Open Fractures

On Saturday evening, December 16, 2023, I passed out in my bathroom. When I came to, I was pinned between the bathtub and the toilet with my left leg underneath me. I immediately felt this excruciating pain in my left leg, a pain like no other that I've ever felt before. I was gripped by a sense of panic as I realized that I would have to figure out how to get myself out of the bathroom so I could call for help. I live alone, and no one would be looking for me until Monday. I had to arch my back over the side of the tub and pull on my pantleg to get my left leg out from underneath me. I began scooting towards the bathroom door, blocking out the pain as best as I could. I grabbed for my reacher to push my shoes off because they were sticking to the bathroom floor, making it impossible for me to scoot on my butt. When I finally managed to get my left shoe off, I noticed that it was full of blood. I thought to myself, "Oh shit! That's not a good sign! That means that there is an open fracture!" I somehow managed to stay calm, focused on getting myself out to the living room. When I reached the hallway, I rolled over onto my stomach and began to do an army crawl towards my Amazon Echo device, where I could ask Alexa to call my dad for help. When I finally reached him, I told him I needed him to come over to my apartment to unlock the door for the fire department and EMS services because I had fallen in the bathroom and broken my ankle. He asked me how I knew that my ankle was broken and I replied "because the bones are sticking out"! I believe that I entered a state of shock because at that time I was no longer feeling much pain in my leg. Then a sense of panic began to set in and I started to hyperventilate. Emergency workers arrived and worked to get me up off the floor and up the stairs outside of my apartment to load me into the ambulance.

Things at the ER were crazy. Doctors and nurses were working in what seemed like a frenzied manner to me to begin to assess the "damage". Once I arrived at the hospital the intense pain really began to set in. I remembered the car accident I had been in back in May 1997 in which I shattered my right calcaneus. At the time, I thought that nothing could ever be more painful than that. I was wrong! I've also had both knees replaced. Nothing compared to the pain I was feeling that evening. NOTHING!!! After the necessary scans and x-rays were completed, I was told that I had an open ankle dislocation and an open fibula fracture. The doctors were going to put me under conscious sedation to set the dislocation and close that up. Then I would be going into emergency surgery early Sunday morning to repair the fibula fracture. After five days in intensive care, I was transferred to a skilled nursing facility to begin my recovery. I struggled to make progress in PT and OT, in part because of my eight week, non weight bearing status on my left leg combined with partial weight bearing on my right foot (due to a hairline fracture also a result of the fall), and in part due to a very deep depression that was setting in. I have bipolar I disorder and typically experience a dip into depression after the Christmas holidays are over anyway, and this situation certainly didn't help matters. I missed my three kitties terribly. I was missing my family over the holidays. I was mentally done and over it. I often found myself crying in the wee hours of the night when I should have been sleeping. It wasn't just my ankle and fibula that were fractured. My spirit was fractured. I wasn't sure that I'd be able to return home to take care of myself after this injury. Once I was finally able to start putting weight on my leg and walking again the pain was pretty intense. After three weeks of walking with physical therapy I felt like I was ready to return home. Those first few days were brutal, and I felt discouraged and defeated. I questioned my decision to come home and began to think that maybe I would have been better off surrendering my apartment, my kitties, my everything, and become a resident of the long term care facility. Those were not good feelings to have. 

One thing that was a saving grace to me during my first week home was the encouragement from a close friend. She was there to support me, push me to take those first few baby steps, to see how far I had really come in such a short time since beginning to walk again. She has been my primary care assistant over the last couple of years and I always looked forward to her coming over to my apartment to help me with housekeeping tasks, meal preparation, and daily living skills because she always knew how to make me smile. I didn't only view her as a caregiver; we had become friends. She helped me to laugh and to appreciate the little things. She helped me to see how far I had come. And then...she told me that she was going to be moving out of state in a month. I was crushed. And even though I could appreciate the opportunity for a new chapter in her life, I was devastated. I don't let too many people in. I had let her in and now she was going to be leaving. After she told me I cried. In many ways this felt like an open emotional fracture. I don't like to hurt, inside or outside. This hurts. It hurts more than I thought it was going to. 

