She gently placed three electrodes on my chest. Sinus rhythm, minimal tachy she assures me as I lay in anticipation of drugs that will float me in tingles to worlds I know not.
What is that symbol on your necklace, she asks?
“It is the symbol of the Baha’i Faith…”
This piece is in response to a WordPress prompt to tell a story spawning from a source of inspiration, found in any form and told in any fashion.
The sun rises, in a foreboding nature, its early glancing rays the instillers of trepidation
Trepidation channeled in the quick exchanges, the goodbyes, the prayers
Offered quietly before waltzing with the asphalt in the bleak but simultaneously effulgent display
The car is hungry, growling for a morning meal
We stop at the pump, satiate its hunger and move on our way
My sister sips from a plastic bottle while I desperately attempt to dampen my dehydrated mouth
No food, no water. The river runs dry and fruitless
The sun continues to rise as I continue to plummet in anticipation
I arrive at the hospital, uncover myself from the comfort of my quilt
Grasp the stuffed dog I have named Puppy, who has accompanied me thirty-seven times
And I trudge my way through the sliding doors, check in with my ID and card
Proceed to the Surgical Prep Area
Puppy and I are soon whisked to the inner layer, the mysterious fortress where many enter and
Not all have the privilege to leave
Bay nineteen, oh my favorite number, I revel silently as I quickly don a hospital gown and paper booties
Feeling down, depressed, or hopeless – nearly every day
Having thoughts of hurting yourself or of suicide – nearly every day
So goes the depression screening
Pinch as a needle creeps into my vein, a flash of blood, success
Is my memory going? Well there is a determining exam
Today’s result? Negative, the woods are clear for now
Sticker time, EKG, EEG, so many machines, so many stickers
A burst of electricity passes through the conductor paste they have so carefully placed
On each side of my head
One, two, three seconds… Nearly a minute passes of hopeful seizing
Wondering if anything will ever work, if anything will ever bring peace.
This piece is in response to the WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge: Flash Fiction. The challenge was to write a brief story – 300 words or less. I chose to present mine in a semi-poetical nature. Hopefully I was successful.
I often times feel trapped in the world of my illness. My life is a series of medical appointments – psychotherapy, psychiatric, life skills groups, DBT groups, ECT treatments – which are all consuming, centering solely on the treatment of my illness. Not only am I trapped in the physical world, but I am imprisoned within the confines of my mind. My mind is my torturer, offering unrelenting disruption and disturbance. Thoughts drown out the world around me, and in a sense create an impenetrable bubble and barrier between myself and the world. I am secured – ball and chains – to this world with bonds that cannot be severed. My illness has kept me from participating in many aspects of life that are essentially commonplace phenomena, such as advancement and completion of school and studies, participation in social circles, and the partaking of events and happenings that is taken for granted by many.
I pray to God to be free, to know what it is like to be able to just live, to have the opportunity to participate in the fruits of life without having to question my ability, dependent upon my mental state, to engage in events. I feel as though I have lost so much, with numerous hospitalizations, outpatient programs, years and years of psychotherapy and medication management, and now thirty-four ECT treatments. My autonomy has been handed over to hospitals and doctors. I receive glimmers of hope – progress with therapy and medications, improvements during hospitalizations and in ECT treatments – but yet this is not living. I think we often take for granted our ability to be, to live and participate in a life that has happiness and meaning, to be able graduate from educational institutions or to go throughout our days without having to check our phones to see what scheduled medication we are long overdue to take. I am seeing marked improvements with my medication therapy and numerous ECT treatments, but I thirst for more. I hunger for more.
Nina Simone’s song, “I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free,” touches me deeply and expresses so well how I feel in my search for freedom.
I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free
I wish I knew how
It would feel to be free
I wish I could break
All the chains holding me
I wish I could say
All the things that I should say
Say ’em loud say ’em clear
For the whole round world to hear
I wish I could share
All the love that’s in my heart
Remove all the bars
That keep us apart
I wish you could know
What it means to be me
Then you’d see and agree
That every man should be free
I wish I could give
All I’m longing to give
I wish I could live
Like I’m longing to live
I wish I could do
All the things that I can do
And though I’m way overdue
I’d be starting anew
I refuse to give up this fight, to acquiesce my power to that of my illness, but oh, how wonderful freedom would be. Perhaps my struggle is what makes me unique, what makes me special. A defining characteristic of who I am. I must find my own freedom within this seemingly impenetrable world that is my illness and slowly chisel cracks in walls that are already beginning to crumble. Will freedom ever come in the sense I wish for it to? Most likely not, as I do not believe that is feasible. However that does not mean I cannot be free. I will find freedom in the quality of the life I create for myself, in the life-saving treatments, with the friends I surround myself with. Freedom is not as elusive as I believe it to be. It is there, requiring nothing more than an ardent search.
