RealMental

From StormyBluez

I’M DIEING
I’M FEELING SOO LOST
I DON’T UNDERSTAND MYSELF
I DON’T Understand MY FUCKED SICK MIND
I’M DOING THIS–IT–
IT’S COMING FAST- I FEEL THE BLOOD RISING INTO A BOIL IN MY SKULL
I FOREVER PUT MYSELF DOWN
I FOREVER FEEL LIKE A SHIT
I RAN AWAY YESTERDAY AFTERNOON GOT 200 MILES AWAY
FELT-…….. WELL -A DISCONNECTION FROM ALL MY FEELINGS
*I FELT HEALTHY*
ALONE IN MY SKUNKY SMELLING MOTEL ROOM
TOOK A BATH -GOT A GOOD BUZZ – FELL ASLEEP-
I’M BROKE SO I CAME BACK TO THE CITY.
I FEEL A SENSE OF VICTORY INSIDE BECAUSE I DIDN’T CAVE IN FOR THE NIGHT …AT LEAST…

o no …READY —
I FEEL I’M UNEDUCATED

I’M A SILLY WORTHLESS ROMANTIC UNLOVED FAT- ASS HAIRY GIRL

I’M TRAPPED IN THE CONVENIENCE OF MY PARENTS HOUSE

I’M DISCONNECTED EMOTIONALLY FROM MY FRIENDS

MY COMPUTER IS GONNA DIE
MY CONTACTS ARE DRY
I FEEL VERY BLEAK

I SKIPPED SCHOOL YESTERDAY & TODAY I DIDN’T WANNA GO BECAUSE I TURNED IN THIS PAPER FOR ART-HIS.- I FEEL ITS THE WORST ESSAY THIS GUY COULD EVER READ- IT PROBABLY FAR FROM…stupid.
& MY SCULPTURE CLASS I FEEL THE TEACH HITS ON ME…I FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE- I’M NOT CRAZY THIS GUYS A PERV.

I TOOK MY FRIEND & HER KID TO REHAB TODAY- I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO SPEAK TO HER FOR 3 MONTHS – WRITE FOR 45 DAYS. I CALLED HER AND HER ever UNRELIABLE RIDE NEVER SHOWED. SO I CAME AROUND- WHEN I CAME TO PICK HER UP SHE WAS SHOOTING IN THE BATHROOM BUT DIDN’T TELL ME. SHE CAME OUT AND HAD DRIPS OF BLOOD ALL OVER HER HANDS , HER FACE WAS BLEEDING AND HER SCALP WAS DIED BLUE. ITS HARD TO BE HER FRIEND – IVE BEEN AVOIDING HER CALLS LATELY SHE’LL BLOW UP MY PHONE – CALLING UP TO 10X A DAY. ANYWAY, I DROPPED HER OFF AT THE PLACE AND TWO GIRLS WERE FIST FIGHTING INSIDE AS SHE ARRIVED. I WONDER IF SHES SLEEPING NOW- I HOPE SHE’LL BE ALRIGHT. IT WAS JUST A PLAIN VICTORIAN HOME WITH BARS ON THE WINDOWS– 10 WOMEN- 12 KIDS- SHE MAKES 11 & 13 …FUCKIN SAM….

I CAME BACK TO SAN FRANCISCO TODAY-
ON THE DRIVE UP TO MENDOCINO I SAW A BOY HITCHING –
BACKPACKING- LIVING ON THE ROAD …
I DAYDREAMED ABOUT PICKING HIM UP LONG AFTER I TURNED THE OTHER WAY. I MADE IT TO A TOWN AND PICKED UP A SANDWICH AND A CASE OF BREW – IN-LINE— A GIRL WITH A TATTERED PLAID FLANNEL SHIRT WAS BUYING A 40 OZ OF OLD-E… SHE REMINDED ME OF ME WHEN I WAS 16 17 – SOME HOW I ENVIED HER – EVEN THOUGH SHE LOOKED HOMELESS AND MORE SCREWED THAN ME…WE WERE ABOUT THE SAME AGE 24-25 – I NAMED HER JUNE.

I WANT TO RUN AWAY – DRIVE – LIVE ON NOTHING BUT LUCK AND MISFORTUNE – NO FUTURE JUST THE RIGHT NOW- FUCK EVERYTHING ELSE – FUCK MONEY. I’M JUST OLD AND ITS DOESN’T MAKE SENSE TO RUN..BUT HOW CAN IT FEEL SO RIGHT. HOW DOES IT MENTALLY STABILIZE ME. MAYBE I DON’T WANT HELP – JUST WANNA BE LOST? MAYBE I BELIEVE I CAN ONLY LIVE LOST. HIDDEN SOME HOW.

