#Let’s get you some seroquel girl on god

[jonahmagnus]

This is so fucking funny. Like do you think he wrote this himself

[carriecutforth]

The Shit

Tumblr is telling me to go ahead, put anything...so here it goes

I haven't been public about this for reasons that will be apparent but gonna start this with all the trigger warnings. I'm writing it here cause I can't talk to the majority of people about it cause most people can't even grasp, and then questions start, putting me in the situation of feeling like my GIANT SWEATER of trauma is being unraveled answering questions that lead to more questions and gah PLEASE DO NOT RETUMBL-- I just need to scream in the void This is the shit: On the day my sister-in-law's mother died she had to call form-1 my baby brother because his psychosis (undiagnosed mental illness which I will get to) was terrorizing their family (three small kids). My mother WHO IS SCHIZOPHRENIC had him released into her and my ANTI-VAXXER ANTI-MASKER narcissist father's care, but NOT before they found out, incidentally due to the FORM 1, he is ALSO really sick with leukemia. I only found out because I decided to dip into the special folder for emails called MOM that I try to avoid reading as long as they can FOR REASONS. But I felt for some reason an urge to, and then I had to try to parse out what had happened from her ramblings that are A LOT. Then I had to confirm with my poor sil who is at her wits end and was in no position to tell me herself. My dad stopped talking to me back in November when I called him for his anti-vax rhetoric as being EUGENICS when he told me it is just the flu and only killing old people and the disabled. I reminded him I've been immuno-compromised my whole life (he KNOWS this) and got chronic fatigue after a flu in late 2016 (he knows this), and did he not care if I DIED? (apparently not) But I was like lol, fine, don't talk to me anymore. Die mad about it for all I care. A lot of people are like: 'oh, that's tough, losing a relationship with your father' and I'm like YOLO (it really isn't if you knew him). SO THEN I have to reach out to my dad: "Why isn't my brother in the hospital being treated by medical professionals for YOU KNOW, HIS LEUKEMIA." My dad responded that the doctors were JUST GOING TO PUMP HIM FULL OF DRUGS! And that HE is treating my brother's leukemia with I dunno baking soda (he told me before it is a cure for cancer). THEN HE GOES RADIO SILENT. I have no idea where my brother is cause they got him an apartment somewhere in Toronto. *though I do have a Machiavellian plan to try to find out. The reason my brother has untreated psychosis is that even though I've begged my parents since he was a TEEN to get him diagnosed, they refused. It's like they have the opposite of Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy in that their ABLEISM is soooo bad they refuse to see he has been very sick, and even if he was really sick, 'doctors are stupid' <--quoting my dad. This is the backstory. My dad was always on the road for his job. My mom had my baby brother AGAINST all wishes of her doctor to ever get pregnant again. I'm not talking aborting, she got PREGNANT on purpose again to SERVE GOD'S GREATER PURPOSE even though it might kill her and said future fetus. So he was born with a lot of issues because of the very bad pregnancy's complications on TOP of the very hereditary bipolar/schizophrenia, AND everything else we got going on besides. After he was born, my mom went into a very deep depression for years and then would vacillate between that and mania. Which meant me: THE ELEVEN year old was forced to raise a baby that wasn't hers and had no ultimate authority over. I was called by everyone his *BROTHER'S NAME* SECOND MOM. *More on this later Our relationship is very strained because of this, particularly when at 17 I had enough momming a child while being constantly undermined by my parents absolute shenanigans. So there was resentment when I quit being his 'second mom' and that he equally resented for things like, trying to put him into bed, when my mom would come in and say let him stay up all night or getting him to eat something other than candy for breakfast (you can guess the dynamic with my parents here). Even if my disabled ass could sue my parents for his

care, he doesn't WANT me to be in charge of his care.

