Tag Archives: Depression

Trump Mania

When my new psychiatrist asked me what precipitated my manic episode, I answered “Trump.”

It was all I could think of.  I have everything I want, a great husband, wonderful children, a house, a car, cats, a Canadian vacation.  Why did I go crazy this time?

It first started after the election.  That’s what my mother-in-law told me.  I trust her.  She would know.  It wasn’t her first rodeo with mental illness.  She’s seen a lot of people lose it.  She told me, “My aunt struggled…  But she went sane a lot too.”

I want to go sane again.  I  believe I can have a sane episode too.

November 9th was the first sleepless night of too many since then.  I stayed up all night, shaking from the results.  I worked all day as a poll worker, trying to ensure a free and fair election.  Then, the results trickled in.  I couldn’t sleep.  Since then I’ve been on a roller-coaster.  Four days and three nights is much too much time awake with your own demons.

Mania feels more real than depression which muffles out everything.  Mania gets stuff done.  It’s not always crying and screaming.  It’s that part plenty, but there is also the burst of productive energy.  Chapters edited in days, two trips to the laundromat!  The best family vacation ever!  Then I feel enraged over everything.  I am zero to 150 in less than seven seconds.  My thoughts chase themselves around until I can’t hold it in.  I’m not proud of this.  I actually feel very ashamed of it all.  The weakness, the fear, the sleepless nights when I’m just awake, wanting to fight or talk to anyone.  Thank god for my family in other parts of the world, with other schedules and time zones!

Then, weeks of sleep.

I ache for a middle ground.  No more upside down roller coasters.  Just a smoothly paved road with good water drainage.

I want control over my myriad of emotions that change on a minute to minute basis.  Depression is easier.  Mania is intense and urgent.  Depression is more predictable.  The paranoia is frightening.

It seems crazy to talk about it now.  The weird things I thought.  How convinced I was of them.  The way I noticed every single plane or helicopter that flew over head.  Perhaps THEY were coming for me.

I should have shut my damned mouth and not publish scores of questionable blogs.  I thought the Secret Service was coming to take me away.  I almost cut my hair off.  It felt like it could be a liability if I was in prison.  Prison fights and all.

It felt so real.  It all made sense after all.  I am a terrible person.  My disease must make me a monster.  Everyone is afraid of me.

Nobody can tell me otherwise.  I don’t listen to anyone.  My kids are forced to remind me time and time again~ “Mom, you’re delusional.”

It’s so hard on them.  They carry the worry around with them at all times.  It’s a burden on them.  I feel like a much older woman than I am.

So~ When my psych asked what happened?  I had to go back to when I stopped sleeping.  I have a complicated relationship with sleep.  I require more sleep than the average person.  I always have.  Naps are a fact of life.  It feels like a deficiency in me.  Not sleeping is not good for me.  The election was the precipitating event.

Since then I have been wrapped in a constant cocoon of impending doom.  I have what used to be known as a pre-existing condition.  Temporal Lobe Epilepsy rendered me un-insurable for over five years.  I could not buy health insurance.

The Affordable Care Act protected me from that nonsense.  I could take my meds and treat my disease and have insurance!  I wasn’t a condition, I was just a person.

When Trump repeals that, I am back to that fear I lived as an pre-existing condition.  All I want to do is have less seizures.  I need health insurance for that.  Anti-seizure meds are not what you would call inexpensive.  I was up to nearly $5000 a month if I had to pay out of pocket.  That’s not feasible.

Thinking about what would happen if I lost my insurance makes me feel nauseous and dizzy.  I’ve been feeling doomed ever since then.  Does this seem to be an unrealistic fear?

The thing about fear is~ it doesn’t have to be realistic.

Trump set me on a manic spiral that I can only hope has receded by now.  You’d have to ask my family to be sure though.  They know the signs better than I do.

I changed my medicine and I feel moderately better.  At the least, I feel empowered to try something new.  I have the power to try.  My family deserves it.  I just have to stop thinking.  And avoid the news at all costs.

