Power of the written word

After only a few days, I was released from the psychiatric ward. It was practically a dream come true. I felt SOOO much better. The new medication, Clozapine, worked wonders. I was more stable and the suicidal thoughts were gone. It was an extremely effective drug with truly serious side effects. It was an older medication, rarely used which is why my psychiatrist hadn’t recommended it before. The new ones were supposed to be better, safer, but they didn’t work for me. Clozap

In 2017, my life imploded and I made the decision to do electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). In the beginning, when I first started ECT, I improved. At last, I was stable. I told myself I didn’t need ECT anymore. I was going to get my life back. The doctor agreed so after phasing off it, I stopped ECT. Big mistake! I had a psychotic break just as the day of the treatment I had cancelled arrived. Had I stopped it too soon? Or was it simply not going to work? My fears grew. I dete

FUNHOUSE As the mental illness took over my world, my life disintegrated. I had few friends who truly understood what I was going through or cared enough to stick with me through it. I had to give up a job I loved because I wasn’t mentally stable enough to do it. I turned to ECT as a last resort. I hoped to reclaim my life. I said “goodbye” to my boss, my job, and my dreams, hoping someday I would get them back. Though I was discouraged and isolated, I knew I had been throu

As I sat in the waiting room, nerves on edge, I stared at my phone, periodically looking up at the double doors ahead of me. I wasn’t alone in the room. There were others reading magazines or looking at their own phones. People would occasionally glance up and look at the screen mounted to the ceiling in the corner of the room. Color coded, it listed the status of loved ones in surgery: pre-operative, operative, recovery, etc. The board meant nothing to me. I would look at it

I recently talked to a special friend who is a recovering alcoholic. She inspires me and I wanted to write about her, but she was afraid of what people might think of her. She seemed ashamed about how low she had sunk in the depths of her addiction. And there were probably feelings she had about those years that I will never understand. So, I’m not going to write ABOUT her. I’m going to write TO her. This is to anyone who feels ashamed of their journey. To anyone who made so

I share a lot. Some might say I overshare. There’s a reason why I do it. I have been through so much: abuse, addiction, abandonment, physical, emotional and mental illness. I live as a minority: LGBTQ and biracial. All of it has shaped me into the person I am today. I could have given into the pain. I could have become angry and bitter – and there are times when I am – but I don’t stay in that head space. I try to see the blessings in my life. I turn to God for healing, not