INCARCERATION

Bolted down. Incarcerated.

Eyes open slowly and encircle a dingy room. Faded green colored walls appear sad and everything is bolted; windows, a desk, chairs, and including this bed.

Is it daybreak? A rap on the door abruptly startles me, followed by a female voice stating, “Debbie, breakfast and meds”.

I feel shut-in. My roommate sobbed throughout the night. Next-door neighbors screamed; wailing and pleading for aid. I believe I fell into my slumber around 2:00 am.

This the H-2 Ward. A locked ward. This is also hospital ‘incarceration’, better known as the “psych” hospital.

Meandering to the nurse’s station, waiting unwearyingly in a line-up to ingest a handful of colored pills washed down with a cup of ice water. A cocktail of these supposed healing ‘tablets’ will be administered twice daily.

Recalling last evening, brings a shudder. The Distress Center phone call a mistake, I realize, sharing at length obsessive suicidal feelings. Thoughts dancing in my head are daunting, yet I am obsessed with concocting schemes for my demise. I plead to this crisis counselor to end my life, our chat extends and feelings are overpowering words….I become silent. Nothing else to say, I don’t want to talk, I hang up. Fifteen minutes pass. I am curled in a fetal position on the couch, sobbing, writhing in suicidal pain. Suddenly, a loud thump at the door, I open to the two police officers. A few soft words are exchanged along with questions and I am escorted without incident to their cruiser.

Neighbors, who as a rule don’t walk their dogs, now saunter by the police car, peering in, along with other neighbors peeking through window blinds and curtains. The back seat of this cruiser is larger than I expected, however, I am seated with my mind in a muddle, confused, uncertain of the future yet despising the present.

Both police officers chat quietly in police jargon; I deduce awaiting direction where to take me. Suddenly, a call is received and I am on my way to the hospital. The drive is a speedy drive, yet for me, a lengthy one. A time to reflect… a time to sob…. a time to sit in wonderment. In the back of a cruiser – how can this be? Punishment? I’ve never committed a crime in my life. Will I go before a judge; am I to be sentenced and charged for suicidal ‘thinking’ and selfishly wishing to end my life?

I arrive at the hospital and am tagged a ‘voluntary’ admission, however, placed on the ‘suicide watch’ ward.

In actuality I was calling out for help; frightened. All fuzzy, similar to a television set on an empty channel. Knowingly, I prayed to terminate this life, yet scared stiff to carry out my plans. I only wished out of this soreness of depression. Mental illness is ‘incarceration’ all on its own. Who would desire days in darkness, peering out of the ‘bars’. One feels in jail, tossed into a cold cell awaiting the guard to slam shut the heavy metal door. Lying there frozen, shivering, and alone peering down to shackled ankles. Why do I deserve this?

Back in bed dressed in hospital pj’s, I lay back where my mind begins to drift. Eyes well up with tears. I smiled way back when, had responsibilities, was intelligent and not a piece of nothing. That was 1994, doomsday was to follow, life spiraled downward swiftly and the trudge through black mud depression began.

Incarceration: Day 1. I waste my day perched in front of the lounge television, waiting for the staff psychiatrist to arrive. Typically, he arrives close to dinner time and I am hurried through my visit, clocking a mere 12 minutes. He has little to say, just mumbling that I am to remain on ‘suicide watch’, and removed privileges, therefore no visits outside the hospital until the end of the week. I protest and state that this is unfair, however, this is heard to deaf ears – whatever the pdoc says is the way it will be. This is not new to me and not my first hospitalization.

Three days pass, and the healing ‘tablets’ aren’t taking affect, thus explaining my prolonged ‘incarceration’.

I still dread nighttime. My roommate was moved to another unit, for which I feel relieved, as her weeping throughout the night made me feel powerless. I have adapted to the screaming during the night coming from various other hospital rooms, unable to identify who these patients really are.

Daytime hours are spent in front of the TV. Fellow patients seem as uninterested as I. Occupational therapy is provided, however, I resist. Craft making such as constructing bird houses and gluing fridge magnets do not interest me.

Mealtime seems to bring pleasure to most; however, complaints run rampant as to missing tray items. I learn to live with absent rice pudding or ketchup packets. Yesterday was comical to say the least, as I did not want my crusty roll and offered out it for free. Due to this advertisement, four people dove over the table to fetch this prized bread item.