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Filed under Essays, Living w/ Epilepsy, Non-fiction

Don’t Look Now, It’s a Seizure!

shark

This post is part of the Epilepsy Blog Relay™ which will run from November 1 through November 30. Follow along and add comments to posts that inspire you!

As hard as epilepsy is on me, I think it’s harder on my family.  They have to watch when I lose consciousness.  They are the ones who see me seize.  My husband and children are the ones who lose out on days of parenting.  They are ones who get snapped at when my brain is mushy and confused and can’t process sensory information.  My family bares the brunt of that.  I yell at them that they are too loud.  I complain about the light.

I am wracked with guilt that I am sick.  I know logically it’s not my fault, I shouldn’t feel bad.  But I do.  I feel like a burden.  My daughter once had to stay home from school to watch over me.  She was 10 or 11.  That felt like a big fat F in the parenting column.

When I was pregnant with her, I was given a list of things I should no longer do unsupervised.  I was told I was no longer a full-fledged adult.  I required observation…  at all times basically.   The outside world isn’t safe for me to go alone.  My doctor told me so.

While writing this, I made some sort of sound and my husband whipped his head around.  Then he told me, “It’s the million little things that are nothing that are the worst.”  Some sounds are nothing.  Some sounds are seizures.

Many times I have been alone in my room, I’ll laugh something I’ve read, and my family shows up with terror in their eyes.  It’s a special kind of look.  The look says, “Are you having a seizure?”  It’s a sad, puppy dog look, wrapped in fear and sometimes annoyance.  

Once I got stuck folding laundry for a minute or so.  I folded a towel over and over again.  Then I was back and had no memory of it.  My kids had to tell me.  I was physically unhurt.  I didn’t grind my teeth into my tongue.  I did not fall to the floor or onto the table.  I felt more or less okay.  They still had to change their plans to care for me.

Kids with sick parents have to be older than their age.  We joke that driving will be their chore, not a privilege.  They will HAVE to get their license to drive me around.  It’s a joke, but it’s not.  We try to keep it light, but remind them: Life isn’t fair.  But we have to go on, I guess.

I wish my kids didn’t know what a “normal” seizure looks like over an emergency.  There’s a difference and they know it.  My seizures have so many side-effects it’s hard to keep track of them.

I’m not what I would call healthy.  But I can pass.  For a while.  A few weeks, a month, maybe longer if I’m lucky.  But epilepsy will call my name and my family will have to pick up the pieces and tell me where I am and what’s happened.  They make dinner and get me ice water.  I’m like a baby again. I need to learn to talk all over again.

When I was most distraught, I asked my husband what I was supposed to do?  How was I supposed to go on?  He said, “Pick yourself up off the floor and go on. You do it all the time.”  It was a revelation for me.  I do.  I wake up on the floor and I have to get up.  I hit rock bottom and get up again.  My husband and children help me up.  They lend a hand when I can’t stand completely.  

I don’t like to consider what my life would be without them.  Who would tell me I was folding the same towel repeatedly, just like I’m stuck buffering?  

It’s okay, I’d rather they laugh about it than cry.  Although I know they do that too.  My son gets in trouble in school after I’ve had a seizure.  He’ll try to hide it but the fear bleeds through.  Seizure days are the worst.  We are all on high alert.  My kids are latchkey kids so they can get in if I’m having a seizure.

I don’t know how I’m so lucky.  My family still loves me despite it all.  The rage, the tears, the seizures, the mood swings, mania when I don’t know I’m manic..  They have to live with it.

Thank you, Adam, Zaria, and Dax.  You give me light in the dark when I can’t see.

NEXT UP: Be sure to check out the next post tomorrow by Maureen Knorr at livingwellwithepilepsy.com for more on Epilepsy Awareness. For the fullschedule of bloggers visit livingwellwithepilepsy.com. And don’t miss your chance to connect with bloggers on the #LivingWellChat on November 30 at 7PM ET

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Filed under Essays, Living w/ Epilepsy, Non-fiction

Driving Me Crazy

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I often find myself bursting at the seams to talk to someone.  It is an occupational hazard, a fact of life. I am a writer, so I need to spend time alone.  I am an epileptic, so I am confined to my home in ways that you can never understand unless you have been ill for a very, very, long time.