So, where does all of this leave me today? Where do I go from here? I know that I have to continue with my physical recovery efforts in order to gain strength and endurance. I can't allow myself to settle in with my depression. I have to push myself to reach out and let others in. I have to get back to my prior level of functioning, both physically and emotionally, so that I don't remain isolated with my thoughts and feelings. I have to remember that my friend did not die, that I can still choose to make the effort to stay in touch. The physical pain in my left ankle and leg is lessening with time. I have to believe that the emotional pain and hurt I'm experiencing as my friend prepares to move next week will also lessen with time. Right now, I'm pretty raw. I'm in that "open fracture" stage. I can grieve what was - the almost daily contact with my friend - and know that it will not always hurt this bad. I can continue to share how I'm feeling with others, just as I have others help me with my physical therapy exercises. My legs will get stronger. My depression will quiet down. I will be happy for my friend and smile and laugh when I remember conversations we have had over the past four years. Open fractures can and do heal with time. I will be patient. I will have faith. I will do my part. I will get better.

I Have OCD. No, for Real!

I'm pretty open about my struggles with mental illness. I don't broadcast that I'm living with mental illness, but I do share it when it's appropriate. Most of the time when I share that I have bipolar disorder, people say "Oh". Some share that they have bipolar too or that they have someone in their family or circle of friends that has it. But it's a whole different experience when I share that I have obsessive compulsive disorder, or OCD. When I share that, I get this response, almost 100% of the time: "(Laughter) Me too!" People then go on to describe how they have to have pictures hanging perfectly straight on the wall or tell me how everything on their dresser has it's own spot and it drives them crazy if something is moved. When I hear these kinds of things, my insides start churning and I feel the anxiety building. While I don't doubt that those things are true for my friends, I also can't help but wonder if they truly have OCD. I believe that most everyone has some things that they have to have "just so" or it drives them crazy. But not everyone has true, clinical OCD.

Obsessive compulsive disorder can be extremely debilitating. That is the case for me. I had "rules" about how things should be as early as five years old. In kindergarten, I refused to share my crayons. The teacher wanted all of us to dump our crayons in a big bowl for everyone to share. I couldn't do that. I needed mine to stay in the box, in a specific order, with the labels facing front. No one could touch my crayons. I had a very detailed way to sort my M&Ms before I could eat them. As a result, I couldn't eat my baggie of M&Ms in the car on the way to my grandparents house because there was nowhere to lay them all out to sort them. These might not seem like they should be a big deal, but my rules kept increasing in number and complexity and I began to develop rituals that were very demanding and unforgiving. I started counting - EVERYTHING. I started checking - EVERYTHING. Over and over and over again. My rituals began to take up more of my time. I can't not do them because if I don't do them, something bad might happen. I don't know what that might be, but the anxiety is there.

Fast forward to today. It takes me approximately five hours to dust one bookshelf. I have to dust each book and then place it back in it's spot (my books are alphabetized by author). I will put the book back on the shelf and then keep touching it and scanning the shelf to be sure that everything is still in alphabetical order. Then I have to dust the pictures, candles, etc. I actually measure where to put them back so that everything is centered and symmetrical on the shelf. It is a very exhausting process. So, I no longer dust. It is less anxiety inducing to have dusty shelves than to spend five hours dusting one bookshelf. And I still can't totally break free of making sure the books haven't moved. I check my books when I get up in the morning and I check them before I leave my house and when I get home. I know in my head that they probably haven't moved, but I can't break the compulsion to check them. Then there's the counting. My mind is almost always counting. I count my steps when I walk. I count when I'm anxious. My mind won't stop counting at night when I'm trying to go to sleep. I literally have dozens of notebooks that are nothing more than numbers that I've written.

Then there are the obsessive thoughts. I have 3 cats that I love dearly. I would never do anything to harm them and yet I have an intrusive thought that pops into my mind from time to time - I wonder what it would be like to tie a rope around their necks and hang them from the ceiling fan and watch them spin around and around? How sick is that? This is highly distressing for me and leaves me feeling full of guilt and shame for even having such a thought. 

