Gecko's Neverending Story

[Gecko]

12/10/06

 

Every person in the world has their own life story. The past is so important to learn from, yet we rarely take the time to pause, take a breath, and reflect on what brought us to our current position in life. It proves invaluable to study the past so that we may find ways to prevent certain trends or events from repeating themselves. Sometimes one may also reconnect to positive or warm influences, relieving some pain. Ultimately, and most importantly, one may look back on it all, the whole epic story of their life, and come to respect themselves as a person. A person who deserves love and peace.

 

I’ve been pushed to reminisce about my own identity and its changes through the motions. Having muscular dystrophy has made my experiences fairly unique, usually for the worse than better. But it least has taught me to be sympathetic (if not empathetic) to others with chronic ‘illnesses’, and given me a chance to have experiences and acquire knowledge I’d never discover otherwise.

 

I was born on January 20, 1990. When my parents noticed me having trouble standing up in my crib they had a muscle biopsy done. I tested positive for muscular dystrophy, though the doctors couldn’t identify which type. Missing the precise prognosis has made me uncertain and stressed about the future of its progression.

 

My early years of life were content; I got along with my peers and supposedly was a cheerful and bright kid, eager to learn and do new things. Not until later in elementary school did the negative experiences begin that would lead to inner struggles later on. I began to notice the progression of my M.D. - inability to keep up with other kids in gym, inability to lift myself from the ground, and an abnormal gait. Peers made fun of the walked and taunted me for various things I did. Those were the first times I ever felt self-conscious. I began to build a protective shell around myself – avoiding people for fear of getting hurt again. If I’d been able to stick it out and realize the importance of friends nonetheless, maybe I wouldn’t have nearly as much social anxiety as I do today.

 

I played video games from the age of three, starting with such popular titles as ‘Doom’ and ‘Warcraft’. They had always made me feel free from physical limitations and distracted me from the conflicts of my real world. As I noticed my M.D. progressing and continued to have problems at school I spent more and more time with my face stuck to the computer screen. Sitting around all day had the effect of increasing the speed of progression, putting me in a vicious cycle. Other negative impacts over the years would include the loss of interest in other activities, distancing myself from my family, and procrastination over studies.

 

With the onset of puberty at age 10, I faced huge problems concerning mental stability. Every day coming home from school I would cry, suffering from sever migraines and a complete loss of energy. Violent thoughts and urges tortured me, making me so frightened of myself I felt I couldn’t exist in my skin another moment. Dreams of killing and mutilating teachers, friends, parents. The loss of a favored pet aggravated the situation. I probably should’ve been in the hospital, but didn’t have enough sense or courage to tell my parents I needed help. I’m thankful I survived that period (of about 1 year) considering the turbulence of that time.

 

Upon reaching middle school, all of these problems had become clearer to me and I wanted to be more popular anyways. I “decided” to become more social, hoping I’d become known for friendliness and maturity. However, I couldn’t break through that that shell I’d built around myself during elementary school, not to mention the way M.D. kept me from participating in activities with peers. I suspect that’s when my self-esteem began to plummet, digging myself deeper and deeper every time I would complete a round of one of the many vicious cycles I’d built. Having few after-school hobbies or activities that I took part in, and spending more time on the computer every day, the stage was set for depression. I passed the days improving my prowess in online games, earning respect from people I didn’t even know. At 13 years they considered me an expert at strategy and shooters, considering my young age.

 

Before long, High School was knocking at the door. I watched others form close relationships as I stood in the dark and avoided anything that had the possibility of producing discomfort. They also picked up sports and other hobbies I could never dream of participating in. Being a large and competitive school, especially in the area of sports, there was a ton of pressure to excel not only in academics but extracurricular activities as well. All the while I was worrying about whether I’d be able to drive or not. It seemed like everyone was expanding and enriching their lives, having a great time, and I was just hiding and watching from a distant corner.

 

In the summer of 2005, an acquaintance, the only other kid in my school with a muscle disorder, died after undergoing surgery. During recovery he hadn’t walked around enough and ended up developing a blood clot. I was on vacation at the time in Montana when I got a call from one of my other friends. Understandably, I couldn’t attend the wake or funeral. This left me feeling more alone, having lost the one other person I could identify with in terms of physical disability. During the school year we had kept tabs on each other, noticing how the other managed certain challenges life threw at us.