And yet still, I tried to advocate for him for years fighting my parents TOOTH and NAIL to get him on disability and out from underneath their thumb so he could have a measure of independence and autonomy. They had every excuse in the book not to get him diagnosed including expense. It was so goddamned awful fighting with them on this cause in their mind: he was going to live with either them or me forever (they decided this for me and my ex-husband and kids with no consultation), so WHY bother set up his future for him??? So when he was 20?, I hatched a Machiavellian PLAN: I got him, against my parent's wishes, into college for the sole reason of getting the resources for him to get diagnosed so that he could get on disability. AND IT WORKED! (kinda) Except my parents twisted him so much into only talking about his autism spectrum symptoms and NONE of the psychosis because their ableism is sooooo entrenched. (but I did manage to get him on ODSP). And subsequent times I forced my dad to take him to a psychiatrist, he's like: 'oh, I forgot to talk about the psychosis we just talked about the aspergers. Besides people with psychosis are untreatable, you can't convince them otherwise' (see again, my mom). Over the years, I have begged my dad to take my brother to get properly diagnosed and treated (I'm not meaning forced, my brother is also agoraphobic, and won't leave his place UNLESS he is driven by my dad and was living in a city far away from me). I said, I was very concerned for his kids but my dad always gaslights me (and tells everyone I'm crazy -- the IRONY). So now my mom is writing me emails about how this is all my sil's fault because 'she is on drugs' (she is not), 'she is sleeping around' (she is not), 'her kids are scared of her not my brother' (it's the exact opposite). WHICH IS A HUGE TRIGGER FOR ME because She did the exact same thing to ME with my other brother (a diagnosed PSYCHOPATH) who used to beat me and the rest of us mercilessly when my parents weren't around (and they never believed me, and told everyone not to believe me because I was crazy), who pulled a KNIFE on me and threw a drawer at me when I was NINE MONTHS PREGNANT, and how absolutely awful I was AS HIS SISTER to kick him out of my house with no place to live or go (cause he was living with me and my ex-husband at the time because THEY KICKED HIM OUT OF THEIR PLACE and didn't want him back.) Are you beginning to get a sense of the dynamic of my family? Soooooooo the last few weeks my brain has just been in total trauma mode going processing, processing, processing, processing as the final total realization of how absolutely awful my family is finally laid bare (I mean I knew but at least I can stop feeling guilty about cutting them out of my life). So back to the 'second mom' shit, as relevant to my trauma brain processing the last few weeks. This whole shit above is just the tip of the iceberg. I was raised as a Joho in which a lot of my trauma comes from a pedophile left loose on three generations of girls in my family over a thirty year period, and if anyone came forward they were threatened with disfellowshipment and there is SO MUCH there it would take me several Tolkien novels to get how absolutely awful, extensive it was, and how the coverup went straight to the top. ANYHOO. So who was calling me my brother's 'second mom???' Well since, I wasn't allowed to have any association with non-witnesses, it was my congregation. No one questioned that I was being parentified and it was a deeply abusive situation. NO WHAT HAPPENED instead was, this sister in the congregation told everyone (when I was fifteen and 80 pounds soaking wet at the height of 5'10 1/2) that my brother WAS REALLY MY CHILD cause it was so obvious the way that I was the one who took care of him. And the elders of our congregation MARKED me as bad association for loose morals for having a supposed child out of wedlock when I was ELEVEN YEARS OLD. AND NO ONE in my congregation would talk to me, and I had NO IDEA why, cause they never told me that I HAD BEEN

MARKED. But the caveat was I was not allowed to talk to people outside of the faith. And we only found out about this a year an a half later when she said the same shit back in my hometown where he was born to a sister who was at the hospital where my brother was born. AND NO ONE thought, hey: maybe if we think she had a baby when she was eleven we should um CALL CHILD SERVICES or some shit? So i was like 16 1/2, not allowed to have any friends OUTSIDE OF MY PARENTS, find out THIS SHIT, and then people wonder why I had my first manic episode at 17??? Yeah, so this is where my brain has been stuck the last month, complicated that I knew I would be at risk for hypomania with things opening back up, and I'm supposed to be shooting a pilot for a potential series I'm the creator/co-shorunner of, so now I've had to go BACK on seroquel and it's the worst while i try to acclimatize myself to the drugs and stave off hypomania at the same time. WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!

[theoraclehealer]

Jung, mysticism and psychopomp signature.

Sept 28, 2017

chiron and carl jung

and the zodiac signs

taurus has to ascend. what does that even mean, right?

as i sat with this, i imagined somehow seeing a taurus - bull - rise up into the air and go up the heavens. I’m clueless.

so i sat with this some more and thought about the introvert, as she seems to be in need of the most help here.

there always comes a time when i have these breathing episodes and everything runs amok.

for example:

ok, how bad is this?

how bad will this be?

and then i have to sit with it and see if i reach a point where it will just stop or carry on for a bit longer. this morning’s episode was awful (i still blame the seroquel). there are many tricks that i will try - reasoning my way through it, sounds, rescue remedy, coffee, water, contemplation, whatever … but then ill even try talking to myself but out loud, pretending someone is there with me.

focus has been a BIG theme here … but now I’m realizing that its actually human connection.

so ill talk out loud and see if that works.

but this morning was difficult - it changed a lot but was also more stubborn until i started to realize just how bad this sheer terror is that i have around death.

i contemplated a couple of times whether or not i wanted to call 9/11 but that proved to be problematic for a few reasons - one namely, i was home alone and was stuck upstairs so i couldn’t really go all the way down stairs and then upstairs and then change my clothes, find my shoes, make sure the dogs were okay, etc.

but in my mind, it was clear to me that i just wanted someone around and sadly, other than my mom, EMS workers are my only shot. 

how difficult is it to heal from all of this … on my own?

narcissistic abuse … emotional deficits all over the place … sheer terror … profound rejection 

and yet no one to look to in the eye.

no one to “pull you out of it” when you need it the most. 

so it could be that the introvert would have gotten hurt at any time because in the end, she’s the traumatized one. and now in order to get taurus to ascend, i have to find her and tell her it’s okay … but ask me if i believe that it will be?

