Return to Mental Hospital January 22, 2015Posted by Crazy Mermaid in Mental Hospital, Psych Ward.
Tags: Mental Hospitals, Psych Ward
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NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) has a program called In Our Own Voice (IOOV), which is a program in which people successfully managing their mental illness go out into the community and talk about what it’s like to live with a mental illness. The one hour structured program is free, and time is built into the presentation for questions. We typically present to churches, nurses, college students, and police officers.
The Redmond, Washington affiliate, called NAMI Eastside, is now offering the program every Saturday to the patients at the mental hospital I spent three weeks involuntarily committed at six years ago. The coordinator for that program solicited help from our affiliate, NAMI Snohomish County, to help man the program, which takes two people to run. She was specifically looking for people who had actual experience in a mental hospital.
When she initially approached me to help with the program, I declined. I was uncomfortable with the concept of returning to the place I was locked up at and being locked in again. I was afraid that they might not let me out once they locked me in.
Additionally, once I was firmly ensconced behind those locked doors once again, I might regress back to my psychotic state. I always hear voices whenever I get under the stress of doing the presentation, although their questions and comments are benign. Once the presentation is over, they disappear.
I talked with my husband about the coordinator’s request, explaining my discomfort. He said he thought it would be good for me to return to the hospital- facing my demons so to speak. He assured me they had no cause to keep me there, and in fact would let me leave if I started to regress.
I decided to talk with the coordinator about my concerns, and received reassurance from her that the hospital staff would let me leave if I wished to at any point. She convinced me to give it a chance.
Last Saturday was my first presentation back at the hospital. When I arrived, I was surprised that the receptionist desk was in a brand new wing of the hospital. The place was bright and clean, with new furniture and two receptionists behind an enormous curved wood reception counter. When I introduced myself to the receptionist, she asked me my name. She typed it into the computer, and I half expected her to ask me if I had been committed there. But she didn’t. She pointed to a camera on her desktop, and took my picture so she could make me a temporary badge. I put on the badge and waited on a new leather couch in the brand spanking new waiting room for a staff member to take me to the presentation room. In the meantime, my co-presenter arrived and received his badge.
The staff member arrived, with four patients in tow, and took us to a conference room in the new section of the building. But the conference room was being used, so we were shuffled from the new section to the old section, into a craft room. Same old white tile, off white walls, stained craft tables, and uncomfortable chairs reminded me of my stay there. I was surprised to see a craft room, complete with plastic beads, painting supplies, colored pencils, and games, because when I was hospitalized, six years ago, they brought the craft stuff to us. We weren’t allowed out of the ward.
As we passed locked ward doors down the corridor, each had a sign like you find when you enter an area with a high fire danger. Instead of “Fire Danger” the sign read“Likelihood of attempt to Escape”. Choices were High, Medium or Low. Two wards had a high likelihood of escape attempts, and one had a low likelihood. I don’t remember any such signs when I was there.
I didn’t ask to see my old ward, and I didn’t recognize any of the staff.
I was pleasantly surprised that two of the patients had more interesting questions about hearing voices, but they related better to my co-presenter than to me, because their path into the hospital was via suicide attempts. Nobody claimed to hear voices or have delusional thoughts, and I didn’t expect that to happen. Those people would not be allowed out of the psych ward.
I ended up staying for the entire presentation, and I’m pleased to say I didn’t feel like I had to leave before the presentation was done. I wouldn’t hesitate to return.
Hearing Voices at Boeing October 25, 2014Posted by Crazy Mermaid in Hearing Voices.
Tags: Hearing Voices, Psychotic
NAMI has several signature programs (all free), including one called In Our Own Voice. In this very structured program, two co-presenters talk about what it’s like to live with a mental illness on a daily basis. The program is about an hour long, with time for questions and answers at the end.
For me, stress brings on hearing voices. In my daily life, I live a fairly stress-free life. I have my routines, and my husband and family do a good job of insulating me from stress. We live frugally, but have no major money problems that I am aware of. I am no longer aware of any of our financial information because when I became psychotic I blew through lots of money in a short expanse of time, so while I was still in the mental hospital we decided to safeguard our financial future by keeping me ignorant of our finances. The long and short of it is that a lack of information and a trust of my husband’s financial acuity mean that I can relax about money and not worry about it and stress about it.