 

As a sophomore, my grades started slipping. Nothing seemed fair in school, or life for that matter, so I indulged more in numbing my mind whenever I got the chance. I’d use music, games, movies, whatever, to distract myself or help me feel better temporarily. I quickly gained weight and became more self-conscious. Luckily, and interestingly enough, drugs and other dangers never really entered my realm without social contact. If they had, I would be in a much deeper pit. Nevertheless I was in a state of misery. The vicious cycle of procrastination was the largest source of frustration and anxiety, waiting until the last minute to start working on anything that needed my attention. Many times it wouldn’t get done at all. Being a slow learner and worker made ‘winging it’ a tough objective as well as the trouble I had with manipulating materials. It seemed like there was never enough time to do anything; literally everything I did took twice the time it would of the average person. Attempting to acquire new hobbies or things to look forward to drained my energy and left me feeling bored and empty. I often felt like crying but could never get myself to do it. So the emotions remained in my heart and burned like fire; sometimes my entire body would convulse in pain. I felt suicidal but couldn’t think of any easy way out. I was afraid of pain more than death itself, so taking a risk with over-the-counter drugs didn’t appeal.

 

After beginning sessions with a therapist and seeing him for a few months, he voiced his prognosis of full-blown depression. Supposedly it was from the complete loss of an ‘ideal’ or ‘normal’ childhood-teenage experience, and facing disappointment after disappointment from having M.D. I knew this was part of the reason for my position but refused to acknowledge it as the only cause. I felt within myself a sort of spiritual aching when observing the world and comparing it to the fantasized, abstract ideas within my head. I knew I possessed a deepness that was precious and needed to be preserved, no matter what the cost. I refused drugs to treat my depression, instead setting out on my own journey to look for truth and satisfy my aching heart.

 

During the summer I read several books with focuses on existentialism and alternative scopes of reality. I had huge amounts of time to read and think to myself without the distraction of video games, since the internet was disconnected during reconstruction of the house. (A tree had fallen on it earlier in 2006) Such titles that I enjoyed include The Outsider, The Awakening, Original Wisdom, and Catcher in the Rye; in all I found many passages that resonated within my personal experience and thoughts. Almost all themes I indulged in were abstract and difficult to describe except through and literature. I wrote a few essays, named ‘On Love and The Outsider’; vents that attempted to argue alternative reasons for trends seen in society. As my thoughts became deeper and deeper, my anger at society, American in particular, fed into depression. I would be extremely irritated by mass media which fed on sensationalism and social standards that few ever challenge. I wouldn’t sit at the dinner table until my parents turned off the TV. During this period I lost interest in getting a job, not wanting to support the ‘machine’ of society, directly or indirectly. I saw (and still see) simply dwelling within society as supporting it, whether one is involved politics/philosophy or not.

 

Having known for a while that helping and caring for others could be a great source of happiness, I looked to find a volunteer position that wouldn’t be affected by my disability or violate some of my basic beliefs about society. But no one that I contacted seemed interested.

 

My family noticed my changes in behavior and sort of restless, nihilistic attitude. I was hesitant to talk with my parents about what I had been researching, since whatever I said would have ramifications 24/7 by living with them. Having distanced from my sister during college, and knowing her fiery temper, I wasn’t about to talk with her either. My cousin, who I only got to see once a year but had remained like a best friend anyways, was growing apart from me. That was one of the most painful realizations. As my cousin said before parting, “growing up sucks.”

 

 

The climax of my struggles began with a forbidden attachment to a woman 10 years older than I. She had been my history teacher for the past two years. Kind, fun-loving, intelligent, beautiful, and easy-going, she had grown slowly on my subconscious and occupied my thoughts. From the bits and pieces I picked up in class, I could tell she had a difficult past. She grew up in a town bordering New York City. Some friends from her teenage years are still in jail. She had witnessed 9/11 saying in class “God knows what I saw that day”. She now lives with her husband near his farm in a neighboring town. With the end of another school year and still no positive or exciting changes in my life, I thirsted to find some connection with her. After the first few weeks out of school, I found myself thinking about her obsessively. I wanted to know the details of her childhood, what light she had found to keep her moving and find peace in this world, and all the while remain a vibrant person.