theres a chakra component here though and as i started to type this, i felt the shift in my lower chakras rise. i saw a red/pink light in the distance.

i have lost the passion for life and living. because my life was taken from me. all of it. blindsided and then burned. you wake up and its ALL gone because YOU understand the gravity of the disaster that you will now have to face, its a sense of knowing. 

the people around me are tired to me.

i was in love with something before. it wasn’t a man but it was … the air. the moon. the sun. and the stars. 

isn’t it great? she thought. 

and now the world around HER this time, not God … has grown dark. 

its take a great amount of effort to get out of the house.

because i generally don’t care.

whats in it for me?

so i drifted off to the left, to look around and think.

i realized the contemplative aspect of me has also severely suffered. another I in NFP.

but it was then that i realized who she was and we reconnected.

morissey’s - how soon is now? ran through my head.

then out of the corner of my eye, i could see my phone lighting up but it wasn’t a notification - it was red, orange and yellow - and i heard “its a bird” and by the flames that encompassed this image, i could tell it was the phoenix. i smiled.

my left arm said “i want my life back”

and was happy for about a few seconds but then stopped because … life.

the magic doesn’t uplift me anymore.

i want to be concrete for a time and see that life can be mine again. but i feel like i am owed something … from someone and yet all avenues are shut.

chiron told me i had a job to do.

isn’t that always the case?

even if i found $50,000 and i moved out … my health is still bad. the nebulizer is the bane of my existence.

i have gone through so many phases where i THINK I’m going to ween myself off of it and then there’s a kick back … of something i don’t understand … but last time, i blame the sleep study. and again, even as smart as i am and as intuitive as i am … with my history, someone should have stepped in and said “no way … lets talk this out instead because you matter”.

everything comes … after the fact.

even the help.

—————

things worth mentioning bc it gets so sticky throughout the day - i have been having upper back pain and have had to lay on the floor and hearing some pops around my neck but the pain is around c4. i suspect the seroquel relaxed things TOO much and through this nerve into a mess. laying down doesn’t help but sleeping in the chair is causing numbness and tingling in my hands again. I’m getting pain in my infraspinatus - both sides. this can be the only thing that i can think of that causes weird and sudden attacks, randomly.

the episodes take forever to resolve. and the pain at SI9 gets worse when i have these episodes ... very local and sharp pain.

something else to note, i don’t know the stages in which the healing happens ... with the vertebrae ... passions and love ... C4 ... insane heartbreak and emotional neglect and lack of emotional support.

and then things calm down, after i get so angry because of the physical damage/repair thats STILL happening ... and you realize just how  many layers you have to build UP and not work through ... to get to the emotional body ... and where intuition comes from as you’re doing acupuncture on a client and you see a blue/purple small round light appear on your left pointer finger and you hear “john lennon” is your intuitive guider of principles long forgotten like “love is all you need” because love makes you feel like you can overcome ANY of your demons. Victor said that when we were talking last year, that he felt more stable.

——

hindsight is 20-20 right?

Elizabeth Thorson told me that unless i get grounded, I’m not going to know what work I’ve done will stick.

That was …. about 8 months ago and THIS is how long its taking me … after her esteemed shamans all failed.

“love is all you need”

———————-

so at the end of the day, this has not been an uplifting journey. and i have a new definition of “enlightenment”.

but I just did a search online for remedies for herniated discs and came across st johns wort oil and elderberry.

i had been told by “myself” that i didn’t need the elderberry anymore.

funny enough, muscle pain and tension has been an issue ever since … and thats exactly what one website said it helps with. 

pisces sabotage. 

and where has the help from the other dimensions been for this?

and whats a firefly? and why was it getting in my way today?

this is all going to end up wrapping up and i have no say in anything. it has to happen and i don’t want to stay like this but there is no book or teacher that i have here on earth to reassure me that things are indeed winding down.

my entire life has been trauma. and many things happen suddenly. my death happened suddenly and has been MORE trauma.

I’m running into problems talking to some clients about things like … their grief bc instinctually, i pull from experience and can only be as “fake” honest as i can be, knowing they’re not going through what I’m going through. 

but when the extra energy and interference is gone, what work is left for me to do? how quiet will life be? will it be a rough transition? and how much longer will i be alone? my mouth keeps saying … as if being fed words from the left … but think of how fruitful your life is going to be! and i go … prove it.

——

and as i try to just sit with what i just wrote, i also sit with one of my other selves who seems to be championing me … trying to tell me that she’s going to help me take melatonin tomorrow … and if she’s not here, to take it at 9pm.

THIS alone triggers my biggest fear but i should be allowed to …. SIT.

my eyes go to the keyboard … “christine’s biggest fear is coming up! meows!”

and now i have that on my mind … unless i just keep typing. 

but is the electricity too much for me today?

FUCK.

spiritual awakening or spirit murder? this journey has been horrible. 

————

lets talk. 

so you’re all full of shit.