Doctor’s visits are here and there. Meds have changed slightly, but my mood still remains the same. I am taken off ‘suicide watch’, based on my improved behavior within the ward. The nurses, once again, shine through and are my savior during this stay. This nasty beast called depression is the catalyst in handing me over to the next beast called suicide. I suppose it really wasn’t my time, but at this point, I really don’t want to be saved. I don’t love life, and I don’t feel guilty for feeling suicidal, but I do feel tremendously angry.

Fellow ‘inmates’ are precious people. We have all come together, each one of us to wage war on this illness and share our stories. Chatter is similar, depression or mental illness has affected all of our lives, including our spouses, family and friends. We have lost relationships, careers and so much more. It took us so long to comprehend and come to accept that mental illness is NOT a character ‘flaw’ nor is it our fault. Who would ask to be ill?

A few more days have passed, and I am beginning to see through the clouds. Faith is still lacking though, however I must plod along. I am preparing myself for discharge today, actually grateful in a way, as I was very close to a transfer to another ward, not as obliging as this ward, or so I am told. Although I am peeking through the clouds, the black cloud still hovers overhead, and when it will disappear is anyone’s guess.

Written by: Me

MIGRAINE...Indescribable

Did you know 25% of women and 8% of men suffer from migraine at some time in their lives? There is a well-known association between migraine and affective disorders, but the information is sparse concerning the prevalence of migraine in subgroups of the affective disorders.

~~~~~~~~

I am a statistic.

Lying in bed in a fetal position, my hands grasp a throbbing head. The frozen ice pack from two hours ago has become warm.

The room is in darkness, however, daylight peeks through the sides of the pull-down blinds. This has been my sanctuary for the last three days. Excruciating pain finds me with a headache that is termed a migraine. Walking downstairs and entering the kitchen to trade ice packs from the freezer, I settle in on the living room couch, hoping a change of scenery will loosen the gap of pain in my head. It doesn’t, and I saunter back up to bed.

The headache is spreading to the left side, right side, now on top, now throughout my face.

Horrendous pain. I am “eating” too many non-prescription meds, praying each time that “these ones” will subside the pain. Nausea follows; nothing is effective and it’s impossible to function. Due to allergies, I am unable to ingest certain pain relievers.

Day four and five – no change. In bed mostly, hiding from the world, living in darkness. I am becoming somewhat used to the pain.

I make an enormous decision to visit the hospital ER. Five days with a migraine has taken its toll.

ER - Two hours pass in the waiting room, someone signals me to “Section C”, where a nurse ushers me to a hospital gurney. I am instructed to undress and replace my clothing with a backless blue gown, and wait to be examined. This will be my new bedroom for the next while. Bright, florescent lights irritate me and exacerbate the pain.

An hour passes and a resident finally sees me. He asks my medical history, and many typical questions; when did the pain start, how do you know if it really is a migraine, have you had it before, what meds are you on etc. etc. He then disappears.

I’m obviously not a high priority patient, and I recognize that. Still, the hours tick by at a snail's pace and at last the senior physician enters. Prior, I eavesdrop on the doctors chatting. The senior states: “Perchance a stroke – better check”. Another load of questions, followed by a ‘stroke’ exam, and although in pain I am impressed by their thoroughness.

A nurse is summoned to insert an IV. I caution her of my poor veins. “Ouch”, she is not gentle, and one poke turns into three. I wince in pain but at last the IV is in place. The “anti-pain” meds are entering my system, where with any luck they will toss me into normalcy.

Three hours follow. The first med is unsuccessful; therefore, a second is administered. I glance at the IV. Drip, drip, drip. A further hour passes and for the first time in five days I feel relief. The pain hasn’t entirely vanished, but absent is the throbbing. Hallelujah! I almost feel like dancing!

I am free to leave.

I bear the wounds of my experience shown with black-and-blue arms where the poke for veins took place. Anything is worth reprieve.

Pessimistically, as a classic migraine sufferer I always await the next attack. But, for now I am thankful to be without pain.

Written by: Me

MENTAL ILLNESSES: Affect Spouses, Family & Friends

~~Did you know an estimated 22.1 percent of Americans ages 18 and older – about one in five adults – suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder?

~~Depressive disorder affects approximately 18.8 million American adults, or 9.5 per cent; major depression, 9.9 million adults, and bipolar disorder (manic-depression) about 2.3 million adults.

******

I have Bipolar Disorder. There is BP I, where moods can swing from very low (depression) to very high (mania). My disorder is BPII, meaning I still experience ‘depression’; however, the ‘high’ (mania) is lesser of a degree and therefore named ‘hypomania’.

For a decade, I literally “lived” in and out of hospitals. My husband of 27 years stood by me through these turbulent years. Years of endless hospitalizations, electro-convulsive therapy (shock treatments), suicide attempts and a myriad of medications became a way of life.

My immediate family were always there for me also, always a gentle hand and listening ear.

Friends? They were supportive at first and came in droves to the hospital for visits. But as the years lingered on, they started to dwindle. If this had been cancer or heart disease, would they have been by my side?

I believe it is the stigma attached to mental illness that drives people away.

Are mentally ill people dangerous? No! A family member totally cut ties with my husband and I during the early years of my major depression and hospitalizations, as he thought I was dangerous and feared for his children. At Christmastime, only my husband’s name appears on the Christmas card – my name is excluded.

One family member visited me in hospital and stated I had a “bad case of the nerves”. I hardly had bad nerves – depression was holding on to me.

My husband was very lonely and frustrated during my hospitalizations, as I seemed more ill with each admission. On occasion he said I looked like a person heading towards death. I lacked motivation and my facial expression was tired and drawn.

