And you cannot run from demons

Dissociation is an altered state of consciousness characterized by partial or complete disruption of the normal integration of a person’s normal conscious or psychological functioning. Dissociation is most commonly experienced as a subjective perception of one's consciousness being detached from one's emotions, body and/or immediate surroundings


I sit here, in front of the medication closet at Riggs, for my last time.


Mistake number one: I was taken off of an anti-psychotic medication called Abilify, as an "experiment." 
From that moment on, everything began to deteriorate, including my mind.  


Slowly, I began to have dissociative episodes, followed by panic attacks. These episodes are very hard to explain, several doctors are currently trying to work, towards the nobel peace prize, on trying to find an explanation for these episodes. 


Three weeks ago was when I started losing touch with reality in my episodes.  I felt confused. I lost touch with my surroundings. I looked at everyone around me and their faces appeared blurry, almost smeared.  I looked at my face in the mirror and could not find it.  I was terrified. I experienced these symptoms every night.  I remember one night especially, I had come out of a dissociative episode and straight into a panic attack.  I felt unsafe. I was unsafe.  I slept on the couch at the nurse's station that night.


Mistake number two: I made the decision to go to NYC with my girlfriends on that Saturday. To most everyone this sounds idiotic, especially after my terrible experiences over the previous week. But I wanted to feel normal, maybe if I no longer talked about my episodes with nurses and doctors, they wouldn't be so real. Maybe I just wanted a shot, at life.


Mistake number three: I felt the anxiety, eating me inside out, throughout the day.  I didn't say it.  I didn't communicate just how bad it was, until it was too late.  So there I was, in New York, away from all of my resources at Riggs, cell phone dead, no parents, no medication.


The next few hours are very blurry. My anxiety had grown. Into a massive state that I was no longer able to control.
I remember sitting in the ambulance, everyone around me was crying. My friends told me they loved me and I reciprocated.  A few days later, was when those four girls told me that at that moment, they finally saw "Jenna" come back.


I had a severe dissociative episode in the car, while we were driving through the city.  I don't know exactly where I went, but I was not there, in that moment.  The girls later told me they looked into my eyes, and I "wasn't there."


I could write an entire story about the New York hospital psych ER, but I won't.
I could write an even longer story about the next few excruciating days that followed this incident, but I can't.


My best friend Blair told me she loves to read my blog, but that sometimes she has to put it down, because it is just too sad.  But this is my life, in ruins.


For her sake, I'll skip the pain and remorse that I could write about...
For her sake, I will tell you that I am on new medications, that I have mended the relationship with those girls in the car, that I have not had a dissociation since that night, and that I have never been so hopeful in my life.


My adventure begins tomorrow, yet again.
I will venture home, then to another treatment facility.


But this is it, this is my shot, at life.

Your fight for survival starts right now

    This is my last chance, he tells me.  When I'm 26, there goes my health insurance... So does that mean I can no longer get help post present visit at Riggs?


    I can't help but feel the pressure which then leads into anxiety and then the need for distraction.  I don't want that this time.  I want to do the work, to invest myself fully in the work.  But how do I do this without going completely insane?


    My session with my therapist was hard today.  I catch myself when thinking of not wanting to attend tomorrow's session. We talked about my anger.  My anger towards my parents and towards myself.   Anger about the lack of knowledge I have of myself.  I want to succeed, I want to finish school and live in an apartment of my own.  But I'm too "sick." I'm "not ready." I haven't shown them any progress.  My question is how can I succeed if I'm so discouraged from the lack of faith portrayed by those around me?
   
    My session with my therapist was hard yesterday. 


You can say I have hit it, rock bottom.
    
 I guess there isn't much humor in my writing lately but I'm beyond tired. 


I'm beyond scared. 


I'm standing on the mouth of hell and it feels as if it's going to swallow me whole.


        I have this fear.

    My fear revolves around the knowledge I have about my path of self destruction.  It revolves around how much destruction I can possibly do before there's nothing left around me. Not even myself.  I ask myself, who am I?  May sound a tad bit silly.  But let's not forget that it is an existential question... What defines you? One doctor here told me I sound so lost. She told me I am a substance abuse liar. That's the behavior I've shown in the past which now defines me...

THAT MADE ME ANGRY.

They want an apocalypse? Oh, we'll give 'em one. I just declared war. From now on I won't just face my worst fears, I will seek them out. There's only one thing on this earth more powerful than evil. And that's Me...

This is fact not fiction.

    Today, in therapy, I talked about my father and his "lack of filter".  He has a tendency to be blunt.  My therapist was shocked, then again, most would be if they didn't know the man/legend himself.  I remember my father's last words before I left on Monday, "Do the work, don't fuck up."  Those words have stuck with me throughout these past few days, they've sent strange shivers up my spine as I repeat them in my head.  This is going to be hard, almost impossible I think to myself.  In fact, I say them out loud and as I hear my voice, it all becomes too real.

