I refuse to apologize for this blog post. I refuse to apologize if it offends you or if it goes against your beliefs.
I am a Christian. Unapologetically so. Being a Christian in today’s society is HARD. We are living in a society that preaches love and acceptance, yet if you believe in something different than the current societal norm you are cast out, ridiculed, made fun of or hated. I won’t make this political, but in recent years I’ve allowed myself to be silenced as a Christian. Silenced for the sake of not offending anyone. Silenced because I’m simply too tired to argue with people who have absolutely no interest in anything but their own agenda. Silenced because my religious beliefs are made fun of, scorned and minimalized by people who either have no idea or simply don’t care about how offensive they are being. I’ve been swimming (drowning) in these thoughts for months and months as each new wave of societal expectations rampages social media and feeds in to anger and hatred across our world. As a Christian, you are often labeled as fool-hardy and incompetent for believing in something others think is nothing more than a fairy tale that only people who don’t know how to think for themselves or those who are brainwashed “subscribe” to. That or we are grouped in with Christians that have been hateful, spiteful or not representing our core beliefs. So yeah, silenced. Because we are tired and hurting from society putting us in a corner. And I refuse to be silenced any longer. Everything I’ve been through lately has opened my eyes to new perspectives, especially the perspective of realizing how short life on earth truly can be. As I was rolled in to the psych ward on a stretcher, strapped down to avoid escape, being watched by all of the other patients in the common room, still recovering from a panic attack and watching my right to pretty much everything vanish…. As I bled out in front of my psychiatric care team because I wasn’t allowed to take my meds or even wear underwear because God forbid I strangle myself with the elastic band… I quite literally broke. I can’t remember another time in my life I felt so completely defeated. For a person who is normally strong, altruistic, trying to see the best in people but full of worry, stress and a whole lot of anger, this was the lowest of lows. At the beginning of my initial psych review my psychiatrist asked if there were any religious preferences they should be aware of. My anger was boiling over, I looked at him and almost defiantly said “I’m a Christian. I love Jesus.” Like, come at me Bro! Haha And in that crucial moment, he broke the mold. He simply smiled at me, looked me right in the eyes and said “Me too” I’m a smart person, and I’m pretty positive that confirming shared religious beliefs is not a norm for a doctor-patient relationship. Perhaps this psychiatrist routinely breaks the norm. Perhaps he recognized how badly I needed someone on my team in that moment. All I know is that was the beginning of some of the anger dissipating and a healing balm being applied. We talked a lot of non-religious details of everything that got me to that point of sitting in front of him. Instead of invalidating me and instead of treating me like just a crazy person, he met me where I was at. He told me he would be just as angry as me in the same circumstances. He told me I didn’t belong there. But then he changed directions and said “But we aren’t going to live in that place, are we?” He told me legally what he could and couldn’t do, but essentially told me I’d be discharged the next day. That I had serious medical issues and while it was causing psychiatric issues I was clearly not a danger to myself or anyone around me. But he wouldn’t allow me to live in the “woe is me” phase. He challenged me. He asked me what I was going to do with my time there. What would or could I get out of the experience. And if I was adamant to not take anything but anger from it he would understand, would still give me meds to sleep and would be 100% invested in figuring out my medical case. The team led me to my room and told me it was free time for the remainder of the evening. I was welcome to stay in my room, but I was also welcome to join the others for TV, games, puzzles, etc. He winked at me, told me he’d see me in the morning and the team left. I sobbed in my room. It was a mixture of a hospital and jail cell in one depressingly gray package. I had no phone to text or call people for emotional support or advice. I had no Google to find inspiring quotes. I had no Bible to find reassuring verses. I had no fluff monsters to snuggle. I had nothing but a hospital bed, sterile white sheets, a psych friendly gown and my own still angry and depressing thoughts. Then I got angry at God. “If you’re so good, why would you let something like this happen to someone like me? Do you even know how this feels?” And as soon as that angry and petulant prayer/shouting/temper tantrum came out of my head I started laughing. I don’t physically or audibly hear God’s voice. But I wholeheartedly believe that our conscience is powered by the Holy Spirit.. an inner voice that “talks” to us, comforts us, guides us. And it takes a whole lot of discernment to understand and “hear” that voice as a Christian when the world is trying change our conscience or beliefs. What made me laugh in that moment? You don’t even have to be a Christian to know how many countless stories there are of Jesus and his disciples being falsely imprisoned. They were beat up mentally and physically. They were mocked, scorned and laughed at. Because they were either completely crazy (which terrified their persecutors) or they were truly who they said they were which was an even more terrifying prospect. So did God know what I was going through and feeling? Absolutely. And what would Jesus do in this same situation? Well, he certainly wouldn’t sit around and sulk feeling sorry for himself. So I got up. I marched my gowned behind right in to that common area having zero idea of what to expect from a bunch of psych patients, but knowing I was being called to love them where they were. There were 12 people in my ward of completely varying psychological issues. There were nurses, guards and admin staff around the clock. I sat and put a puzzle together with a gentleman that everyone else seemed to be avoiding. The bell rang for shift change (everyone has to go to their rooms during shift change) He fist bumped me even though patients aren’t supposed to have physical contact with each other. And he thanked me for being the only person to make him smile that day. I don’t know why he was in there, but I know he’s a whole person. A human. Deserving of love and kind was. After shift change I sat with one of guards. She was a young, petite little thing. Had only been on the job for a few days and was terrified. And in the most ironic of events I became a makeshift therapist as she vented out her life concerns to me. She’s a whole person deserving of love. I introduced myself to my cell mate (we had private rooms but a shared bathroom between us). She had been pacing back and forth, hitting herself in the head. I invited her over to do a puzzle with me and the guard. And while she initially declined, her neurotic behaviors started to slow and then cease altogether as she came closer and closer to the puzzle to help put it together. By the time I went to bed she was working on part of the puzzle and telling us all about the memories it brought up of doing puzzles with her grandma growing up. She’s also a human. Also deserving of love. The next morning my nurse came in for required bloodwork and to give me medications. I was grumpy about not getting the proper meds, something I’m sure she hears over and over from all psych patients who think they really need more or less medication. At first she seemed a bit gruff and frustrated, so I forced myself to chill. She ended up sitting in my room for almost a half hour talking about her own health issues and things she’s been through. She asked me if I was a Christian and if she could pray for me. We were both crying when the breakfast bell rang. We were both recognizing our humanness in that moment. There was Jamie, a kind but unstable soul who wanted nothing more than to talk and talk… and talk. And have someone listen. And listen I did. She asked me if I could teach her to do her hair like mine. During group therapy I brought up something about praying. After the session she asked me if I could teach her to pray. So pray we did. She had a catholic background, and after that session she went around making the sign of the cross to everyone before she’d let us eat. I smile every time I think of and pray for her now. She’s a whole person. Deserving of love. There was Katie. She had been court mandated to the psych ward. I don’t know the full story, but she was in an abusive relationship that led her to essentially lose her sanity and seek revenge on her ex. We were in music therapy together in which I was asked to be one of the music leaders choosing the music. I chose “If We’re Honest” by Francesca Battistelli. If you don’t know the song, I encourage you to look it up whether you are Christian or not. She was sobbing by the end of the song. She thanked me and told me she needed that. Katie is human and so deserving of compassion and love. Perhaps the most meaningful interaction was with Deonte. Again, I don’t know Deonte’s past or really anything about his diagnosis. I know that he was treated the most cautiously and he was very clearly angry. We had morning group therapy together. It was a typical therapy, let’s talk about our feelings session. I saw he was troubled. I could see him battling internally with himself. I had spoken up about something, I can’t even remember what… but Deonte finally got this huge smile and said “That’s everything I have been wanting to say and couldn’t make my brain say it.” By the end of that therapy he was laughing. I didn’t think too much of it. After the session the therapist pulled me aside. He told me he just wanted me to know that Deonte had been there for weeks. He’d never spoken a word in a therapy session. That was the first they’d seen him even smile or express something other than frustration or anger. Nurses and patients have to stay six feet apart from each other unless nurses are providing direct care. When I got discharged Jamie started crying. My nurse came up and asked me if she could hug me. I told her I didn’t think that was allowed. She said “rules are meant to be broken sometimes” gave me a huge bear hug, kissed me on the forehead and thanked me for being a blessing with tears in her eyes. I debated back and forth on whether or not to post this. I didn’t want to come across boastful or proud. But I ultimately feel like there is power in this testimony. That someone reading this or hearing this story in person will be affected. It was not me that affected those people. I am not a bold person. I shy away from interactions in uncomfortable situations. And regardless of whether it was me or God, the fact remains that we always need to make the best out of even the worst situations. I’m not a naturally positive person. I worry a lot. I always think people