Losing my ability to drive has been one of the worst things in my life. I am at home and there’s no one to talk to.  When I do go out and run into the people I used to see, the people I used to know, they ask me, “When will you get your license back?”  It always seems like a polite question…  They don’t mean to be rude, but I want to scream the answer back at them, “NEVER!!” Never.  I will never drive again and if you want to see me you will have to come over here.  I am here alone with my family.

The next question I get is, “When was the last time you had a seizure?”  My answer always shocks them, “Last week, two weeks ago, I can’t remember.”  It was hopefully not sooner.  I try to stay home in the days after a seizure.  They cluster together.  I hate for people to see me seize.  It’s not a pretty thing.  And I hate to end up in the ER.  Strangers do that.  My family knows better.  I need to take my meds and go to bed.  It’s just my life.  And I will never drive again.  I gave up that hope years ago.

Occasionally my husband wants me to move the car from one side of the street to the other.  It was a Monday morning and if we didn’t move the car we would get ticketed.  I couldn’t.  I can’t.  It’s all or nothing: nothing is the only answer.  My husband agrees but every now and then he doesn’t want to get out of bed.  We both wish I could move the car.  I can physcally drive. I was an excellent driver.  But I can’t.  There are no rules to seizures.  It only takes one second and then I’ve crashed my car into the tree in front of my house.  Or a kid walking past the park….  No. I do not want to take that risk.  I cut that part out of me and burnt it when I turned in my driver’s license, the second time.

I don’t drive not because it’s the law, but because I love my family too much.  I don’t want to lose time and lose control of a ton of metal and flammable liquids.  I can’t.  I can’t. I want to.  Some days I want it so badly I can feel the wind in my hair and the smell of grapes in the air in September.  I tell myself it’s not the full moon, I’m not tired, I’m not whatever it is that might trigger a seizure today.  I see myself walking to the car, turning the key and driving away into the sunset.  It’s such a pretty dream. It will never be.

I’m never going to stop having seizures and even if I do, there is no amount of time that will pass that will guarantee that I will not have another one, at any given moment.  I know that in my bones, in my synapses that like to burst with energy and electricity.  Driving isn’t safe for me and it’s not safe for you either.  You should thank me that I value *your* life enough not to drive.

I beg you, please don’t text and drive. I gave up driving for safety’s sake.  You can give up your phone for safety’s sake.  You don’t even have to give up your phone.  Please, just put it down when you are in the car.  It only takes one second to crash a car.  My epilepsy is genetic, yours could be because of a traumatic brain injury you receive when you crash your car because you were texting while driving.

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I Write, Therefore I Am… An Epileptic

wheatfield with crows

This post is part of the Epilepsy Blog Relay  which will run from November 1 through November 30.  Follow along and add comments to posts that inspire you!

When I picked my date for the Epilepsy Blog Relay I had no idea it was Thanksgiving.  I didn’t know until I had already written most of my blog.  Thus, this is not a traditional Thanksgiving article; there are no Pilgrims or turkeys or lists of things I am thankful for.  As it turns out it is about the one thing (other than my family) I am most thankful for: my epileptic brain.  Without it I would not be alive and this article would not be written.  I have to appreciate the brain I have.

We cannot untangle the connections between epilepsy and creativity.  It all starts with the brain.  I write.  I create.  Sometimes I hit the floor.  Sometimes people tell me they envy my creativity and wish they were creative like me.  I wonder what is it they think I have that they do not.  The only extra thing I have is epilepsy.  I have to take my creativity as the flip side of my epilepsy.  I have to.  All that time spent out of my head, trapped away in my body that will not respond to appropriate stimuli.  When I can talk and control my body, I can write.  I can create.  I cherish that.  All that excess electricity buzzing around in my head must have some benefit.  Synapse snap, crackle and pop.  Ideas rush around like freight trains.  

