First, I went to a concert all by myself!  My parents were really worried that it wouldn’t work out.  The concert was at the New Daisy on Beale Street in Memphis, TN.  My mom was convinced that Beale Street is full of crime and such.  Well it isn’t.  Too many police walk around and patrol it.  Additionally, the concert was on a Monday evening, not so many people hitting the bars on Mondays.  My dad was quite concerned that I would get in a wreck.  I’m not sure why.  I know the area very well since I love downtown Memphis.  So my parents lectured and voiced their concerns but in the end, it was my decision and I chose to go.

The bands that played were Ann Arbor, Downtown Fiction, We The Kings, and Mayday Parade.  I was mostly interested in We the Kings.  I even bought the VIP package so that I could meet the band (and Charles Trippy!!!!).  It was so awesome to meet them.  They were all very nice.  The lead singer walked straight up to me and gave me a hug!  I also brought along a pigeon decoy (they decorate the tour buses with them) and the whole band signed it!  I also got a signed poster, a t-shirt, and a wristband.  Additionally, I bought another t-shirt and another wristband.

Since the Meet and Greet was at 4:15 and the concert started at 5:30 (about 6:15 in reality), everyone that was a part of the Meet and Greet (11 people) got to pick out where to stand in the venue.  Obviously, we all chose right up front at the stage.  We could touch the stage…there was no barrier.  The first two bands played and I didn’t know any of their songs, but it was good music.  Got to touch the hand and guitar of members of Ann Arbor and Downtown Fiction.  I also got kicked in the face by a person who was crowd surfing.  I had no idea I’d gotten myself into a mosh pit!  Unfortunately, I learned that mosh pits are mean.  They will spit you right out.  Literally.  I got shoved off the viewing platform and into the aisle just as We The Kings came on stage.  I couldn’t squeeze back into the crowd and a bouncer had to catch me when I fell into the aisle.  So, I had to watch the band I was there to see over the heads of the crowd.  Not fair.  But I did meet them so that makes up for it I think.  And I still got my pigeon!

When all was said and done, I left Memphis safely and got home safely.  Of course, I didn’t rub it into my parents’ face but I hope that if I ever decide to do this again they will be less concerned.  I think I proved that I can handle myself.

Another accomplishment is an ongoing one.  I am taking Intermediate Western Horseback Riding this semester.  I am riding a horse named Buddy.  He is a slow horse if you let him be.  He is actually quite smart.  He figures out how much you will let him get away with and tests you in every new lesson.  Last week I rode him on a lunge line and had to lope (canter).  I am really not comfortable with loping…it feels too much like I am flying on top of a horse and I don’t want to fly into the ground.  Buddy does a pretty good left lead lope but he hates doing the right lead.  I couldn’t get him to do it while on the lunge line.  In fact, it very nearly caused me to have a panic attack.  However, I am bound and determined to not finish this class until I can get him to lope on that right lead correctly.

Today, Buddy tested me again.  Everyone had their horse set up in a circle.  One at a time, a person would ride their horse around the circle and practice speed control…walking slowly then moving into an extended walk, same with the trot.  Buddy, being lazy and testy, decided that with every chance, he would try to drop his shoulder and get back into the group of horses instead of letting me ride him in circles and focus on speed control.  Eventually, the professor showed me that when he drops his shoulder to get to the group of standing horses, I need to make him turn in a complete circle so that he picks up that shoulder and has to work harder because he tried to be lazy.  He kept testing me but eventually, as I continued to make him do circles, he started to get the idea that I wasn’t going to give into his tricks.

I find it amusing.  I’ve always heard people complain about Buddy.  But the more I ride him, the more I like him.  He tests my skills, which I definitely need.  He is easy to work with when you know how to handle him…which I am quickly getting better at.  He is a dependable horse…even if I am just depending on him to be lazy.  Really though, he isn’t that bad.

Another adventure!  I am going to have an article about me in the April issue of Schizophrenia Magazine.  I did a telephone interview about 2 weeks ago.  As I was talking to the writer, I brought up the fact that I use a service dog to help with having schizophrenia.  I gave the whole “Who Rescued Who” story and talked about how Sheriff and I save each other.  The writer liked it so much that he said he wants to use “Who Rescued Who” as the title of my article!  Since I am not subscribed to the magazine, they are going to send me a couple copies so that I can see my article.  I am excited!

Those are my adventures.  I would say that everything else in life is going great but there has been one particular bump in the road.

For the past year, I’ve had 2 therapists.  One I see for free through the campus counseling center.  One my insurance covers that I see through the community mental health clinic that I go to.  The latter therapist talked with her supervisor after our session in which I was still struggling and mentioned having some suicidal thoughts with no intention to act upon them.  Some where in the conversation it came up that I have another therapist.  (Both therapists new about each other)  As usual, this was not taken well.  At my last meeting with the therapist at the community mental health clinic, she told me that I had to pick between her and the campus therapist.  I’ve been seeing my campus therapist for 2.5 years now.  The decision was easy…stay with that therapist.  The latter therapist expected this and so now I no longer see her.  The decision doesn’t affect my freedom to have a caseworker or nurse practitioner or psychiatrist through the community mental health clinic, I just can’t see 2 therapists.

I never understand this.  The campus counseling center also thinks it is stupid…or at least those that know about this consistent problem I keep running into.  My campus therapist says that if I wanted to see 10 therapists I could…as long as I wasn’t billing my insurance for more than one.  So technically, I could pay cash for one therapist, have my insurance cover another therapists, then see as many free therapists (mostly found at area churches) as I want to.  But somehow ethics play into this repeatedly.  I am consistently told (by the people saying I can only have one therapist) that it is unethical to have more than one.  They make their point by giving this example: What if I talk to one therapist about a problem and they tell me something to do to fix the problem.  What if I tell the other therapist about the same problem and they tell me to do something different.  There is a conflict of interest and I would be left confused about what I am supposed to do.