think the worst of me. I worry I’m offending people. But I’m not getting stuck in that trap anymore. People reading this are people I’ve been afraid of offending. They are people who have complete opposite beliefs as I do, and have no qualms with ripping apart Christianity or tearing people down because they may believe in something different. Some of you are my friends on Facebook. You are people that have personally offended me so deeply with your poignant posts that you’ve left me in tears countless nights because you simply didn’t care or bother to think through the impact your words would have on others. Because you preach love and life and “fairness” but only if it applies to your personal beliefs. So, whether you are a Christian or not, I encourage you to evaluate where you are. How can you human better? How can you love people and still stand up for issues you believe in without being hateful? How can you break the silence if you’ve felt backed in to a corner? It starts and ends with loving each other. Seeing each other as humans deserving of love and compassion and not anger and hate. Challenge yourself to step up and reach out. Love people no matter where they’re at or what they’ve been through. Whether you believe in my God, a hundred other gods or believe that you’ll be nothing but rot and dust at the end of your life we should all agree that we need to human better without hate or fear or anger or anything else that holds us back. That’s all I’ve got.
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Disclaimer: This blog post may be triggering for those who have suffered from mental health issues. Choose to continue to read and laugh or cry. Or close it out now. End disclaimer
I escaped the loony bin today. The insane asylum. The psych ward. The mental institution. The funy farm. The "choose your own adjective that means I was psychiatrically hospitalized, but now I'm not" Buckle up. This first post is going to be a long one. Grab some coffee and a blanket. I was told in group therapy today that I should find something that makes me happy that I've been meaning to do but have put off... and do it. To do it intentionally. Without abandon. Without filter. Welcome to my world. So yes, I spent the past 24 in the psych unit of a hospital. 24 hours before that in the actual hospital. How did I get there? Many of you reading this first blog post will be personal family, friends or acquaintances. I'm not blogging for popularity. Not blogging for money. I'm blogging for therapy. For me. For you, if it helps. So many of you know many of these beginning details about me, but let's rewind a bit further back in my life. My whole life you can say things have been off kilter for me. I've had constant issues arise since childhood. It's always one level of crazy after another. It's joke for many people I know that if something can go wrong around me, it will. And while it's funny, it's also very serious. About seven years ago I came down with poison ivy. It got super inflamed, and I couldn't figure out why it wouldn't heal. I was prescribed creams, ointments and medicines to know avail. A strong round of steroids finally took it out, but after this healing the rest of my body went completely off kilter. After many rounds of doctor visits and tests I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. I still felt like there was something more, but being passive I did not advocate for myself and push for answers. My rheumatologist dropped me after the diagnosis because he "didn't have time in his schedule for fibro patients." A year later I sought a second opinion and was diagnosed with Ehler's Danlos Syndrome The details of this will be spared in this post, but I'm sure we'll dive deeper in blogs to come. To summarize, Ehler's Danlos is a connective tissue disorder associated with defects in collagen. It effects everything from head to toe. There are too many symptoms to list, but I knew I had chronic pain, was extremely hypermobile (think flexible), chronically exhausted and had always had delayed healing issues. The diagnosis has validated so much of my life, but it's not an easy condition to live with, understand or manage. For years I've gone through different doctors, therapies and medications... mostly to alleviate the pain, fatigue and chronic urticaria I was suffering from. I won't go further in to this right now except to say the past six months has been a whirlwind of doctors, new medications and therapies. In addition,, I'm dealing with severe reproductive issues in which I'm awaiting surgery. Co-managing both things is complicated beyond belief. I've been on Cymbalta for a couple of years (more stories on Cymbalta another day). I recently got an added diagnosis of ADHD. I have my main doctor, a physiotherapist, a physical therapist, a dermatologist, a pain management doctor and three (yes three) gynecologists. They're all attempting to co-manage my conditions that affect entire body systems. I'm waiting on surgery to have a hysterectomy and endometriosis removal. This condition has caused increased fatigue and pain that has become increasingly more difficult to manage. My physiotherapist recently recommending increasing my dose of Cymbalta, which had to go through my PCM as she is the doctor in charge of managing my Cymbalta. Cymbalta can be a nasty drug that negatively affect many people, but it can also be a miracle drug for some. We (and I mean we - myself and my team of doctors) agreed to increase the dose about 3 weeks ago. Within several days of the increase I became agitated, shaky, constant headaches, sweating excessively at night, had