I’ve been astral traveling day in and day out to heal … myself.

taoist astral gods of healing. 

i can call on whomever i need in a pinch.

but i “step outside” of myself to try and gain a different perspective right?

but she sees things i cannot.

i just wish there was more information because then i would have been more willing … and just allowed it to happen with an understanding. 

theres other things going on that i am “feeling” out … and i suspect MY spirits are the ones swirling around, swiping shit away. 

i started to become more and more suspicious of “the spirits reside within” … until you derail in the most horrifying way possible and they have to step in and do the work.

“we want our girl back!!!”   - said to Petra who didn’t spend any time in exploring this with me. i dissociated but i didn’t black out. i heard the whole thing. she just watched …. and probably thought “ohhhh a case study … how freudian”

so who’s in my eyes?

I’ve already suspected a few things here … but i get the shen, liver, gall bladder and the bladder and the eyes. 

i get that the shen scatter with trauma but something is a-miss.

——

earlier today, twice at least, i thought of arielle and her death. she died in her sleep. and i had been talking to a client about this tonight and said that we all have these experiences, day in and day out and while its not easy (she was struggling with losing her friend recently), its better to allow yourself the time to process it. i had shared with her the complications of dealing with my own death and coma, along with dealing and processing arielle’s. she died in her sleep and i fear dying in my sleep … and its two-fold because i now have a coma to contend with. its hard to figure this one out as its a lot of imagery more so than words attached to a feeling … and this could be the curse of an empath.

she was so young. when she initially came through, whether it was her or not, i was feeling something different towards her than others … i was shut down a bit and well, on some level, feeling at one with her. 

“hey - hows it going - this shit is nuts right?”

“I’m sorry you’re dead, arielle.”

you’re DEAD.

[her-eyes-looked-so-sad]

Denver had a purpose (long post)

I was sitting there getting so much work done, agitated as hell but thinking smugly to myself about how here I am in Denver being productive™️ and doing stuff for my clients like ooooo all my shit is together therefore I can sweep my problem under the rug. Except I realized that no matter how much work I was doing, no matter how on top on my schedule and press releases and clients and pitches and research I was: none of it meant a damn thing.

That’s not to say that my work doesn’t matter. It’s just with the realization that a dying girl achieving her goals is pretty fucking meaningless if I’m dying. And with that, I closed my laptop and began walking the very well known path between the Lowry Starbucks and ERC. I was scared. I felt stupid. How crazy would I look? As I trudged closer, I sped up. Tears streaming down my face, my body literally pulling everything it could until it got right in front of the building. Am I really here? Am I really about to just fucking show up at ERC and ask to talk to someone? I guess so.

I went into the foyer area and started taking pictures to prove to myself later that this wasn’t some kind of fucking seroquel and vodka infused dream sequence. I said “My name’s Rachel Patterson, I’ve been here before, and I need to talk to someone please.”

I’m fucking crying, trying to not become hysterical. Front desk lady kindly says “Ok sweetie, are you admitting today?”

“No, I’m sorry I know this is random but I just want to talk to someone. Anyone, please.”

I try thinking of Dr McGuire’s name. “I know it, I know who she is. I remember, I promise...it’s her!”

Wouldn’t you know, Dr. McGuire herself comes out of those double doors. There was a fire drill so lots of staff swirling around. I hear Cindy’s voice. I miss Cindy so much.

“What’s going on?” She asks, kindly.

I explain that I’m here on a layover at the tail end of spring break. “I just needed to see someone here, anyone, and be able to look at them and say that I am completely miserable. Every single day, my eating disorder makes me completely miserable and I am so sorry.” Crying. So much crying. She honestly looks scared and quickly says that she’ll be back. I sit down in one of the chairs and Rendy walks by and opens the door. I’m too ashamed to speak up but out of the corner of my eye I see him basically stop in his tracks, turn around, and look at me. Half like “what the hell is Rachel doing here” and also “holy fuck Rachel is in a bad spot”

Dr. McGuire comes back out with Caitlyn the dietitian. I like Caitlyn but she’s a dietitian therefore not who I was expecting. Both of them look fucking scared. Oh no what if I freaked them out by having a complete mental breakdown in the foyer of their treatment center? Both of them hug me at this point. I’m completely at my wits end, crying because Im so desperate and laughing because I am so happy to finally see people from ERC. “Ohmygod Caitlyn I never did anything you told me and I am so sorry that I never listened!!!!” We all kinda laugh. I always fight with the dietitians, I never learn, and I always wind up crying my eyes out saying “I’ll listen this time I promise”.

It was a quick meeting, and I don’t remember everything exactly but they were saying that it sounded like I needed to be admitted and that they could get me a bed in a couple days if I chose to stay in Denver.

“Oh but I have school and internships and work and I can’t leave, I can’t abandon it” I cry.

“Rachel we are always here to help you and it sounds like you really need help and we’re worried. I don’t know exactly what’s going on with your labs or EKGs but it sounds like you need help now” (insert incoherent rambling about how I tricked the doctor and I hated lying and being urged to see a medical doctor soon)

“Rachel. We can help you now. We can admit you if you want.”