There are flaws in this thinking.  First, therapists don’t TELL you what to do.  They make suggestions.  I am a big girl, I can decide which suggestion suits me the best.  Also, I don’t always bring up the same topics with both therapists.  I sometimes play to their strengths and choose my topics based upon those strengths.  That completely eliminates the conflict of interest.  When I had 2 therapists, we were often working on 2 different things.

Regardless, I can’t change the way the system works.  I’m just glad that I get to keep the rest of my treatment team.  The last time I had to choose therapists, it was all or nothing.

But that summarizes the past couple weeks for me.  As I said, things are going well and I am enjoying these little adventures.

When I took my boyfriend to meet Sheriff, he was no longer the calm, laid back dog I had originally met.  Even making eye contact with him caused him to urinate in fear.  Not a good sign.  Frankly, a horrible sign.  This dog had some serious issues.  The kennel workers told me that he was probably not far off from being euthanized.  Not only do people tend to avoid big, black dogs…they tend to avoid dogs that pee everywhere in a panic.  My boyfriend likely thought I was nuts for wanting this dog, but my mind was not changed.  Over the next couple weeks, we were allowed to take Sheriff to the local park.  He rode in the car great and his fears were not as severe once he was leashed and outside the kennel environment.  But, he was still a very fearful and under-socialized dog.

At one point, while I was at work at Petco, my boyfriend decided to bring Sheriff to Petco since my shift was ending soon.  At the same time, a local rescue was setting up for an adoption event.  One of the volunteers dropped a folded metal crate right next to Sheriff.  Sheriff was so startled that he backed out of his collar and took off running.  My boyfriend and three rescue volunteers took off after him.  They followed him across a very busy road and to the back of an ancient apartment complex…which ended with a drop-off about 8 feet down into the next shopping strip.  Sheriff paused long enough at that drop-off without leaping for my boyfriend to approach him and get him leashed again.  That experience really cemented the fact that this dog needed a lot of help.  I don’t know how I did it, but I convinced my boyfriend that we were his forever home…with my dog training knowledge, I could turn this dog around.

On January 31st, we officially adopted Sheriff.  We took him to our new apartment…where we were still unpacking.  I accidentally knocked a notebook off the back of the couch and onto the floor.  Sheriff’s response was to run in circles around the couch while peeing, and then into the bedroom to continue fearfully peeing while he hid behind the bed.  I added falling notebooks to a quickly growing list of things to desensitize him to.  Later, stepping on manholes, leaves blowing nearby, meeting new people, balloons, kids, loud noises, eye contact, and toys would be added to the list…as well as most of the day to day happenings in an apartment.  We tackled every item.  If making the manhole clang 100 times would help Sheriff no longer fear it…then I would make that manhole clang 100 times.  As the year progressed, Sheriff slowly started to become less fearful.  As his trust in me grew, I started adding obedience training.  As a dog trainer, I wanted his obedience to be solid.  He would be my evidence that I, as a dog trainer, could own a highly trained dog.  So we continued to desensitize and train.  It became more and more apparent that there was a loving, smart, and clownish dog hiding under all the problems.  I wanted to allow that dog to flourish.

Understand, I had no idea that I would ever need a service dog while all of this training was going on.  Never would I have adopted a dog with such severe anxiety and fear with the intention of using it as a working dog.  However, after a year and a half of owning Sheriff, I started looking for a private trainer familiar with service dogs.  In March 2009, I had suffered my first psychotic episode which resulted in an 11 day stay at the psychiatric hospital.  Often and repeatedly, I had to return to the hospital for various reasons.  I was having trouble stabilizing.  My boyfriend gave me the idea of using a Psychiatric Service Dog (PSD) and I pitched the idea to my psychiatrist.  She agreed, after reading the information I brought her, that such a dog would likely be very helpful to me.

Around June, I found that trainer.  By then, Sheriff’s fears were virtually non-existent.  His obedience was solid.  He was polite around strangers and other dogs.  He appeared to be willing to work.  All summer we worked on task training and public access training.  In the end, Sheriff took to it quickly and flourished even more now that he had a job to do.  It was like he had found his element.  Whenever I got out his service dog vest, he would literally jump for joy and wag his entire body.  He loved going into public with me and very quickly he learned how to do his tasks in response to my emotions.  Rarely did I need to ask him to complete a task…he was intuitive enough to do his tasks without direction simply by reading my body language.

Over time, it became evident that Sheriff and I had helped each other face our biggest fears.  I am quoted in the book  Two Plus Four Equals One as saying, “I began working with my dog when I realized that even though I had rescued him, he was ready to rescue me.”  This statement took on a mind of its own.  I tell people now that when I got Sheriff, I showed him that the world was not as scary as he thought it was.  In return, Sheriff shows me that the world is not as scary as I now think it is.  It became a question of “who rescued who,” in which I don’t think a definite answer can be found.  Perhaps I saved Sheriff from euthanasia.  I know he has saved my life on numerous occasions.  Now, my car is adorned with a paw print bumper sticker that states “Who Rescued Who?”  Recently, I bought a collar for him that also asks, “Who Rescued Who?”  It is our mantra.  We are a team and that phrase is what binds us.

Recently, Sheriff was needed to take a large role in helping me stay out of the hospital.  Every semester since 2009, I have been hospitalized at the beginning of the semester.  This semester, all the pieces started falling into place to indicate it was getting time to go to the hospital.  However, I saw the symptoms in time to give notice to my treatment team.  My caseworker, therapists, and team leader began seeing me nearly every day for about a week and a half.  Each one had their own theory about what was going wrong.  “You are starting to become psychotic.”  “You need to learn to handle stress better.”  “You don’t eat enough fruits and vegetables.”  “Your sleep pattern is wrong.”  They also had their own ideas of how to get me through this rough patch.  However, that didn’t work for me.  I didn’t want to simply use coping skills to wait out this critical time.  That, in my opinion, was not enough.  When I saw my nurse practitioner last Friday, he suggested that I probably needed to go to the hospital.  That was the final straw for me.  I sat in my car for about 5 minutes, thinking about giving up and just admitting myself.  Then I drove home.

