Wholey Cheese

Just to address the long gap in posts: I lost my job due to a previously written about mental breakdown.  I went from July to October without working and have secured a part time job at a shop that sells video games.  Lack of income means two things. No internet and other things to worry about.  So that's where I've been.

I'm trying to learn to do this blog thing.  I've written lots of stuff before but I have difficulty anymore writing about my life.  I don't want to focus on my depression too much but it's a pretty big part of my life. There are other big parts of my life but most things that happen I don't think are really worthy of a story.  Maybe I need to just get over that and write it up anyway.  I dunno. I'm also terrible at taking pictures of things.  My first instinct is not to grab a camera when things happen.  Most of the time the thing happening involves a cat though and knowing how much the internet loves cats I should probably be posting mine as often as possible.

I currently have internet courtesy of a hot spot loaned to us by a friend who thinks we have a bigger need for internet than we do. Trust me the desire for internet is huge.  Most of the things we do for entertainment revolve around the internet.  But we won't ACTUALLY shrivel up and die without it no matte how dramatic I am about it.  Despite access to a small group of games tonight's activity is to wait for my wife to get home from work so I can annoy her into entertaining me.  Also trying to write about this lackluster evening in a way that may be interesting to a world full of strangers.

One Flew East and One Flew West

Do you wonder if I really care for you,
Am I just the company you keep?
Which one of us exercises on the old treadmill,
Who hides his head, pretending to sleep?

I have been struggling with my depression for a while now.  I'm still not capable of returning to work.  My employer has been shockingly supportive.  I tried going back to work on August 12th.  Within an hour the owner of the company called me into her office and told me she could tell I was not ready to be working yet.  Her and my wife and I sat down and talked about how to move forward.  It was decided that I should check myself in to the local mental health hospital.  Both my boss and wife had spent time there.  Both exulted the amazing program they have there.  I had been considering doing this already but didn't really know how to broach the subject.  The other factor, probably the biggest one, was that I am terrified of being placed on psychiatric hold and not be able to leave.  Fears aside, in the early afternoon of August 12, 2019 I left my home to begin the process of checking in.

The process began at the emergency room with a very pleasant doctor and several very nice nurses.  I was treated very nicely and taken seriously.  I spent about 3 hours there and was then transported by a third party company to the mental hospital.  Once I got there I was triaged by a gentleman who, despite being nice enough, started to become the male version of a villainous Nurse Ratched in my head.  At one point there was talk of them sending me back to the E.R. by ambulance.  The issue was my blood sugar being too high and them being concerned that I would have some attack that they couldn't handle.  I protested the ambulance ride considering it's cost.  The social worker stepped out to call the doctor for approval to skip the second E.R. visit.  At this point I was in full on panic mode.  I'm not really sure why but I wanted out.  We had a brief but heated discussion regarding fleeing into the night which she assured me, would only result in the police being sent for me and causing me to be an involuntary check in case.  I knew I didn't want that.  Luckily the social worker came back saying we didn't need to go back to the E.R. so we proceeded with check in.

I was led to my ward at around 10:00pm.  Yes, this process took all day.  I was checked in again and my personal items were inventoried.  I was shown to my room and I went to bed. The beds were pretty small and hard but you don't need much for what you're going to be doing.  I put my personal effects on the table and set up my CPAP machine and settled in for a fitful five hours of sleep.  I considered writing about my intake experience but my pens had been confiscated.  They do not allow pens to be brought in and patients have to use these odd, stubby, floppy things that I had a lot of trouble holding and writing with.  However, a hardcover sketchbook the size of a college yearbook was fine and couldn't possibly be used to injure myself or others.  It didn't matter much because they didn't give me a pen until the next day and pencils were out of the question.

  When I woke up I was at a loss for what to do.  No one seemed interested in filling the new guy in as to the schedule or rules.  I went to the nurse station and asked about morning medications.  I was told they were not due until 9am.  Fine by me.  I usually take mine as soon as I wake up for the day but I had expected a schedule.  I said OK with a smile and mentioned I thought I would take a shower.  I was promptly told that the time frame for showering for the day had passed and would need to wait and shower between 6:45 and 8:00 am.  I thought that was a little weird but whatever, not the first time I'd skipped a shower.  I went back to my room to use the restroom and got another rude awakening.  The bathroom had no locks and the doors were not full doors.  To be fair I could understand that while they don't want to give the patients anything to use to hurt themselves they also don't want to give them a locking door to hide behind in case they think to use the giant hardcover book they have to bash themselves in the temple.  I didn't have thoughts of actually doing that, but the destructive qualities of my $5 sketchbook did cross my mind.