horrible muscle spasms and lock ups, and elevated blood pressure. I felt miserable. I contacted my PCM as soon as it got bad and together we figured out I had developed Serotonin Syndrome. Not to bore you with cell biology, pharmacology and medical knowledge, but it's important anyone reading this has a basic understanding of Serotonin. Serotonin is a naturally produced chemical/hormone in our bodies that essentially carries messages from our brain to other body systems. When serotonin is too low, body systems don't function properly or to their fullest capacity. It especially dictates your mood. Many people diagnosed with depression or anxiety are found to have too little serotonin being made. SSRI medications (Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors) are often prescribed to help regulate proper amounts of serotonin in the body. Hello, Cymbalta. However, too much serotonin is even worse than too little serotonin. It can build to toxic levels, especially when taken in conjunction with other SSRI's or certain other medications. This is what happened to me. It's called Serotonin Syndrome, the cause of all symptoms above. If left undiagnosed, if SSRI's are continued it will escalate to high fevers, seizures, coma and then death. So just a little serious. You are never, ever supposed to stop Cymbalta cold turkey UNLESS you are headed for the severe stages of Serotonin Syndrome, which I was. Stopping Cymbalta cold turkey can have just as many severe side effects, many of them mimicking Serotonin Syndrome, but add in severe anxiety, paranoia, insomnia, confusion, horrible nightmares, heart palpitations, racing heart, and brain zaps. And I don't know how to explain a brain zap other that it feels like a mini electrocution starting in your brain and traveling through every surface of your body. Over and over again. Sometimes almost constantly. I got stuck in a vicious in between of Serotonin Syndrome and Cymbalta withdrawal. We knew to expect it. And we pro-actively treated it with Xanax. However, the Xanax stopped working after a week and my symptoms worsened. I was switched to cyproheptadine. This is an antihistamine (think Benadryl but WAY stronger) that I was supposed to take every 2 hours throughout the day. I had to take time off of work for the next month as I wouldn't be able to function normally while taking it. Unfortunately, my symptoms worsened even on the Cyproheptadine. I experienced every symptom above, but especially insomnia. When I could sleep I was having terrifying nightmares which would then wake me up where I couldn't go back to sleep. Imagine this for a week. Saturday night I had a dream that I had a demon living inside me (I'm sure my subconscious associating all of my medical issues as the demon I couldn't get rid of) and my pastor was performing an exorcism on me (note: NOT a service offered in my church, haha) The demon was coming out of my body but trying to attack me. It was growling and screeching. I wrapped my hands around its throat and started strangling it. All of the sudden I woke up in real life. It was ME that was growling. And it was my goldendoodle, Annie, who was squealing. Because I had my hands wrapped around her throat strangling her. This is excruciatingly hard for me to admit and talk about. But it is reality. And it's very important that I am very open about this. Mental health is such a taboo topic, but it needs to be talked about. I was horrified, as you can imagine. Anyone who knows me knows I would NEVER do anything to physically harm, let alone kill myself, my family, friends OR my pets. I was so distraught and confused. I tried to get up out of bed to splash water on my face and found myself so incoordinated I couldn't walk straight and fell right over. I got back in to bed without waking Byron and cried through the night. And silly Annie hopped right up next to me, having instantly foriving me, licking my tears away and nuzzling in to my neck until Byron woke up. I was in tears, inconsolable and numb at the same time. Byron got ahold of my doctor who instructed us to get to the hospital immediately. I had to go through the emergency department who knew in advance I was coming. The intake staff, nursing staff and ER doctor Sunday and Sunday evening were absolutely phenomenal. They did not demean me. They knew and I knew what was going on. They were compassionate, attentive and concerned for me. I had to go through a psych evaluation, which is currently done via telehealth within your hospital room. I had to wait until 7pm for my evaluation. I had an amazing resident doctor who confirmed the diagnosis and said we needed to regulate my medications and monitor me through the worst of the symptoms. She said I was determined to not be a risk to myself or my family. I was given the option to go home with adjustments to medications and a new therapy plan, voluntarily admit myself to a psychiatric center, or be admitted to the hospital for strictly medical management. We chose the regular hospital for medical management. She had to call the ER doctor to review the plan. I was called back shortly after to be told they had a new plan. They were going to keep me in the ER room overnight on Ativan to see if they could stabilize my blood pressure, lessen my symptoms, and ensure I didn't have any additional violent episodes while sleeping. If all went well I would be released in the morning. If my blood pressure didn't stabilize or I didn't do well they would admit me to the hospital. Despite Ativan I hardly slept and my blood pressure continued to be elevated. My night nurse gave me my last dose of Ativan at 