My Night in the Psych Unit Part 2

***Trigger Warnings*** This post discusses self-injury, cutting, suicidal ideation, and time spent in a psychiatric unit, reader beware

Disclaimer from yesterday's post:

[As mention in previous blog (link here), I had an experience with my OCD and OCD meds in 2014 that led to my spending one night in the psych unit at Yale-New Haven Hospital in New Haven, CT. Before I begin this story, I want to acknowledge that my experience is personal and I do not intend to generalize the experiences of individuals who may also have spent time in a locked unit due to mental illness. I also want to recognize that this post may be triggering to those who have personal experiences, direct or indirect with mental illness, psychiatriac hospitals, and involuntary commitments. I want to make clear that I sought treatment myself and made a conscious decision to spend the night in the psych unit because I felt I was a threat to myself. Working in the mental health field for several years, I know that my experience was more independent and person-driven than others' experiences and I want to acknowledge how unique my experience was. That being said, let's start at the beginning.]

 

 

I wrote down my uncle's phone number since I knew my phone would be confiscated and told him I would call when I was discharged. He hugged me and I held back tears, trying to put on a brave face. I headed to the locked psych unit, a place I had referred so many clients and families before and even called EMS for actively suicidal clients in session. Two officers escorted me to the locked unit and asked if I had ever been through this before. I answered, sheepishly, "No, but I'm a therapist, so I think I somewhat know the drill." They confiscated my phone, hoodie (because of the drawstrings), and my shoes. I was given hospital slipper socks with grips on the bottom and a stack of magazines. The psych unit was so crowded that evening, I was sequestered to a stretcher in the hallway. My leg cuts at this point had dried over the cut up sock I used as a makeshift bandage before I left my grandmother's house. I asked several times for someone to give me supplies to clean my cuts, but it took hours before someone came to cut the blood-dried sock-bandage off my legs and clean me up. I knew I didn't need stitches. 

 

 

 

My cutting was rarely deep, but always sporadic and spastic. I cut fast and non-discriminately, although somewhat discriminate since I only cut places that would be easy to cover up. For me, cutting was more about the pain after. The cutting itself was a means to an end. Cutting was a punishment. Days and sometimes weeks later, my cuts would still ache. I cut myself the most when I was a daycare teacher, because I was in a very abusive and controlling relationship, living hours from my family without a vehicle. When I cut my thighs, days later I would squat down to tend to one of my toddlers and I would feel the sharp, burning sting of the cut stretching over my thigh. It was a painful reminder that I deserved to feel hurt and punished.

 

 

 

While I waited, the hours ticked by. I estimated I arrived at the hospital around 6pm and by 11pm, I still hadn't been evaluated by a doctor. There was a young man, maybe around 19 or 20 years old, in a bay with a closed curtain. He was talking and laughing and screaming, carrying on whole conversations for which I was only hearing one side-the side being in his mind. A nurse checked on him often and the young man asked to leave. The nurse informed him his family was concerned about him and he was on a mandatory 72 hour hold (in North Carolina we call that an IVC-involuntary commitment). The nurse informed him he had threatened to harm his grandmother and then himself. The nurse spoke with familiarity and I imagined she knew this patient well. Overhearing this encounter made me feel selfish and privileged to have chosen to come to the hospital. Was this a pathetic excuse to escape my responsibilities? Was I really a threat to myself? Why was I here? The thought You're not crazy if you're afraid you're crazy kept repeating. 

 

 

 

I hadn't emoted in any way, shape or form for hours. I absentmindedly leafed through magazines. After midnight, a doctor finally spoke to me and asked me why I was there. I told him about the self-injury and the fear of hurting myself again. In a monotonous tone I stated "I'm afraid the children I counsel are going to die and if they do, I'll kill myself." The doctor stated he wanted me to move to the crisis unit for the night and be reevaluated in the morning. Even though there was nothing physically wrong with me, I was transported by wheelchair down several hallways and rode on a number of elevators. I remember laying in the room I shared with another individual in a psych crisis and wondering How did I get here...how did it come to this? My dog, Chrissy, had died the previous year and from time to time I would swear I could feel her physical presence on the bed with me, typically at times I was distraught. I hadn't felt her presence in a while, although looking back it's possible her spirit tried, but I was too numbed with alcohol and food to feel it. That night, I promise you, I felt Chrissy's spirit on the hospital bed with me. I felt her body snuggled against my back in the same way she did when she was alive. I felt her warmth and I felt comforted. 