I SAW THE MOVIE CHARLIE B THE OTHER DAY…. THERE WAS THIS LINE
” I CAN’T KILL MYSELF, I HAVE TO MANY RESONSIBLITYS” I WAS THE ONLY ONE IN THE PLACE TO LAUGH…

WHEN I WAS A ADOLESCENT I DID A LOT OF DRUGS – ON THE FACT THAT I HATED MY BURDEN OF THE HAIR ON MY BODY. I HID- I RAGED- I ABUSED ME. CAN’T TOUCH ANYTHING NOW – I DON’T EVEN LIKE TO BE AROUND NOTHING BUT BOOZE AND WEED. IVE ALWAYS LIKED TO DRINK- WHEN I WAS SEEING A THERAPIST BACK IN NOV SHE TOLD ME I ABSOLUTELY HAD TO QUIT- THAT IT WAS AN ENHANCING DEPRESSIVE- NO MEDICATION COULD COMPETE… I CAN’T…. IVE ALWAYS FELT “ITS ALL I HAVE”- & I DON’T DRINK AS HEAVY AS I USED TO. FEW YEARS AGO I ASKED TO BE TESTED FOR P.C.O.S.- I WASN’T SHOCKED WHEN I GOT THE “POSITIVE” BACK . IT MADE SENSE ONE OF THE SYMPTOMS IS A CONDITION CALLED HIRSUTISM- EXCESSIVE HAIR GROWTH- IN PLACES ON A WOMEN WERE THEIR SHOULDN’T BE HAIR. (MAN I ALMOST CRIED JUST WRITING THAT LINE) … IVE GOTTEN SOME LASER TREATMENT- IT CHANGED MY LIFE …MY PERSPECTIVE A LOT … BUT I’M STILL VERY MUCH COVERED AND EMOTIONALLY SCARED – I COULDN’T EVEN TYPE LET ALONE SAY THE WORD “HAIR” BEFORE.

I’M SICK OF HEARING MYSELF THINK

– DESCRIBE –

I JUST NEED TO GOUGE IN THE DIRT BLOOD SWEAT AND TEARS TO REACH A REALIZATION OR A APPRECIATION. i hope I’m right-

I’M GONNA STOP
MY HEART FEELS SO BLACK
I EVEN FEEL LIKE AN IDIOT BECAUSE THIS IS WRITTEN SO TERRIBLY DAMN-IT IT DOESN’T EVEN MATTER!!!!!! I’M JUST VENTING
I’M JUST VENTING …
.I APOLOGIZE FOR THE CAPS- I STARTED WRITING IN SUCH A FURY OF EMOTION BY THE TIME I LOOKED UP..WELL – I DECIDED TO LEAVE IT
SUITES MY FEELING– THE THOUGHT THAT I’M SCREAMING ALL THIS AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS.

From David

In 1979, when I was 18, my mind had what I colorfully like to call a “come-apart”. I didn’t realize it or even know what it was, but deep clinical depression was growing in me like some toxic black mold. I had no idea what was wrong and I became so sick so fast I lost all ability to even articulate what was happening inside of me. Rapidly I skidded down the slickery slope to psychotic, suicidal hell. Weeeeeeee!!!

My mind soon began to shut down. The simplest tasks took extraordinary effort to complete. Ask me my name and I’d have looked at you as if you’d just said to me, “Tell me what 137 to the 27th power is or I’ll stab you in the neck.” I wouldn’t have been able to answer you. I’d have stared at you with panic and confusion on my face and would have weeped uncontrollably. All because you asked me my name.

I was exhausted constantly. All I ever wanted to do was lie down and sleep, preferably forever and ever. And ever. And ever. But night would come and my brain wouldn’t shut off the internal noise and sleep would elude me. At some point I realized I was going mad. What could possibly be more frightening than being aware you’re losing your mind, losing control of your own self, your own thoughts, and not knowing what to do about it? Relentless suicidal and self-destructive ideas were bombarding and tormenting me. I am, and always have been, a peaceful person yet suddenly my mind was roaring with violent, vicious, grizzly thoughts all directed at me.