I broke down. It felt like everything in me was finally broken into a million pieces. All the acting like I’m fine or it’s no big deal or whatever was gone. I almost said yes. I wanted so badly to say yes. To call my Dad and everyone else and just fucking let that weight come off my shoulders. To say fuck Memphis and fuck my eating disorder. Oh but how I was torn. I couldn’t just quit my job. Quit my internships?! I didn’t even have all my clothes. I have to take my cat to the vet. I have all my shit in a dorm and owe the school money. I have a research project I have to give in my crisis class with my favorite professor/Dr J where I have to do above and beyond average to prove myself to my classmates and earn her respect as a future PR professional. What so everyone else shows up after spring break and I just suddenly disappear? Oh no, oh God no. What was I to do?

I told them I couldn’t make any rational decision, but maybe they could check my insurance benefits for the future. Maybe I could just try a few things at home and get through the next two months and come after the semesters over, I pleaded.

I told them about Dr J. “She’s not a therapist or anything but I really look up to her and she always asks how I’m doing and is trying to help me find resources in Memphis. She really seems to understand and having her be there for me really does help. I feel so fucking alone except when I’m with her, even when we’re not talking about it. She’s just someone I really respect, you know.”

So Dr J, the professionals said thank you. That they’re glad I have someone instead of keeping everything to myself.

Dr. McGuire asked how school was going. I said good, when I’m not half dead haha. Sad smiles are still smiles. I said “my eating disorder is so loud and is so confusing and is it just a totally messed up eating disorder to say that none of this matters and I’m not that bad because I don’t look sick?”

“You do look sick, Rachel. You definitely look sick. You know I’ll be foreword with you.”

I was like THANK YOU BECAUSE NO ONE IN MY LIFE WILL TELL ME WHAT THE HELL I LOOK LIKE SO THANK YOU FOR ACTUALLY TELLING ME WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON.

They had to leave. “Rachel please go to the emergency room if there’s any kind of medical issue. Please.” They both looked afraid again. “I will, I promise. Thank y’all so much.”

There was a patient sitting in the waiting room. I looked at her and said “I know you don’t know me, but I’ve been here before and it’s the best place you can go. This eating disorder sucks and I hate it but, there’s gotta be an end to it right?” We talked a little and I looked at her and said “You’ve got to fight it.” And she said “you do too. The fact that you’re here right now means you want to get better. That you’re talking with them. Take care of yourself.

I decided then that I was going to treatment.

I am going to treatment. I told their intake person as soon as the semester was over that I would be back. And I fucking meant it.

To fast forward through the next few hours (as lovely and meaningful as they truly were) I get back to the airport and quickly board my plane. I can’t stop crying. We start taxing out and I’m feeling more and more lightheaded. There wasn’t time to grab a Diet Coke because I was busy purging the little bit I had for lunch (and quietly crying in the toilet like a fucking loser). The more lightheaded I get, the faster my heart beats. As we take off I started having chest pains. Not horribly painful but fucking terrifying and painful enough.

“What if I die on this plane? That’s what happened to Callie!”

“Calm down. Pray. You won’t die ok? Just don’t panic and keep your breathing nice and easy.”

The feeling gets sucked out of my face. I can’t breathe. I start blacking out and then it finally stops. I spend the rest of the flight crying and lightheaded. Oh fuck I made the wrong choice. I should have stayed.

I SHOULD HAVE STAYED, I scream at myself. I keep replaying the conversation. Keep picturing their faces.

We land. I am floating. I’m not awake but I can’t let myself rest. Baggage claim. Almost home. While waiting for Christina, I put my legs up and close my eyes. I am floating, I am weak. Blacking out. Heart thumping strangely.

“Rachel go to the emergency room if anything happens ok please. Please be careful.”

It’s like they knew.

Of course they knew. They’re the experts and they know ME. And they’d never seen me so bad/at such a low weight. They could see me dying. Oh my God...does Dr J see me dying?

How do I keep from fucking dying these next 8 weeks? Do I quit my job and try to reduce stress? Do I quit exercise? What do I do when I’m laying in bed or walking into class feeling myself get weaker and weaker? Because eating isn’t the fucking solution. My body has been damaged past that.

I feel fat and disgusting but I’m also dying. How can I pretend to be so bulletproof when I dance along the edge of no return?

How the fuck do I stay alive? Dr J isn’t going to have the answer.

I have to survive 8 more weeks.

I have to live.

[thepsychoticdiariesblog-blog]

It was Thursday before I finally broke free of my delusions. I was on a plethora of pills, and each day they adjusted my dosage a little bit. Zoloft and Wellbutrin for Depression. Seroquel for sleep, which is also an Antipsychotic and Antidepressant. Risperdal, another Antipsychotic and Antidepressant. And finally, since I refused to eat half the time, a pill to help me absorb the food I did eat. There’s probably some that I’ve forgotten, but those were the big ones.