The one thing that brings stress into my life is the In Our Own Voice presentations. I stand before a group of strangers and share the story of my psychotic break and my resulting life changes. Simply sharing that story brings back a state close to my psychosis as the memories of what was come flooding back. With the return of that state comes a voice. I tell the audience about the voice. It is actually talking to me via ESP in my head during my presentation. The voice is neither a man’s nor a woman’s. It is genderless. As the presentation starts, it starts talking to me in a fairly quiet voice. But as the presentation continues, the voice gets louder. Fortunately, it doesn’t get as loud as it used to when I was psychotic, when I couldn’t hear myself think because the voice was so loud.
The voice tells me things to say to the audience, reminding me not to forget certain parts of the presentation. It also tells me things to remind my partner to say. It makes observations about audience members, especially focused on pepole’s clothing and hair. I don’t notice these things until the voice points them out to me. It is distracting, but I have learned to live with it. I am willing to put myself through this in order to bring knowledge and understanding of mental illness to a broad audience.
I have been told that because I know the voice isn’t real, I should be able to internalize that thought rationally and eliminate the voice entirely. But it simply doesn’t work that way. Even though I know the voice isn’t a real person, it still behaves as a real person, with thoughts of its own. It isn’t simply my subconscious talking. It’s a separate being apart from myself living inside my head and sharing my body.
Recently, my presentation partner, Matt, a chiropractor with a similar psychotic history, and I gave a presentation to a group of Boeing employees. We typically get a few questions from the audience from every presentation, and audiences are usually eager to ask both of us questions, and usually bring up a question or two about the voice. Surprisingly, at the end of our presentation, no one in the audience asked a single question. Not one.
I suspect that the stigma of mental illness played a large part in the lack of questions. If you ask a question, it might mark you as someone with familiarity with mental illness, which might impact your career. I understand that reasoning, but the whole point of the presentation is to break down that stigma and make it okay for people to ask questions. Although we failed in that aspect of our mission, I think it is important to expose people to the reality of mental illness. Telling people that I am hearing a voice during my presentation shows them that you can hear voices and live a fairly normal life, which is the other key part of the presentation. You look perfectly normal, and no one knows what’s happening inside your head unless you tell them.
One day, I hope that people will be free to ask us questions during a presentation like that. But we’re not there yet.
Mental Illness Awareness Week October 5th through 11th October 7, 2014Posted by Crazy Mermaid in mental illness.
Tags: mental illness
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Sunday was the beginning of National Mental Illness Awareness Week, which runs October 5th through 11th. In 1990, the U.S. Congress established the first full week of October as Mental Illness Awareness Week (MIAW) in recognition of NAMI’s efforts to raise mental illness awareness. Since then, mental health advocates across the country have joined with others in their communities to sponsor activities, large or small, for public education about mental illness.
MIAW coincides with the National Day of Prayer for Mental Illness Recovery and Understanding (Oct. 8) and National Depression Screening Day (Oct. 9.)
Bringing public awareness of mental illness is important because when you eliminate the shame and stigma associated with it, you increase the likelihood that people will seek help. It’s important to note that 1 in 4 people will be diagnosed with a mental illness in their lifetime. That’s a lot of people.
National Depression Screening Day®
October 9, 2014
Take an anonymous depression screening at www.HelpYourselfHelpOthers.org
Screening for Mental Health offers National Depression Screening Day programs for the military, colleges and universities, community-based organizations and businesses.
Held annually during Mental Illness Awareness Week in October, National Depression Screening Day (NDSD) raises awareness and screens people for depression and related mood and anxiety disorders.
NDSD is the nation’s oldest voluntary, community-based screening program that provides referral information for treatment. Through the program, more than half a million people each year have been screened for depression since 1991.
National Depression Screening Day (NDSD) will be held on Thursday, October 10, 2013. In recognition of this national outreach, Screening for Mental Health — the sponsor of NDSD — is offering members of the public the opportunity to take a confidential and FREE screening for depression, anxiety disorders and bipolar disorder.
The screening allows you to find out whether or not a professional consultation would be helpful to you. Please know that no specific information about individuals is collected.
Many screening sites across the country are hosting National Depression Screening Day events in the next several weeks. To find a screening site near you, visit the www.helpyourselfhelpothers.org. To learn more about Screening for Mental Health, go to www.mentalhealthscreening.org. If there is not a screening site listed in your area, you can find a treatment facility near you by going to the SAMHSA Mental Health Services Locator.