 

Perhaps my attachment to an older person rather than a peer stemmed from having been friends with more people much older than myself. From about 8-12 years age my sister, 6 years older than I, loved to take me out with her friends. They were a great group to hang with and resulted in a higher level of maturity for myself. thereforeeee I clicked better with people in their late teens and twenties.

 

I developed a genuine feeling of caring, some may call it love, for this teacher. I did have sexual feelings at first, but they eventually fell away under the weight of something deeper. I wanted to be a positive, active influence in her life in some way. I was too afraid to call or send a letter, social anxiety injecting fear into my veins. Eventually the emotions became too much to bear and began to overflow. I looked up her house on mapquest, and attempted to walk the 26 mile round trip. I chose walking over biking because I was unsure about whether I’d be able to push my bike up all those hills. I fantasized about all sorts of possibilities – maybe she would take me in, talk to me, tell me that there was a way through my struggles with the world, that everything would be fine? Maybe she would tell me her life story and teach me through her experiences? Most of all, I fantasized about receiving a warm, close hug that told me she cared. Nevertheless, I could not reach her house, and by the time my parents found me on the streets I could barely walk from the pain and exhaustion. That’s when they first became suspicious of something hidden.

 

A few days later, I decided to try riding to her house by bike. This time I made it, but turned back after I’d seen the farm and experienced the wonderful smell of fresh strawberries. It was such a peaceful little corner of the world; I could see why she had found peace there. I would end up going back there many more times during the summer, losing 30 pounds and returning to an average weight in the process. I felt a sort of energy and determination I’d never felt before. It lifted and motivated me to keep pedaling even as I watched joggers pass me and my legs ached like no tomorrow. Some drivers would lean out their window and yell nasty things for whatever reason, but I kept on going. I accomplished distances I previously thought would be impossible for me.

 

Eventually I gained to courage to send a letter to her expressing my sentiments. But a month after sending it she still had not replied. I got extremely anxious. Was she ignoring it? Had it scared her away? Or maybe she was just on vacation and hadn’t received it yet? I had to know. I began to ride past her house daily, looking for any sort of motion within. A few times there was a car parked in the driveway but no lights on in the house. Finally I decided to walk up to her front door and ring the bell, being too impatient to wait any longer. While doing so an aura of terror engulfed me - I felt faint; everything seemed dreamlike (no doubt a slight panic attack). When she came to the door I could barely talk, only able to mumble simple responses to her inquiries and stare at my feet. She was obviously worried about me, repeatedly asking what was going on and trying to get some sense of what I wanted. After an awkward silence I walked away with tail in-between legs.

 

The next day she sent me an email. It was written in a professional tone that ignored the emotions I’d expressed before in my letter. It stated quite flatly that she was there to listen to students’ vents, but could not offer any help or advice. It asked me to explain further why I was contacting her so she could connect me with an appropriate counselor. So that’s exactly what I did. In one huge ranting email, I poured my heart out, hiding nothing. In the beginning it expressed plainly that I probably wouldn’t be able to look her in the face again after revealing what was included in the letter. The email greatly alarmed her and she reported it to the school, eventually reaching my parents. I was required to get screened by my therapist before returning to school the next week to make sure I wasn’t a danger to myself or others.

 

At this point I lost the energy I had during the summer, leaving my hands empty. Going back to school, the one place I hated and feared most added significantly to the stress of my struggles and losses from the summer and left me almost unable to function at all. After experiencing and discovering what I had during the past three months, the things I felt attributed to ‘real’ life, school paled in comparison. What was the point, I asked myself? What was the point of cramming all this useless information into my head, most of it pertaining to a single, narrow view of the world, of life? Everything seemed so meaningless, my life a waste of resources. I was simply tired of living in the pathetic manner I was and not being able to break out of the cycle. After the first few days of school, I stopped eating. I didn’t try to hide it. I decided to let myself fall into that ‘black void’ of chaos and uncertainty in life and whatever happened to me, so be it.