In a strange way, while I was in hospital, I wished to break free and be home, but when I was home I wanted to go back to hospital. I think they call this conditioning.

What frightened my husband the most during those endless years were the suicide attempts. He felt powerless and angry that the system was letting me down and I was becoming worse. While on passes from the hospital, he never knew what he’d find when returning home from work.

Finally, at a dead end with my psychiatrist of six years, a wonderful psychiatrist who was an authority on bipolar illness rescued me.

Weekly sessions, strong-minded effort and a new combination of medications have literally given me back my life. My doctor has made clear that bipolar disorder is a life-long illness, but can be treated with the correct medication. The secret though is you MUST stay on your medication and avoid alcohol or drug use to stay healthy.

Life is so different now – a complete 360º turn. I am working full-time and gone are the days of black mud depression and hospitalizations. There IS life with mental illness, however, the stigma still remains.

Written by: Me

CAN YOU TELL?

Mental illness is surrounded by a glut of half-truths and untruths. If you tell someone that you've been diagnosed with, for example, bipolar disorder, they are likely to roll their eyes and say, "I don't believe it - you don't look mentally ill...?"

Which brings me to my question: Do I perchance look like I have Bipolar Disorder? I don’t think I do. Am I perhaps making something out of nothing? Self-confidence and self-esteem slid into the basement and remained there for too many years. Trudging through the mud down there, and finally locating some stairs to climb up, rung by rung, I achieved the surface.

To look at me, I hope you'd never guess I'm bipolar and PTSD. There's no sign around my neck, but if you worked with me, for example, you'd soon notice that I'm "different," or a little "odd". For one thing, "I'm somewhat negative at times, having difficult moments following directions and have to write everything down. Sometimes I can’t keep focus, and where other people find new work assignments challenging; I sit in self-doubt and bewilderment. My self-confidence feels in jeopardy each moment. I am the one who takes their performance review to heart. Out of nine rights, one negative is discussed, for which I feel total devastation, berating myself repeatedly. A true perfectionist, at least I try to be, however letting myself down is somewhat of a crucifixion. But, I am your dependable employee, the gleeful one, the one who shows little anger, and the one touted as one of the paramount in customer service. I must apply a mask for the most part.

Although felt as if a hex was put upon me years ago, I feel slightly different now. I’m still bitter about the illness at times, but realizing that THIS is ME.

Written by: Me

SUICIDE: THE TABOO WORD

Suicide: definition…is an act of willfully ending one’s life

~~Males die much more often than females by suicide, while females attempt suicide more often
~~U.S. Caucasians commit suicide more often than African Americans do
~~People commit suicide more often during spring and summer

Suicidal ideation produces the perilous side of mental illness, acting as both a friend and seducer. Even though thoughts of dying encapsulate our mind on one hand, we yearn to remain living on the other. We desire just to feel better.

Depression, best known of all the mental illnesses, is difficult to endure and treat. It renders one feeling hopeless and helpless. Experiencing a sort of wintry solitude, completely immobilized with any light of optimism dimming. It creates emotional and financial fallout, coupled with a horrible emptiness and black death-like existence. Life tastes sour.


Journal entries:

Wednesday 7:30 am

I am seated in my corner by the window again. I like it here, even though it is a hospital room, it allows me to believe in the 'plan'. Should I proceed with the 'plan' today? I’m sort of frightened, yet energized at the same time. Each day that I plan, gets me through the darkness. This hole of depression is certainly swallowing me up and I’m drowning. Effortless tasks take major energy. Heaviness and hollow sadness are with me daily.

I feel geared up. Today is the day. I am positive that this is the answer, why question, why live one more day in this black subsistence. What did I do that was so wrong to deserve this?

Wednesday 11:00 am

My pass is approved. One bus ticket home. One to make it back? Who cares, I’m not returning to the hospital.

The bus ride home is excruciating. Crowded. Countless stops. I am irritated. Finally - home.

Casey greeted me at the door, his tail wagging. I’ve missed him since my admission last month.

I plopped down on the couch, left the coat on and just stared. Stared and stared for what seemed like hours.

It’s time.

Wednesday 2:30 pm

The stash was still in the closet. A whole bunch of pills & colors, mostly white. They are large, small, round, oval - all still in their bottles. I chose the white ones. Seems as if they will be the most effective. With a huge glass of water, I ingested a handful. Difficult to swallow, but they went down.

I returned to the couch and sat and waited for death to come. I feel like I accomplished something today. I’m proud. I am in somewhat of a dreamlike state now, breaking free from the demons of depression, free of the shackles around my ankles.

All of a sudden I feel panicky. Perspiring. What have I done, I am not supposed to experience this. This isn’t in the plan, which was so well thought out. Oh my god, what do I do now. I do not feel sleepy, however, a bit nauseous and my brain muddled. Who should I call? Minutes pass and I am pacing the living room. Ok, 911.

The ambulance arrives. Here I lay on a stretcher. I am berating myself. You are such a loser, can’t even get this right, why did you have to call, back to square one again, you had the chance, you blew it, another disappointment, a huge loser. You planned this for weeks, how everything would be so easy, you are such a cop out, you deserve to be sick. Audrey went through with her plan, you admired her so much for being so brave, you said you wanted to be with her; well you are stuck now among the living. Loser.

Wednesday 6:00 pm

So, the plan was a failure. Ingested a huge quantity of charcoal, which felt like black paint going down. Terrible stuff, spreads between your teeth. They said this is to prevent the meds from doing damage. Most people vomit, but not I.

And here I sit once again, in my corner, in the hospital, in my depressive darkness.