Tags: Mental Hospitals, mental illness, Psych Ward
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My memoir, Pangaea: Confessions of an Erstwhile Mermaid, is now available in softcover at Amazon. Here is the link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/1483908550/ref=rdr_ext_tmb.
Writing the book was a cathartic process that helped me in my recovery effort.
The book idea started with my mother when I first was released from involuntary commitment at the mental hospital. Riding in the car with my parents after my release, I decided to tell them about some of my beliefs and thoughts. My mom was visibly disturbed by my revelations, and encouraged me to write my thoughts down, suggesting that I might want to write a book about my experience at some point in the future. A seed was sewn.
Once I decided to write the book, I found that writing about my psychotic thoughts put me back into the beginning of my psychotic state of mind. When I felt the dangerous pull of psychosis while I wrote, I stopped writing for a day.
When I started to write my story, I had no idea how I had landed in the mental hospital. I didn’t remember the thoughts and actions that got me there. So I started with what I did remember, which was my actual hospital stay. Then I started, little by little, to remember the events prior to my involuntary commitment.
As I continued writing my story, each time I remembered more of what happened. Writing my story was easy for me once I began remembering the thoughts and actions that got me committed. It was like watching a movie unfold in front of me. All I had to do was write what I saw on the screen. Entire conversations and pictures came flooding into my mind. The psychedelic colors I saw during my psychotic break were as vivid on the screen in my mind as they were when I was psychotic. I saw the green skin of merpeople in my mind’s eye. I felt the flaps of skin between my toes that were my fins. I heard the timbre and pattern of speech my dog used when he talked to me.
In case you would rather purchase the ebook, it is available at Amazon at this link: http://www.amazon.com/Pangaea-Confessions-Erstwhile-Kathy-Chiles-ebook/dp/B00BZZ8R18/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1409943741&sr=1-1&keywords=kathy+chiles+ebook. For Barnes and Noble’s nook, here is the link: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/pangaea-kathy-chiles/1115285887?ean=2940016728599.
From the comfort of your armchair, come with me on my journey to insanity and back. It’s a fun journey for the most part (what’s not to like about being a beautiful, smart, rich mermaid?) , and the end fills you with hope for the people living with mental illness and their friends and loved ones. Enjoy!
Robin Williams and Suicide August 17, 2014Posted by Crazy Mermaid in Suicide, Uncategorized.
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If you haven’t had a brush with suicide, you probably don’t understand how someone like Robin Williams, with so much to live for, could selfishly end his own life. Having had my own brush with suicide, it is easy for me to see how it happened. It all has to do with brain chemistry.
Shortly after I had been released from involuntary commitment at a mental hospital, I had just gone to bed at my parents’ house. Suddenly graphic images appeared out of nowhere. My mind filled with graphic images of my parents’ blood spilled all over the living room. It was clear that in these images I had killed them. I tried to make the images go away, but they overpowered my brain. I became alarmed, not knowing whether this was some premonition or whether the voices were going to take over and make me kill them. I got out of bed and went to my mother, who was watching tv. I told her I was seeing graphic images, but didn’t tell her what they were because I didn’t want to scare her. She woke my dad, and I made them promise that if I told them to call 911 they would, no questions asked. I thought if the desire overpowered me, being locked up in jail would be the best thing. The night passed without incident, but my parents insisted on taking me to see my psychiatrist the following morning.
After I explained to my psychiatrist what was happening, he told me I had a choice. I could return to the mental hospital, or I could take Haldol. He asked me if I had ever heard of Haldol. I hadn’t. But the memory of being locked up was fresh in my mind, and I was loathe to return to the mental hospital. I would try anything to avoid another stay there. In retrospect, I should have returned to the hospital.
My psychiatrist put me on 50 mg of Haldol twice a day. The regular dose of Haldol is 5 mg once a day. But he wanted to get it built up in my system as fast as possible to make the graphic images go away. He didn’t want to take any chances.
Within hours of taking the Haldol, the graphic images disappeared. As I continued the high dosage of Haldol, I gradually, over a period of days, descended into a deep depression. Then it went beyond depression. It became an obsession with dying. I wanted to die worse than I had ever desired anything in my entire life. It was painful to be alive. I had to die to escape the incredible pain of living. I laid around on the couch, trying out various scenarios of ending my life.