I read about the authors and artists who have also experienced epilepsy.  Their presence in history gives me comfort.  At least Edgar Allen Poe and Vincent Van Gogh knew what I do: the omnipresent fear of the unknown moment of time snatched away.  One moment here, the next gone.  Who knows when or where we will wake up?  At least I can write about it later.  Emily Dickinson most likely was an epileptic, too.  It’s probably why she didn’t go out much.

It’s a trade off, this life of unpredictable brains.  It’s miserable when your brain and body betray you.  Sometimes, my brain works just fine.  My brain is many things: my mistress, my lover, my best friend, my worst enemy.  I am always afraid that my brain will kill me.  I will take a step and then fall onto something deadly this time.  I have to write it out.  The fear consumes me.  That is epilepsy.  It’s not just the lost time, the unknown bruises, and the fear of falling; seizures steal us away from our lives and our families.  I am a burden to my husband and children, I can’t help but be.  I may need them to make sure I don’t choke on my vomit.

When I write, I feel better.  The fear escapes and seems less scary on the page where it can be edited until it shines like a gold, instead of the late night paranoia of waking up once again in a hospital without knowing how I got there.

I need to write it out, tell my story, shine a light into the darkness so I can make sense of it.  I might collapse, but I might create something meaningful instead.  I have to try.  That’s all there is.  Consciousness and creativity or seizures and time lost.  I know what it is like to fall and to rise again.  I am a seizure phoenix.  I rise out of the ashes of confusion and write so I may fly away from my body and brain that betray me so brutally.  Do I write because I have epilepsy?   I believe so.  I can be thankful for that.  What choice do I have?  I have to pick myself up off the floor and write about it.

NEXT UP: Be sure to check out tomorrow’s post by Anthony Bartley for more on Epilepsy Awareness https://whatepilepsyisreallylike.wordpress.com For the full schedule of bloggers visit livingwellwithepilepsy.com/epilepsy-blog-relay.

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Filed under Essays, Living w/ Epilepsy, Non-fiction

Katie vs. the Fridge

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I am obsessed with my face: how it looks and how it feels.  It huuuuuurts.  My nose is swollen.  At least I don’t have a black eye.  Or two black eyes!  I am glad my nose isn’t broken…  It could be.  I fell into my fridge.  The kind of fall where you can’t even react to catch yourself.  There was no way to catch myself: my brain was misfiring like a son-of-a-bitch.  Shoulder, face, knee, floor.  I suffer the bruises for days and wonder if perhaps I gave myself a concussion.  How do you tell when everything hurts?

I assume my nose would hurt even more if it was broken.  It would look worse.  But it hurts plenty.  The bruises are beginning to spread.  I can tell my face is swollen and discolored around the bridge of my nose.  Bam!!  Into the fridge.  Everybody who thinks I’m a faker, a lazy person who just doesn’t want to work, may I offer my face up for evidence.  Evidence item B would be my arm, which looks much worse and feels much worse than my face.  It took the first fall, into the side of the fridge.  The bruises are just starting to emerge.  The deep muscle contusion is already black and blue and purple and red.  My knee is bruised and my back feels twisted.  That’s a usual feeling after an convulsion.  All those neurons and muscles firing and clenching and releasing.  And there’s no-one there to put your hands up when you fall during a seizure.  I’m gone.  Head falls, there’s no breakfall.  The ground is my enemy.  I guess so is the fridge now.  I had to ask my kids, you can call them to the witness stand, “What happened?”  My consciousness was unconscious.  I didn’t even realize I found myself on the floor covered in cinnamon twists my husband made.  I had been trying to put them away in the fridge, but my brain had other plans for me.

They first thing I can remember is my daughter asking me if I was okay and if I took my medicine.  I said that I was fine and why was she asking me that?  What gave her cause to ask?  She told me I had a seizure.  It was news to me.  I did not yet hurt.  I didn’t remember the floor or the fridge.  I got the full story from my son, he added that I was leaning in the fridge.  I remembered that I had been doing something before I felt the familiar wave of dangerous impulses and misfiring neurons.