So, maybe you're thinking "Gosh, that would be tough." And you'd be right. But I want to share one more example of just how debilitating OCD can be. Shortly after I was raped, I developed a bathing ritual. At the time, I felt like I'd never feel "clean" again. Once I started that ritual I found that I couldn't stop it. I have been struggling with it for 30 years now. It takes me about 90 minutes to shower. I bathe and then I repeat the whole process four times. I always run out of hot water. By the end of my shower, the water is ice cold. My teeth are chattering. My fingers and toes and lips are blue. Yet I can't not stay in there. This past year, the pain in my knees has gotten so severe that I just cannot physically stand in the shower for 90 minutes anymore. I'm doing good to be able to stand for 10 minutes. I've taken a couple of 10 minutes showers. I end up sobbing as I get out of the tub because I haven't completed my ritual. I cry to the point of making myself physically sick. My mind starts racing and obsessing on the fact that I'm not "clean" enough. The anxiety is crushing. So, and I know most of you will find this hard to grasp, I have not taken a shower since January 23. Yes, it's been 5 months since I've showered. You see, I'd rather go without a shower than to take a shower without being able to complete my ritual. To me, it is the lesser of the two evils. I've been trying to find a shower chair to fit in my tub, hoping that that would allow me to perform my ritual with some minor adjustments but I have a narrow tub in my apartment and we haven't been able to find anything that works yet. So, I don't shower. I know that that is disgusting. And I've had several incidences of skin breakdown. I just treat that the best I can and deal with the itching and burning that comes along with it. I walk into my bathroom EVERY SINGLE DAY and stand in front of the bathtub trying to talk myself into getting in there to shower. Every time I end up crying. I feel this sort of tightening in my chest and it becomes harder and harder to breathe. I start to shake. My head is spinning. So, I turn around and go back into my bedroom and layer on the deodorant and body spray and lotion . THIS IS WHAT OCD CAN LOOK LIKE!

There are medications which can be used to treat OCD. However, since I also have bipolar disorder, my doctor is not willing to prescribe the recommended medications because of the risk of triggering a manic episode. Unfortunately, my OCD and PTSD must take a "back seat" to my bipolar disorder. I'm scared that my OCD is going to completely take over my life. I have so, so many more obsessions and compulsions that are a part of my daily life. Way too many to share. I wanted to share this as an example of what OCD can look like. I'm not saying that others don't have OCD. It can be present to varying degrees in a person's life. But the phrase "I'm so OCD" gets tossed around very casually and we joke about our "quirky" behaviors and laugh it off. But for some of us, OCD is no laughing matter. Never in my whole life did I ever think that I'd be unable to do something as basic as taking a shower. For me, OCD is real. It's effect on my life has been profound. At times, the need to perform my rituals is so strong that I can't resist it. There are times I have to cancel plans, or not even make them in the first place, because I can't get away from the compulsive behaviors to actually leave my house. I pray that, with the help of my therapist and case manager, I can learn to adapt. I pray my symptoms won't continue to get worse. I pray that when you say "I'm so OCD" you're not struggling the way I struggle. It's no way to live.

I Am Not My "Labels" - I Am Me!

I'm sitting here reflecting on all of the "labels" that have been used over the past 53 years to describe me as a person. I remember being labeled "gifted and talented" as an early elementary student. Kids with this label were separated out from the "others", those not considered gifted and talented, and given extra attention, extra opportunities to participate in academic enrichment programs and extracurricular activities. (The "others" weren't given these same opportunities in the 1970s. Where's the common sense in that?) I was a part of a Saturday educational program which exposed me to algebra, trigonometry, geometry, Latin word roots, vocabulary words that were longer than my arms, and challenging essays to read, comprehend, and discuss intelligently. I was 10 years old. At the completion of this program, I was registered to take the SATs right along side the high school students. My feet didn't even touch the floor sitting in those desks. Interestingly enough, I achieved my highest score on the SAT that very first time I took it, even though I took it 4 more times before graduating high school. So...I was SMART. And that meant I would be going to medical school because that's what smart people do.

I moved through college and graduate school with an acceptable GPA, despite the new label I was given. I became known as "the girl who drank way too much", too many nights in a row, and had to, on more than one occasion, be literally dragged back to my dorm room by friends who watched out for my safety. By my mid twenties, that label was officially upgraded to "alcoholic". This should come as no surprise to those who attended school with me or those who would later come to be coworkers and friends of mine. That label is not nearly as desirable as being an academic overachiever although I do believe that I did a much better job of being an alcoholic than I ever did of being a student! Medical school was out. Graduate school was almost out. I struggled to be a dependable employee and citizen. I equated being an alcoholic with being a dismal failure. I relabeled myself as a LOSER, because that's what alcoholics are.