I felt as if I had split in two. The old part of me: timid, sweet, funny, generous. The new part of me: dark, powerful, the devil. The thoughts in my head soon became external and loud, and they took on a different voice. A deep, loud, growling voice telling me to “kill yourself” or “worthless piece of crap” or “idiot” or “people hate you”. Then one day the voice said “cut” so I did. I don’t know why I did or why I listened, but I did. I cut in places no one could see, but I cut. I cut my arms, my chest, my stomach, my thighs. I still look at the scars and wonder why I cut myself, but in some way those scars are my friends and I’m fond of them.

During that time, the early 1980s, I was in and out of hospitals. Diagnosed as manic/depressive, then with borderline personality disorder, then borderline paranoid schizophrenic, then this and then that. Ah, the inexact science of psychiatric medicine in the 1980s. Tell me, is it any more exact today? Eventually someone hung the label “acute psychotic major depressive disorder” on me and it stuck. But with differing diagnoses comes differing pharmaceuticals. Artane, Navane, Elavil, Mellaril, Thorazine, Stellazine, Ritalin, lithium, Nardil, and probably a dozen others I can’t recall. You think the dry mouth or limp noodle side effects from Paxil is bad? You take Thorazine and then come talk to me. All the while, though, the voice kept talking to me, telling me to “cut”, “kill”, telling me I’m “worthless”.

Many doses of ECT offered no relief either. ECT kills one’s short term memories and yet I still vividly remember the zombie-like feeling following a round of having an electrical current fired through my noggin. Feeling neither happy nor sad. Quite literally devoid of any feeling. An electrically induced temporary lobotomy.

Yet still the voice screamed at me. “Cut yourself.” “You’re worthless, shoot yourself. Now!” Nothing could make the voice stop. Oftentimes the voice was crude and quite vivid in the gruesome plans it wanted me to carry out on myself, but due to decorum I’ll omit those here. If a voice you hear, but nobody else does, telling you awful things to do to yourself doesn’t drive you over the edge then probably nothing will.

After the 7,112,976th time of the voice telling me to “kill yourself” I decided to listen to it. I worked at a hospital and had access to all sorts of festively colored pills and capsules, just ripe for the picking. I swallowed several bottles of anything I could get my grubby hands on. Heart medication, blood pressure medication, migraine pills, tranquilizers, the prescriptions I was currently taking, even a huge bottle of Tylenol. Obviously I was discovered, I’m not writing this from the grave, and they pumped my tummy clean and revived me and then, as punishment for my crime, I was sent for a stay at the lovely and oh so inviting “Timberlawn Sanitarium”, it actually had that name etched in stone over one of the old original buildings that is used as administrative/admissions offices now, in Dallas, Texas for a period of approximately 11 months.

The Timberlawn Psychiatric Hospital facility was incredibly secure. With heavy metal screens over all windows, plexiglass on all the bay windows, doors that lock automatically when shut, etc. You’ll pardon me, I hope, if when I speak of Timberlawn Psychiatric Hospital I speak of it as a prison and of my stay there as a prison sentence. I will refer to the nurses and staff as guards and my psychiatrist as the warden.

Upon induction into Timberlawn, thankfully there was no full body cavity search and no delousing, I was swiftly removed of my shoelaces, my belt, my razor, my nail clippers, and anything else I had which was shiny or sharp. Meals would be served to me by the guards on my cell block until such time as I had earned the trust from the guards and the warden that I wouldn’t try to escape or hurt myself. Then, and only then, would I be allowed to take my meals across campus, the prison yard, and eat in in the dining hall proper. Welcome to your new home, inmate.

When asked to “please release me, let me go” I was told if I didn’t stay voluntarily I would be committed. The frustration of that was immense so I shut down. Refused to talk or take my meds or participate in anything. I wasn’t totally lacking in rational thought, and it quickly dawned on me, after being threatened with restraints and IVs and suppositories, that if I wanted to get out of there any time soon I needed to play the game, follow the rules, and go with the flow. Having my meds forced up my backside just didn’t sound like much of a bargain to me, then or now.

So I settled down and got with the program and within a couple of months I was allowed to go to the gym and go do crafts and walk, under escort by a couple of the guards, to the dining hall for my meals. I also got just crazy good at ping-pong. Every evening after supper it was ping-pong-a-palooza for those of us on the unit who had high enough privileges to walk down the hall to the ping-pong room. And then if you really behave and contribute to group therapy and show you’re serious about your treatment, maybe in six months if you’re lucky, they might let you out, with a guard of course, to go see a movie. Well I hated it. Can you tell? Every blessed moment of it, I hated it. Finally I was discharged, paroled, my illness cured. Yeah right.