 

 

 

I drifted off to sleep and when I woke up, I ate breakfast that was delivered to my room. I hadn't had my medication yet, because, as the nurse reported, "I think the doctor is going to make some changes." Mid-morning I wandered down the hallway to what appeared to be a vacant conference room and found some coloring pages and broken crayons. I busied myself with that for a while until the doctor was ready to speak with me. The mere question, "So, what's going on?" was all I needed to completely break down for the first time not only since I had been in the hospital, but in months. I began sobbing as I explained the unreasonable demands of my job, my anxiety over something happening to my students, my decision to kill myself should something irreparable happen to them. I cried so hard I hyperventilated as if I was remembering how to cry. The doctor was very kind and compassionate, although stated the obvious "You can't keep on like this, you'e too hard on yourself, you're putting too much pressure on yourself" all the things I have heard my entire life. But, for some reason, it resonated with me that morning. I was expecting and hoping for the doctor to write me a letter saying I couldn't return to work-ever. I was looking for someone else to take on the responsibility of making that decision for me. 

 

 

 

After I let out everything I had held in for months, I immediately became aware and knew what I needed to do. Being a problem-solver has always come easy to me and in an instant I knew what I had to do. The doctor cleared me to go home and increased my Prozac to 80 mg daily. I called my uncle and he stated he would be able to pick me up after 3pm. I ate lunch in the hospital bed and napped some more until it was time to leave. With a clear head, I asked my uncle if I could spend the next couple nights at his house, understanding part of my depression and anxiety was the living environment I was in. I also called my boss (my mother had called him earlier that morning and told him I was in the hospital with stomach pain at my request) and asked if we could meet on Monday so I could discuss with him what's going on with me. He was supportive and obliging. I took two weeks off and shared with my boss (in so many words) that I was having serious mental health reactions to the work load and I needed to take all the PTO I had saved, effective immediately. I also advocated and stated before I returned to work, I needed to return with help. That the job I was doing was unmanageable for one person. Interestingly enough, it took less than 2 weeks to find additional help, even though I had been asking for 4 months.

 

 

My Night in the Psych Unit Part 1

***Trigger Warnings*** This post discusses self-injury, cutting, suicidal ideation, and time spent in a psychiatric unit, reader beware

As mention in previous blog, I had an experience with my OCD and OCD meds in 2014 that led to my spending one night in the psych unit at Yale-New Haven Hospital in New Haven, CT. Before I begin this story, I want to acknowledge that my experience is personal and I do not intend to generalize the experiences of individuals who may also have spent time in a locked unit due to mental illness. I also want to recognize that this post may be triggering to those who have personal experiences, direct or indirect with mental illness, psychiatriac hospitals, and involuntary commitments. I want to make clear that I sought treatment myself and made a conscious decision to spend the night in the psych unit because I felt I was a threat to myself. Working in the mental health field for several years, I know that my experience was more independent and person-driven than others' experiences and I want to acknowledge how unique my experience was. That being said, let's start at the beginning. 

 

 

I mentioned in my previous post, that I was officially diagnosed with OCD in 2012 and was treated with Prozac. By Fall 2013, I was on 60 mg of Prozac a day, but also going through a break up, moving back in with my grandmother (with whom I had/have a contentious relationship), and transitioning to working full time as a school counselor in Bridgeport, CT for two Catholic schools. By November 2013, I already felt I was drowning and attempted to be proactive and inform my clinical supervisor. Because I worked in a depressed area with little funds, I was informed there wasn't enough money in the budget to hire the extra counselors I needed to help offset the weekly influx of new students I was assessing for high risk situations, including domestic violence, child abuse/neglect, suicidal ideation, and self-injury. Each week, I was flooded with dozens more students to meet with and assess, all of whom would qualify as high risk and all of whom I was supposed to be coordinating with the Catholic Charities clinic for follow up therapy. Herein lies the problem, the majority of my students were Latinx and Carribbean, two cultures that historically do not feel comfortable seeking counseling, especially not for their children for fear of Department of Children & Families (DCF) involvement, as well as Immigration. In addition, most of the families did not have the means or ability to drive their kids to and from counseling several days a week. It was more convenient and most trusted for the children to see me in their school. So, that's what I did. To my own demise.