Then in 1998, it became clear that there was something else going on besides active addiction. I found myself becoming increasingly more out of control, even during periods when I had been able to stop drinking for a while. Some days, I was so depressed that I couldn't even get out of bed. I wouldn't shower. I wouldn't eat. I wouldn't answer the phone. I wouldn't open my blinds. I simply layed in my bed for days on end. Sometimes I'd cry for hours, other times I couldn't cry at all. Then after several weeks of deep depression, my brain would get a surge of activity from what seemed like the middle of nowhere and I was on top of the world. I went shopping and bought lots of things, most of the time not even remembering what I bought. I maxed out all of my credit cards. I had ten of them at one point. I would go for drives with the windows down, music blaring, chasing down other cars and semis and blowing right by them. There were times when, out on the highway, my speed exceeded 100 mph. If you've ever driven a compact car at that speed, you know that as you whiz by a semi, the car vibrates and there is this tremendous draft or pull towards the truck. I was never scared. It never occurred to me that that was dangerous. I did not have a death wish, I was having fun. I finger painted my coffee tables. I went for days on end without sleep, not even feeling tired physically or emotionally. My creativity flowed easily and I came up with so many brilliant ideas! I drove to Utah and back, stopping only to go to the bathroom and buy another cup of coffee, with a dead rabbit that I had accidentally run over, gently wrapped in a light blue baby blanket on the front passenger's seat of my Mazda Protege, in a snowstorm one January about 18 years ago. When I finally saw a psychiatrist, he told me I had a mental illness. I was Bipolar. I took that to mean that I was CRAZY because I thought that is how mentally ill is defined.

It was around that same time when I was finally ready to be open about my sexuality, something I thought I'd never do. I was preparing myself to live a life alone, no intimate relationships, believing I was a sinner damned to hell for all of eternity. Once again, another label. This time LESBIAN. I have had a number of unfortunate consequences as a result of people finding out that I wasn't that "nice girl" boys could bring home to meet their mothers and I quit several jobs because I was being harassed and didn't have the inner strength and courage to stand up for myself and fight for my rights. I felt "less than" and so, believing that I somehow brought all of this upon myself, moved to another state and started over. But I soon discovered that no matter where I moved, there I was.

I am also a "PK" - the oldest daughter of a United Methodist minister. Many people assume that I know alot about the Bible. Surprise - I know very little about it. I never saw the point in learning anything about God because I knew that I was going to be going to hell. Isn't that where all "over achieving, alcoholic, crazy, lesbians" go?

Thank God I do not always see myself as the sum of my labels today. There are still some days where I wonder how or why I became such a misfit. Why couldn't I have been a "normal" middle class, mid western girl interested in starting a traditional nuclear family and joining the PTA or becoming a Girl Scout leader? If I had, my life would not be nearly as interesting as it is now. I would not have met some of the fabulous people I call my friends today. I would not be open to meeting new people. I don't even use the label "strangers" because I believe that all people are "strange" in their own ways. Today, I do not identify myself as an "overachieving, alcoholic, crazy, bipolar, lesbian" because those labels place a limit on how I am perceived and on who and what I have the potential to become. I'm still smart and I still love to learn. I am sober, for 8 years now. I have bipolar disorder but I am not my illness. That may seem like simple semantics but it is important for me to realize that my mental illness does not define me. Nor does my IQ, my alcoholism, or my sexuality. I refuse to continue to apologize for who I am. I am coming to know God in my own ways. I may not attend church regularly, but I have developed a very spiritual connection with God and pray and meditate daily. I keep a list of things I am grateful for. I volunteer my time to help others in need. I extend the hand of friendship to those who cross my path, no matter what labels they are carrying with them. And most importantly, I am MYSELF! And I kinda like ME today, labels and all.

There's Nothing There

So, it's been a little while since I've posted anything. I'll think about siting down to write something and then I'll tell myself that there's nothing there. Nothing on my mind. Nothing to share. Just nothing there. Then I'll get an "itch", something that bubbles up to the surface in my mind. But lately I've been uncomfortable with what pops up and so I tell myself that there's nothing there. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!! I pull my super soft, Dennis Basso throw up around my shoulders and sit with my kitties while blaring music on my Amazon Echo until the feelings pass. I want to shove my feelings back down to my toes and I so desperately want for there to be nothing there. I need for there to be nothing there.