Unfortunately circumstances necessitated that I make a slight disappearance this past week. I had been anticipating this trip in seriousness for several weeks, mentally preparing myself each day should the occasion arise. My last psychiatric hospitalization was in August of 2013, and I set myself on a personal endeavor to avoid future hospitalizations at all costs. I have successfully done so up until now. I built such an aversion within my mind to the possibility of requiring a higher level of care in order to ensure safety and promote emotional stability. Over the past few weeks, I began to chip away at this aversion and allow the notion of the need to seek inpatient care creep into my mind, acknowledging the benefit and worth I could derive from such a stay. My moods have been vacillating between significant mania and significant depression, consisting greatly of mixed episodes (episodes in which one experiences mania and depression simultaneously or within short periods of time. These episodes are especially difficult to treat). Intellectually I saw myself approaching hospitalization, but emotionally I adamantly resisted it. However this past Monday, the barrier was broken.
As per my mother’s suggestion, I have had a bag packed for several weeks containing essential clothing and toiletry items, my journals, and The Hunger Games: Catching Fire, also an essential item. I brought these items with me to each of my electroconvulsive therapy treatments at the hospital these past few weeks, should they decide to admit me. Well, this past Monday a collective decision was made between the doctor, my mother, and myself. I could no longer contract for safety and my moods were debilitating and all-consuming. The greatest determinant for my admission, for me, was that I was tired. Tired of battling these ups and downs constantly, of battling the constant slew of appointments and the exhaustion that arises from receiving electroconvulsive therapy treatments, and from just battling life. I needed a rest and a safe place to be.
Following my electroconvulsive therapy treatment, the psychiatric unit sent a nurse and a wheel chair to transport me to the unit. I was pretty drugged up at that point from general anesthesia, a paralytic, and major sedatives, but I was determined to make sure Puppy made the trip from the surgical prep area to the unit closely in my care. Puppy is a stuffed dog that has been with me to each of my thirty-two electroconvulsive therapy treatments. After arriving and completing my intake, life resumed to as I recalled it to be from past stays. Treatment at this center has far surpassed in quality the treatment I have received at the three others hospitals at which I have stayed. The program is DBT – Dialectical Behavior Therapy – based, focusing on distress tolerance skills, mindfulness, and how to manage our emotions and symptoms effectively and to the best of our abilities. The days consisted of class after class, all varying in content. The basis for many classes were DBT topics, but there were also meditation classes, outdoor activities, and cooking classes. I learned how to make fruit nachos, so if you are ever curious for the recipe, please send me a message! One of the greatest highlights of the program was the camaraderie I developed with my fellow patients and the experiences we shared together, especially rousing games of Apples to Apples and Pictionary. My greatest regret was the unavailability of the vegan lentil soup each day I spent there.
Most puzzlingly, during my stay, I experienced what appeared to be a miraculous recovery. I was bubbly, chatty and talkative – albeit probably too much, a possible harbinger of moods to come – and quite amicable. I believe the electroconvulsive therapy provided an emotional respite and residence in the unit provided a much-needed rest and an environment in which I could be safe and unable to act on self-destructive urges I may have. Since being home, many of my symptoms have returned, possibly in less intensity, but I feel rested and better equipped to tackle and address them head-on. While no medications were changed, I received a reinvigoration and condensed refresher on my DBT distress tolerance skills.
I needed this rest. Yes, self-destructive urges have reared their ugly heads once again and I am cycling pretty quickly, but my body and mind are rededicated to my seemingly endless fight. I know I can never rid myself of this illness, but I can ardently commit to the fight – both for the sake of myself and for the sake of those around me whom I love. I have been closely monitoring numbers – numbers of medications I have been on, for how long, and their doses, or the number of hospitalizations I have had, which now has reached eleven. However I believe this may be both productive and counterproductive. I know I must acknowledge the worth in closely following my progress, but I also must ground myself in the here and now and do what I can to win this battle. I will not concede to my disorder. It must face my ironclad box of skills I have developed, and I know, with a certainty, it will not win.
Dance With Madness 