 

 

By Christmas break, I was more than burnt out. I was drinking a bottle of wine and binge eating daily all in an effort to fall alseep and escape reality. I would sleep until 2pm on the weekends, eat "breakfast" and go back to sleep. I dreaded work, but worse than that, I dreaded not being at work as I began to feel overly responsible for everyone's well-being and safety. The Friday before Christmas break, I had barely walked in my front door when the prinicipal of the school called to say I should check my work voicemail. An irate parent had left a threatening message in regards to my reporting her actions THAT SHE REPORTED TO ME to DCF. In this voicemail, she threatened to kill me so I felt compelled to save the voice message. Somehow, I still felt "okay" and "in control" of the mounting pressure and debilitating stress. When I returned from Christmas break, I was met with the same unreasonable demands, high risks check ins, and no aid from the mental health clinic I was contracted through. My cancelling weekly supervision with my clinical director due to the overwhelm of high risk families and children should have been an indicator I was drowning. That and the fact that I was actually drowning!

 

 

The following 2 months after returning from Christmas break, things went from bad to worse. I was often at the school from 6:30am to 5pm facilitating calls to DCF and STILL making mandated reporter calls on my hour-long commute home. While this didn't happen everyday, it happened often enough that I was beginning to unravel mentally. In the past, I had struggled with self-harm and I was beginning to have thoughts of self-harm again, for the first time in years. I was on 60 mg a day of Prozac, but often felt emotionally muted and commented that I was unable to emote appropriately to the stress that was happening to me. I was numbing myself with medication, food, and alcohol. 

By February 2014, my only escape was sleeping. I slept all weekend and my grandmother didn't understand or approve of my sleeping the weekend away. Even though I was 32 years old, working full time (and then some), paying rent, and attending to all my other adult responsibilities, my grandmother would come into my room (her reason for "barging in" was "it's my house, so this is my room") and demand I get up. Her reason? "I don't like it. I don't like that you sleep all day." My response was: "I'm depressed." But, after some time, sleep wasn't an escape any longer and the tiny "office" I shared with the school nurse, that wasn't heated (in February...in Connecticut) seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. My world was closing in around me. Everyday, my kids (students) were having crises and I was only one person and I couldn't fix everything. I was constantly afraid of my 8th grade girls killing themselves or my 6th grade boys assaulting another student and somehow it would be: ALL MY FAULT. 

 

 

"All my fault" is classic OCD symptomology. Feeling the full weight of real or perceived responsibility is a crushing obsession to hold onto everyday. Even more crushing is asking for help and being told "there is none." Thinking about something traumatic or tragic happening to one of my students "under my watch" made me so anxious and depressed, I began to concede to this thought: "If one of my student's kills themselves, I'll kill myself. I won't be able to live with myself. So I'll go too." Once that thought became an option, it was somewhat easier to push on. 

On Wednesday February 26, 2014 I started the day like "normal", binging on Dunkin Donuts and coffee while listening to NPR on my way into work. I was still exhausted from the previous day and already exhausted from my upcoming day. Around 7:30am, one of my 8th grade girls came in with a crisis. She had been harming herself. More specifically cutting herself. Instantly I was triggered. I remember thinking "I'm going to cut myself when I get home today. I want to die." I barely held it together the remainder of the work day. I wrote my hours and hours of notes (by hand). I got in my car. I drove home, silent tears streaking my face, numb and powerless. I walked into the house and cut my legs up. I don't want to go too into detail about the self-injury itself because it can still be triggering for me, but I knew I wanted to do more and I knew I wouldn't be able to stop myself. And I scared myself bad. I called my uncle and calmly stated "I cut myself and I need to go to the hospital." He instinctively knew the cut was self-inflicted because when I climbed into his huge pick up truck, he said "Yale Psych?" and I replied "Yeah."

I approached the check in counter and stated "I cut myself. On purpose. And I feel like I'm going to do it again." 

Old, Cranky Douche (OCD)

A central theme to my writing has been discussion of my anxiety disorder, specifically my diagnosis with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD). As I explore my anxiety disorder more and see just how far it reaches all aspects of my life, I am reminded that my OCD traits have actually impacted my personality. There is a mental health diagnosis called Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder and while I do not meet the criteria for that, I can see where my OCD traits impact my sense of self, my relationships, and my daily life.

I cannot recall a time in my life when I didn't feel anxious, obsessive, compulsive, or generally worried at all times. That being said, my childhood was fairly typical. A child of the 80's and 90's, I enjoyed technology-free play including Barbies, bike riding and swimming in our above ground pool. I enjoyed reading and journaling and I remember from very early on that self-soothing and "creature comforts" have always been key in decreasing my anxiety. As a child, things were comforting. I had to have "my things" in order to feel safe, secure, and comfortable. At 37-years-old, I rely on these things the same way and often get teased about how much stuff I pack when on vacation.