While they were trying to get everything sorted out on their end, I was continuing to navigate my new reality. Time would speed up at random, causing people to vanish from sight whenever I blinked my eyes. I tormented one nurse by following her around relentlessly, begging her not “disappear” so she could help me get some fresh clothes. On one of my husband's visits, I abruptly decided I was done seeing him, telling him it was time for bed. I lay down on my mattress, which was situated in the hallway since I had to be kept in “line of sight” after my little incident on Tuesday. I watched apathetically as the people around me ran past at super speed, colors blurring and day turning into night within seconds.

By Wednesday, I had a new theory. Perhaps I couldn’t escape Hell, but I instinctively knew even in Hell God can hear you. So, if I prayed hard enough, asked for forgiveness earnestly enough, I might be released. I spent the whole of Wednesday praying fervently, clutching a picture of the girl and the husband like it was the only lifeline I had left. I borrowed a garish blouse sporting a huge glittery butterfly from my roommate, wearing it over my clothes because I’d heard butterflies were a sign of God. I fell asleep that night whispering God’s, Jesus’, and my husband’s name over and over again.

On Thursday I woke up and things felt...different. I couldn’t tell exactly how at first. Everything felt slower. Soon I realized time was just going at its normal pace. I was able to read again, people on television made sense again. I’d finally turned the corner, my prayers had been answered, the combination of pills had brought everything back into focus. I had escaped from Hell.

They kept me for observation over the weekend and into the following week, but I rapidly improved from Thursday on. One of the nurses looked like she might burst into happy tears when I asked for a book to read to pass the time. I found a copy of Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire on the shelf of their small lending library and sank into the warm, familiar embrace of the Southern Gothic prose, cherishing the experience of reading again.

When I was finally released back into the custody of my husband, I felt like I had been away for a year. It had “only” been 11 days, but when every moment of your day is scheduled and you’re not free to do what you’d like when you’d like, time tends to stretch out tortuously. Stepping outside for the first time, the sun felt brighter than I’d ever seen it before, I had to squint against the light. We went to Walgreen’s first to pick up my prescriptions, and I tried to reacquaint myself with the knowledge that I could do something as simple as going to the drugstore and getting a candy bar whenever I wanted. I promised myself I would try to never take such simple pleasures for granted again.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite out of the woods yet. I was very anxious to see the girl again, eleven days away from your newborn is a long time when they grow so quickly and change so much over the first few months. When I saw her, I was almost afraid to touch her. Part way into the visit, when she started crying again, the old terrible feelings started to come back. My husband had to force me to leave because he knew I was getting quickly overwhelmed. However, the guilt from leaving, along with a bad reaction from Risperdal which wouldn’t allow my body to rest, landed me back in the emergency room. It was a terrible night, and I was very nearly placed back into the clinic, but I managed to pull it together long enough to convince the psychologist that came in to look me over that I was well enough to go home.

After that experience, my husband was reluctant to let the girl come back home right away, despite how much I wanted her home with us. Instead, I went for daily visits, and we had a few trial runs at night. Finally, about a week before I had to go back to work, my husband felt confident that I was stable enough to care for her full time again. I spent that week getting to know her new habits, reestablishing a routine with her, and trying to enjoy the last little bit of time I had left before my maternity leave was up.

Next time:

Epilogue

[zookzilla]

Great Uncle David and the Homecoming

I was doing my routine neighborhood walk to get my blood pumping and ease my ever growing antsiness and anxiety, Fugees blasting in my headphones when I passed a man sprawled across the sidewalk in front of the old antique warehouse across from the freeway underpass. He was dressed in a tattered tweed coat and dockers with mysterious black and brown stains, he had a prickly beard and long, greasy disheveled salt and pepper hair. “Hey lady,” he growled, “I’m hungry and sick, can you spare some change?” I took out my ear buds out, our eyes met. I recognized the look in his eyes. Pain. Raw, throbbing, the kind that leaves you dry heaving.

 Since coming off the Seroquel, I had trouble sleeping. My talented herbalist friend had told me that 3am to 5am is when our livers do their hardest work.  I’d wake up at exactly 3am, restless  but grateful for my liver’s punctuality.  I’d blindly walk in the dark to the bathroom, where I’d draw myself a bath and lay in tepid water in the bath tub to try to soothe my racing thoughts. Most of those early mornings while laying in tub, I could feel my grandmother’s presence. Although I didn’t say anything to my family, I was convinced that she was dying- within the day or week. In the tub, I’d picture her in her bed in the assisted living facility, with her arms outstretched, gripping the air and yelling for her mother and father who had perished in the Holocaust. In the darkness I would whisper to her and to myself, “it’s ok Nana. You’ve hung on for us for long enough. Go be with all of those you lost,  go be with your grandson.” While waiting for the water to drain, I’d look into the bathroom mirror and into my eyes, Nana’s eyes beamed back at me. They sparkled with strength and resilience, and most acutely the pain of someone who has endured deep suffering.