 

After about three days of refusing to eat, my parents took me to the E.R. I desperately wanted to fight the nurses and keep them from putting I.V.s in me, not wanting any kind of nourishment to enter my body. But in the end I cooperated, fearing restraint and not wanting to hurt anyone else. I lay in a hospital bed for three more days without eating, an I.V. carrying essential electrolytes into my body. The doctors threatened that they would have to put a feeding tube up my nose if I continued to starve myself. Terrified of it, I agreed to eat. Fear was the primary motivation behind eating again, but I also held a tiny bit of hope – maybe something would happen in the psych ward that would give me the will to live again? In truth, I felt suicidal but I never really wanted to die, I’m too curious about life – so I waited.

 

A few days after I started eating I was transferred to the psych ward, known as Bader 5. The first week went smoothly for the most part. I slowly made connections with other patients and participated in group activities. But after realizing how little the counseling was doing for me and knowing that the doctors planned on sending me aback home within the next week, I quickly fell back into the black void. “I don't need any of this!”, I told myself. “All I need is simple love and friendship, and it seems there's no one around who could provide me that relief, inside or outside the hospital”. I stopped eating again and hid in my closet, refusing counselors’ pleas to cooperate. Finally they decided a feeding tube was necessary.

 

When I refused to walk voluntarily to the treatment room, security was called in to restrain me. They tied my arms and legs to a restraint bed and wheeled me to the treatment room. I was overcome by a deep sense of dread and helplessness as I witnessed several nurses shuffling around and preparing the tube. The experience of having it put in was awful. It stung like no tomorrow as it was thrust up my left nostril. It was pulled out and put in my right nostril when the nurses noticed too much blood coming out. I gagged uncontrollably, my eyes rolling back into my head and crying as it slithered down my throat. Having the liquid pumped in gave me the urge to puke. I would have to be restrained and fed in this manner at least three more times during my time on Bader. The experience left me dejected. I felt as if they were keeping my shell alive as the last of what was left on the inside died out. But at the same time, I felt a sense of gratification from feeling like a victim in the situation and possibly making others feel shame about what they were doing to me. After the deed was done, looking at the cuffs on my hands and feet, I felt a strange sense of hysteria. I giggled and harassed the nurse, throwing out dark humor about the condition I was in. Not the mention the pain, which although I feared, I felt I somehow needed – it fueled my burning hatred, whether it was of myself or this place.

 

My treatment in the unit was intensified. I was not allowed to go outside the unit at all and was restricted to my room until the next meal, at which time I was forced to choose whether to eat willingly or take the tube. I talked to more staff and psychologists, telling most about the theories and sentiments I had developed during the summer, but seldom felt understood or respected for them. Only two people came close to truly understanding them, my chaplain, and a family friend who decided to visit me in the hospital. The doctors were eager to put me on medication, which was severely against my beliefs. I was afraid medication would ‘pacify’ me and make me forget the reasons I was so appalled by society. I stubbornly resisted it for at least one month. Eventually I started taking Effexor – I was weary from people pressuring me into it. I must say it did lift my mood a bit without ‘pacifying’ me, though I still viewed it as an artificial way out of emotional pain (At least for myself; I can't judge others on such a topic).

 

After a while, I gave up starvation in favor of active ways of hurting myself. I would bang my head against the wall until I got threatened with restraint, then attempt to keep myself awake the entire night. I succeeded, days fading into one another like passing shadows. The worst night began on a pass with my family. My sister began to scream at me in the car, accusing me of wasting the family’s money by hiding in a hospital bed. She asked why I didn’t love my parents and why I wouldn’t just ‘snap out of it.’ When I got back to the unit I began throwing my head against the wall as hard as I could, while laughing hysterically. When thrown in the padded room, I started to cut myself with my fingernails, desperate to see blood. Seeing the doctors quietly contain their panic as they came to a decision as what to do with me fueled my hysteria, as I started to cut myself with my fingernails while singing “Piano Man”, desperate to see blood. I was insane. Two counselors sat on me as a nurse tranquilized me with three shots. I fell asleep within 10 minutes and was out for the rest of the night.