During this time, I had absolutely no thought of the consequences of my actions. I was focused on the act of dying, to the exclusion of all else. It wasn’t about my real life at all. I had absolutely no thought about the pain my suicide would inflict on my friends and family. My kids and husband didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except my desire to end my pain by taking my life. It was a powerful itch that I had to scratch. It was like being ravenously hungry and having no food in sight. I wanted to end my life and end it now!
Surprisingly, although I had this insatiable itch, I was averse to telling my psychiatrist about it. I didn’t want to bother him with this trivial matter. It took a lot of persuasion by my husband and sister to get me to call him and tell him about my suicidal thoughts. I was relieved when the call rolled over to his answering machine, because for some reason I didn’t want to bother him. As his voice mail came on, I started to hang up the phone, but my husband insisted that I leave a message. I did. “This is Kathy, and I don’t want to bother you, but I really want to commit suicide.”
Within an hour, he was on the phone with me, telling me to discontinue the Haldol, which he said was the culprit. As the Haldol left my system, my intense desire to end my life dissipated as well.
I understand perfectly Mr. William’s desire. I was there once myself. It’s not about rational thought. It’s about brain chemistry.
Hearing Voices: A Comparison July 16, 2014Posted by Crazy Mermaid in Delusions, Hearing Voices.
Tags: Delusions, Hearing Voices
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If you think all people hear the same thing when they hear voices, think again.
When I hear voices, they come from inside my head. If you can imagine what it would be like to have esp, you get an idea of what I hear. It’s like someone is sitting or standing next to me, talking to me mind to mind. The voice is gender-neutral , and loud enough to hear over the sound of other people talking. Sometimes it gets louder, as if it is shouting, but it never whispers. The voice makes observations of its surroundings, asks me to ask various people questions, comments on things people say, and is especially interested in what people are wearing.
Some people point out that they hear a voice too. They say the voice I hear is actually my subconscious. But they can’t understand what I mean when I say I have esp with the voice. And my esp didn’t start until I had my psychotic break. In fact it is a residual effect of that break.
I had a fascinating conversation with a young woman who was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder fairly recently. We compared what it is like for each of us to hear voices.
In her case, she hears voices from the outside in. And they’re voices of people she knows. So imagine you’re looking out at a car in a parking lot. You can’t see through the windows of the car. Suddenly, you hear the voice of your friend coming from behind the car. You would swear that your friend is calling to you from behind the car. But when you approach the car, there is no one behind it. That’s what she means when she says she hears voices.
When I heard her story, it made me thankful that if I have to hear voices, I hear them the way I do. When I hear my voices, I have no illusions that they are real. She, on the other hand, never knows until she can physically see the location the voice is coming from.
She has difficulty telling what is real and what isn’t. When she hears someone talking to her, she doesn’t always make the distinction between what they are saying when they’re standing in front of her and what they say when she can’t see them. The memory of what they say stays with her, real or imagined. And the things they say are not always positive. So she gets the impression that people are saying things that aren’t nice , and that maybe they don’t really like her, because of what she hears them say when she can’t see them. She only hears people she knows. I on the other hand have never met the people whose voices I hear.
I am thankful that my voices are so benign. The things they say are actually rather boring to me. I don’t question whether they like me. It doesn’t matter to me. And in fact they don’t treat me poorly. And they don’t show up until I am under stress. In that we are alike. Hers show up under stress also.
Stress seems to be the common denominator between us, bringing on the phenomenon of hearing voices.
Unlike her, I build my life around avoiding stress, with one exception. I force myself to do NAMI’s In Our Own Voice presentations, because I believe my momentary discomfort (if you can even call it that) is worth the price of educating people and removing stigma associated with mental illness.
In her case, she doesn’t go out of her way to avoid stress like I do. She used to teach school, but now subs for other teachers, a job that causes stress. Walking into a class full of middle school children with only a lesson plan written by their normal teacher, complete with notes about which kids are difficult, isn’t for the faint of heart. And yet she continues to expose herself to stress because she loves what she does. It’s worth the price of hearing voices to her to continue.
We are each coping with our mental illness in our own way. I wish her every success.