My answer typically revolves around my need to feel comfortable. Knowing I have options and potential back up items for when I don't feel comfortable. These items may include certain articles of clothing, a stuffed animal, a book or journal, music or podcasts that I've listened to before. Repetitive and binging on things has always been a comfort to me. I binge watched TV before that was actually a phrase. I would rewatch TV shows and movies repeatedly because they were familiar and comforting. At a particularly low and lonely time in my life, the cast of the TV show How I Met Your Mother felt like my friends. I counted on them everyday to help me through the pain and obsessions I was enduring at that time.

I was officially diagnosed with OCD in September 2012. I had watched a disturbing horror movie, V/H/S, and had dealt with a 3 day long panic attack that resulted in me seeking medical attention from my primary care doctor, because I was certain there was something physically wrong with me. I had had anxiety and panic attacks before and had been medicated with Paxil, Wellbutrin, and Klonopin. But, this was different. My doctor promptly told me I was experiencing a panic attack and increased my dose of Wellbutrin as well as my Klonopin. However, after two weeks I began to develop strange mental obsessions and even stranger compulsions. I was so preoccupied with forgetting to lock the door before leaving the house that I would often turn around 3-4 times to check the door before heading out to work, only to still feel uneasy and "not right" about the door. My obsessive train of thought was as follows: "The lock isn't latched, the dogs and cat could get out, we live on a busy street, they will be killed, my girlfriend will never forgive AND IT WILL BE ALL MY FAULT." And it will be all my fault is the end conclusion for every obsessive/compulsive ritual, even to this day.

What eventually led to my diagnosis of OCD and being put on medication specifically for OCD was an obsession I developed about dying tragically in a car accident. My compulsion to, in theory, calm my obsession was to picture myself dying in a tragic car accident my entire 90 minute roundtrip commute to work. Every. Single. Day. My "OCD logic" being people who die tragically in a car accident never see it coming, so if I am thinking about it, it won't happen. Needless to say, the mental torture my OCD was forcing me to endure was terrible enough and after a few weeks of that I returned to my doctor who informed me the increased dose of Wellbutrin likely exacerbated my OCD symptoms and I was then treated with Prozac. Over the next 2 years, my dose of Prozac would increase to 80mg a day and left me feeling empty, unable to emote, and dead inside. (Stay tuned for an upcoming post about how horribly THAT went...)

Looking back, I realize I had OCD long before I was diagnosed at the age of 30. As a child, I had rituals that I performed that "made me feel better." I often said goodnight to every single stuffed animal and doll before I went to bed. Most kids do. For me, it was a compulsion aimed to quiet the obsession which was: If I don't say goodnight to every single one, they will come to life and kill me in my sleep. Pretty heavy for a small child, but that obsession is two-fold. 1) OCD can oftentimes be graphic, violent, and sexual for no apparent reason and 2) my tv viewing was generally unsupervised and I exposed myself to edited-for-tv horror movies at a young age. Other rituals included washing my body in the same order and pattern every time I showered (one I keep up with to this day), eating certain foods a certain way, and even playing in a certain way.

For example, every Saturday morning, I dragged my huge bag full of Barbies and clothes out to the living room and played while my brother and I watched Saturday morning cartoons. I did this every Saturday morning for years. Starting at age 11 (until I moved out at age 22), I spent just about every Friday night cleaning and rearranging the furniture in my room in an attempt to maximize the size of my room. My favorite thing was to stay up as late as possible on Friday night, cleaning, organizing, and arranging, so when I woke up the next morning I could "spend the entire weekend in my new, clean, fresh room."

My OCD symptoms and traits haven't always been negative. Because my OCD also manifests a compulsive need to please people, my organizational skills coupled with my need to be seen as useful and helpful makes me an amazing employee. I came to learn I would be an amazing employee to the detriment of every other relationship in my life because I was so mentally drained from "being on" all day at work, I had nothing to give to my significant other, family, or friends. This inspired research into self-care before self-care was the hashtag phenomenon it is now. The more my anxiety about being the "perfect employee" increased, the more time I felt compelled to spend caring for myself to avoid burn out. That left little time for anything else and I often felt stretched too thin.