How I hate my brain.  Would you trust a brain that made you fall on your face while putting food away in the fridge?  I’m so glad my nose isn’t broken although it is certainly bruised.  I am icing all of the parts of me in a steady rotation.  My arm should have been up and reaching for something to catch me as I fell.  That’s how normal people fall, they use their arms to catch themselves and protect their faces from the shelves of the fridge and the floor.  No, not me.  My arm was a dead weight lucky to absorb the brunt of the impact first.  There’s that at least.  My arm hit the fridge first, then my face.  That’s what I can gather from the evidence, my bruises and my children’s testimony.  I have no memory of the event at all.  I don’t know how much time I lost.  I do know that for days and days I will feel like I am swimming underwater with my breath held for too long.  My lungs are screaming to breathe in, even though I know I would only suck in water and drown.

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No Common Sense For The Commonwealth

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I have long been a silent supporter for medical marijuana.  But I was afraid to really speak out.  I was a Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” kid.  Would the moms shun me at the school if they knew?  It was safer to stay silent.  So what happened?  Charlotte Figi happened.  When Charlotte’s Web hit the news I cried.  I was so happy to see this beautiful little girl reclaiming a life that she almost lost due to seizures.  I was so happy for her and her family.  And then I cried for my children… They have to live with a mommy who sometimes screams and falls down.  That is the worst effect of my epilepsy: my kids have to see me have a seizure.  If you’ve seen a seizure you know, it’s pretty much the worst thing in the world.  If you haven’t, lucky you.  I hope you never do.  Unless you work in Harrisburg or DC: I would love to have a seizure in front of you.  You will be rightfully frightened.  Seizures change everything.

Parents in Colorado and New Jersey and Pennsylvania are fighting to get their children marijuana.  How could I stay silent?  It IS a matter of life and death.  Seizures kill.  Epilepsy is a terrible disease that holds us in a cold grasp until we die. People die from seizures and seizure related injuries everyday.  Over 50,000 Americans lose their life every year.  For me it’s all about seizures, everything in my life is about seizures.

Medical marijuana can SAVE lives.  The Epilepsy Foundation supports medical marijuana.  The nation’s largest epilepsy organization is advocating for marijuana.  That’s huge!  The seizure preventing effects are visible and undeniable.  ALL epileptics need access to this natural medicine that is recommend by Surgeon General nominee Sanjay Gupta and my personal doctors.  I’d like it if Pennsylvania would allow me that courtesy.  23 other states would.  I’m tired of my government treating me like a criminal.  I’m not a bad person.  I just want to have less seizures.  I want to stay conscious at ALL times.

The Pennsylvania Government denies that there is any valid information in the hundreds of studies not done in Pennsylvania.  All the scientific literature does not matter to them.  They insist that they would have to re-do the studies here.  But they won’t do the studies.  Science doesn’t matter to them.  The fact that the federal government has a patent on cannabis (Patent #6630507) means nothing to my so called Representatives.

I read the studies.  The information is there for the taking.  The internet grants us immediate access to governmental documents and scientific journals.  I am convinced.   Marijuana has been known for CENTURIES as a treatment for epilepsy.  Why should I suffer for being born in the wrong century and state?  I just want to be able to grow a plant and stay conscious.  Marijuana can help.  There is anecdotal evidence.  There is scientific evidence.  I’ve had too many seizures to just sit by and wait for Pennsylvania to grow up.  For years I suffered in silence.  I felt so alone in my unstable state of consciousness.  I thought that nobody understood me until I met other people living with epilepsy.  I need to educate the world about my deadly, deadly disease.

I was diagnosed with Temporal Lobe Epilepsy was in 1997.  I was 20.  I went to bed with a headache and woke up in the hospital, talking to my mother on the phone.  She asked me where I was.  I didn’t know.  I had no idea why I was on a phone.  The last I knew I was sleeping.  I could not believe that I had a seizure and was in the hospital brought by ambulance.  It was the first time, but not the last.