 On Telegraph Avenue, I inched closer to the man, recognizing the look in his eyes and feeling safe. He seemed familiar. “How about some veggie soup? I live close by. I’m on a walk right now but when I get home I’ll whip us both up some dinner.” 

 “You look just like my daughter.  She’s a beautiful girl, with kind eyes, like yours. My name’s David. I wasn’t always a fuck up like this. I’m trying to detox but I’m in so much pain.”    David then proceeded to share with me about his past life as professor at Cal and his life long love affair with alcohol and drugs, but mostly alcohol. I listened to him talk about how he used to live in an artisanal  home in the Berkeley Hills and about when his daughter still talked to him. He shared about his downward spiral and the many days and nights he finds himself in People’s Park surrounded by people with needles in their arms.  I told him that David is the name of my great uncle, my Nana’s brother, who used to spoil me with chocolate milk when my family visited.

I noticed it was getting dark and asked him if he likes sweets. “ I do but I probably can’t hold down anything but beer and broth. Hey, do you have a camera on your phone? Take a picture of me, will you?” David sat up against the wall and gave me a big toothy smile, which glowed in the yellow light of the street lamps. He waived his hand in front of him, “Well let me see, let me see what a handsome man I am already.” I turned my phone toward him so he could see himself, “You are a handsome fellow,” he half-jeered while looking at the image in the phone .  Fifteen seconds later, his toothy smiley re-appeared.  “Hey, do you have Facebook?” David inquired. I nodded my head. “Please look my daughter up and show her the picture, show her I’m alive.I’m no good but I’m alive.” “I’ll see you in an hour and a half, David, I promise you. Please be here when I come back.”  I waited a beat and then  crossed the street and slipped my ear buds back in. Lauryn Hill always comforts me.

I continued down by the trail that snakes through the DMV parking lot and through the dog park. My favorite spot in Oakland. I took a deep inhale, watching a terrier bark at the passing car through the chain-linked fenced off area and then I made a  connection. No, not just any connection. This is was a connection that would transport me back in time and through another dimension. An other worldly kind, Godly even.   As I stood under the metal frame of the basketball hoop, overlooking the dog park, I knew that David was familiar because he was in fact my Uncle David speaking to me though my Nana. I felt it in my bones! I knew we knew each other and in fact are related! Thoughts racing, one to the next. Oh but aren’t we all brother’s and sisters? Aren’t we all blood? YES. YES. We are all family.  But Uncle David had passed away years before in Jerusalem, this was bigger than global brothers and sisters. This was part of my Nana’s sweet homecoming. Uncle David was welcoming Nana to join him. God was transmitting me this message, as I was the youthful body that could help her live out her last days. I knew more than ever that I needed to make the last meal that the two could share together on this earth, Uncle David and Nana, Professor David and Bleeding Heart, Racing Thoughts, Could Not Sleep Until I Made Peace, God Sent Me to  Make This Meal,  Loving Granddaughter, Granddaughter of the Beautiful Soul that was Returning to the Creator. 

I rushed back to the house with added vigor, open the door wide, dropped my phone and headphones onto the counter and began to scrutinize the contents of the refrigerator. Luckily, I had already started a slow cooker that morning with oats, coco powder, and ginger. The ginger and oats will be good for David’s stomach, I thought. Since stopping my medicine, often in the early mornings after my baths I would work on experimental food conoctions. My senses since stopping  Seroquel were much more heightened and intense. Colors more vibrant, my sense of taste more precise, my sense of smell more intense. Experiencing the multitude and nuance of textures and aromas made cooking all the more interesting and calmed me. It was the only thing that could ease my racing thoughts, aside from my long meandering walks around the twists and turns of green and urban landscape in Oakland. 

 As I was pulling onions, vegetable broth, and mushrooms out of the fridge my roommate Lisa came through the living room and took a seat at the kitchen table.  “Lisa, I have something incredible to tell you. I can’t tell you the whole story because it’ll take too long and I’m kind of in a hurry but the gist is that I’m making some soup to eat with a very nice homeless man I met.” “Oh, Jill.” I recognized that “Oh, Jill.” It was a “What are you thinking?” sort of expression that would come out periodically…and more in more in recent months. “Will you come with me, Lisa? I know I need to be safe and should have someone along with me ” Lisa looked at me, forehead wrinkled and eyebrows raised in concern.”Uh, it’s dark outside, Jill, that’s not a smart idea.” “Smart? This man is harmless, he’s hungry, he needs food. And he’s detoxing which means he’s in a lot of pain.  I really think it’ll be fine, especially if I have company. Plus, I promised and I will not break my promise to him. He really needs this.” “Jill, there’s no way I’m going to come with you and I really don’t think it’s smart for you to go either.” 