Twenty years pass and I’ve fought this nightmare countless times off and on ever since, but for the most part keeping it to myself. I feared if I told anyone I’m hearing the voice again or that I’m incessantly thinking of suicide I’ll be locked away again. Within the past year the voice and my dreadful thoughts have become overwhelming. Over the years it seemed that if I just weathered the storm, waited it out and not acted on the self-destructive thoughts, it would ease up on it’s own and I’d come out of this hellish pit on my own. But this time, for nearly a year, I can’t get out. I can’t control my own thoughts and everyday I wake up contemplating suicide. It’s devouring me. I’m losing the battle. I want to walk into a field and sit down in the cold rain and just let it dissolve me into a puddle.

Once again I find myself frightened of myself. “I hate myself”. “I don’t belong here”. “I am a misfit”. “A freak”. “I want to die”. “My core is rotting”. These are the thoughts that consume me again, each and every day. My brain is being destroyed by the horrible thoughts which I can’t control.

I recently sought help. I am now on the second week of medication consisting of Paxil and Trazodone, but will they work? The best meds of the 70s and 80s did no good. Multiple rounds of shock treatments bought little lasting relief. Long term hospitalization made me angry at and scared of the psychiatric profession. Some may say, “But Dave, you’re alive.” Yes I’m alive, but that’s a small victory if you ask me. A very hollow victory indeed. Almost 30 years since this nightmare began and I can’t wake up from it to escape it.

From Adams Street

When I was about 11, I went to a party at my aunt and uncle’s house with my dad and his wife. Most of my cousins were there. A couple of days beforehand I had sprouted a lovely pimple right in the middle of my forehead. I put a band aid over it before I went to the party and tried to pass it off as a cut. My cousins weren’t buying it. Most were older than I was and knew what a band aid on the face meant. Zit! They weren’t horribly cruel, just mildly cruel in the way kids can be. And I was alone among siblings and very anxious and nervous. I remember wanting to be anywhere on earth but there.

In the twilight, some of my cousins sought me out and told me a horrible thing. They said that my Uncle Bob had told everyone that I wasn’t the daughter of my parents. I was really the daughter of my much older sister. “That’s why you all had to go to Missouri. So Debbie could have you. They’re just pretending that she’s your sister.”

The noise of the grown-up party filtered out through the windows in a happy din, but it didn’t feel warm to me. It felt like a wall, and I didn’t want to be on either side of it.

Did I run to my father and demand the truth? Did I protest to my cousins that Uncle Bob was a liar?

I did not.

I filed this nugget of information away, where it nagged at me for 20 years.

Eventually I came to believe it was bullshit. Eventually I came to believe that it didn’t matter if it were true.

But it affected me profoundly throughout my adolescence and early adulthood. I never felt like I fit in. I felt like the whole operation was a house of cards that could come down at any minute. I believed that no one told the truth, especially my parents.

My Uncle Bob died on Friday. I’m sorry that my father is in pain over his loss. But, really, he was kind of a shit.

Originally published here.

Hi —

My wife has a few different mental health prescriptions we pay cash for because we don’t currently have insurance. one that she’s been prescribed for is Invega, which is rather expensive. we pay cash for (x,y) but this one we want to be able to compare prices for. what are our legal (and quasi-legal) options for acquiring this drug?

thanks,

anon

Original post here.

The voices finally got the best of me. I couldn’t sleep one night and my head was roaring so I walked outside hoping the cold air would calm things down. It did not. I acted on the voice and injured myself. My thinking at the time was that if I bent to the voice’s wishes, do what it said, it would stop nagging and leave me alone in peace. It did not. All it did was land me in the psych hospital for 6 days. I don’t smoke any longer and I missed it. Cigarettes and copious amounts of coffee are staples in the psych ward. They adjusted my meds, notably the Abilify, pronounced me safe to my myself and society and turned me loose. So now I’m an outpatient again and I take 30mg of Alibily, 50mg of Paxil CR, 60mg of Cymbalta, 200mg of Trazodone at night and .5mg of Klonopin twice a day. Seems like one hell of a lot of pills to be pushing through my body. Maybe I’m doing better but I don’t feel it. I don’t like the sideveffects of the chemical stew I’m taking .I’m a zombie with a flat affect. I am a crying, weeping, worthless zombie. Some tell me I look and sound better, but they don’t know the thoughts that still flood my head at times. It’s more than a little frustrating being told you look better. Back to the broken bone analogy I used in my previous submission, my bone is still broken and it still hurts badly so don’t tell me I look and sound better. I cut myself again the other day. Why? I’m still holding on by my fingertips, still waiting, but I still almost daily think the alternative, the shot to the head, is the more humane way, although so violent. I hurt, in pain. I’m tired. I’m fed up with it all. I only want it to stop, to find some peace.