They kept asking me what kind of drugs I was on.  That made no sense.  I don’t take drugs. I had taken a biology exam and came home to sleep.  They tested me.  No drugs.  I was confused and angry.  I had another seizure coming out of the bathroom holding the warm container of my own urine.  I don’t remember much else.  Days later I saw a Doctor.  I can’t remember his name, he was just the first of dozens.  He told me I had Idiopathic Temporal Lobe Epilepsy.  It was a diagnosis that I could barely understand despite my years of college anatomy and physiology.  He also said Seizure Disorder but I liked that term even less.

I understood I had a seizure or I was trying to understand that. But I didn’t really believe it.  And I certainly didn’t believe that just because I had one seizure meant that I was going to have another.  I was wrong.  Poor Past Katie, she was so wrong.  That wasn’t my first seizure.  It was just the first time somebody saw me have a seizure.  Over time, as I learned more about my seizures, I realized I had hundreds of un-diagnosed seizures.  I have had seizures my whole life.  I will have them for the rest of my life.  Hopefully they won’t kill me.  I think that every day.

My diagnosis  has not changed over the years.  It’s still Idiopathic (Unknown cause) Temporal Lobe (part of the brain on the side, controls memory and emotions and so much more) Epilepsy (lots and lots of uncontrolled burst of electricity in my brain.)  There is still no reason, no cause, no warning when a seizure might happen.  My brain has too much electricity.  Yee-Haw!  It’s a rodeo!

I’ve gone years without seizures.  Ah, the good years; the sweet seizure-free years.  The longest I went without a Grand Mal (a massive, convulsive, secondarily-generalized seizure) was seven glorious years.  Now I am happy for seven days sometimes.  It’s been 14 days today.  I am finally feeling normal again.  My body has more or less physically healed from the last seizure.  The depression has lifted.  But who knows for how long?

This year the record is 42 days seizure-free.  Then I ended up in the hospital with gallbladder disease and had a cluster of seizures in June. They played fast and loose with my seizures in the hospital.  They gave me so many different injections and bags of saline and radioactive isotopes.  I don’t know what they gave me.  I had a seizure in the bathroom.  I bit my tongue and bled all over myself.  I wandered the halls and looked for my husband whom I had sent home.  I couldn’t remember doing that.  I was dazed and confused: lost in the hazy aftermath of a seizure.  At least I didn’t fall out of bed that time.  I woke up covered in blood and vomit and had no idea why.  Nobody in the hospital knew.  They don’t know how to treat me.  There is no way to treat me after a seizure.  All I can do is sleep and wait for my brain to reboot.  Seizures are exhausting, for days, for weeks at a time.  It’s not just the half hour that I lost, it’s everything that comes after.  My most recent seizure brought me a bruised rib.  But I didn’t fall down the stairs!  I fell into the banister instead.

I would try any plant that could help.  I’ve tried all sorts of minerals and supplements that I found referenced in the medical texts as a treatment for epilepsy.  Marijuana comes up again and again.  There is enough evidence for me and 85% of Pennsylvanians.  But I don’t have safe access to the strains that are curing epilepsy.  Charlotte’s web isn’t available in Pennsylvania.  The variety matters.  Think of marijuana like peppers.  You wouldn’t say that an Orange Sweet Bell Pepper was the same as a Ghost Pepper.  Jalapenos aren’t the same as Banana Peppers.  They are all different strains of the same plant.  Plants are like that.  When you are in a state with marijuana prohibition, there is no choice but one: whichever one your Dude has at that point in time, which changes all of the time.  Nobody else wants to consume marijuana that won’t even get you high. Children in Colorado are allowed to but I’m not.

The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania doesn’t trust me to live my adult life and make decisions about my body by myself with the advice of my doctor.  More than one doctor would prescribe me marijuana if they could.  I have been told more than once.  Neurologists talk about it with me at length.  We are all hopeful for “new” treatments.  But I am in the wrong state for that.