Recent events in politics and in the news have triggered memories of past trauma for me. I have been plagued by unrelenting nightmares that shake me to my core. I wake up feeling like I'm suffocating and my heart is pounding. I'm soaked with sweat to the point of needing to get up and put on dry pajamas. I've been sleeping with the lights on, hoping that will prevent me from going into the deeper stages of sleep where the nightmares reside. It's not working. I jolt awake and fight to regain my breath while telling myself there's nothing there. It was only a dream. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!!

I fight a battle with myself every time it's time to eat a meal. I'm torn between following a ketogenic diet recommended by my doctors or following a plant based, vegan diet that fits with my values. I want to do what's "right", but I go back and forth trying to decide what's most important to me. Today for lunch I had a chef salad. Good for the ketogenic diet, not so good for the vegan diet. I spent an hour agonizing over my decision to eat that and in the end, it made me vomit. Guilt got the best of me, again. I felt myself saying "there's nothing there" as the anxiety gripped my mind. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!!

My apartment is an absolute disaster. I'm not going to say how long it's been since I've run the vacuum. That should tell you something anyway. I have this path that goes from my bedroom to my chair and from my chair to my computer and from my computer to my kitchen. My cats are constantly knocking things over but I can't blame them. After all, my stuff is in their way. I currently have library books scattered all over the floor. Thirty-seven of them. I want to pick them up. I need to pick them up. I sit in my chair and stare at them and know that they do not belong on the floor. But there they lay. You see, I cannot decide where to put them or "how" to put them. My books on my bookshelves are all alphabetized by author. I do have one empty shelf available. Do I alphabetize the library books? Or do I shelve them according to their due dates? Neither way feels "right". If I put them on that empty shelf it throws off my whole shelving system. And I don't want to do it "wrong". So, I close my eyes and tell myself there's  nothing there. There's nothing there. THERE'S NOTHING THERE!!! And I continue to step over the books.

The problem is, however, that there IS something there. Whether I'm talking about nightmares, memories, ethical dilemmas, or my messy apartment, there IS something there. I've been doing my damnedest to live in denial. But that's not working for me. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to keep trying to convince myself that there's nothing there when there is obviously something there. I am afraid that I won't be able to deal with what is there. If I keep pulling the wool over my eyes, I'll never see what is in front of me and then I'll fall flat on my face.  Surely that will hurt more than facing the truth. Right? Maybe it's time to say "yes, there is something there" and start to heal the hurt.

Please Don't Call Me Crazy

Yesterday afternoon I was privileged to speak to a group of individuals on what it is like to live with mental illness. I do this as a volunteer through NAMI, or the National Alliance on Mental Illness. The goal of these presentations is to educate the community on what it is like to deal with mental health issues and to decrease the stigma associated with having  a mental illness. One definition of stigma is "a mark of disgrace associated with a particular circumstance or quality". Synonyms include shame, dishonor, or humiliation. Although there is more awareness concerning mental illnesses than there was twenty years ago, the stigma is still present. Here is an example:

After my presentation, I was scrolling through my messages on my phone and there was a message referring to a friend as "crazy". So, I looked up the definition of crazy. It means "not mentally sound; marked by thought or action that lacks reason; insane". Wow! That seems pretty harsh! This person is often identified in this manner. In fact, it appears to be socially acceptable to describe her that way. I saw that and my immediate reaction was "Ouch!" I hurt for her. I hurt for me. I hurt for those describing her that way. I sat back and thought about how very much alike this woman and I are. We both have similar mental illness diagnoses. We both struggle with addiction to alcohol and drugs. We both receive mental health services, including psychiatrists, therapists, and case managers, through the same providers' offices. We both have assistance with meeting our day to day  responsibilities and managing our finances. Granted, she does have significant difficulty with social skills and interpersonal relationships, more so than I do. But everyone has their own struggles. Labeling her as "crazy" just perpetuates the stereotypes and the stigma. I began to wonder if others are labeling me as "Crazy Kris".