~~~
Imagine blaming oneself for having an illness. Imagine having to apologize for having an illness. That is the cruelty of depression.

Fortunately, there are effectual prescription medications on the market to treat depression. It is imperative to stay on your medication to remain well. A knowledgeable, attentive psychiatrist is also key in recovery.

Written by: Me

IS THERE A PSYCHIATRIST IN THE HOUSE????

I have been living within the mental health system since early 1994, and diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder (manic depression) in 1995. Bipolar is characterized by mood swings, sometimes swinging drastically into a deep, deep depression or upwards into mania. Psychiatrists are key to dealing with mental illness, for without their monitoring of medications and in-patient/out-patient counseling, the illness can lead to an unmanageable life. Living with mental illness at the best of times is difficult, however, untreated BP disorder can only lead to a life sentence of “jail time” filled with black, endless depressive days or mood swings upward, and out of control.

My most memorable experience was changing psychiatrists in the mid stages of my dark depression. Getting nowhere with my present psychiatrist, whose patient load was incredible and monthly appointments lasting a mere 6 minutes, I went on the search for a new doctor. I questioned many of the mental health staff at the hospital if they knew of a doctor accepting new patients, however, NO was the answer from all. So I went on the hunt on my own, starting with the Yellow Pages. Phoning doctors on my long list proved futile, until I thought I hit the jackpot with a Dr. H. He was accepting new patients. Bells should have gone off in my head – why was he accepting new patients when no one else was? I was to find out why…

Visit #1 – I was geared up and in fact excited about a new start. I craved only the attention it would take to repair the damage that depression had left me with and bounce me back onto the road to recovery.