I thought long and hard that evening about what I needed to do.  The reason why I was headed into crisis needed to be dealt with head on.  Using coping skills to simply ride it out was not working.  I felt that was a backwards approach.  I decided that the intense paranoia and anxiety I was feeling needed to be dealt with in a manner that eradicated them, not managed them.  Therefore, I took the weekend to get my head on straight.  I didn’t go anywhere without Sheriff, he was constantly at my side.  Using the skills I have learned through Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, I began to ignore the scary thoughts and the anxious thoughts.  I would replace them with more rational thoughts or simply not entertain a thought at all.  I felt like I was taking a fly swatter to the thoughts in my brain.  It was difficult.  I had to analyze my patterns of thought over and over to assess if they were healthy or not.  Most of the time they were not healthy.  I spent extra time with Sheriff at home, mostly using him for emotional support.  I brushed him extra long.  I sat on the floor with him and gave him a massage.  We worked on some maintenance training.  Through changing my thought patterns and spending time with Sheriff, I beat back the incoming crisis and instability.

By Monday, I was free.  My anxiety was down to a tolerable level…its usual level.  My paranoia was back to its normal level of disabling but not debilitating.  I could function again…and not just barely.  I was in higher spirits than usual.  I had beat back a hospitalization.  I had diverted a crisis.  I was free to live without the fear of an incoming bout of psychosis.  I had taken the skills I’d learned in therapy and used them to the degree that I was more mentally stable than I have been in a long time.  I cannot convey the idea of how empowering it feels to beat what seemed like an inevitable trip to the hospital just like it always occurs.

As usual, Sheriff (and myself) had rescued me.  “Who Rescued Who” continues to be our mantra because it is how Sheriff and I lead our lives.  I am there to rescue him should he ever need it and he works to rescue me on a daily basis.

However, I don’t view it as a battle anymore.  I view it as a way of life.  We all have our good days and our bad days.  So what if my bad days include suicidal thoughts, psychosis, intense anxiety?  We all have our struggles.  Additionally, I don’t believe that I have these struggles for no reason.  I cannot live my life thinking that I just have bad luck, that I am doomed to suffer from a severe mental illness for the rest of my life.  I choose not to suffer.

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Acts 17:11

I was not given schizophrenia to make my life miserable.  I was not given aspergers to make my social life a wreck.  I was not given severe anxiety to make me fear so much of the world.  I was given these things to do something with, to build upon.  I can already see the prospering that these diagnosis have given me.  Nearly daily I receive messages from others with schizophrenia or their family members, thanking me for writing in this blog, or even more often, asking for advice.

I have hope.  People contacting me shows me that people are stepping outside the boundaries of stigma and admitting that they or a loved one is sick.  People are asking me for information about these illnesses.  They don’t want to hide the secret person with schizophrenia.  They want to shine some light on the situation and take hold of hope for themselves and their loved ones.  I have a future.  I don’t know what exactly it entails but I see it coming, lights shining brightly as my purpose is revealed to me.  My purpose to help eradicate the stigma of schizophrenia.

I am not broken inside.  I wish that every person with mental illness could see that in themselves.  We ARE NOT broken.  We have a purpose, one must only search inside to find it.  Not every person is meant to be an advocate for mental illness.  Whatever purpose a person with mental illness can find in their life is wonderful.  Perhaps it is simply getting your GED.  Perhaps it is graduating from medical school.  Perhaps it is being a friend to others who are sick, lonely, destitute, homeless, lost, etc.  Perhaps it is simply living a life that inspires others, in whatever form that may take.  None of that suggests that a person is broken.

If you feel that you are broken inside, you can change that.  YOU can change that.  No drugs or therapy can do that.  These things can set you on the right path, certainly.  However, if you do not take an active part in changing your inner mindset, you will never heal what you think is broken.  If you break your foot, a doctor can tell you about all the treatments available to fix your broken foot.  But, only you can agree to the treatments and say “Yes I will let you set the bone.  Yes I will wear a cast.  Yes I will use crutches.”  Only you can fix yourself.

When I go to the hospital due to psychosis or suicidal ideations, I have reached a low point in my illness.  Some may view that as broken.  I view it as a tune-up, just like vehicles need.  I lose sight of the goal, the purpose I have been given, but that purpose has not disappeared.  I simply need a few tweaks to set me back on the right path.  No low point can convince me that I am broken, because I know that I am not.  I have hope.  I have a life that I live to inspire others.

This is a mindset that you must believe for yourself.  If you believe that you are broken, who is responsible for picking up the pieces?  What caused you to become broken?  You can’t place blame on whatever you believe broke you.  When you blame a person, you believe that they are responsible for fixing what they have broken.  That doesn’t work with people.  Only you can decide in what way you are broken and how it must be fixed.  You may have been raped, bullied, assaulted, abused, etc. but you are still the one responsible for learning that you are not broken.  You have been impacted by the event, certainly.  However, I was impacted when my parents bought me a new computer.  Every day events impact us.  The value, whether positive or negative, that we give these events determines how we will allow them to affect us.  And in turn, how we will allow them to not break us.

This holiday season, take the time to look inside yourself.  Give yourself some credit and see that you are not broken.  Decide that you are going to take responsibility and find the purpose in life that you have been blessed with.  I tell you, that is the best gift you will receive.