3am. After that I did not have a single nurse, doctor or hospital staff member enter my room, provide updates or even check vitals until around 11 am. At that time a nurse rolled in the cart with the telehealth computer and said I had to go through a psych eval. Like what? This psych was far less compassionate and much more matter-of-fact than the first psych. She asked all of the same questions. No, I didn't want to kill or harm myself. I had no thoughts of hurting myself or others. I feel safe at home. But no, I wasn't comfortable going home because I wanted to be able to sleep and have my blood pressure managed to ensure I wouldn't have any crazy subconscious dreams I was acting out at home because God forbid I actually hurt an animal... or my husband... or kids. She asked my preference for treatment and I again reiterated the medical hospitalization route. She said it wasn't a bad idea because she definitely felt I needed further monitoring before going home. She was going to call to the ER doctor (that I still hadn't seen) and would call me back in a few minutes. Byron was not present for this part as he had been getting the girls off to school. This is where the story gets really messed up. My room was right across from the nurse station. I had my door wide open as an invitation for updates. I listened to the nurses gossiping about their weekends. I watched them eating snacks and teasing each other. I heard them talking about how annoying the eldery lady with dementia in the room next to me was. And I heard them saying "She's faking it. We need to get her out of here." At the time I absolutely assumed they were talking about me. In retrospect I have no idea if it was me, but the person doesn't matter. It was completely inappropriate behavior. Two hours later I hadn't heard back. Still hadn't seen a nurse or a doctor. I hadn't received any medications. No offers for food or water or even telling me what mediations of my own I should be taking. My blood pressure started going back up again. Byron asked for a nurse several times telling them my alarms were going off because of my elevated heart rate and blood pressure. A young, very annoyed looking nurse finally came in, looked at my monitor and said "She probably just moved her hand or something." I was furious. I asked her for a supervising nurse or patient care advocate. She rolled her eyes and said "I don't know that that's possible." Trigger beginning of anxiety attack. Byron left to find someone himself who could help us. At this point I admit I was getting manic. I felt like all of the nurses were looking in at me and talking about me. My blood pressure went way up to 170/130. My alarm had switched from the annoying beep to the high pitched super loud signals. And from the nurse station they repeatedly "snoozed" it without checking on me. I thought I had experienced full anxiety attacks before, but I hadn't. I escalated to a full blown true panic attack. By the time Byron got back to the room I was gasping for air, tremoring from head to toe and my entire body was numb. I was sobbing. My heart rate was around 180. Byron said he saw my blood pressure as high as 200/170. If you're not medically savvy... those numbers aren't good. Like really, really not good. And they continued to ignore me. He ran out to get a nurse to telling them I was having a full blown panic attack and was told "I'll be there in a few minutes". 3 staff members (presumed nurses) were sitting at the nurse station and did absolutely nothing. A nurse finally came in and stared at me saying "What triggered this?" And waited for a response as I was literally hyperventilating.... just looking at me like I was expected to talk. In broken gasps I finally said some very non-Christlike things and told her to go get a doctor. She came back in with a shot of ativan and told me to breathe. Cute. A doctor finally comes in. The Ativan still hadn't kicked in. I still couldn't breathe. And again "What caused this? Why are you so upset?" Now I'm not a doctor or a nurse. But I know when someone is hyperventilating they can't talk. And I now know that during a legit panic attack you have zero control over anything with your body. Again, I'll save my personal feelings for a later blog post and stick to the facts, but yeah. A Patient Advocate finally shows up and is like "what in the world is going on?" She kicked the nurse and doctor out of the room and her Byron managed to guide me through some breathing as the Ativan kicked in where I could breathe again. I was able to tell her everything that happened. Told her I hadn't had a single medical update all day. I had no idea what was going on and had been in the ER for over 24 hours. I had a serious illness we were dealing with and zero information. She told me "Well, they don't have additional information because they've been waiting on transport to Richmond" I asked if that was a hospital and she looked dumbfounded. She said no, it's a psych ward. I had been pink slipped and was involuntarily be admitted to a mental health facility. The psych earlier in the day had told the ER doctor that I admitted I was a threat to my kids' safety, and without anyone communicating anything to me they put in orders for me to be transported by ambulance to a psych ward at a different hospital. As she said that a stretcher rolled up with a total of 4 paramedics and police officers. I was told to get on the stretcher and I legally was not allowed to decline or I would be physically restrained and transported. And that was that. I had no choice. The Patient Care Advocate genuinely looked mortified. As I was getting