I attended the first group activity of the day for two reasons.  I had been encouraged to attend and told it looks good to the doctors for hasty discharge.  Second there wasn't anything else to do.  Since I had already decided I wanted to be there as short a time as possible I wandered outside with my fellow patients.  I should point out that the ward I had been put in was called "Generations."  This is medical language for geriatric.  I was the youngest person there by close to 20 years.  I should also mention that I had met and buddied up with Evan by this time.  Evan was my closest cohabitant in terms of years at nearly 60.  I had no choice in either the meeting or the becoming friends.  It was ok though because Evan was interesting and fun enough to listen to.  Anyway, back to group.  We went outside into the "fresh air and sun shine" and met David, a high energy health guru who, in his spare time from being Captain America apparently, moonlighted as the hospital's Occupational Therapist and dance instructor.  I don't mean to demean him.  David was definitely a highlight of my stay there.  Chill dude who played excellent classic rock for us while he led us in super low impact stretches for around 45 minutes.  I requested Jethro Tull when prompted.  David delivered by finding and playing one of my favorite Tull songs without asking which ones I liked.

After our exercise regimen I was invited to the next group activity pretty much immediately.  Not because I had made such an impression on my fellow patients, but because it started almost immediately.  OK, cool. I thought to myself.  Maybe I won't be super bored after all and here comes some group therapy.  Or, what we were actually doing was watching Patch Adams, or, half of it.  Free time was declared after we had seen the first half of the Robin Williams, laugh a minute, oh shit wait we are showing this movie to a room full of mental patients, romp that Patch Adams is.  I wasn't sure why watching a movie wasn't free time.  Apparently movies are therapy, old westerns on AMC are free time.

Free time, however, was my first truly negative experience.  As I walked back to my room a woman walked by me, sobbing.  She went to the nearest nurse and tearfully begged to be let out so she could go home.  He explained that it wasn't up to him when she got to go home and please step away.  I do not doubt that they had valid reasons for having her on a hold.  I had heard a couple stories of my fellow patients.  My roomy, Evan, had stabbed himself in the chest twice with an 8" butcher knife, missing his heart by less than an inch.  It was right about now that I started being fearful of the facility.  I know how the process works.  I was thoroughly grilled by my wife during the freak-out of last night.  If I got demanding or became a problem they could put a hold on me and then I got to leave when they said so.  That is my biggest fear of these places.  Actually, that's my biggest fear of getting any sort of mental health treatment.  I do not want to be locked away in a facility and not be able to leave.  I've seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest too many times.  I know they don't do electrotherapy any more and lobotomies are not a thing anymore either.  But damn if images of Chief throwing a sink through the window and running off into the sunset didn't dance through my head.  I didn't think Evan could manage that kind of a feat of strength.

After free time we had lunch.  Since I was a voluntary check in I was allowed to go to the cafeteria with 5 other patients from my ward for meals.  I had not been impressed with the cold, chewy breakfast sandwich I'd been given.  Lunch was considerably better and I had the salad bar.  It was good.  The lettuce was fresh and crisp and all the toppings were tasty and in good shape.  Lunch lasted about an hour, no surprise, before we were herded back to the ward and told that group would begin soon.  Great!  Here comes my therapy session!

By now you probably know what this next block of text is about.  Afternoon group was us returning to the fresh air and playing cornhole.  There was no therapy session where we sat in a semi-circle and discussed problems and issues and learned to cope with them.  Ever.  I had come to think of the place as a day care for adults.  That's not a particularly generous way to describe it but it's how I felt.  Understand that I think they have a good facility and they provide good help for people who are at a certain point in their mental health.  I also felt I was not at that point. See, everyone but me had either attempted suicide or was at very high risk to do so.  I was neither.  I entered this journey out of a fear that I could reach that point but was not there yet.  I DID think I might be close and thus I reached out for help.  Due to this revelation I went to the nurse station.

I spoke with a lovely nurse regarding groups and asked if they did any group therapy in the style I had wanted/expected.  She confirmed that they did not.  My frustration must have been showing because she asked if I was OK.  I explained that I felt like I wasn't in the right place based on where I thought I was on my healing journey.  She took me to a room where we could speak semi privately.  This is when I became TERRIFIED of the facility.  She told me that she agreed that I didn't need to be there.  She said that she found me intelligent and stable and she wasn't sure why she was being instructed to give me an anti-psychotic.