Anyways, I didn’t start a blog to ramble about cranberry sauce.  I started a blog to talk about Thanksgiving.

I have so many things to be thankful for.  Of course, I am thankful for my family and friends.  This includes my biological family, and the friends I have all over the world that I may never meet but I know they care about me as much as I care about them.  I’m thankful for Sheriff, who lays curled by my chair as I write.  I am thankful for you guys, the people who read my blog.  Without you, it wouldn’t exist.  I am thankful that I can receive mental health care because there are so many severely mentally ill people who get no help at all.  I am thankful that I live in a beautiful home and am not homeless.  I am thankful for the many opportunities that I have been given, especially over the last year.  Some big projects are in the works and I am so excited about that.  And since I mentioned them, I am thankful for these projects that constantly remind me that I am more than I give myself credit for being.  I am very blessed right now and that feels amazing.  A year ago, I wouldn’t have believed that so much good could come from such a terrible mental illness.

Because we are now past Thanksgiving, I am really feeling the oncoming holiday season.  My mom has already put up three Christmas trees in her house!  Soon, wreaths will appear on doors and windows.  I need to get a Christmas tree for myself since last year’s is spider infested.  Slowly, Christmas lights adorn homes and businesses.  The Christmas parade is next week, I think.  The famed “Kier and Rosemary’s” Christmas party is next weekend!  I have two Mexican Danishes to make; one for the party and one for my family.  I am also really looking forwards to the Service Dog Central card exchange/Secret Santa/Santa Paws events.  I love getting Christmas cards in the mail from all my friends…and sometimes from friends in different countries!  I very proudly display them in my home.  Oh, and now that it is close to Christmas, I can sing all the Christmas songs I want without driving everyone else nuts because those songs are usually stuck in my head in the middle of the summer!

Well, forgive me for having a short post today.  I find myself growing tired and I don’t want to ramble on and on.  Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

One of the opportunities that has recently popped up is a way for me to express my passion about mental health recovery/management.  This is just in the very beginnings of getting started but I really hope it grows bigger.  I want to be a motivational speaker.  I want to inspire people, mentally ill or not, and show them that they can get through whatever life throws at them.  This message is important for all age groups and something I really want to help people with.  I believe that, once I get my brain organized into speeches, I could have a powerful message to share with people.  Scratch that.  I KNOW I have a powerful message to share with people.  Finding the outlet and fine-tuning my speaking are the obstacles I have to resolve now.

I do have an opportunity coming up in the next couple months in which I could talk to anywhere from 20-50 people.  Sort of a baptism by fire test drive.

I find it amusing that this is where life is taking me right now.  I used to hate public speaking.  I’ve always been awkward at it.  However, one thing I have heard over and over in my research for motivational speaking is that even if the presentation is a little wonky, the passion of the message is what really shines through and sticks with people.  I have passion.  Deep passion.  Therefore, I can do this.  I already know that I can talk about what I am passionate about.  That is easy.  And if my message reaches only one person…only changes one person’s life, then I’ve done my job.  Because passion can spread like a wildfire.  Once you set fire to your own light, it begins to set fire to others.  And then they spread their own light.

I can do this.  This is where I am being led.  It sounds good to me.  I’m ready to change the lives of however many people want to listen to me.

When you stick your arm into the digestive track, you angle towards the head of the cow so that you can find the reticulum and the esophagus.  This particular cow was eating grain while we messed with her so her digestive system was actively working with the new food that was entering her body.  That meant, that sometimes her muscles would contract as the digestive system worked.  When they contracted, you literally could not get your arm out of the cow.  You had to wait for her to relax.

This made me think about how we sometimes handle life.

When unexpected things occur in our lives, we often pause to process the change.  Sometimes, we dig our heels in and refuse to allow the change to take place.  However, some change is going to happen no matter what.  Contracted muscles have to relax at some point.

I am horrible at accepting change.  My comfort zone means that everything happens as expected and without surprise.  I find it hard to adjust when plans change.  My muscles contract.  For example, I am not comfortable around bodies of water such as lakes, creeks, rivers, etc.  I’ll stand on a dock over the water and sometimes even get in a boat, but I will not get in the actual water.  I don’t want to get bitten by a water snake or a turtle.  I don’t want to feel a fish brush up against my body.  I don’t want to encounter whatever is lurking in that body of water.  August 2010, I had to face that fear.  My birthmom, her boyfriend, her boyfriend’s kids, and my siblings were all going to the river.  I went, but not properly clothed for getting in the water…because I had no plans to actually get in the water.  My plan was to sit in the shade and watch everyone have fun.  But as I realized that tons of people were in the river swimming, riding down a short waterfall/rapids area, and just generally having fun, I noticed that no one was getting bit by snakes.  No one was drowning.  Everyone was having fun.  I slowly began to relax and consider that getting in the water might not be as scary as I thought.

My mom ended up taking me back to the house, supplying me with appropriate clothing, and driving me back to the river.  I had fun swimming and riding the current.  I even rode down the rapids twice!  I relaxed enough to have a good time with my family and try something new.

Of course, life isn’t full of such happy endings.  Sometimes we have to deal with bad news or tough times.  Again, most people contract and dig their heels in.  Maybe a close friend is moving away.  Maybe you lose your job and have to find a new one…a new job that may not be ideal for you even.  No matter how hard you try and stop change from happening, you have to relax and give in eventually.

In 2009, during one of my many hospital stays, my therapist and psychiatrist started to voice that they felt I needed to apply for disability.  At first, I thought…no way.  I am going to get better and return to my wonderful job as a dog trainer and companion animal specialist at Petco.  I loved that job.  I wasn’t going to accept the idea that I may never return to the job.  But as the hospitalizations continued and I didn’t improve, it became impossible to ignore that I had lost my ability to work.  I couldn’t return.  I was not stable.  It would be a long time until I even became close to being stable.  In fact, “stable” took on a whole new meaning than what it was before 2009.  So, my mom and I sat down at the computer and began filling out all the forms needed to get disability.  A few months later I was accepted and deemed by the Social Security Administration as disabled and no longer able to work.

