to die, but she had a plan on how to do it.

My husband, Paul, figured out what we were talking about and got dressed and had his keys in his hand even though I was still on the phone.

She wanted to die so she could go and see her grandpa. She knew that she would be leaving us but the pain here was too much for her to bear and wanted to leave this earth. After spending a long time on the phone with her I spoke to her dad. He comes from a farm background where all problems can be fixed with hard work and a band aid, but did his best to understand it. I know that even now he thinks that she can just get over it, but respects me enough believe what I tell him.

As soon as she came home, we took her to our doctor. There is a huge waiting list for child psychiatrists, but we have a smart family doctor. They do not make antidepressants for children, so all they get is a lower does of adult medicines. As side effect of taking some of these medicines is suicide. One of the theories is that the child finally has enough energy to kill themselves.

She made it through. She started leaving her room and making friends. She is doing better in school. She is still sensitive and thoughtful but I think that is part of her nature. She is sad that she has lost her grandfather but she can cope with her life.

Today I watched my beautiful daughter ride her bike. She is a success story. I know that she is going to have adjustments in her meds and go through bad times, but she is living proof that there is hope for all of us.

Hope for a normal life.

Priests and Oujia boards

2006-08-15T09:53:00.000-07:00

I was doing 100 km in a 40 zone and had both my lights and siren on. The town that I had been posted in as a peace officer less than a year before was only about 10 blocks long, but I needed to be at my destination now.

"Save him, save him, save him, save him." This was all she could say. Her husband was holding her down, and the younger children were in the playroom with their grandfather also screaming.

I reached down to take my boots off, something once I had entered Tim's room I wouldn't do again. The town doctor was already there and told me there was no reason to rush. He couldn't be saved.

I left the family downstairs and went up to Tim's room with the doctor. 16 year old Tim was laying back on his bed. The shotgun he had in his hands was upside down and his finger was still on the trigger. His eyes were open, and there was a dime size hole in his forehead.

There was a note on his ghettoblaster that said "Goodbye forever." When his mom came home and found him, the music had been blaring. It must have covered up the sound of the shot while his brothers that he was babysitting, played downstairs.

Tim had taken his grandfather's car the day before and crashed it. Tim and his grandfather were extremely close and when his grandfather had been so angry at him, it was believed that Tim in his devastation took his life.

We spends hours in his room. Tim was handled great respect. The coroner, a friend of hers, and myself cleaned his room. The funeral directors took him away. I collected evidence.

It was the evidence that I collected that led me into something greater.

During the few months before his death, Tim and his friends had begun to play with Oujia boards. They worked with Pentagrams, had seances, and they were reports of him levitating. (This one I was not sure about, but what mattered is the kids thought it was true. ) His room had pages and pages of poems and notes about the occult. Some I took with me and some I left.

The town I worked in went crazy. Everyone thought that all the kids were worshipping Satan. There were conflicts between me and the crisis counselor. (Only one counselor for all the kids.) When I went through his locker the counselor was angry that the kids needed to do it for closure. The kids didn't need to find notes about suicide and the devil.

The town was crying out for a meeting for their children but the School Board felt that it wasn't their job. The rumors were talking about Satan worshipping, and how some of the children were doomed to the devil.

I was at a loss. I wasn't sleeping, and I was crying all the time. Everything I had learned in this Catholic town was that suicide was a sin and Tim was swirling in hell. I couldn't understand how a 16 year old boy who probably didn't understand that in pulling the trigger that it would actually be forever, could suffer this fate. I was not seeking God at this time, but every ounce of me could not believe this.

I decide to call a priest that was in a nearby city. Colin specialized in the occult and his name preceded him.

He told me something that has changed my life and the way that I look at my illness. Colin said that when playing around with the occult, Tim allowed Satan into his life. Satan controlled Tim's thoughts, making him feel worthless. When Tim killed himself, it was the words of Satan speaking to him, demons whispering in his ear. Colin said that God would not judge Tim, because he was not actually himself.

With this knowledge, I have fought my disease not just as a physical battle, but also as a spiritual battle. Satan and God are battling for my mind. My mind, my body are God's and while I may come far down sometimes, I must fight my way back. I must fight with the armor of God.