You know how writers like to use the term "cold fear?"  There's a reason that gets used as a descriptor for fear.  It's eerily accurate.  I felt it wash over me as I envisioned an outburst of emotion getting me placed on a hold.  The nurse confirmed that if I was deemed a problem then they would be quick to slap a hold on my and then I would spend the next year there trying to get out by fighting through the court system.  She didn't want me to get screwed and said she would help me secure my release and all I needed to do was stay calm.  I managed to stay calm for about 3 minutes.  I called my wife sobbing because I was afraid I was going to spend a year in this place with no pain meds (have to detox apparently, though this nurse was very upset they had taken me off them) and little hope.  I blubbered into the phone for about ten minutes but hung up feeling better and consoled by my wife promising that we would work on it when she came for visiting hours.

I won't bore you with details but I spent the rest of the time there in terror and desperately trying to seem not suicidal.  It wasn't all that hard because I wasn't experiencing suicidal ideation.  But my fear made me overcompensate a little and I may have seemed crazier than before I arrived.  Short version is that the nurse did what she said she would do and I was discharged into the custody of my wife around 8:00pm on Tuesday August 13th.

All in all I spent around 22 hours in the facility.  I'm not counting my intake time or time spent at the emergency room.  Despite my stay being short and not the proper place for me to seek help my time there was by no means wasted.  I realized a few things.  First off, I need to stop denying myself of affordable happiness.  What I mean is that if I feel like singing or seeing a friend, or something that I can afford monetarily and spiritually makes me happy I need to do it.  I deny myself these little happies far too often and I need to stop.  I must, must, MUST ask for help when I need it.  Help in life, work, emotionally, etc.  I don't know why I have trouble with this.  I'm not particularly prideful and this shouldn't be as big a deal as it is.  But it is an issue and I need to address it.  I need to accept that my feelings don't exist in a vacuum.  I know what it feels like to cry over something just like everyone else does.  I don't have a problem with crying and I don't think anyone should.  It releases emotions in a healthy manner that doesn't affect others the same was that, say, lashing out in violence or anger does.  But I need to remember that everyone knows how it feels and know that others are able and allowed to empathize with me.  I have to take better care of myself.  I've never viewed myself as being very important.  So I prioritize others over myself when it comes to care.  I will not stop caring for the people I love.  But I don't have to.  I just have to take time and action for myself.  I have to accept that other people have feelings toward me.  Those feelings are valid and they have every right to have them.  I'm talking about feelings of affection.  I often downplay the fact that there are people who care about me.  I have to stop and let people love me.

Aside from the personal epiphanies listed above I also got connected with some mental health facilities that can offer the kind of help I need.  I got some good workbooks and will be seeing a therapist that can help me learn coping mechanisms.  I desperately want to return to work but I understand that I can't do that until I'm well.  I'm not well yet but I will be.  I just have to move forward and altar some behaviors.  This isn't going to change overnight and it may be a little rocky.  But I'll slay this dragon just like I've slain all the others who challenged me in the last 41 years.

AAA Wildlife Sactuary and Hot Dog Stand

Someone in or near my neighborhood owns a pair of peahens.  As in female peacocks.  The just sort of roam around eating everyone's plants and making fucking weird noises.  I'm not a big fan of birds but even I have to admit they are pretty nifty looking birds.  I am glad that they are not acclimated to people.  Or it least it seems like they aren't.  I can't get close enough to take a picture, which is fine because I don't need them sneaking up on me while I'm outside and distracted and going all murder hen on me.  I have no evidence that they would be bloodthirsty, evil, flesh tearing monsters aside from my luck.  If I didn't have bad luck I'd have no luck at all so goes the saying.

There is also an "eagle nest" in my neighbor's tree.  I am a tiny bit skeptical that they are actually eagles.  But I am certain it's some type of bird of prey, like a falcon or hawk that my idiot, redneck neighbors mistook for eagles.  I mean, an eagle is a big fucking bird and I doubt that they would go unseen by someone who lives 50 feet from where they do. I also think that if they were eagles that were feeding babies the neighborhood would be missing a few cats.  They definitely make the scream that birds who drink blood make.  And they make it all the damned time.

Speaking of cats.  I think it's pretty common for neighborhoods to have wandering cats.  I have to say though, I've never lived anywhere where there were so many cruising around.  This is especially nuts because 5 of our 6 cats don't go outside.  The one that does was a stray who was wandering around and suckered me into feeling sorry for him and taking him in.  Most of the cats keep their distance and the one that doesn't is a pleasant old fellow with no voice named Studley.  He's a rough looking, old, grey tom that suckered our neighbor into feeling sorry for him and taking him in.  He visits every now and then and does a silent meow for me so I'll scratch his ears.  It's a good relationship.  Especially since someone else is feeding him and cleaning his box.