I'm currently attempting to balance all the things I like about having OCD (the organization, I always know where everything is, I'm rarely late or miss an important day, I'm efficient and productive at work) with all the things I hate (the news scroll of looping thoughts, the random violent images that seem uncontrollable, the inner turmoil of feeling contaminated just by hearing the word "lice" [even typing it just now gave me pause], the mental exhaustion of not forgetting to do something important at work that could directly [or indirectly] impact a patient). It's not easy and it takes effort every single day. I don't ever get a break from my OCD, but sometimes I can filter out the loudest noise and manage what is left. Sometimes, I have no choice but to give in and allow it to consume me (within reason) because I don't have an energy left to fight.

I Refuse to be the Token Fat Chick to your Basic Bitch

I have perpetuated the same toxic friendship pattern since middle school, but in my adulthood this cycle has become debilitating. In my 20's, I came out as bisexual and for my straight gal pals, being in a same sex relationship and chubby made me an easy target for toxic friendships. Looking back, I now see that it was mainly due to two things: 1) I was still insatiably trying to become friends with "the cool girls" and therefore eager to please and 2) I was non-threatening to these straight girls. I wasn't going to steal their boyfriends, I was the Rebel Wilson and Melissa McCarthy to their Anna Kendrick and Sandra Bullock. I was "the funny one", provided comic relief from the chaos of their lives. Because I was in serious and long term relationships, I think I was viewed as a non-sexual being. Less than human. A side kick. Especially since my sex life typically involved other women, my straight gal pals didn't want to include me in loose talk. There is a formula to these women that I have uncovered and I apologize in advance if this describes you. This is not a judgment, I promise, merely an observation. 

The formula looks like this:

1. Straight Cis Female

2. Around my age, but maybe 5-7 years younger

3. Serial dater, but falls in love with every man they date no matter how little they know him or how much time they have spent with him

4. Has had a few long term relationships, but routinely cheats on them all in the name of finding love

5. BUT is constantly worried she is being cheated on and checking his emails and texts are commonplace, even accepted as "this is what it's like to date me"

6. Is above average on the attractiveness scale and puts a lot of time into looks; spending money they don't have on blow outs, make up, clothes, but can barely pay rent or buy groceries...

7. Which leads to their beau of the moment being a semi-sugar daddy, picking up the rent because she spent $150 on a mani/pedi (further justifying the cheating "You know I don't LOVE Tom, but he's paying my car insurance right now so I can't break up with him yet, plus I'm pretty sure Derek is the one...")

8. She tolerates (and I use that word loosely) my lack of style, even though she secretly wishes she had the confidence to go to a bar in flannel pj pants and a ripped tank top

9. She attempts to "make me over" at first casually suggesting "Wouldn't it be fun if we straightened your hair?!" to less subtle "That shirt is fucking hideous!" (justifying the last statement as "The Cosmo talking!")

10. She uses me as her wing woman in bars because she believes I am too gay, too chubby, or too fucking hideous to attract attention for myself

11. And last, but absolutely not the least, she uses me as her own personal therapist. I am who she calls for every drama, from small to catastrophic (which are one in the same to her). She insists on my feedback for every decision she makes. She consults with me on matters of career choice, boyfriend, mom drama. And this-THIS-is where she gets me. That teenage girl who still lives inside me, the one who wore Enya tee shirts in middle school and mismatched socks on purpose, is thrilled at the idea of one of the beautiful people giving me attention. One of the beautiful people calling for my advice. I seem important to her. I get nicknames and labeled "best friend." I spend vacations with her and have the sleepovers in my 20's I always wanted as a kid. I get to escape my life through her drama. It's like watching a live version of Scandal, I seemingly get all the benefits without any of the risks. 

This woman is not as superficial as she may sound. She is typically college educated with career aspirations, BUT her main goal *right now* is to find a man and have kids. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that goal. I am all about choice and following your heart and if your dream is to be married and have a family-go for it. No shade, honest. What this post is addressing is the way these women have treated me and I'm going to guess many of you. Treated like we are commodities. Like we have nothing better in our lives than to help them navigate their every decision. And this is where the revelation comes in, usually about 6 months to 1 year into the friendship: This woman could not give two fucking shits about my life. These thoughts start occurring to me: She never asks how I'm doing and when she does, there's no follow up the next time we talk. She spends HOURS on the phone talking about her relationship, but when I get to talk about mine, she has to hang up within 10 minutes. She asks me for my advice an awful lot but doesn't seem to heed any of it. She continues to ask me to join her for things she knows I'm not interested in (hot yoga, getting our hair styled, clothes shopping) but won't even consider doing things I enjoy. We used to talk all the time, now she only texts when she's having boy drama. Where is this friendship going? Why do I feel worse after being around her instead of better?