    At this point I can't imagine being in the real world.  I feel almost protected in this small town, surrounded by these old familiar walls.  I talk about my past life experiences in therapy; certain times in my life when the going got tough, certain incidents and episodes where I thought, "when will this be over?"  Currently, I have such an aching feeling in my heart, my brain and my soul.  Yet, when I talk about my past in therapy I portray no emotion, why is that? Is it because I have put such a blockage on my emotions to get through present day life? Can someone really come to grips with the fact that they have hallucinated, heard voices, stole from their parents, eased the pain with drugs and attempted suicide?

    After being poked and prodded at for two consecutive days, I've finally settled back into the community...  The amount of questions I have had to answer from nursing staff, doctors and patients has been almost unbearable:


    What brought you back to Riggs? To make a long story short, I have stopped functioning as a human being.  No motivation, major depression, major anxiety, major abuse of copious amounts of cocaine, no job, no structure, no future, no hope.


    Why were you administratively discharged during your last stay at Riggs?  I was in a exclusive relationship which I lied about for months... 


    In this open setting, do you think you will have cravings to abuse substances? I have cravings for carbs, and carbs only.


     Considering past history, do you think you can be completely honest with us...?


    

I focus on the pain, the only thing that's real...

    It happens, the moment I feel that bag in my hand; the feelings of anxiety and longing to leave and start my day, my night, my binge, whatever.  The moment I jump in the car, it all becomes too natural, like it's second nature.  

    My hands grasp a card and a hard surface, and I begin to crush the white rock.  The pile was enormous, it would have to do. This isn't amateur hour.  I left chunks, I always felt it hit me differently that way, not to mention I didn't have the patience to sit there being precise. Why should I rush? Time was, in fact, money. 

    It all seems too familiar, the pink straw in my hand, damp and squished, as if I had been holding it for hours.  Those chunks I didn't have time to crush up hit my nose, my brain, the back of my throat.  For a moment I stare up through the sunroof.  

    The screaming in my head stopped.  My storm was calmed, I could do nothing but listen to the silence.  

    

No weapons... No friends... No hope. Take all that away... and what's left? Me.

    I still wait in ward 5S.  While waiting for my visitors I have already downloaded 7 movies on iTunes... what does this mean? My excessive-ness in each and every thing I do...  Is it part of my mental illness? And how many more questions do you think I can ask in this blog that I am unable to answer in their entirety?  The doorbell for the ward keeps ringing, I'm anxious now.  My boyfriend is coming, I can only imagine what he will think once he sees me here.  I used to be placed on this gold pedestal back in the day.  I was full of potential and charisma - damn, I think I've lost my mojo.


    The countdown begins now. Two days till Austen Riggs - the pressure is on.  


    Relax
    Take a breath.  
    I am a dramatic person, this I know.  It is one of my many strengths.  However, not only do I need to, but I am expected to find better ways to deal with the normal ups and downs of life.  I have no choice in the matter.  So, here's another question I will ask before I step back into that "open community for the treatment resistant patient" - the hardest and bravest thing I have ever done, surprisingly.  


    What do I want?


     I'm not going to sit here and tell you I want to get better and be normal... that's weak.  I am telling you I am going to cope with my feelings better, and well, yes, I WILL get better. I am not normal.  To be "healthy" could take a lifetime.  I don't have that kind of time.  But with the time I do have, this time around, it will be different.

First time blogging...

    I stare at the choking sign that is posted above me in the dining  room of ward 5S. Then it comes to me - my ten years of depression, anxiety, periods of psychoses and drug addictions can all be described in this simple poster.




    Sometimes you cannot speak - maybe you just can't find the words. Sometimes you cannot breathe - like when you wake up in the morning and are petrified to start your day. And sadly, sometimes you cannot cough because hey, maybe you're just too screwed up on the medications your doctor gives out like, well, a drug dealer, that you can't even control a simple bodily function.

    So where do I begin? How can I gather the information needed from my past? How can I even begin to remember all the ups and downs? What brought me to this point?

    I can’t start at the beginning, because there is not a beginning.  Its actually like that song, “the circle of life." I can jump around a bit, hit each phase, each hospitalization, every sexual encounter… I guess we can explain our lives in each little phase we go through, but don’t they all tie into eachother? Doesn’t one lead to the next?

    A few monthes ago my life was so different, then I again I could’ve said that about 7,007 times throughout my short 22 years of life. I was doing pretty well after I was released from Austen Riggs two years ago... Released is a funny word, I figure it could also mean asked to leave because I continually rebel against authority  I still cringe thinking about that place... Funny, it seems I will once again be venturing back there come tuesday...

    So throughout these past few months, I lost my job, my parents respect, bank of america's respect and well, my sanity– nothing too tragic. People love that though… they love substance in a girl, almost as much as they love substances. And that is exactly what my past few months have consisted of...

     So as I sit here longing to step outside - A place I cannot venture to.. here's the truth... I have been so out of touch with reality that I honestly could not tell you if what I have gone through is biological, chemical, environmental, or my own damn fault.  
    When the party is on everything seems alright; but, when you finally stop and are laying in bed alone, you truly felt alone. 
    I am lost. I am alone.

    My fun was over now, My life as I now know it, is over. It's time to put my big girl leggings on. Its time to "take control of my treatment." The question is, can I do it?