It took a while for me to relax and accept that change.  My parents had raised me to have a strong work ethic and sense of responsibility.  Where was I going to channel those qualities into?  Over the past two years, I’ve channeled those qualities into relationships with friends, my desire (and achievement) to get a college degree, and even into this blog.  I try my hardest to post at least once a month.  Lately, I’ve been on a roll and I’ve posted even more often.  I continue to research and read books about schizophrenia, constantly trying to keep updated on various treatments that come along and the newest articles about news regarding mental health.  More often, parents and other family members have e-mailed me and asked for advice on how to help their schizophrenic son or daughter.  All my research pays off when it comes to that point.  I can give these people resources and help them understand what their son or daughter may be feeling or going through.  One parent asked me, “why does he want to regress?”  I had to explain that virtually no one with schizophrenia (or other mental illness) makes an active decision to get worse.  Many factors often contribute to a regression occurring.  Regardless, channeling the skills my parents taught me helped me to maintain some level of self-worth and the ability to continue trying to succeed while living with a serious mental illness.

No matter if you are mentally ill or not, change happens.  It may be pleasant; it may be painful.  Often, we try to stop change because it can be scary or we are simply comfortable with things they way they currently are.  But change occurs regardless and the key is relaxing and being pro-active.  How can you deal with the change so that it is less scary?  How can you make the change beneficial to you instead of simply stressful?  These are things that everyone needs to consider.  It is part of the “toolbox” of life skills we all carry with us.  Some of us just have more tools than others sometimes.  Which means, it is always okay to ask for help.  You can always ask to bother some “tools” from a friend or loved one.  Just don’t try to contract.  It is simply tiring, stressful, and puts off the inevitable.  It is better to face change as it comes and be prepared to make the best of it.

In late February 2009, my first psychotic episode occurred.  I had seen a psychiatrist a couple weeks previously and she had told me that she wasn’t sure of a diagnosis yet but she decided to try me on Risperidone, an atypical anti-psychotic.  On the last weekend of February, I saw my therapist.  Looking back I suppose that was the day that the psychosis first started to get me.  The session was rough and when I left, I had strong suicidal urges.  I got home and emailed my therapist, telling her that I wanted to kill myself.  She immediately tried to call me but I refused to answer the phone.  I was too scared to hear what she might say.  She emailed me back promptly and asked me to come back to the counseling center but I refused.  I told her I had to go to work.

As I drove to work, an ambulance went speeding by me.  I was afraid that ambulance was for me and that it was going to my apartment to try and save me.  When I got to the entrance to the shopping center that Petco was in, a police officer also drove his car into the parking lot.  I was positive that officer was looking for me and was going to arrest me so that I couldn’t harm myself.  I believed that all over town, police officers and paramedics were searching for me, trying to stop me form killing myself.  I was psychotic.  I was paranoid.  I was terrified.

I got through my six hour shift.  I tried to avoid the customers in the store because I was afraid that they were all undercover and would take me away if they figured out who I was and what was going on.  The next day, a Saturday, I went to work in the same condition.  Unfortunately, it was impossible to completely stay away from all customers on such a busy day.  I don’t really remember what went through my head that day.  Sunday morning, March 1st, I had to be at work at 7 in the morning to open the store.  I woke up at six and knew that I couldn’t do it anymore.  I wanted to kill myself.  I couldn’t bear the idea of another paranoid day at work.  I was exhausted from constantly fearing that people were out to get me.  I was not thinking clearly at all.  I woke my fiance up, Adam, and told him that I wanted to kill myself…I needed help, badly.  He called the crisis line at the local psychiatric hospital and they told him to bring me in to get evaluated.  I got dressed and away we went to the hospital.

I was evaluated by a very kind lady, she has evaluated me many times sense.  I don’t remember how this particular evaluation went.  I was too disconnected from reality.  I was shutting down.  The evaluator called the on-call doctor (who happened to be my psychiatrist).  My psychiatrist remembered me and stated that she wanted me to be hospitalized.  They allowed me to give my cell phone, wallet, and jewelry to my fiance before they took me back on the ward.

Once I got on the ward, I was even more scared.  I fell right into the stigma of psychiatric hospitals and their patients.  I was afraid that some psychotic patient was going to try to harm me.  I was afraid that patients would be mean, violent, scary…everything my paranoia told me about typical people in the outside world, but multiplied because these were not typical people.  What I didn’t see was that I was the psychotic patient, not them.  Most of the other patients were there because they were depressed, suicidal, or bipolar and struggling with mania/depression.  I didn’t realize this though.

My vitals were taken and I was led to my room.  The nurse carried some blue scrubs with her and told me I needed to go into the bathroom and change into the scrubs.  This was a small kindness I would later learn, protocol is that you change in front of the nurse.  Once I was properly outfitted, she waved a metal detecting wand over my body and found nothing.  She then asked when I had last ate.  I told her I had eaten lunch on Saturday.  A few minutes later as I was sitting in my bed in a bit of a daze, a tech came in and brought me a bowl of cereal, milk, and juice.  I ate in my room and then simply sat in my room until group started.  I had arrived at 7am and group was at 9am.  Group was officially the point in which I stopped talking.