My neighborhood is also awash with barbecues and grills.  I'm guilty as well.  I have a neat little portable Weber grill that runs off those little green camping sized propane bottles that my buddy Treebeard gave me.  It cooks really nice too.  Easy to clean.  All the good stuff.  Ok, there wasn't much point to the grill paragraph but I felt the need to write something about it.  So you got a snippet about my grill.

There Was a Farmer

I have an odd obsession with bingo.  Not the farmer's dog, actually, the game.  I can't really put my finger on why I have affection for a game that is, at it's heart, just random number generation.  No skill will help you be "good" at bingo.  All you have to do is listen for the caller to say a randomly generated number and then look at your field of randomly generated numbers to see if there's a match.  Then mark that number with your brightly colored, wipe-away marker.  Not exactly chess.

But I just love the heck out of it.  It is probably because one of my earliest memories is going to play bingo with my grandparents when I was young.  That's bingo's target audience by the way.  Old people and children with single digit ages.  There are outliers of course.  My niece and her husband have a weekly bingo night and GOD HELP YOU if you interrupt it.  Anyway.  When I was a single digit aged child I would go to a building my grandmother just called "gerontology" and play with her while my grandfather called the games.  I remember thinking that the crazy, popcorn machine thing that they used to get the balls with the numbers was super-duper-cool.  I always wanted to play with it.  My grandfather, knowing me, never let that happen, thereby saving them the trouble and cost of buying a new-fangled replacement machine.

Now that I'm middle aged I use the internet to satiate my bingo cravings.  Most often I play using apps I've downloaded.  Yes, apps in the plural sense.  I have 5, I think.  I'm sure that if I wanted to my niece and nephew would welcome me to their bingo club with open arms but I'm not sure I'm ready for that level of savage.  Five different bingo apps is excessive you say?  HOGWASH, I say.  I like them all for different reasons.  Each has it's own design and layout as well as different side...things to entertain you while you aren't listening for your random numbers.  One lets you run a city and fill orders from various shops to earn boosts and other rewards.  One has a crafting station and a global tournament.  A couple others have versions of classic (read: not fun) board games that you can fart around with between games.  Each has it's own appeal and having multiple versions lets me cycle through them when I run out of game tickets on one of the others.

Now you know some of my horrible secrets.  I'm a middle aged nerd, my mental age ranges between 9 and 90 years old, and my grandfather abused me as a child by not letting me break his shit.  It's a wonder I didn't grow up to be a serial bingo machine smasher.

Why We're Here

Sometime last week I was lurking around Reddit; reading a post about depression.  Someone linked a couple pages from Allie Brosh's blog: Hyperbole and a Half.  They said this was the best description of depression they had ever seen or heard.  That caught my attention so I clicked on over to check it out. Here and Here are the pages they linked if you're curious.  While I read I found myself getting that strange, sort of hopeful, excited feeling.  Like "holy shit, someone else feels what I feel."  I also found myself laughing a lot.  Not only is Allie experiencing similar feelings to mine, she is also hysterically funny.  You really should go read her work even though her blog has been defunct for several years.

Another thing that happened was that I read through a great deal of her archives and giggled my slushy brain out and found myself thinking that some of her material, mostly the stuff about depression and anxiety, was depressingly funny.  I was laughing because she's funny and because I could relate to a lot of it.  Kind of a funny because it's true situation.  I also felt like I shouldn't be laughing at some of it because it was her recounting genuine anguish and it felt mean spirited to laugh at it.  It's not though.  It's a way to cope with the condition and help yourself potentially get out of a mental funk and maybe even give some people a laugh and brighten their day.

I am currently on medical leave from work until further notice, which has a lot to do with mental health, so I thought I would take the inspiration I gained from Hyperbole and a Half and start a new blog.  The last one (nope, not linking it...yet) was on a different site and was getting pretty aimless and negative.  So I'm starting fresh and hopefully I can make some progress in my own headspace while giving some folks a few laughs in the process.

I can't promise that I'll make X posts per week/month/etc. But I'll try to remember to do it when I think of a funny story or something interesting happens.  I'm likely to follow the same method as Allie (I SWEAR I'm not obsessed with her! I'm inspired and impressed by her and her writing) writing about my life and the odd things that seem to happen to me and my wife.  Not sure I'll be drawing any pictures but I'll probably post photos and such.

I'm new to Blogger/BlogSpot so bear with me as I monkey around with the site and change the layout and general appearance A WHOLE FUCKING LOT in the coming months.  You may have gotten a notice that there may be adult content on this blog.  I set it to adult because I swear a lot.  There won't be any nudity or gore or anything like that.  Just words that some people may find objectionable. Also, be prepared for the fact that I write about stupid shit and sometimes I'm just not funny.  And I will tell you about my cats.  A Lot.

Cheers