For years, I was ashamed to admit that I have mental illness. I am no longer comfortable remaining hidden. I have Bipolar Disorder, OCD, and substance use disorders. If I don't acknowledge those, I cannot hope to get better and live well in recovery. Having a mental illness is not a reason to feel shame. It is not a reason to be labeled. It does hurt to be referred to as crazy. I don't think that my friends intended to hurt the person they were referring to as crazy. I am guessing that they were operating under the assumption that she wouldn't find out. But I've had several conversations with this friend and she IS acutely aware that people refer to her as crazy and that she often feels left out and unwelcome. I am not going to be a part of perpetuating stigma and stereotypes. I would ask that people think twice before calling someone crazy. It is no laughing matter.

Living with Intention

I have not been living well. I was going to add the word "lately" to that sentence, but the truth is that I have not been living well for quite some time now. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I've been dying well. My days have been filled with very little joy and no sense of purpose or direction to speak of. I've been sleeping 16-18 hours a day. I've been eating poorly and focusing on whatever I can do to make myself thin again, believing that if only I could get down to 135 pounds, I'd be happy. I've been avoiding doing things with my friends. My relationships are strained as I try my damnedest to be the "perfect" daughter. I'm barely giving my kitties any attention. I'm not engaging in any activities I enjoy. I'm worried about having enough money to be able to do some of the things I'd like to do. I'm crippled by fear and anxiety and depression. I struggle to accept my sexuality. I am plagued by chronic pain and worry about my physical health. I've been thinking about dying because living hurts right now.

I hadn't really given that much thought as to why living hurts so much right now until I was asked to consider what "living with intention" meant. So, I started by looking at what intention means. I found that the definition includes having an aim or plan. Synonyms included purpose, design, objective, goal, and what one has in mind to do or bring about. I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. I tried to picture in my mind what things I would want to do as a part of living with intention. I decided that these things had to bring me some sense of joy or peace or contentment. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to come up with anything. But, after a few minutes, ideas started popping into my mind. I came up with a list of ten things:

1. time spent in meditation and reflection
2. listening to music
3. learning something new each day
4. reading
5. keeping a gratitude journal
6. connecting with other people
7. making a difference in the world, helping others
8. writing: poetry, blogs, journals, book
9. spending time playing with my kitties
10. working on creative projects: collages, crocheting, coloring.

Doing these things regularly could be a part of a pathway to wellness, which would move me in the direction of living with a sense of purpose. To me, living with intention means doing what I love, living with no judgments or regrets, living with enthusiasm and joy. It means laughter and loving others. It means truly listening and being open to learning new things. I always feel invigorated when I'm gathered with my friends or when I'm writing. So, why wouldn't I want to do these things daily? It's tempting to say that I don't do these things because I don't love myself enough to make living with intention a priority. Or that I'm held prey to fear. And although there is some degree of truth to those statements, I know that ultimately the choice lies with me. I know from my involvement in 12 step recovery that I can choose to "act as if". I can decide, one day at a time, to live with intention and do those things I've listed above, believing they will cultivate that sense of peace and joy that has been eluding me. Or, I can continue on the way I have been, and dread waking up each day. Which pathway do I want to choose?

There Will Be No Casserole

I'm not doing so well right now. Once again, I've only gotten about 10 hours of sleep total in the past two weeks. This is after going with only 25 hours of sleep in a month about six weeks ago. It seems like my body has forgotten how to sleep. Difficulty sleeping has always been one of my issues. Bipolar disorder and OCD play a role in that. And there are some physical health problems, like severe chronic pain, that contribute to my inability to sleep as well. We have been unable to find a medication that works for this. I saw a new psychiatrist last Tuesday. He told me he didn't know what to do for me. We can try one more medication, but there is no guarantee that it will help. He believes that the one medication that I am currently on (and I'm only on one medication for bipolar disorder right now) is my best shot at sleeping and stabilizing my moods. I've already been taking it for two months now. He said that I could go into the hospital to get my body "reset", that they can give me something that I wouldn't be able to take as an outpatient, just to get some sleep. I've already gone down that road, too many times to count. True, they can knock me out, so much so that I usually end up wetting the bed, which means that they will prop me up on a shower chair and bathe me in the middle of the night because I am too sedated to do so myself, and then tuck me back into bed. After three days of this, I will be sent home to continue on medications which aren't working for me and within a week, I'm right back where I started. That is if they will even admit me to the hospital in the first place. It is almost impossible to be admitted if you are not suicidal, with a definite plan for taking your own life. When you're manic and unable to sleep or eat, dealing with racing thoughts and physical restlessness to the point where you can't even sit still, you're more often than not told that you just have to ride it out because those symptoms are not severe enough to require hospitalization. This has been my life since this past September.