In Group, people go around the circle of chairs and say why they are in the hospital and how they are doing that day.  I couldn’t focus on the people.  The ceiling had my attention.  I counted the ceiling tiles and then made patterns out of them that veered around the large fluorescent lights that also buzzed in a distracting manner.  When the therapist in charge of group got my attention by calling my name and asking me why I was in the hospital, I simply continued to recount the tiles, making sure the first count was accurate.  I felt no need to respond to anyone else.  For the rest of my stay, I continued to have problems in Group.  Sometimes, I was attempting to count the ridges and valleys of an accordion style room divider that stretched the length of the room’s left side.  Sometimes I would hallucinate.  At one point I saw water dripping from the ceiling yet there was no water stain on the ceiling panel and the floor was not wet.  I stuck my hand out to catch a drop of water and it simply vanished through my hand.  Other times, I would be delusional.  A window in the room allowed patterns of light to hit the floor.  One of these patterns got very close to a patient’s foot and I was afraid they would catch on fire if the sunlight touched them.  However, none of these experiences gave me any reason to talk.  Talking seemed dangerous.  I couldn’t get my thoughts organized enough to come up with any description of how I felt.  People seemed like unnecessary things to interact with.  How could they help me find new patterns in the ceiling tiles or make sure that people didn’t catch on fire?  They couldn’t…so why say anything?  It was safer to simply stay quiet.

After Group, I returned to my room and simply sat in there alone, lost in my psychotic thoughts.  I established a pattern of not leaving my room unless a nurse or tech came to tell me that I was needed for something.  I went to Group but didn’t participate.  I went to lunch, but I didn’t sit near the other patients.  The only time I participated in something was during Activity Group.  There, the Activities Coordinator, Angie, was a person who had used to work with my mom.  I remembered her slightly but it was enough to make a connection.  I still wasn’t talking but she figured out, you don’t have to speak to play cards.  As often as she could, Angie got out the deck of Phase 10 and we played it for an hour.  Sometimes with other patients, sometimes just me and her.

Whenever I saw my psychiatrist or my therapist, those were the few times I talked.  I remember with my psychiatrist I mostly gave one-word responses.  I simply couldn’t communicate how I was feeling or what was going on in my head.  I didn’t understand it.  My thoughts distracted me and took me inside myself where the words of those around me made no sense.  I was best able to answer short questions that didn’t require a lengthy response.  For most of the time I was in the hospital, my psychiatrist was trying a variety of medications on me.  For each new anti-psychotic, a new side effect occurred.  One day I might be so dizzy I thought I would simply fall over if I didn’t hold on to something.  The next day I might feel nauseous, worrying that at any moment I might vomit.  The next day my appetite might be obliterated and  I wouldn’t even feel the need to go to the cafeteria.

Even when they finally found a medication that worked relatively well, they didn’t send me home.  The criteria to send someone home, in a nutshell, is to make sure that they are experiencing no suicidal thoughts, homicidal thoughts, and no psychosis.  Since while I was in the hospital I had been told that my diagnosis was schizophrenia, I was in a sort of denial but I also knew that this diagnosis was going to change my life.  I didn’t want that to happen.  So while I had no plan to harm myself while I was in the hospital, I was afraid that if they sent me home, I would try to kill myself.  I wasn’t able to come to terms with this diagnosis in the beginning.

After a couple of days, it was my birthday.  In fact, it was my 21st birthday.  By this point I was talking a little to the nurses, and I was leaving my room in the evenings to accept visitors, phone calls, and to watch television in the day room.  On my birthday, one of the nurses came into the day room and sat down next to me.

“Do you know what is special about today, Katherine?”

“It is my birthday.”

“That is right and we have a surprise for you.  Would you be interested in seeing your surprise?”

I nodded and followed the nurse into the main open area.  There, all the patients were lined up around a cake.  As I moved into the room they all started singing Happy Birthday to me.  Then everyone got cake, ice cream, and soda.  This is probably my most memorable birthday ever.  Who celebrates their 21st birthday in a psych ward instead of with friends getting drunk?  I do.

One thing I also remember about this hospitalization is that I was afraid to let my parents know what was going on.  I remember I really didn’t want to talk to them.  I allowed my fiance to tell them that I had been hospitalized and why.  However, I would not let them come visit me.  I can’t remember if I would talk to them on the phone for a couple minutes or if that came during later hospitalizations.  I avoided them because I was ashamed.  I had always been their smart, goal-setting, creative daughter.  I was letting them down because suddenly I was dropping all my college classes, my goals seemed impossible, and I, in my view, was simply becoming a failure in life.  Why would they want to talk to me when I was in such a condition?  I didn’t believe they would.  I believed I had disappointed them very much.

This first hospitalization lasted 11 days.  Only towards the very end did I start speaking more often.  By day 8 or 9 there were still techs and nurses who would comment that it was the first time they had heard me speak.  I had some cognition problems due to the way my brain reacted to the psychosis.  I no longer could follow a conversation if more than two people were involved, including myself.  I could no longer read long passages in books or magazines while remembering or comprehending what I had just read.  As the medicine continued to bring me back more fully into reality, these problems would pass.  As the medicine continued to work though, I would not become stable for many more months.

Saturday night, I was in my pajamas and headed to bed.  Just as I was turning all the lights out, I got a phone call from one of my friends.  She needed me to take her to the hospital.

This friend has a diagnosis that in many ways is similar to mine but she also deals with some problems that I have no experience with.  To protect her privacy, I won’t go into specifics.

Regardless, she was hallucinating and was both suicidal and homicidal.  Upon hearing this, I quickly put some clothes back on and rushed to her apartment.  As I drove, I scavenged my mind, searching for any signs from the past week that could have alerted me that she was having trouble.  Earlier in the week we had hung out and she became manic during that time.  I’ve never really dealt with anyone in that state so I was at a loss at what to do.  Since she was not a danger to herself or others at that point, my efforts were simply to try and hold her attention…keeping her in the “here and now,” and giving her tasks that she could focus on…such as helping me decorate a friend’s house for Halloween.  What I didn’t realize is that she was not simply manic that night.  That night was also when her hallucinations started and I didn’t know.