Ephesians 6:10-18 (New International Version)

10Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. 11Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. 12For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. 13Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. 14Stand firm then, with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with the breastplate of righteousness in place, 15and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes from the gospel of peace. 16In addition to all this, take up the shield of faith, with which you can extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. 17Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. 18And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the saints.

Satan hates truth. The truth that you are worthwhile, you are special, and you are loved. Whether you believe it or not, you are Loved.

Ways to Die and the American National Safety Council

2006-08-07T08:24:00.000-07:00

Think about all the commercials you have watched in the last week. Several a day are "public education" announcements for the flavour of the week. They are announcements for our protection, teaching us how to protect ourselves from certain death. I have seen West Nile, boating, drunk driving, HIV/Aids, carbon monoxide, fires, and hot weather. After the earthquakes overseas I was taught how to hide in my home. After the tsunamis I was shown how to hang on to the top of my car with my seatbelt wrapped around my arms to keep me safe during a sudden flood. I know how to hide in a ditch during a tornado and I know how to keep my car warm if I am caught in blizzard.

I recently received my copy of National Geographic and in it was an article showing a graph from the American National Safety Council on your likelihood of dying a certain way.

What do you think your top five ways of dying are? What do you think is most likely to kill you?

Cancer? Number 2. You have a 1 in 7 chance of dying of cancer.

Car accident? Number 4. 1 in 84.

Flood? Nope 1 in 144,156.

What about suicide? Where does that stand?

Heart disease 1 in 5.

Cancer 1 in 7.

Stroke 1 in 24.

Car Accident 1 in 84.

Suicide 1 in 119.

It is the fifth likely way to die.

How many public announcements have you seen for suicide lately.? I have seen a lot of fluffy commercials for the drugs that can help you, but those are paid for by the drug companies that want you to by their drugs. How many commercials paid for by with public funds have you seen?

According to these statistics you could run around all day with your tin foil hat and a golf club during a thunderstorm, survive, and then come and swallow a bunch of pills.

Its not the terrorists that are going to get you. Its you that is going to get you.

So what do you think the problem is?

Is their some conspiracy against us, keeping the crazies in the closet? (Well, some of us may truly think that, but that is just our sickness talking.)

Truly, it is our fault. It is our shame and our embarrassment that is keeping others from knowing how to see the signs and protecting themselves. Public money will only go to what is determined as important to the public.

We need to stop being embarrassed by our feelings. The only thing we need to be embarrassed by is our refusal to treat ourselves. The only shame we should have is in not talking about it.

When I first really became diagnosed, I was very open with who I was and where I had been. People were shocked. Some distanced themselves from me and whispered "crazy" behind my back. Even today, Brooke Shields admission of post partum depressions is mind blowing to some. If we stood up, in just our normal day, we would have less Andrea Yates with us.

It is okay to mentally ill. We do not have a choice in being it, so why be shameful? What is not okay is living with it untreated, wallowing in it, savoring the drama of it.

We need to stand up for who we are. Soon you may see me on a commercial.

"Hello, my name is Tiffany, and I am crazy. You may have seen me in other public announcements like 'Your prozac and you' and 'No, your VCR is not recording your thoughts'."

Stand up, get help, and help others. Its our blessing.

NSC Ways to Die

Crazy in Love

2006-08-03T17:14:00.000-07:00

I one hundred percent believe in the presence of demons in our lives. I know this because I have seen them. This conversation that I am having tends to frighten people. It gives people who feel normal the ability to draw the line in the sand and divide the sane from the insane.

But just like God, not believing in demons, does not stop them from existing.

A few days into my sleepover Stephen came up to me.

"She's back."

"Who's back?"

"She is."

He nodded towards the observation room that I had just been moved from. I know realized that it was to make room for the woman now occupying the room.

For the next few days she tore up our lives. Any peace that had been found was now ripped apart.

All the male nurses we had were called in on overtime and kept with her. All day and night there was horrific screaming and cursing coming from her room. I peeked in her room at the high of one of the episodes and saw four of the male nurses trying to hold her down while another nurse administered some medication.

Stephen knew of her because they crossed paths every so often. She was also schizophrenic and occasionally came in to level her meds. She lived on a farm. His details were usually sporadic and vague.