Only a half-hour appointment for the initial assessment, Dr. H introduced himself, shook my hand and offered me a chair. He was a larger sized man sporting a white shirt and wool-patterned vest. My eyes encircled his mid-sized office, noting the tall bookcase over-flowing with mostly thick books, and on top of it, a poor spider plant on its last legs crying out for water. His desktop also made room for additional books, but I sat in wonderment at the heaps of files. Were all of these patient files permanently living there for impressive purposes or did this man lack bad office filing skills? I hoped the latter.

Atop his desk sat four green ceramic turtles each the size of a small onion. I welcomed these as I felt nervous and they proved somehow to have a soothing effect. He made himself comfortable in his brown leather chair, asked many questions, and made no notes but was quick to mention how he and my former doctor had studied together. This gave me a chill. Was this a positive or negative thing? Before long the appointment was ending and I had to return the four turtles to his desk. “Next week, we’ll resume our discussion”, he stated.

I felt as if I had achieved nothing really, just a change of doctors, and he was not the breath of fresh air that I was so much hoping for.

Visit #2 – This appointment went without incident and I felt I accomplished nothing once again. The four turtles helped, but I was raw with emotion from the depression. Living with crying spells and walking the tightrope of deep suicidal thoughts all week, I was hungry for some concrete advice.

Dr. H. seemed uninterested in my depression woes, offering the same advice as my previous psychiatrist and adjusting my medications slightly. He spoke slowly and softly and I had to lean forward to understand what exactly he was saying. I left the office perplexed, asking myself is it the doctor or me? The appointment, an hour this time, concluded right to the second.

Visit #3 – Another week passed and depression was holding on to me. Dr. H. asked me how my week was and I started to recount the relentless days of depression. Holding dearly on to the turtles, I glanced across the desk and startled by what I saw - Dr. H. was napping! Fast asleep, slumped over in his brown leather chair, and here I am the patient asking myself what my next move should be. Do I: A) call the secretary, B) nudge him awake, C) escape while the going is good? Suddenly, Dr. H awakens from his slumber, glances at the clock and states, “we must close for today”.

To conclude this waste-of-time appointment, I receive such an uninspiring statement while exiting the office. Dr. H. asks me “did you know that your eyes are large – you should have that looked into”. Huh? My eyes? I have enough problems right now with mental health issues; I hardly wish to look into a possible eye deformity. I know that my eyes are ‘big’, but hey, I’m no Marty Feldman!

So right then and there it was adios to Dr. H. Perhaps the reason why was accepting new patients was due to his slumber problems with former patients.

I never called or returned to confront Dr. H, and he never followed-up with me. It was a strange relationship, seemed like a movie of sorts.

Unfortunately, but fortunately my previous psychiatrist accepted me back. Once again I was met with six-minute appointments on a monthly basis and ineffective medications.

Shuffled from the mental health unit at the medical hospital, to home, to psychiatrist office, to mental institution, the years dragged by and my condition sustained a downward spiral. I prayed for death so many times. Who would desire a black death-like life, living each day weighed down by mental illness?

Throughout the next few years, I met with several other psychiatrists. Some were helpful; most seemed exhausted by my resistance to their treatment. I felt as if I was to blame for this illness, but would soon shake my head and come back to reality thinking, “Why would someone wish themselves an illness?” Just when all hope was lost and I had conceded to the fact that the illness had won, and every hope for the future was lost, a new psychiatrist entered my life.

During one of my many hospital admissions, my outpatient psychiatrist was on holidays, and another filling in. I was not optimistic, walking down this path before with negative results.

Scratching my head after this psychiatrist’s first visit, I was left bewildered by the preliminary consultation. Dr. J. in fact took 1½ hours to interview me, seemingly puzzled by my ongoing years straddled with untreatable bipolar disorder. I was to learn he was an expert in treating BP, and throughout my stay visited and planned a new strategy of medications right for me. I remained in hospital for another week, and during my stay requested if Dr. J. would see me as an out-patient when discharged. Although I was informed of his heavy patient load, he agreed, and as they say “I never looked back”.

It’s been over three years under Dr. J’s care. Medications are working successfully and I exist with an almost “even” mood. I still experience mood swings, but they hardly compare with the drastic swings experienced years ago. Hard work and determination have paid off, but one cannot achieve such determination when life is dealing you a black hand and nothing is working in your favor. Easy for people to say “pick yourself up, don’t always think negative, and quit complaining”. Hmmm…I used to want to reply, “If I could, I would”.