Is Pennsylvania part of the United States or not?  Nearly half the country would allow me medical marijuana.  It’s as free and clear as beer in Colorado and Washington.  But not Pennsylvania.  I am stuck here in the prohibition years.  No medicinal plants for me.  My seizures don’t matter to the legislators of Pennsylvania.

Seizures are being prevented. How can you allow us to go without treatment?  It is a cruel and unusual punishment.  

And that’s why they call us Pennsyltucky.

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Filed under Essays, Living w/ Epilepsy, News

72 Hours

SuicidePrevention

Twice I played an active role in admitting a person to the hospital under a 72 hour watch. Both were voluntarily involuntary. Each time I asked them if they could guarantee me their safety and they could not. Body mutilation is not okay. It is not, not suicide. If you can’t tell me you won’t cut yourself, then you need a few hours away from knives and guns and pills and belts.

I both regretted it and did not regret it at the time. It felt heartless to send them away to be alone in a green room. They are both still alive though, and that’s something. Maybe they wouldn’t have hurt themselves, but we don’t have to know. We don’t have to miss them the way we miss Robin Williams and my cousin Haley. Suicide is 100% preventable. It’s the only cause of death that is.

The first person I admitted was a young girl at the youth shelter I worked at. She was agitated and crying and had cut herself more than once in the past. I asked her straight out, “Are you at risk of harming yourself or anybody else?” She couldn’t guarantee me that she wouldn’t cut herself. I took her to the mental hospital that night. I don’t mess around.

The second time it was my close friend who had just lost her father. She had told me, on more than one occasion, that she would probably need to be hospitalized when her father died. You don’t say that if you don’t mean it. She also told me, more than once, that being hospitalized after the death of her mother was the only thing that kept her alive then. I wasn’t going to let her stay home. She told me too many time, she was too upset. She could not 100% guarantee me that she would not hurt herself. I reminded her of what she told me, how Haldol saved her life. I made her get into the ambulance and leave.

After she left, we went through everything. It was a huge invasion of her privacy. At first I just wanted to wash the dirty dishes and clean the bed, but soon it became apparent that more needed to be done. I had to check everything. I don’t regret checking. Her arms were covered in fresh wounds. There were razor blades in her fucking bed. We took all the knives and her father’s meds. Her father was dead, he didn’t need them anymore.

I regret that she had to spend the night her father died alone, in a hospital, surrounded by people suspicious of her. She wouldn’t visit me when I went the next day. But I don’t have to regret that she is dead because she is alive. And that’s enough for me.

Suicide isn’t something that you want to do forever. It just happens at a peak, at a time of crisis. If you can survive that crisis time, you can survive. The idea of suicide will go away. It’s not always with you. But you have to get past that crisis. If you can keep a person safe for 72 hours, you might just save a life. I hope I did. Twice. Maybe three times.

One other time I recommended a 72 hour hospitalization for my friend. I could feel the mania radiating off of him. He was a different person. I told his loved ones they needed to send him, he wasn’t safe. I wasn’t there when it happened, but when the time came, he went voluntarily involuntary. He is also still alive. He is not suffering from a raging, manic phase. I don’t know how any of these people feel about my role in their hospitalizations. Perhaps they resent me for it. I don’t care. They are all alive to resent me.

I’m watching clips of Robin Williams on YouTube. I can see the pain hidden behind his eyes. I know his pain. I too suffer from depression. Its cold hard grasp keeps me tight despite Academy Awards and Golden Globes. None of that matters. Not a loving family and warm bed to sleep in at night. Depression doesn’t care at all. It can happen to anybody.

And if you can’t guarantee me that you will not hurt yourself in any way, then I’m going to take you to the hospital where they can.

RIP Robin, Haley, Sarah, and all the victims of suicide. The world needed you.

If you are considering suicide,

Please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Call 24/7

1-800-273-8255

The world needs you

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