6 Year Anniversary of Involuntary Commitment June 23, 2014Posted by Crazy Mermaid in Involuntary Committment.
Tags: Involuntary Committment
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Today is the 6 year anniversary of the day I was released from Fairfax Hospital after spending over 3 weeks involuntarily committed there. A lot has changed.
Before I was committed, I had only vaguely heard about mental illness. I knew one person who claimed to have bipolar disorder, but I had no idea what that phrase even meant. The guy with that diagnosis was emotionally unstable, and made poor decisions in his work life and especially his personal life. I attributed his poor decisions to a lack of moral character rather than to any mental illness he might have been suffering from.
As a large portion of society does, I classified depression as something other than a mental illness. My mother and sister both suffered from depression, and it seemed like a lack of moral fiber rather than something they had no control over. I considered them weak because they took medication to ally some of the symptoms.
When I woke up in the hospital, I had no idea where I was. I had never heard of Fairfax and never in a million years would I have guessed such a place could exist a mere 5 miles from where I used to live. Mental illness was invisible to me.
Like many other people, I only heard about schizophrenia as it relates to someone’s bizarre and dangerous behavior in the news, never having knowingly met someone suffering from that illness. I thought all of those people should be locked away somewhere in an insane asylum where they couldn’t harm anyone.
As a productive, innovative, and intelligent member of the working world, I was used to calling the shots, in both my personal and professional life. I had money to spend however I saw fit. That all changed once I was released from the confines of the mental hospital.
While hospitalized, I wanted my family to tell everyone where I was. I was so psychotic I didn’t fully realize the ramifications of my incarceration on the social fabric that was our life. Only weeks later, after the medication started to take effect, did I have to come face to face with the stigma of having a mental illness. In fact, I thought it was all a giant mistake. I couldn’t possibly have a mental illness. I was too intelligent and too stable to have such a weakness.
With time came the realization that I do indeed have a mental illness. It’s not my fault. It’s not my family’s fault. And there are things I can do to mitigate its effect on my personal life, although there is no hope at this point of mitigating its effect on my now non-existent professional life.
I have come to terms with my new existence. Although I don’t suffer from depression, I have come to accept that depression is a chemical imbalance of the brain, just like bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. I even learned there is such a thing as schizoaffective disorder, which is now my latest diagnosis.
My world is much smaller now, but I’m relatively happy in my new existence.
My Civil Right to Own A Gun May 31, 2014Posted by Crazy Mermaid in Involuntary Committment, mental illness.
Tags: Involuntary Committment, Least Restrictive Treatment, mental illness
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With the latest killing spree in California, there is renewed discussion of keeping guns out of the hands of the mentally ill.
I am a hunter, but one of the things I had to give up in order to be released from the mental hospital was the right to bear arms. I’m not sure how, but the State managed to take away my right under the constitution. If I try to purchase a gun, I am supposed to be prevented from doing so. I haven’t tried to buy a gun to see if they really stop me, but I can tell you that I legally purchased a handgun prior to my involuntary commitment, and no one has tried to take it away from me. I don’t know whether they would stop me from getting a hunting license. I am tempted to try, but haven’t done so.
Yesterday was the 6th anniversary of the day I got involuntarily committed to a mental hospital for throwing some furniture at a wall in a hospital emergency room and taking off my clothes there as well. It is also the 6th anniversary of the day my civil rights were violated when I lost my ability to own a gun. Although I am no longer involuntarily committed to a mental hospital, my civil rights continue to be violated. Despite the fact that I was never arrested, I am being denied my right to own a gun. Simply being involuntarily committed by the State of Washington resulted in my loss of the right to bear arms, which is supposed to be a constitutional right.
According to my attorney in the mental hospital, once I’ve been out of the mental hospital and stable for about 7 years (her number), I can go before a judge and request my constitutional right to own a gun be restored to me. I plan to go before a judge to make that request next year.
Can the government eliminate a civil right because I threw some furniture at a wall in an emergency room? Was being diagnosed with a mental illness reason enough to take away my civil rights?
Politicians will tell you the right of society to live in a safe environment trumps my civil right. Is having a mental illness a good enough reason for the government to take away my civil rights? Apparently so.