Standing in our way though, of course, is stigma. An unpleasant word, but it sits in our society almost like a hex over individuals with mental illness.

After years spent in hospitals, mental institutions, existing on disability and living under a veil of blackness, I am on the road to good heath and currently employed full-time. Earning a wage again and actually achieving goals is a true feat. Twelve years were lost, but a bright future is finally ahead.

I did not write this article to paint a negative tone about the doctors of psychiatry. I can’t stress enough, however, that they are our ‘life line’ to mental health wellness.

Written by: Me

WALKING ON THE EDGE...OF BIPOLAR

I describe BIPOLAR as a house with three levels. There is the upstairs (mania), main floor (even mood) and of course the basement where the shackles of (depression) are clasped around your ankles. I seem to wind up in the basement much more often than upstairs. I was diagnosed with Bipolar in 1995.


Mania

Why is this mood of mania so good to be true?

How can a human being gather such joy, such stamina, such exuberance, such astuteness over a short period of time?

I didn’t plan on buying a car, but purchased one today. Travelled from car lot to car lot and at last found the one for me. It’s brand, spanking new with all of the features. I’m unsure how much I paid for it – I’ll fret about that afterward.

Had an appointment with my psychiatrist today. He said I’m cycling too high, too fast and will hit pavement if this is not taken care of. I was given another appointment for the end of the week, handed some medication, but tossed the meds away – I want to fly, no, soar as high as I can go. I refuse to give this rejoicing up.

Visited the bar tonight. Made lots of “friends”. They said they have never seen someone so “up”. One problem though, I prefer to talk, than listen. I was on top tonight and even bought a few rounds of drinks and plenty for me too. I really entertained them. Top notch. I’m proud.

Suddenly, the urge is there to shop. Shopped ‘til I dropped at Walmart and spent, spent, spent on miscellaneous items. The excitement was there big time.

Days pass. I can’t sleep, but who cares, who wants to sleep? I don’t, and miss this wonderful world? The pacing though, I can’t stop. I sit down – get up. Repeat. Repeat. Is this madness? I don’t want to be ‘normal’, I prefer the sweet taste of ‘high’.

Time passes by. I’m slowing down, and begin to spiral downwards. I’m crashing. I’ve hit cement.

I’m in blackness – in the basement.

***************
Depression

Dreaming. In calm waters. I’m sitting in my dinghy cross-legged, floating. The sea and sky are black.

I awaken. Black. Black is black. The room is black, but it must be morning. I’m all mixed up. I thought I heard the food trays arrive. I sneak a quick look out my room, and yes it is morning, but the halls too look black. All I sense is dread. Am I in a dream world? I shuffle back to bed.

I recollect particular events, my hospital admission for one. My family expressed they had no alternative, I was incoherent, seated in my rocking chair, rocking back and forth, back and forth, tightly wrapped in my orange and lime green crocheted afghan. I hadn’t called anyone for days, nor answered the telephone. They were apprehensive upon entering the house. Phew! I was alive they said.

Unable to actually climb out of bed now, I am encased in stone. My heart is thumping so I must be alive, but this dreadful veil covers me like death. I feel chilly. Suicidal thoughts dance in my head. Is this punishment for my ‘high’? Life is unfair.


The Learning Curve

Treated with anti-depressants, I was able to recover from my bottomless depressive state.

There were times when I totally wished to toss in the cards, so to speak and admit defeat. Take me, enough of this garbage. What did I do that was so immoral to be selected and handed this illness?

This is not my initial time ‘high’ and believed I was in a position to stop taking medication. What was the point? I felt incredible. When you’ve hit bottom one still doesn’t realize why hell has welcomed him. But, you’re given a kick and memory surfaces. The fog clears and you recall abusing alcohol and refusal of prescribed medication. This spells disaster for persons with mental illness.

Conclusion

I am working diligently now to surface and achieve an ‘even mood’. It requires enormous effort. Back on medication, faithfully ingesting the prescribed dosages, I am told it will take some time to get back on my feet.

In retrospect, obviously I made some irresponsible choices, but while manic your thoughts and judgment are impaired. It’s unproblematic to scale to the peak of the mountain, but plummeting and sitting in the dungeon is excruciating.

Written by: Me