I didn’t know the gravity of the situation.  As her friend, I should have been able to support her better.  I should have found a way to get her help sooner.  I should have known that it was not just mania that she was struggling with.  Those are the thoughts that ran through my brain as I drove to her apartment.  I felt that I had failed her as a friend.

When I got to her apartment, her sister was also there.  I drove everyone to the Emergency Room so that my friend could be evaluated and hopefully admitted to the psychiatric hospital.  The ER has some new policies regarding people that are suicidal.  They now take all your clothes away from you so that you cannot escape or harm yourself.  Having been in that situation just a month ago, I knew how vulnerable it can make a person feel.  Sitting in a hospital gown and wondering if you are going to be spending the next few days in a psych ward isn’t really the best feeling.  So, for me, seeing my friend in this vulnerable situation…all I wanted to do was give her a hug and make all her problems disappear.  It was painful for me to be in the room with her, a guard posted right in the doorway to make sure she stayed safe.  It was painful to watch be evaluated and hear in detail what she was going through.

It was painful because so many times, dozens of times, I have put my family and friends in this same position.  I never fully understood the emotional weight that is carried when you know that a loved one no longer wants to live.  Or, to know that they feel they are a danger to others and want so badly to not feel that way.  I remembered a time in which I was in the ER and I was very agitated.  I paced back and forth across the hospital room while my mom begged me to calm down and just relax on the bed.  I remember a few weeks ago when another friend stayed with me in the ER while I attempted to get admitted to the psych hospital.  I became keenly aware of the helplessness my friends and family have felt from knowing that they could not help me.  On Sunday, I made sure to thank both my friends and parents for supporting me, even under such difficult circumstances.

I suppose when I, or anyone, am the one sitting in the gown, waiting to be evaluated…you don’t realize the torment you are placing on your loved ones.  It is, inherently, a very selfish position to be in.  And it should be…you need to focus on getting yourself help and recognizing what has mentally gone wrong.  You get to feel your own sense of helplessness as you place your future into the hands of whatever psychiatrist is on call that day.  Maybe they will allow you to be admitted and get the help you need.  But, maybe they will deny you admittance and send you along to deal with your inner demons alone.  However, this helplessness is again reflected onto your loved ones.  What happens if you are denied admittance?  What happens if you are admitted but the doctors struggle to find a medicine to help you stabilize?

Then there is an even greater worry.  My friend did not tell me that she had been hallucinating while we spent time together.  She could have attempted to hide her symptoms longer than she did, increasing the chances that she would destabilize further.  Instead of seeking help for her suicidal thoughts, she could have simply killed herself.  That is the greater worry…that one day, as a friend or family member, your love and support will not be enough to save the person you care about.  I am ashamed to admit that in the past 2 years I have attempted suicide twice and never told anyone until much later.  There have been times in which I simply did not want help.  I was too symptomatic to reach out and admit the need for help…I simply wanted to fade away.

The truth is, people with mental illness need a consistent support system.  We need to learn how to recognize the signs that suggest their mental health is declining.  We need family members, or friends, who can help us recognize changes in mood or symptoms.  We need to learn to be honest with ourselves and with our support system.  We need to understand that asking for help is not a step backwards, but a step forwards.  We need to understand that there is no shame in admitting that we are struggling.  We need help to ignore the terrible stigma surrounding mental health.  We also need to know that in the worst of times, our treatment team will be available to assist us.

I gained a lot of respect for my family and friends through this incident.  They have always been there for me.  It brings me great sorrow to know that there are mentally ill people who have no such support system.  Therefore, I dedicate this post to those who have a mentally ill family member or friend.  Standing strong for them is not easy.  Supporting them, even at their worst of times, can be extremely difficult.  Yet so many people repeatedly stand up and openly offer support, even while recognizing the toll that it takes.  You are all so very special and though you may not hear it sometimes, you are also very appreciated.  Thank you, thank you so very much.

For two days I did not leave my hospital room.  Psychosis had hit rather hard and I was convinced that if I left my room, one of the other patients would attempt to kill me.  Only two patients were exempt from this thought: my roommate, Liz, and a particularly kind woman, Sarah.

I stayed curled up in bed, not even leaving at meal times.  At first the nurses brought me trays of food but eventually they just left me alone in my room.  In order for me to see my psychiatrist, one of the techs would wait until all the other patients were in group.  He would then come tell me that no one was in the open area and it was safe to come out.  Repeatedly, the nurses, techs, and doctors told me that I was safe…no one would try to harm me.

On the evening of the third day, Liz came in and told me that only her and Sarah were in the day room if I wanted to join them.  My increased dose of medicine was kicking in and the psychosis was losing its grip.  I decided to try my luck at leaving the room.  Before this paranoia had hit me, I’d been working on a 500 piece puzzle in the day room.  When Liz and I walked in, it was still there just like I had left it.  Eagerly, I sat at the table and began working on it again.  I was making good process.  The puzzle was of a garden full of pink flowers and ropes of climbing ivy.

There was a commotion in the hall.  Another patient, Rachel, had been in bad shape the entire length of my stay.  She frequently became confused, sometimes stripping off her clothes or wandering into the nurses’ area.  She babbled words that did not make sense and was never in a good mood.  She was out in the hall, making some sort of ruckus.  Suddenly, she came into the day room and headed right towards my table.  I stood quickly and backed away from the table.  She picked up the edge of it and attempted to throw it at me.  Puzzle pieces went flying.  A carton of milk spilled all over the floor.  I disappeared…crammed into a tiny nook between the wall and a row of lockers.

Nurses rushed in, restraining Rachel and removing her from the room.  I had immediately gone into a panic attack.  The nurses, Liz, and Sarah could not calm me down.  I’d been repeatedly told that no one would harm me, yet another patient had just thrown a table at me!  Physically, I was unharmed but not for a lack of trying.