 

Reflecting on my self-harm, I realize I was afraid of leaving the hospital and going back into the cold, harsh outside world. Though I knew I was trapped, I felt safe and comfortable within an environment where people were taking care of me 24/7 and I didn’t have any damn obligations – I could sleep in bed all day if I wanted to. I also felt more accepted by the kids there, who could empathize with my pain and frustration if nothing else. I was in denial at the time, but deep down I knew part of the reason I was hurting myself was to keep myself in the hospital.

 

When I woke up late the next day, I found a note next to my bed. It was from another patient, one who had been on the unit longer than I and had seen me go through the motions. I had taken an interest in her since I first arrived on the unit, drawn by her kindness and quiet personality. The note said to keep going, that this time shall pass, and that she would be there to talk if I needed. This simple act of outward caring meant more to me than anything I received previously in the hospital. It gave me the energy to lift myself a little bit, just one more time.

 

As I started having more conversations with this girl we found a lot in common in terms of emotions and situations caused by depression. Though we didn’t talk often and I was usually too afraid to approach and her, the talks we did have uplifted my spirits and gave me the will to go just a little longer. We still shared a silent connection when we weren’t conversing, giving each other cues and gestures as communication. It was refreshing to connect to someone with a similar personality to my own, and someone who truly cared about me. I ate more and socialized with staff and patients.

 

I had been in the hospital for two months when the time came for discharge. I was in the middle of painting a ceiling tile and didn’t have enough time to finish it. (Patients who were on the unit for more than three weeks got to paint one) Before leaving I asked the girl if she would finish it for me – I handed her the quote I wanted on the tile. “Go to the truth beyond the mind. Love is the bridge.”

 

Upon discharge I was transferred to a step-down program, where I remained for two weeks. There I made friends and again felt accepted for one of the first times in my life. It was there that I wrote most of this autobiography, putting together the pieces of my life that I realized were so important to understand.

 

Listening to other kids open up about their lives and experiences, I’m thankful I haven’t had to deal with some of the things they have. Drugs, alcohol, rape, poverty, domestic violence. I have a roof over my head and a fairly stable family to go home to. I still plan to live partially on the whims of my emotions; I’ve found it keeps my spirits fresh and alive, but try to remain in the wise mind when reacting to important decisions. I want to thank all of those; friends, family, and staff who helped me get through the past months.

 

I've been trying to keep in contact with friends I made in the hospital but am slowly realizing I'll never see many of them again. Since I got out, two have been stepped up to state mental institutions for long-term treatment, two have ended back up in Bader 5, and another I suspect is either on the streets or in jail. The girl who essentially saved me in my deepest grief has moved to Kuwait without a sound, leaving me with nothing to make of it. All I can do is hope she made the decision herself and she’ll find some peace there, living with both of her parents in a home far away from the suburban sprawl of Massachusetts.

 

It also hurts thinking how many warm-hearted kids I'll never meet because they were successful in their suicide attempts.

 

I often fantasize about going back to the hospital long-term, but when I remember that I have progress and great opportunities to lose (unlike last time), I'm able to pass through the desire. I have ended up in various other hospitals, but only for one week stays, so not long enough to shatter the rhythm. That same tiny spark of hope, of curiosity that lifted me from the hospital bed continues to gently prod me into the next day.

 

Life is an endless web of possibilities...

[Gecko]

2/6/09

 

It's about time I took a step back to summarize what's been going on in the past few years...

 

In the fall of 2007 I began falling into deep depression again. I didn't feel like I was going anywhere or that anything positive would ever see itself through for me - as I've often felt, the world seemed against any effort I made to forge connections with people, especially in my immediate surroundings. I'd been going to a private school for kids with various difficulties adapting to public school, but even there I felt like an outcast. The thought of going through the rest of life eternally shunned by my peers was unbearable. It truly feels like a curse. People promised me that things would be better in college, but all I saw was more work stress, more subtle rejections, more pain and stiffness (from my MD); more of that DREADFUL feeling of being left behind. The world was (and still is) a daunting and seemingly impossible maze. And if I didn't want to attend college, what kind of future could I really look forward to?

 

I looked up 'Westborough State Hospital' - the only adolescent unit in the state of Massachusetts for long-term care.