strapped in to the loony bin stretcher she held my hand and promised me that this is not normally how they run their hospital and she would do everything she could to make it right, but unfortunately it was too late for her to change the fact that I had to leave. Legally, she could do nothing. They rushed me off away from Byron, told me I could have no personal effects and I was being admitted to psychiatric care against my will. Right after I had a huge medical crisis I hadn't even fully recovered from. And that, my friends, is how I became an official member of the funny farm club. I don't want to go too far in to detail regarding the psychiatric center because I have a LOT more to say about that.. another day... another post. But I was assigned a team of 4 people.. a psychologist, a doctor and therapists. They were the kindest, most compassionate and caring people I had dealt with. My psychologist could not believe the experience that had brought me to this point. I was calmed down and able to rationally have a conversation. We walked through my entire history up to the present moment. They asked all of their questions. I gave them answers. He looked me in the eye and said 'You don't belong here." He went on to say I was having reactions to medications that clearly just needed medical management and he was very sorry for everything that had happened. I hadn't slept for more than 2 hours in a stretch for close to a week and that was only compounding my issues. Legally, he had to keep me admitted overnight, but he said I would be discharged the next day as long as my blood pressure was stable and I didn't have further reactions. Skip forward to today (again... more details to come) I met with the same medical team this morning. They had done a ton of research, looked at all of my prescribed medications and given medications. He told me I had, indeed, gone manic, but with good reason. The Serotonin Syndrome and and Cymbalta withdrawal were fighting with each other. But the cyproheptadine I had been prescribed as treatment had actually completely messed my entire body up. It is an antihistamine. People with Ehler's Danlos have many issues with our histamine receptors that is linked directly to Mast Cell Activation and essentially all functions within cells, pumps, etc. The cyproheptadine had actually hyperactivated the Serotonin Syndrome and withdrawal symptoms. It had also been prescribed at triple the dose it should have been. I still don't know if that was doctor error, pharmacy error, tech/nurse error... we'll get that figured out eventually. But I had been taking three times the level of a drug that was essentially toxic to my body when taken at a regular dose. Additionally, it interacts with the hormone pill I had been taken to control the gynecological issues. The shortened version of all of this? My brain was poisoned and turned my body toxic on itself. He had already stopped the cyproheptadine as soon as I had gotten there and gave me a certain vitamin that helps counteract the effects of everything. And he gave me melatonin where I could get a good night's sleep. I slept for an amazing 9 hours and woke up to 100% feeling mentally like myself again. Physical recovery is going to take weeks, possibly months. My body is depleted. I have to build up strength. My shakes will likely take 4-6 weeks to resolve, possibly longer and I'll likely have lingering fatigue and headaches for some time. Right now I am simply grateful to be alive. I got discharged around 1pm to the most amazing husband I could possibly ask for. My entire life and psyche has completely changed, I truly believe for the better. This is hands down the scariest, hardest thing I have ever gone through in my life. I wish I could express the thousand different emotions I have. You'll have to watch for further blog posts.... what it's like to live alongside a bunch of people with varying psychiatric issues... further info/updates on the gynecological issues (with a hilariously embarrassing story that happened in the middle of this entire process)... what I am taking away from this experience.... my raw, unfiltered anger at all of the things done completely wrong with my treatment (or lack there of).... my new found thoughts on mental health and life in general. My already overactive mind is in a million places. This is much longer than any other blog post I will probably write, but this is the beginning of something beautiful. If for no one else, beautiful to me. You can follow along if it piqued your interest. You can unfriend me if you hate it. You can do anything in between. But this is my transparency (shout out to TJ for that!) I do ask that of all things, everyone avoid commenting suggestions on anything we should do with all of the malpractice that occurred. I need to process it all and deal with it through the hospital system and legal sources, which I would like to keep away from here. Right now, I'm grateful to be alive. I'm grateful that my birthday baby (Emmy) ran off the bus sobbing in to my arms this afternoon. Grateful for Byron and Maddie for keeping me smiling, taking care of me and being the best family ever. Grateful for every single person who knew even an inkling of everything going on and took time to fervently pray for me, check in on me (via Byron as I was completely cut off from the world). Simply grateful. I love you all... and I mean it. Ending side note: This is my first blog on this platform. I have no idea what all I'm doing. I hope to fix this up in days to come and understand the format. Ignore all of the extra website tabs and their auto-formatted examples. |