I have also been hospitalized for numerous physical health problems in the last 20 years. I've been in for a severe flare-up of ulcerative colitis, pneumonia, hemorrhaging, a TIA, and more. I've had 17 surgeries in the past 20 years. So, why am I telling you all of this? Not to whine or complain. I know that there are others out there who have experienced this, or worse. But I want to shed light on yet another difference between how mental health and physical health are viewed differently still to this day.

I was reflecting back on all of the times I've been hospitalized for a physical health condition. Let's take the time I had pneumonia and was in the hospital for five days for example. I think that I received three or four "Get Well Soon" cards. I had several friends come to visit me. Others called to check up on me. When I was discharged home, the ladies from my church arranged for people to bring me meals for the first week I was home. Usually casseroles! But they were wonderful, and greatly appreciated. I still had very little energy when I initially got home from the hospital. Even something as simple as getting dressed wore me out. So the meals were a tremendous help. I also had someone volunteer to come over and help me with the laundry and cleaning when I first got home. These same things happened when I was hospitalized for my surgeries. Lots of people were there to step up and help.

But, that never happened following a psychiatric hospitalization. Now, before I go on, I will say that I have not always notified friends and family when I'm admitted to the psychiatric unit. I typically notify four or five close friends, and my family, but give them the permission to share with others where I am. That is in part due to the fact that the use of a phone (you cannot have your own cell phone with you) is more restricted and the number of phone calls and the length of your phone calls is monitored by the staff. Also, visiting hours are more limited than those for the medical units. And, as much as I hate to admit this, part of it is due to shame. There are times that I still feel "less than" due to my mental illnesses. Now, back to my point. I get the feeling that a lot of people still look at psychiatric hospitalizations as kind of a "retreat", for lack of a better word. I mean, you get fed. They help you sleep and encourage rest. Your day to day responsibilities are temporarily put on hold. You are encouraged not to worry about your job, your family, or any other potential stressor while you are inpatient. You are there to focus on you, your needs, and to as I mentioned earlier, "reset" yourself. That's all well and good. And that is what I need when I'm there. But I don't leave the hospital ready to conquer the world. If there has been a change in my medication, it takes about 4-6 weeks for the new medication to fully take effect. The fatigue lingers. The ability to complete even the most basic of daily tasks like brushing my teeth still challenges me. I don't always have it in me to jump right back into my daily life and do my own cooking and cleaning. I have never had someone offer to bring me a meal following a psychiatric hospitalization. I have never had someone offer to help me with my housecleaning, or volunteer to run errands for me. I have only ever received two "Get Well Cards" from friends, over a period of 22 years of dealing with my bipolar disorder, OCD, and PTSD.

I'm not writing this with the intention of making anyone feel guilty. I'm writing this to say that even in 2018, mental health and mental illness are still more often than not, "awkward" and uncomfortable to talk about. We worry that we won't know the "right" thing to say to someone who is anxious or depressed, or someone who has attempted to take their own life. We may want to help, but hold back out of the fear of insulting the individual or making them feel like they are incapable of taking care of themselves. Some of us may think that the best thing for someone who has just been released from an inpatient unit is to jump back into life and their responsibilities; we don't want to see them just sitting around, doing nothing. Mental illnesses are still not handled the way that physical illnesses are. And that needs to change. Fortunately, there are organizations out there, like NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness), and MHA (Mental Health America), and others that are working hard to increase awareness of mental health issues and to fight the powerful stigma against having a mental illness. I have to do my part too, by not being ashamed or apologize for my mental illness. I have to be willing to ask for help. But, sometimes, a casserole would be nice. Or help with daily tasks. At least initially, when I get home from the hospital. I guess what I'm trying to say to you is don't be afraid to reach out and ask if it's okay to provide a meal. Or even just come over and sit and talk for an hour. It's not an insult. It's not doing something for someone that they should be doing for themselves, any more than it is when I have ankle surgery and am non-weight bearing for six weeks. It's okay to talk about it. No, it's imperative that we talk about it.