 

The name fascinated me from the time of my first hospitalization, when one of the other patients was sent there following a maximum stay in the regular wards. When asking where she'd been sent, staff responded that I didn't want to know - though the name 'Westborough' slipped in one of our conversations.

 

For some time now hospitals have appeared to me sources of succor - food and shelter, protection, sentry, and freedom from responsibility. They're like vacations from the anxieties of 'the real world', however flawed in actuality.

 

I decided rather subconsciously that somehow, someway, I was going to get admitted to Westborough. And if that didn't help me, nothing would.

 

I started by confessing (honestly) to my therapist that I was prone to killing myself if nothing changed. She promptly sent me to the emergency room and the next day I found myself in a seedy, suburban psychiatric hospital. Two months passed without any change of mind. My mindset was very complex - one part of me longed to end it all. (I even tried water intoxication at one point, only to find myself with a queasy stomach) Another part of me wanted to PROVE to the doctors just how desperate and hopeless my case was. I was looking for someone to validate my reasoning, to empathize with my decision so that I would have no misgivings about giving up. The sullen part of me simply wanted to see if I could 'beat' the system with a successful suicide within its high-security walls.

 

With obviously no improvement, the hospital filed to have me turned over to long-term care. There were two choices: the more relaxed IRTP (Intensive Residential Treatment Program) and the higher-level State Hospital. So here was the chance to satisfy my morbid curiosity - and I jumped at it.

 

It was another two months before a space opened up for me. I determined that I would do absolutely nothing at the State Hospital that might give me any sense of hope in living - no making friends, no playing games, no going to groups, no communicating with my old friends or even my family. Cutting off everything and everyone would strengthen my resolve to do myself in, a decision I'd always been ambivalent about, despite what I said to my doctors. So for two months after my arrival I lay in bed and did little but sleep and eat. Every once in a while I would see how long I could bear not eating. In a sick way, I wanted that feeding tube again (Though I never got it). I rebelled against petty rules that made absolutely no sense (e.g., no pacing) and developed a deep antipathy for one of the charge nurses. At times I seriously considered urinating in a cup and dumping it on her head.

 

My boredom and futility of efforts eventually drove me out into the milieu. 'I can kill myself later, what's the rush?' Though I scorned the pointless activities staff forced us to do in order to get privileges, they passed the time better than sitting in my room.

 

Slowly, very slowly, I became more interactive. I made friends with Henry, who'd tried killing himself by putting his head under a lawn mower. Part of his scalp and brain were missing, though he was still quite intelligent. He did have some paresis (partial paralysis) in the right side of his body. These factors actuated him in an existence and set of difficulties similar to my own. Eventually we became roommates. We shared our highest emotions, our deepest secrets, our greatest desires. Unlike me, he seemed confident in a brighter future for himself, though he respected my decision to end my life. (after a long and exhaustive exploration of possibilities he thought up in attempts to change my mind) One day on an outing to the beach, he had a seizure in the water. I was the first one to realize what was happening and rushed to hold his head above water. It was horrifying because I didn't know how much water he got in his lungs, and he was still seizing. He recovered at the hospital without complications, to everyone's relief. Some say I saved his life.

 

It's funny how even the most powerful relationships can run their course and fizzle out. After a while, Henry's conspicuous haughtiness and vanity began to wear on my nerves. Ultimately, he seemed too rational and unsympathetic to remain a close confidant. We gradually departed on our own ways, as he looked forward to going home and starting a new life, while I faced the black and uncertain future before me...

 

For several months I had been cheeking and storing up one of my medications, preparing for an overdose. I figured I needed at least 50 mg of this medication to do me in. (working with 1mg tabs)

 

Then I entered a huge conflict with the unit. I don't even remember what it was about; I do remember losing all control and embarking on a rampage. I screamed at my therapist to the point where she thought I might strike her. I flounced down the hall, and spotting a doctor who had a knack for patronizing me, proceeded in like manner. My invective was interrupted by a scoffing 'ooooooooh!' from one of the staff. I turned immediately and began pursuing him with the most menacing lumber. I swear, if he hadn't run away, I would've broken his nose.

 

After all that activity, I retreated to my room and completely broke down. My vehemence got the best of me - I took the 30mg I had stored up without regard to what would happen.