 While the onions, mushroom and garlic were cooking in the broth and I was packing up the oats in a tupperware, my second roommate walked in. Her hair was swept up from her bike ride home. Mora worked at shelter with homeless youth;  as she washed her hands in the kitchen sink it dawned on me that she’d be the perfect person to come with me.  “Hey Mora, you gonna be free in the next 20 minutes?” Lisa, was sitting in the living room and yelled, “Mora, Jill wants to go eat dinner with a homeless man.” I yelled back, “his name is David and I’m really worried about him. He needs this. I wouldn’t do it if he didn’t need it.” Mora paused a moment, puckered her bottom lip out and then shook her head yes, “but Jill, I don’t think we should eat with him. Let’s just drop off the food. And we’re not going to walk there, we’re going to drive because it is dark.” Mora also recommended we bring him one of the beers we have in the fridge, which would be helpful because he’s detoxing. 

In the 3 minute car ride to the spot, Mora and I mapped out our plan. We parked across the street, “He’s right there, sprawled out on the cement.” “Ok Jill, let’s say a quick hello and then drop the food off.” “I really think he’s harmless Mora, can we just feel it out?” As we crossed the street together,   David looked up and saw us, “Jill, my angel, you kept your promise.” “I told you I would didn’t I? This is my roommate Mora. She’s also an angel.” Mora chimed in, “Nice to meet you.” We talked for a few minutes. I told David that I expected him to eat the soup, there was dessert if he wanted, and that I hoped the beer would help. I also told him that I would be back for him tomorrow during the day. “You’re the only one who thinks I’m not worthless.” As Mora and I walked away I yelled back “Because you are not, you are a human being. You are worthy. You are worthy, David.” 

The next day morning, I found a copy of my one of my favorite drawings of mine of a disgruntled looking Chihuahua with a title which reads “Studies of the Dejected.” Perfect, I whispered. I flipped the drawing over and wrote David a letter about how when I looked in his eyes I saw his brilliance. I talked about my Uncle David, like him was a scholar, and about how I knew he had the strength to overcome his alcoholism, how he could find housing, how I hadn’t reached out to his daughter yet but I would and I would tell her what an incredible man he is and how he needs her in her life. I wrote with a ferocity,  assuredness, and quickness that I almost never write with.  I believe it was because it was supposed to be that way. I believed it was because I was given the godliness to be able bodied and fulfill my Nana’s destiny.  

With my drawing in hand I ran with a sense of determination and hurriedness to the spot where Mora and I had last seen him. The contents of the soup were strewn all of over the cement. The yogurt container I had taken it in, flipped upside down. The beer can emptied, the dessert was uneaten.  I crossed the street and spotted a man sitting under the freeway overpass laying on a beaten up mattress. “Hey there, Hey! I’m looking for David, have you seen him? Just want to check on him.” “Sorry, can’t hear you very well from down there.”  I walked halfway up the slanted piece of concrete that led to the smooth flat area where this man was sitting with his legs crossed. A couple and a young man were stretched a few feet away on a flattened cardboard box. “My name’s  Will, folks around here call me Free Will. How can I help you?” I laughed, Free Will, that’s clever! I’m looking for David, you seen him?” “Honey, I’m sorry but I haven’t. I know he hasn’t been doing very well. Go check the soup kitchen a few blocks down at the church.” I thanked Free Will and ran down to the church a few blocks down.

There were three older men leaning against the wrought iron gate, smoking cigarettes. As I walked toward them, they nodded their heads, I nodded back and asked where the entrance was. One of the men pointed toward the back to the building. I said thank you and walked toward the backdoor. I could hear people in the kitchen yelling for more garlic. I cautiously open the door and walked into a narrow hallway that led to the kitchen. I  saw an older man and woman frying hashbrowns, while a younger woman sliced onions.  One the other side of the kitchen there was a crowd of people siting down, eating breakfast. The young woman slicing onions turned around said, “Can I help you?” “Yeah, actually, have you seen David? Has he come around this morning?””Haven’t seen him.” “Can I leave this note for him, in case he comes by?” “Sure, hon, slip it next to the meal time schedule and I’ll be sure to give it to him if I see him.” 

For the next week, each morning and afternoon and after work or class, I would walk by the spot where I first saw David. I would then check in with Free Will and then the soup kitchen. No sign of him. A few days before my hospitalization, my dad and I were getting gas at the station next the underpass. While my dad pumped gas I spotted Free Will sitting on a lawn chair in the median between the station’s parking lot and the freeway entrance. I told my dad I needed go say hi to a friend. I ran up to Free Will. Still sick with worry for David, I asked if he’d seen him. Free Will shook his head no but imparted his infinite wisdom. He shared that in his 30 years of being in the outdoors (he did not agree with the term homeless), he learned that there is far more kindness and beauty in the world than ugliness and darkness. Free Will pulled out a brand new Giants hat from a milk crate. With a winning smile he offered it to me. “I was waiting for the perfect person to give this too. The man in the store down the way got extras in his shipment,” he grinned. I put on my new Giants hat. My dad came up to us at that moment, Nana, David, and I had our homecoming.