I signed my previous post “anonymous” but my real mane is David.

I’ve suffered from severe clinical depression with bouts of psychosis since I was 18. In the past 20 years I’ve dealt with it on my own, no meds and no doctors. Recently, about 5 weeks ago, I finally had to go find some help and due to financial reasons I had to go to my county’s MHMR Dept. I’m grateful to them for getting me in so fast without having to wait. I’m taking Paxil, Trazodone, and now Cymbalta as well. Recently they added Abilify to the mix. My case manager and my doctor tell me to be patient, and I’m trying to. Despite having no hope I’m waiting. Waiting for the meds to work. Waiting to come out of this awful black hole I’m in. I feel like I’m waiting for death. I’m being patient, but it’s so very hard when the pain and suffering is so deep. There’s a vivid image I have of me taking a gun and shooting myself. I have it more and more lately. It plays on a loop in my mind, over and over, and I can’t stop it. I can’t control my own thoughts, my own mind, my own self. It’s such a helpless feeling and it scares me beyond words. The thoughts are sometimes loud, not mine, external. Voices telling me to harm myself.

I’m trying to be patient, to hold on, but it’s unbelievably hard and I’m confused and scared. I’m waiting, but the perch I’m on is precarious and I feel like I’m close to falling off of it to my death. If I had a broken bone would I be told to wait, to be patient? Wouldn’t I be given something for pain immediately? Wouldn’t they set my broken bone ASAP? Surely I wouldn’t have to wait weeks and weeks for relief. People I thought were my friend say “why don’t you snap out of it” or “I won’t let anything destroy my happiness”. That sort of lack of understanding and lack of compassion hurts, but hearing things like that isn’t new to me. Lots of people don’t understand clinical depression or mental illness. They haven’t a clue how awful it is. I’m not “letting” it destroy me. I can’t help or stop it, and I can’t just “snap out of it”. I can’t control it right now, I wish I could. I don’t voluntarily feel this way or intentionally put myself through this. People can’t imagine how awful it is unless they’ve experienced it themselves. If I had a broken bone protruding through my bloody skin they could then see how awful it is and how it must hurt. They could see something is desperately wrong. Then they’d understand and then they’d show some compassion. You can’t just snap out of a broken bone. So here I sit with a broken mind, terribly scared, shaking and panicked, sick, waiting, being patient. People with broken bones are lucky.

Signed,
Anonymous

I am almost 34, and I was diagnosed with depression in my early 20s. The doctor I visited was just a random name I chose from my insurance booklet, and after reviewing a 4-page questionnaire I filled out pronounced me a “textbook” case, prescribed Zoloft and Ambien, and presented me with my bill.

About a year later, I visited a GP that my mother worked for and admired, and he actually spent some time listening to me talk about how I was feeling and the affects I was experiencing from the Zoloft. I told him about the dead calm, empty, floating feelings that clouded my days, my antipathy about everything from the death of a loved one to a promotion and raise at work. My sex drive was a dream long dead and what’s worse, I didn’t care. I just wanted to FEEL something again. He suggested that I continue with the Ambien when I felt like I needed it, and changed my prescription to Wellbutrin XL. This change made everything better, and I could feel happy and sad and angry and content and sexy, all those emotions that had been missing while I was on the Zoloft.

I moved to another state, and that doctor stopped practicing, and I don’t have contact with him any more. I have been off meds for about 3 years, and my depression is reaching a level that I haven’t before experienced. All the old symptoms are back, with some crazy new ones that scare me just a little. I’m not suicidal and I don’t feel like I’m going to hurt myself or anyone else, but I need medication, and I need to talk to someone.

But how? How do I find a doctor to help me? Do I start with a GP and demand a prescription for what helped me before? Do I close my eyes and point to a name under “Mental Health” in my insurance booklet? I don’t have many friends here, so I can’t even ask around for referrals. I don’t even know if I need to start with a psychologist, or a psychiatrist, or a GP. My insurance is good and I can go anywhere without a medical referral, but I don’t know how to start or where to turn. I want to help myself, but I don’t know how. Any advice or guidance you can offer would be so much appreciated.