 

The rest of that night remains a confusion of events in my memory - amnesia is a common symptom of overdoses. I remember slamming my head against the wall and cutting myself, as in previous episodes. When staff put me to the floor I groveled about in the most abject way, having lost my sense of balance from the overdose (which none of the staff were aware of). They finally injected me with Thorazine, the 'mental straitjacket'. I was actually looking forward to this, figuring that the combination of the overdose and a tranquilizer would erase all chances of my survival. And before the tranq did its job, I made sure to make the greatest scene possible.

 

What happened next was deja vu; another gift from the heavens I will never forget.

 

When I started to quiet down, the nurse left one staff in charge of watching me. Deducing that hurting myself would be easier, I dug my nails into my arm.

 

What this staff did was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. She didn't call for aid. She didn't reprimand me. She didn't stare at me with disgust.

 

She calmly walked over to me and gently, but firmly, grasped my hand. "Don't..." she whispered. I didn't fight; the warmth of her voice and the look in her eyes spoke to my heart. There was something so fundamentally empathetic in her manner that I instantly calmed down, falling asleep within minutes...

 

I remained unconscious for two days straight. When I look back on the statistics of all the drugs that entered my system that night, it seems miraculous that I'm still alive. I made sure to thank that particular staff in earnest for her understanding.

 

Very gradually, I recovered and reintegrated myself into the milieu. By this time I started spending more time around Jian-Marie, a girl that recently arrived on the unit. I wasn't attracted in the sexual sense; rather we shared a deep rapport. We walked together, shared art, talked about our lives, discussed spirituality, played scrabble, generally spending all our milieu time with each other. Later I discovered that she harbored an attraction for me, one that I couldn't reciprocate. But our friendship grew and flowered nonetheless.

 

By the end of 2008, I was facing my 19th birthday coming up (in January), which meant that I'd be transferred to an adult unit if I wasn't discharged soon. The uncertainty of what I'd do had weighed on me for several months like the Pit and the Pendulum. The blade kept swinging closer, and there didn't seem any good options for me. It came down to a choice between an adult hospital and a group home. For the longest time I rested on the hospital as my decision. I just couldn't see myself functioning well enough to survive the outside world, with muscular dystrophy and my ever-crushing self-doubt.

 

About a month before my birthday, I finally yielded to the supplications of my doctors, therapists, and family to give the group home a shot. I had found a very nice library in the vicinity of the house and planned to spend most of my days there.

 

The notice of discharge came only one week in advance to its actual date. This left Jian-Marie and I breathless, having spent several of the past months together. My departure had a disastrous effect on her eating habits, which have gradually stabilized, though not without several breakdowns. She calls every day and is dreadfully afraid of me 'leaving her'. I realize that I can't afford to go with her if she gets sucked down the plughole, and that I can't be responsible for everything she does. All I can do is offer my thoughts and remind her that I love her, no matter what happens.

 

So here I am, typing away on a library computer. I've been forced to undergo tremendous change in my mindset to let go of my suicidal ideation. In reflection, I discern a couple key factors to my convalescence. My friendship with Jian-Marie and her continued support have been absolutely instrumental. She is one of the few people to demonstrate to me that I can be liked and even loved by people with no blood relation to me.

 

Practicing mindfulness, focusing on one step at a time without excessive concern for the future, really does help, as trite as the expression has become. I've had to accept that my life is going to be much different than the typical late-teen, as I don't plan on college anytime soon... the mere thought fills me with anxiety. Various other positive-thinking tricks have helped... as Alanis Morissette reminds me in one of her songs, 'Joining You' ( link removed ), 'I am not their condemnations, I am not their projections, I am not my paranoias, I am not my income, I am not my obsessions, and I am not my afflictions.'

 

Depression is a terrifying state of mind that I will most likely have to battle the rest of my life. I still don't know where I'm going, what I'm doing, what I want to do, how I'm going to manage my anxieties, or when I'll come crashing down again. But for now, I'm working with more experience, more tools, and hope that was rekindled after 16 months of cold, dead silence.

[BellaDonna]

I just noticed your recent post on this thread now. You are a wonderful writer.

 

I am so happy things are slowly getting better for you.