Why indeed.

Friendships should be re-energizing and empowering, not depleting and exhausting. You should feel lifted up being around your "best friends" not feeling fat or unworthy. You shouldn't feel honored to be graced with a phone call from her, you should feel like you are on an equal playing field.

Now, this is where I acknowledge my role and responsibility in the friendship dynamic. I perpetuated this pattern because I began the friendship feeling less than and I put that energy out there. I didn't set boundaries or assert myself, because I felt "lucky" to even have one of the beautiful people paying attention to me. Because my self-esteem was so low, I didn't feel I deserved to be treated as an equal in a friendship. I also form bonds fairly quickly with people and most times these friendships are spawned from a working relationship. If you spend 8+ hours a day with someone, you tend to have a connection with her. You "get" each other's daily struggles and plights. You bond over the inconsistencies of your work environment, the annoying and boring staff meetings. But, once that work relationship ceases to exist, there is little common ground to keep the friendship going. I end up realizing fairly quickly how little I had in common with this individual. Aside from work, what did we have? Not a whole lot. 

It's a hard pill to swallow coming to terms with your "best friend" essentially being a stranger, someone who doesn't really understand or know you. It's hard realizing the amount of time, effort, and energy you put into the friendship wasn't reciprocated and you begin to question your own judgment and ask yourself How did I get myself into this? And once you have these insights, it's never as easy as ending the friendship. Female friendships and their complex dynamic have been written about ad nauseum. It's expected, almost, to keep up the image of a friendship even when you're heart's not in it anymore. And social media keeps up appearances far longer than the friend feelings. So how do we make peace with the assumption that girl friends are supposed to exist indefinitely even when the friend feelings have faded? How does one confront the end of friend feelings and break up with a friend in a kind and honest way?

The Anatomy of a Holiday As Told By a Highly Sensitive & Anxious Empath

"You ruin every holiday and special day, Melissa."

This is a sentiment I have heard repeatedly since I was a child and something I have, unfortunately, decided to take into adulthood and namely into every relationship. "The Holidays"-that time between Halloween and New Year's Day-are my favorite time of year. I have always loved spooky things and scary movies, my birthday is the day after Halloween. Thanksgiving has always been an opportunity for my binge eating disorder to shine full force without having to hide and Christmas-well shit, Christmas is just magical. I hated school as a child and looking back I can clearly see it was due to my raging anxiety disorder and people pleasing that didn't work on 3rd graders who thought I was teacher's pet (I was) and trying too hard to be their friend (I was). So, having more than a week off was a bonus to the already magical time of year. And even as a child I made New Year's resolutions. I was 8-years-old and vowed "to lose weight and be a better friend." Not much has changed in 30 years...

It's not an accident this post comes the week of Thanksgiving, because I am burdened with dread that I will ruin the day. To be clear, I'm not planning to, I never do. It's not premeditated. It's not for attention (despite what some family members and ex-lovers think), it is a direct result of my own pressure and outrageous expectations, people pleasing, over-stimulation, and over-peopling. I want to be perfect-the perfect girlfriend, the perfect host, the perfect example of "The Holidays." It makes sense that most of my favorite holiday movies center around everything going wrong (National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation; Home for the Holidays), because they make me feel less alone.

The overwhelm of the upcoming week is creating a pressure cooker in my mind, shoulders, and chest. My breathing shallows and I realize I have been hunching my back for hours. I'm exhausted and shutting down emotionally. I'm in isolation mode which doesn't make for a gracious hostess. So I will likely overcompensate on the day in the hopes no one can see I'm a shell of a human and just trying to "get through." Then the guilt about all of this self-focus comes into play like a professional athlete who never gets the ball. The guilt will be my demise as it renders me useless and incompetent. The guilt will cause me to second guess simple tasks, leaving my partner to either pick up my slack or explain to me how to measure flour, with the patience of a goddamn saint. There's even the guilt of me writing this, acknowledging how self-absorbed my mental illness makes me. The irony of having mental illness and being a therapist is I am constantly aware of what my mental illness is doing to me and the people around me. It's a hell I can rarely escape, save for sleeping and binge eating.

I have been working on being less self-focused, attempting to unburden myself from hanging onto disappointment and resentment that perpetuates a victim mentality that is ugly and characteristic of people in my life I don't respect. But my mental illness demands constant vigilance and awareness or I risk having a savage meltdown, complete with tears and hyperventilating. Thus proving the theory right: Melissa ruins every special day.