So, for a few days we listened to her scream, heard the nurses snap at each other as they struggled with her, heard the smashing coming from the room. We lived without our favorite nurses as they pinned her down.

And everyday, we watched him.

Her husband came with her everytime. He sat with her everyday, all day. He was calm during the episodes, and walked outside of her room when she slept. He brushed her hair, and fed her. She was everything that the word crazy enveloped and he loved her with everything that he had.

After about four days, she came from her room. Our monster was a beautiful dark haired woman. She was about 30, and about 150 pounds. She was lovely even in the hospital robe. She walked slowly due to all the drugs, but smiled and said hello to all of us. And just behind her was her husband. He was also smiling, but not at us. At her.

She asked if anyone could french braid and I told her I could. She sat in front of me and I did my best, but I mostly watched him. He watched her and obviously loved her with every part of him.

She left before all of us, into the care of her husband. I am sure she had episodes again, as have we all. I know she was taken care of.

She is one of the reasons why I believe in demons. We see them. They whisper to us, and taunt us. They figure out what hurts us and pick on it. But with the belief in demons must come the belief of the opposite. Love. I wanted to be loved like that. I sought it like a drug. I wanted a man to love me so much that he would see me battle the demons and sit and brush my hair.

I have since remarried, and found a man that will help me fight my battles. He will see my darkness, and still love me just like her husband did. He was a gift to me from the most holy of Love. God has shown me the demons so I can fully realize His greatness and His kindness. My trips through the darkness show me the evil so I can go and tell the world of the Love.

I have someone that will brush my hair while I scream, and I thank God everyday for him.

Camo Jesus

2006-08-01T14:39:00.000-07:00

I really had no idea of the extent that people will go to hurt themselves. The disgust and hate for themselves combined with creativity becomes a breeding ground for self-destruction.

I met a young man who shot himself in the stomach because he knew it would hurt more. He wanted to feel the hurt because it related directly to how he felt inside. He went behind his barn with a shotgun and pulled the trigger. He wasn't prepared for someone to find him.

I met burners, cutters, hair-pullers, starvers, shooters, and jumpers. We could pick each other out. A cutter can see another cutter, and starvers could give tips to each other on how to keep on starving.

I didn't realize that you could swallow a knife to end your life. Another thing I didn't realize was that the nurses and doctors at the ward would give up on you and send you out in the world if you didn't try. The girl swallowed the knife one too many times and I watched as she was wheeled out for her last surgery there, and then out to the world.

After watching her go, I went into the dining room. We were lucky to have a kitchen with a toaster and fruit, some tea and coffee, and small things like that. I really was terrified. There was a lot of screaming going on. A guy was in hospital gear and hollering for his clothes back. He looked rough, missing some teeth, some sores. It turned out he was a heroin addict and had come to clean up.

I was making some toast and was carefully keeping my eye on the door. I watch as this fairly good looking guy came in. He was dressed entirely in black. Black combat boots, pants, shirt, and coat. On the back of his coat he had drawn red eyes. They were all over, and were only on the back of the coat.

He sat at my table and looked at me.

"My name is Stephen."

I told him my name.

"You look scared."

I told him I was.

"You don't need to be. This is my 17th trip here, and it is a good place to be. Most people are all right, and no one will hurt you here. The first time I came I thought I was Jesus. Now I am not that bad. I realize now that I am not Jesus."

He told me that he was schizophrenic and had to come in every so often to get sorted out. He told me that he wore clothes that matched the time and weather of the day. At night he wore all black, and during the day all green or white if it snowed. This allowed him to hide.

I asked him what the eyes were for.

"So no one can sneak up on me."

He told me that he was eventually he was going to get an eye tattooed on the back of his head.

During the time there I became pretty good friends with Stephen. As good of friends a manic-depressive and a schizophrenic can be I guess. I was one of the few allowed in his room and share his things. I could tell the days he didn't want to be seen. He walked with his arms tense and big around him. He looked ahead and wouldn't speak. He protected me from what he thought were aggressive patients. He told me of the house he was going to build with false walls. He wanted to be able to hide his wife and children inside if trouble came. (When he first told me I thought he meant he was going to kill his family and put them in the walls, but some careful questioning helped with that.)

