mental illness

February 12, 2025

Notes From the “Other Side”

Well… Yesterday was sure “fun!”

I ended up leaving work early for a mental health break. I cloistered myself on my BF’s couch, pillow over my head, and listened to the muffled dialogue of Golden Girls while trying to sleep. As time wore on I started to feel better and was at least able to have a normal conversation that wasn’t laced with conspiracy theory or paranoia. It’s weird being an observer within my own mind. Sometimes the crazy person gets control and I just have to watch as all of this plays out, completely out of my control. (Sound vaguely familiar? Oh, the irony.)

At least I have my self-awareness to keep me humble. That was a gift my husband gave me. He asked me so many questions about my feelings and thoughts that it triggered this process in my brain. The only downside is that I question everything I do. Which is fine… as long as it doesn’t keep me from living life. This level of self-awareness can be crippling.

But… so can mania.

Luckily I have two people in my life that can act like Charlie. The BF even told me he started talking to him yesterday morning asking him what to do. That was really touching. Even if it was regarding my “episode.”

What stood out to me were two things that happened before and after this manic episode.

After I had already gone to the bank to get out money (Y’know… for when banking collapses because the government coup has already happened) I woke up my brother and told him how I thought I was having a psychotic episode. Right then, the Woody doll I have propped up next to my husband’s urn (and is a representation of him) talked of it’s own volition. In my mania I thought it was Charlie agreeing with me but I think it was him saying “calm down, dear.”

Then last night I dreamed of him, which hasn’t happened since he passed away. Tony has had more than a fair share, but his tend to be Charlie without his wheelchair and mine was him in it. So, I wonder if he doesn’t visit me because I put him in it… Anyway! In my dream, he and Tony were returning from a long road trip and I was so excited to see him that I ran to him and covered his face in kisses to annoy him.

It was wonderful… even if some parts of it were also stressful and totally unrelated to Charlie. I enjoyed having him back for a little bit. However brief it was.

Today is 10 months since he left. I thought it was 9 but I did my math wrong… as usual. In both instances, it feels like it was just yesterday and at the same time like it happened ages ago. Regardless my want of him has not diminished. In fact, it has just grown.

September 12, 2019

Midnight Terror

These trials of error with my mother living “on her own” are proving my initial response to be the only course of action.

That past few days she’s missed her anti-psychotic pill. Either it gets caught in the crook of her finger and she misses it, or she’s deliberately not taking it. I don’t believe it is the second because she’s very good when given instruction. Regardless, it has brought back some of the hallucinations.

The woman we hired to intermittently care for my mother throughout the day informed me this morning that my mother told her that she awoke to a man standing in the room and a disembodied female voice telling her “he’s not supposed to be here.” This little episode holds true to a video I previously viewed last night.

After Jessica (the caretaker) spoke to me on the phone about the missed medications, I went back through the recordings to see if she had woken up at any odd hours, which indeed did happen. I noticed that she had awoken at a quarter to one, and when I viewed it I saw my mother panicked, rushing from the bathroom whispering “oh, god. Oh, god.” She hurriedly climbed into bed and wrapped the blanket around her. The video ends there. So I don’t know what else had occurred after until the next video showed my mother moving in her room at 3:30 that same morning. Upon reviewing those I just saw her organizing the things in her bedroom, which she tends to do during a manic episode.

There was only one video from last night where she awoke, again, around 3 A.M. In it she is standing at the edge of her bed looking around at what seems to be an unfamiliar place. There is panic etched into her ghostly white face. Again, the video stops recording before I see what she does next. However I can only conclude she got back into bed because the next video recording isn’t until 6 A.M.

All of this could be remedied by getting her into an assisted care facility. I haven’t broached that subject with her (even still) because she is adamant, without hearing the term “facility” or “home,” that she wants to be at her house. And I understand that. She wants familiarity during a time when she’s lost the man she spent 24/7 with while simultaneously navigating losing her identity. I want to give her what she wants but… At what cost? Either I pay an insane amount of money for her to share a room in an unfamiliar place, which would cause terror, or continue on this current path and have her terrified there.

Every day I curse “god” and life for laying this bullshit at my feet. I am caught between what should happen and what my mother wants. I want her to be happy, but in the end nothing seems to make her happy. The one thing I dread doing is moving the husband, the K-9 brood, and myself into the house. That I absolutely refuse to fucking do. I keep telling myself “I want to live in MY house,” but isn’t my mother saying the same thing?

December 5, 2018

Writing Through the Depression

Writing has always been my outlet, ever since I was a kid. Primarily because I am (what I have been described as) a very cerebral person. Living in my head is a dark and dangerous place and putting it into written words always gives me some sense of peace I could otherwise not find elsewhere. I typically don’t speak my thoughts because they are random and I easily get lost trying to find the right word, especially if I am speaking to someone (I talk a lot to myself). I have discovered that most take what I say as gospel and that is not how my mind works. I’m constantly working things out. Which is why I choose writing more than anything else.

The only problem with my writing is that it gets me into trouble sometimes. I always assume whatever I write on my blogs will be lost to the depths of the internet, but sometimes it finds its way into the hands of others. It’s irritating but the nature of the beast, and more often than not it doesn’t ever get discovered. I find that comical for a few reasons but the number one being I have shared my site with others in the past but no one can be bothered to ever look. Unless of course they’re mentioned in the thing and then all of a sudden it’s a hot commodity. Otherwise no one gives two shits. It’s like inviting a friend to the play you’re in, or the stand-up show you’re doing at the local open mic, or if you’re performing anywhere. People can’t be bothered. In my younger days I would let it bother me, but now I just shrug and realize that’s the gamble no matter what.

Yesterday I was feeling way down. I got to the point that I wanted to isolate from my entire life. I liken it to “running away.” The very thought of just leaving everything behind and hitting the open road crossed my mind but unless I’m carrying cash that isn’t going to happen. Plus, how would my sudden disappearance affect those in my life? It’s always that thought that keeps me grounded.  It’s hard pushing against the current of my depression but I know I have to make an effort or suffer the consequences of severe depression.

Last night I returned to my “finished” novel to restart the process of editing. For once in a great long while I did not get upset. When I found myself spinning my wheels, I told myself to just start back at the beginning and re-read again. It was nice. Then whenever the voice of my inner critic attempted to creep in, I ignored it and thought “I can do this.” Even this morning I told myself (as I doubted my efforts) that I am just out of practice. To get to a better place I have to keep trying. It’s like that lawn mower that’s been sitting in the garage for months. It takes a couple pulls to get it going, and even when you do get it started you have to let it run for a bit to get it to where it’s able to do the job it was designed to do.

For my own sanity I am not going to make any grand pronouncements of finishing my novel by a certain time-frame or even at all. It always ends in misery and self-loathing. Instead what I will do is feel proud that I got to the task and am content with the results.