My questions: how do I acknowledge and care for my mental illness without letting it dictate my life and the lives around me? How do I know when I need a break or when I'm being rude and anti-social? How do I know when I've pushed myself too far before it's too late? And most importantly, how do I survive the holidays without "ruining them" but while also being authentic and honest and real?

For now, all I have to say is:

Three Sentence Stories

These are TRUE stories from my life I have reduced to three lines. Names have not been mentioned to protect...those in need of protection. No ill will is meant, just a fun peek into some random experiences in my life. I was inspired by the infamous two-lined horror stories my co-workers and I read on break. Nothing but love.

1. As I was walking to work one morning, a woman called to me from her porch and asked if I could give her some money. I called back, "Sorry! I'm poor, too, that's why I'm walking to work." The woman answered, "Damn. Good point. Have a good day."

2. I pulled up to a car wash one night to get quarters from the change machine to do laundry. A woman approached my car and proceeded to tell me what she described as a "very sad story" about her and her children being hungry and did I have any money to spare? When I said I spent my last $10 on quarters for laundry and had nothing to spare, she then asked if I had (or if I knew anyone who had) Percocets...I drove away.

(Source)

3. After having lost 10 lbs on my new anti-anxiety medication, I decided to walk downtown and treat myself to ice cream. It was a beautiful summer day as I walked, enjoying my ice cream, with my headphones on yet no music playing because my iPod had died. A man at a bus stop shouted to me (probably thinking I couldn't hear), "Hey! Better watch those pounds eating that ice cream!" to which EVERYONE at the bus stop laughed...I was 20 lbs. lighter than I am now.

4. I once fell in and out of love in one evening when a friend of mine and I decided to go clubbing and he brought his absolutely beautiful best friend with him. Our bodies immediately connected on the dance floor, both of us instinctively moving to the music in perfect harmony, as Rihanna's "Please Don't Stop The Music" played-a song that flawlessly described our meeting. We ended the evening with an intense kiss and I never saw him again. (This happened on the same day as #3)

(Source)

5. I once offered to give back some of my Christmas gifts to a significant other to make up for the fact that she didn't get everything on her Christmas list from me. My gifts from her were paid for with my credit card. She did not hesitant to take back some of my gifts.

6. In one night, I consumed 15 (I'm not exaggerating, this might actually be a conservative estimate) white Russians after being inspired by The Big Lebowski. The parts I remember after the drinking include participating in a human pyramid in a bar, getting kicked out of said bar, cartwheeling (unsuccessfully) down the street and landing on my ass SEVERAL times. The last thing I remember is a friend finding me blacked out next to the toilet, him undressing me and putting me in the shower while slapping my face and screaming not to fall back to sleep...the next morning he told me never to do that again.

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7. One night, one of my best friends and I went to New York City to see OneRepublic play at Bowery Ballroom right before their hit single "Stop and Stare" went mainstream. We got extremely drunk and decided to hang out with the opening band, who wanted to eat Chinese food in Chinatown. After ordering a shit ton of food and leaving the band with the bill, we drunkenly attempted to find our way back to Grand Central by foot and subway (literally the beginning of a Law & Order episode), but made it back to New Haven by 5am when I had an all day Saturday graduate class at 8am.

8. One day, another best friend and I decided to spend the day in New York City-she meeting a guy friend she had become interested in, I there for moral support and to keep the guy friend's male bestie company. The four of us had such an amazing day together we didn't want it to end, so the guys paid for us to get hotel rooms-my friend and her love interest in one room, male bestie and I in another. We went out to dinner and ended the night as the only white people in a reggae bar, afterwards we took a cab back to the hotel where I have a clear memory of me singing every word to "Dick in a Box." (The male bestie did not take advantage of me, even though I awoke with regret that we hadn't hooked up...see #9)

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9. A few weeks later, the previously mentioned male bestie was passing through town and needed a place to crash. Without hesitation, I offered him my humble New Haven apartment and he showed up a little past midnight. I chattered nervously for an hour straight until he grabbed me and kissed me...and that was the first time I had sex with a man.

10. In 2007, I wanted to participate in the New York City Gay Pride Parade and when I couldn't find anyone to go with me, I decided at the last minute to go by myself. I spent my last $30 on a round trip train ticket to NYC and assumed I could show up the morning of and march in the parade, but found out I had to be registered with an organization. I, then, found a group of people not dressed in uniforms and stood with them until someone handed me a sign and I had been marching with the organization for 10 minutes before I realized I was with the New York City Council and Mayor Bloomberg was an arm's reach away from me. (I got to ride the subway for free all day because of my participation in the parade.)