I hope he is okay. Whenever I feel bad about being bipolar, I am always grateful for not being schizophrenic. One thing I do envy is his certainty. I wish I could put some eyes on my clothes that could ward off the evil. Maybe being Jesus for a few days would would enlighten me.

I am glad to have met him.

The Sleepover

2006-07-31T15:24:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been completely certain of something? Like on the movies, when the hero knows that he must sacrifice his own life to save others. He walks into the burning building to save his partner knowing that he will not return.

That resolve came over me twice 1998. The first was when I left my first husband. The decicison was hard, but valid, and I do not wish to hurt any family so I will leave it with the knowledge of just being necessary at the time.

The second was a few weeks later. My 2 daughters and I had just moved into our new place. I thought things were going well but I had been misdiagnosed by a psychiatrist. The wrong diagnoses cause what is called rapid cycling, where I would go up and down in mood several times in an hour. The final result of this is going down and staying down. Pretty far down.

I was downstairs with my oldest daughter who was 2 1/2 at the time. I was dressing her and suddenly realized that I could no longer go on. Every morning that I woke up, I viewed it as just another day until I died. I found no more joy in life and the voices whispering in my ear had become convincing. It was my last chance before the voices got their way.

I had planned my suicide before, and I had decided how and when to do it. At that time, I was still with my husband, and I knew that my daughters would be found quickly after. Now we were alone, and I could not rely on someone finding them in time.

As much as I hated it, I called my ex-husband and told him that I needed help. We went to the town doctor and then drove 2 hours into the city to see a psychiatrist there.

I met with him, and it became clear to me that he was just going to give me drugs and send me home. He thought I had support. On the outside, I can for short periods, appear alright. He started to write prescriptions and give instructions. He reached out to shake my hand.

"If you send me home I am going to kill myself."

I had never said the words before, but I needed to save myself for my daughters.

He paused and then picked up the phone.

That is when I started the sleep over. They told me it was 18 days but I don't really remember. My brain stopped working and I have lost a lot of memories before and during that time. I guess it is like when you damage any nerve,the purpose of that nerve needs to be retaught.

The psych ward is like a giant sleepover. We hung out in our pajamas all the time, we did crafts, and told secrets. The girls did each others hair, and the boys played sports. And the drugs flowed.

As I walked in the giant secure doors, I looked up and saw "In-patient psychiatric Ward". It was the lowest moment in my life. They checked me in, and then it was close to supper time. Your first meal they let you eat in your room, easing you into the full extent of where you are and who you have become. I sat on my bed, and ate with tears falling on my tray. I was in the observation room, the one with the windows on the door, so the nurses can check on the most at risk regularly.

That night I slept, thanks to the wonderful sedative dessert I received. About every 15 minutes my door opened and a flashlight shone on me, the nurses checking on my safety.

The terror of morning was overwhelming.

Sick

2006-07-30T16:11:00.000-07:00

I have been sick since for nearly as long as I can remember. Not the 'lets have a Telethon sick'. Not the kind of sick that emotes sympathy or has someone saying that maybe you should take a couple days off of work. I can't take chemotherapy or radiation to rid myself of it, but everyday it eats away at me just like cancer. My sickness is terminal and will kill me if I don't put it into remission. Right now the 1200 mg of lithium I take a day keeps the demons at bay and stops me from pressing hard enough on the knife that some day might hit something vital.

My sickness usually evokes the opposite of a physical illness. I become miserable, intolerable, and drive away my friends and family. Even my husband of 4 years, Paul, becomes tired of it. Without the visible gaping wound, the hairless head, the prosthetic leg, my sickness just becomes an irritant to those around me.

I don't blame them. When out of remission I also hate myself. I don't want to be around me either. I know I am ugly and viscous. I know I am mean, but I am unable to control it, anymore that a diabetic is able to control their blood sugar.

Luckily over time I have begun to see the precursors to falling into the pit. I can feel the sandpaper on my brain and begin the preemptive first aid to healing my mind.

I am tired. I am tired of fighting, and tired of hearing every whisper in my mind telling me I would be better off gone.

I am mostly tired of hurting my family. I am tired of my poor little girls thinking that the flaw is in them.

What terrifies me is I know this disease is heriditary.

What if they turn out like me?

I will take every whisper, every bad day, every thought of suicide, as long as it saves them.