I realize there will be some anti-gun people out there who don’t believe anyone has a right to bear arms under any circumstances, so I discount those people because they don’t believe anyone should have that civil right. I am more interested in the people who believe everyone (except the mentally ill) should be able to own as many weapons as they want, with no restrictions. They want to give everyone carte blanch to own anything- unless you happen to have a mental illness. They even want to reach a little further and “catch” those people who appear to be unstable, and take away their right to own a gun too.
Civil rights are, by definition, supposed to be universal. Everyone is supposed to have the right to speak their mind without fear of incarceration. And everyone is supposed to be able to own a gun. And yet some conservatives, who are overwhelmingly for the 2nd Amendment, are probably the first people who don’t think I should be able to own a firearm because of what I might do with it. Do the reasons for violation of civil rights matter? They say they do.
I have been told that guns are dangerous for people with a mental illness. They say people with a mental illness are more likely to use a gun on themselves or others. People with a mental illness, they say, are too unstable to own a gun.
In fact, with the latest round of murders in California, there is the usual talk of not allowing people with a mental illness access to guns. But the problem is that, once again, the guy they want to prevent from having a gun is the guy without a diagnosis. And if you take away the right of people with a mental illness to own a gun, nobody will want to get diagnosed. Besides, how do we find those people? By the way they act? Is it going to become easy to get someone diagnosed against their will with a mental illness?
What is the solution to the problem of preservation of civil rights and making sure society stays safe? Is there a balance?
The solution lies in making it socially acceptable to seek a mental health diagnosis, and in making it easier to get people help. The parents of the kid who went on the latest killing spree tried to get him help, but they failed. The system failed them. So now people think the answer is to keep people who they suspect as being unstable from being able to exercise their constitutional right to own a gun. But is it legal to prevent someone from owning a gun because of what they might do with it? I say no. It is a slippery slope, and we need to be careful.
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) Walk May 5, 2014Posted by Crazy Mermaid in NAMI.
Tags: Involuntary Committment, Mental Hospitals, NAMI
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Back on May 28, 2008, I was locked up at a psych ward in a mental hospital and stripped of my civil rights. All the doors were locked, and no one would tell me what I had to do in order to leave. My stay centered on how long a particular psychiatrist, Dr. Suh, thought I needed to stay. What I needed to do in order to get released was a mystery that no one explained. After a few weeks of being locked up, I came to believe that my husband was the source of my problems. I was sure he had me locked up because he was sleeping with my sister, and he didn’t want me in the way of their budding romance. I explained my theory to Dr. Suh, but he didn’t believe me and wasn’t about to release me. This scene played out for three long, agonizing weeks. Each day Dr. Suh asked me stupid questions, and each day I gave him my answers. But they were the wrong answers, because he never would tell me that I was free to go.
Finally, after three weeks, my court appointed attorney, whom I hadn’t seen since my commitment hearing three weeks prior, showed up and told me I was being released the following day. Since Dr. Suh had just indicated hours earlier that he wasn’t going to release me, I didn’t know whom to believe. Was Danica, my attorne,y right and I was being released, or was Dr. Suh right and I was staying? I planned for the worst but hoped for the best.
The following morning, my caseworker, Michelle, summoned me to a stifling little room and told me I was leaving. She had me sign some paperwork (I actually was unable to write my name but that didn’t seem to matter) and then brought my husband into the room. At that time, she told me I should go to a support group sponsored by National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI). She said it was a group therapy kind of environment, and that only people with a mental illness could go. She indicated that attending that group would help me stay out of the mental hospital. I was all ears.
I was indeed released that day, and reveled in the freedom of not being locked up with no end in sight. I took Michelle’s advice and attended the support group, called NAMI Connections. My husband had to drive me to the meeting, which was held at Crossroads Mall in Bellevue, WA, because I was physically unable to drive because of all the drugs they had pumped into me at the hospital.
Once we arrived at the meeting, he left me at the door and Victoria, the co-facilitator, took me in hand. For reasons unknown to me at the time (but subsequently realized were induced by my medication), I started crying hysterically and couldn’t stop. Once the group started, Victoria led me out of the room and stayed with me while I tried to get control of my crying. The meeting only lasted 90 minutes, and I took up about half an hour of it with my crying jag. Finally, I got control of myself and we returned to the group. Once there, I was surprised at the number of people who had spent time at a mental hospital. In that environment, it wasn’t unusual at all. Many of the attendees could relate to my three weeks of being locked up. I felt good knowing that there were people in that room who understood what I had gone through. I felt a comradeship with them.