One of the nurses came in again to check on us.  By then I had calmed down some but had not left my nook of safety.  The nurse offered to put in a movie for us to watch then told us that she was going to lock the door so that we could leave the room, but no one else could come in without a key.  After the movie, Sarah went to bed by Liz stayed with me.  I didn’t feel safe enough to leave the room.  Who knew when Rachel would attack again?  She could simply walk into our room and strangle me if she wanted!  The nurses never came to tell us to go to bed.  Liz and I ended up turning out the lights and sleeping in chairs pushed together into tiny beds.  Not until 6am did we finally return to our room.  Even without the tendrils of psychosis, my paranoia was fed by the incident.

This is a direct quote from a woman in a college class called Personal Health.  There was an assignment in which students were asked to research a psychological illness.  This was the reaction to schizophrenia.

Friends often wonder why I am so honest about having schizophrenia.  Not only do I talk to strangers about it but I’ve announced it to an entire college classroom and I was in a front page article on the local newspaper which also talked about having schizophrenia.  Once I was diagnosed, I posted it on Facebook, deciding that the people who were supportive I could believe were true friends and the ones who turned against me were never worth my time in the first place.  While I was was working on my degree in Psychology, every professor I ever had in the department knew that I had schizophrenia.

So why am I so honest?  Because I do not tolerate the stigma and ignorance loaded into that quotation.  I am open and honest because I want to create an environment in which people can ask me questions or relate their own opinions about schizophrenia.  Obviously, no one can look at me and say, “She looks like she has schizophrenia.”  Even more obviously, no one can say, “She looks like I have schizophrenia, I should probably be scared of her.”  Really, I’m just not a scary looking person.  I follow the statement often used for wild animals: it’s more afraid of you than you are afraid of it.

Instead of viewing me as scary, people view me as a curiosity (and sometimes an attraction) because I have a service dog.  To people who are respectful and not rude, I will spend some time discussing my service dog.  This often leads to the question of why I have him since most people assume that I am actually just training him.  Once that question has been asked, the person has already established their first impression of me.  We’ve been talking about my dog for a couple of minutes.  So when they find out that I have schizophrenia, they can’t jump to the conclusion that I am a scary insane person…I already established that I am an intelligent, somewhat shy but friendly person.

When I announced to an entire classroom that I was schizophrenic, I made a huge positive impact.  It was during the first couple weeks of the semester and the professor was demonstrating the manner in which he wanted us to give our end-of-the-term group presentations.  He gave his model presentation on schizophrenia.  It was, of course, good and afterwords there were several questions.  I sat back in amusement at first since some of the questions were pretty odd.  However, one person asked if all the schizophrenics lived in hospitals.  At that point, I decided it might be time to out myself…there were clearly some big misconceptions.  I raised my hand, and stated “Actually, most people with schizophrenia are functioning in society just like you are.  I know this because I have schizophrenia.”

At that point the professor halted the discussion and looked at me, asking, “Are you sure you feel comfortable doing this?”

I nodded and replied, “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t comfortable.”

The professor stood back and let the class question me.  I was asked about my hallucinations.  I shocked the class when I told them that my paranoia told me that every single one of them wanted to kill me.  I explained some about how Sheriff helps me function through his tasks.  I forget what prompted the professor but he did mention that he had known me before I became schizophrenic and that he could tell a huge difference in the before and after.  He related how people with schizophrenia often seem a bit “off” in social situations.  He said it is hard to pinpoint what it is exactly but socially something just seems odd.  That was one of the changes he could tell in me and I agreed.  It was almost as if my Aspergers got worse when I became schizophrenic.  At the end of class, people stayed behind to ask me more questions.  One girl noticed that no one ever sat around me (this was likely due to Sheriff having limited space to lay in since the classroom was small.  She asked if I would like her to sit by me so I wouldn’t have to be so lonely.  Another woman began going out of her way to be friendly to me in that class and the few additional classes we were both in.  I’ve run into her in public a couple times and she always stops to ask me how I’ve been lately.  So not only did I change the stigma a bit, but I made some new friends.

I’d love to walk into that Personal Health class and announce that I have schizophrenia.  What would that woman do in order to protect herself and everyone else?  I suppose she could take the initiative and attack me but then she would simply look silly…not to mention how she would be charged with assault.  In reality, she would likely do nothing.  In reality, I could probably talk all day long to her and that class about schizophrenia.  I could give her the statistic of how a study conducted by NAMI in 1990 revealed that only 10.6% of schizophrenics actually physically harm another person in violence.  I could tell her that schizophrenics are most likely to be the victim of crime instead of being the attacker.  In all likelihood, she would continue to believe the stigma but I still would have managed to plant a seed of doubt in her mind.  A little tendril that reminds her that she met a schizophrenic who was not scary at all and certainly didn’t provoke a need to protect other people.

I started this blog because I wanted to begin combating the stigma against schizophrenia.  I want people to read about how I struggle in some of the same ways that they do…but I also can have the same victories.  I got a college degree.  I’m working on getting another degree in Animal Science.  I go to the mall, grocery store, movie theater, Seaworld, amusement park, zoo, bank, museum, fair, and school just like everyone else.  I drive a car.  I can manage to cook a couple different meals for myself.  I eat.  I drink.  I sleep.  I live independently with only a little help from others.  I dream big for myself.  I set goals.  I meet my goals.  I laugh.  I cry.  I have friends.  I have family.  I love some people.  I dislike other people.  I tell jokes.  I am a shoulder to cry on.  I live, in this world, amongst all the other people who also struggle with their own personal weaknesses but also have triumphs.

I also started this blog because I believe in this statement:  “Act as if what you do makes a difference.  It does.”