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~Melissa

I Need Noise...

I am an "aholic". An addict. A Junkie. I have often mused (as un-funny as it is) if I ever tried heroin, I would be dead in a week. My compulsions are epic and beautiful and amazing. Also terrible and frightening and isolating. I've abused and over-used alcohol, food, sex, people, TV, love, sleep, and exercise. But I'm MOST addicted to beginnings and endings. I love starting over-the fresh, new page of a new day, month, year, job, move, relationship. I love the promise of tomorrow and the adrenaline rush list making, goal setting, and vision boards trigger. But, I also love endings.

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I love cleaning house and cutting ties. I love trimming the fat from my emotional diet and creating a minimalist state for me to exist in. I love deleting old contacts from my phone and ripping old pages out of my journals. I love to feel cleansed, purged. This obsession has created in me a binge-purge cycle in my emotional life. I get really into something (or someONE) and I'm all about it. I proselytize and attempt to convert any and everyone I meet to agree with me on this amazing new find. I distract myself with this binge for as long as it takes before reality sets in and the purge compulsion surfaces.

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Some striking examples in my life are my 7 month stint in a cult when I was 18, many of my relationships, some friendships, diet and exercise fads, songs, TV shows, and most recently the search for a place to call home.

The common thread is the need to be doing, evolving, achieving, and progressing at all times. Which is not, in its purest form, a bad thing. But, I fear, I often get involved in these projects to distract me from the thing that most needs purging: the obsessive, overthinking, highly sensitive thought patterns I have called normal my entire life.

The static that is buzzing at all hours of the day, despite exhaustion and need for mental rest. The humming in the back of my brain akin to an electronic device left on all night. I believe that is why I am shamelessly obsessed with the song "Blood in the Cut" by K. Flay, because the lyrics "take my car and paint it black/take my arm, break it in half/say something, do it soon/it's too quiet in this room/I need noise" speak to a deep and (let's call a spade a spade) troubling part of my psyche.

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As I recently texted a friend, I have beginnings and endings down pat, it's the middle-the maintenance-that is difficult. Her response was apt: "Maintenance is boring." And it is. That is probably why I have been spectacular at beginning and ending relationships-maintaining a fun, exciting, sincere, and serious relationship with one person seems daunting and unattainable. Especially with all the distractions we have now. TV, movies, texting, every form of social media known to personkind, including dating apps where a dissatisfied partner could potentially spend less than 15 minutes creating an online profile and start talking to a newer and (hopefully) better person. There is even a fellow blogger devoted to revealing what cheating partners are up to on Cheating Husband Apps. 

As a married friend and I have discussed, our generation (1981 babies) and younger seem enamored with the illusion and appearance of happy relationships via social media, movies, TV, etc. I can relate-I am often STILL moved to major life decisions based on movies and songs. It's not an easy thing to admit, but being a 90's kid where cable TV was available and romantic comedies ran on a loop every weekend, it makes sense that is how I established my core values in relationships.

My go-to movies are divided into two categories: teen romances and the "damsel in distress." I'm still a sucker for both. As much as it pains me, as a feminist, to admit this: I love and loved the classic story of a woman being swept off her feet by some beautiful, charming, and (of course) sensitive man and "rescued." My body is recoiling at me even writing these words, but truth is truth. I'm less gullible now, but in my formative years? Holy fucking shit. 💖

I thought that's how life and love worked. You suffered, you met some incredible human being, they fixed every problem in your life (down to wardrobe), and you lived happily ever after. No discussion on what happens in the absence of conflict, how one maintains a relationship through the everyday monotony of life. So, in my naive mind, conflict that tested love was essential in relationships. Therefore, in the absence of said conflict, I felt the need to create some to prove to myself and my partner just how much we could overcome. And boy did I!

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Luckily, I have outgrown creating drama, but the craving for it still pervades. The absence of it suggesting there is *something missing* when really it's just life being life. Most of it is uneventful bullshit we have to muck through to get to the fun stuff, which (hopefully) does not get thwarted by someone else's drama addiction.

So, instead of longing for a person or relationship to fix this merry-go-round I have been on for 20+ years, I am creating my own happiness, fun, and excitement and hoping to find someone who thinks outside the box enough to want to jump on, instead of expecting me to jump off.

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~Melissa

*Title credit song "Blood In The Cut" by K. Flay in 2016 (Because I'm STILL obsessed with it!)