Once my medication started to kick in, my psychosis left me for the most part (I still hear voices when I get under stress), but I have continued to attend these support groups because of the fact that there are others like me there, dealing with the same problems I have. I don’t feel alone.
As I got better, I started getting more involved with NAMI. Now, I run a Connections support group and speak at colleges, hospitals, and police stations to audiences about what it’s like to live with a mental illness on a daily basis. That program is called, appropriately for me, In Our Own Voice, and it helps to put a face to mental illness in order to break down some of the stigma surrounding mental illness.
All of NAMI’s programs are free, but it takes money to run them. NAMI Washington’s only fundraiser is a Walk designed to raise money and awareness on Saturday May 17th. My team is called Merry Mermaids and Mermen, and this is a request for donations for my team. If you want to donate, any amount will help. The link is: https://securewalks.nami.org/registrant/LoginRegister.aspx?eventid=132532&langpref=en-CA&Referrer=direct%2fnone. Feel free to donate to either my team or me personally. Thank you for your consideration. Kathy Chiles
Anatomy of a Psychotic Break: God and the Talking Tree April 4, 2014Posted by Crazy Mermaid in Delusions.
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As I strolled down the lane, my trusty rat terrier, Randy, bounced ahead of me, ducking in and out of the low bushes, stopping here and there to deposit his watery mark.
Several weeks prior, God had revealed to me my Purpose In Life. I was The Chosen One, charged with the special duty that would unlock the secrets of the universe to the mass of humanity inhabiting out tiny planet.
Contemplating how I would fulfill my mission, I came to the realization that I had absolutely no idea how to accomplish my God-given task. Distractedly, I walked along the lane, looking at, but not really seeing, the scenery as I contemplated my undertaking. The majestic cedars and stately pine trees swayed slightly in the wind, but I didn’t really notice. I was too bent on looking from a sign from God. Everywhere I looked, I saw nothing to help me. How was I supposed to proceed?
Coming to a stop in front of a large tree at the end of the lane, I stared hard. A tree. A tree? A TREE! Why don’t I ask it for help?
Talking with a Tree wasn’t like talking to a human. It was much more intuitive. I didn’t hear the voices of trees like I heard peoples’ voices when we talked via ESP. This was on a much grander scale. Pure thought. Conveyed from his soul to mine.
As I started to “probe” his soul- for lack of a better word- I quickly realized that he- and I don’t know why I knew it was a “he”- knew more about everything than I did.
Me: Impossible! How can an inanimate object know more than I do?
Tree: By using all sources of information.
Me: But you can’t go anywhere. You can’t learn anything. That’s impossible.
Tree: Knowledge is everywhere. It’s all around us. Trees- and almost everything else for that matter- live- really LIVE- outside your three dimensions. Only humans- and many dogs- make exclusive use of only three. And you didn’t even pick the best three.
Me: What are you talking about?
Tree: Look beyond three dimensions. Open up your mind. Stretch. A Tree stretches to the sky. You stretch to the sky too.
I don’t know how, but I knew exactly what he meant. I stood there in front of that tree, stretching my consciousness out as far as I could. Reaching…reaching…reaching. As I reached out, the Tree’s energy flowed to me. Ancient history. Billions of years. Not in pictures, but in thought.
Me: I’m trying to.
The energy surged through to my brain. Billions of thoughts, all simultaneous, pushing themselves into my consciousness.
Tree: I can help you…with your task from God. I am helping already.
I broke the connection. I had to pull away from all that energy. It was frying my brain.
Me: Too much.
Tree: Try again.
I stretched my mind, plugging into the Tree’s soul once again. This time I knew what to expect. I was ready for it, having fastened a kind of defense mechanism into my brain. Kind of like a circuit breaker.
Tree: Better?…Let’s try again…
My finger had been plugged into a light socket- or at least that’s what I thought at first. I saw the past. The present. And a little glimmer of the future. All at once. The term “mind-blowing” came to mind.
Tree: You think in pictures. Here’s a picture of your soul. A shiny white light, cross-shaped, appeared in my mind. This time no picture. Better, yes?
And then, the picture was gone, replaced by an explosion of energy. I knew I had to unplug again. Before I lost my mind.