So How's My Mental Health Now?

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After back-to-back psych unit stays, involuntary commitments, in which I was basically coerced into taking meds so I could eventually leave, am I a mental mess?

No.

But I’ve learned and acquired valuable information about how to proceed, with who I am now, after 40 years of psychotropics, some ECT, psych hospitalization after psych hospitalization.

First and foremost, I accept my limitations.

I need certain kinds of help. I have assistance financially that allows me to live in a nice apartment, keep a cat, eat decent food, be safe, and stay mostly to myself. And I need that isolation because being out in the world is frankly overwhelming, spins my brain, and drains my energy.

But I still require contact with people, and I have that with social media, a comfortable way for me to find others anytime, no matter what’s going on with my sleep.

What about sleep? Nowadays I doze off, on my own, without any kind of drugging, and I'm out for quite a few hours. That’s a vast improvement over the horrid nightmare of coming off meds, the terror of even facing my bedroom, or the days unable to drift off, flowing into a blur of unstoppable activity with a mind that ran in and out of rabbit holes of ideas.

Eating well also took the past two years, lots of tries, lots of reverting to foods without much benefit to my states of up and down and all around. Now I honestly crave the better choices.

Losing my cat Iris, a steady companion who kept love in her heart always, steered the home routine, and provided purpose, devastated me. That factored largely into why I fell off the cliff, landing in psych wards again.

My strange thought was that I’d be in a safe place to express my feelings, and once I had those satisfactorily out, I’d be back home, living a more tranquil life. I forgot that in mental health care, I’m already labeled bipolar and borderline personality disorder, so no psychiatrist is about to let me get away without thrusting medication on me. And if I refuse, they say they’re bound to throw a court order on my freedom.


To psychiatrists, I’m apparently a danger, setting off alarms, when inside I know I’m angry and sad, desperate for proper support to release those emotions, look at them and give them due respect.


Once I stop clawing at the walls of the pit, I discover footholds, climb to the top, and find a steady path forward.

That lets me know that I must accept myself where I am, on any given day, at any given point. Dropping the invasive “I should be doing this” or “This bad feeling will last forever” or “My life is a waste” mantras is key. Instead, I assure myself that everything is fine right now, at this moment. Then I ask myself what absolutely must be done today. Getting that task, or tasks, completed is the only pressure I put on myself, but I apply it gently.

Being kinder about who I am opens opportunities to relax into what I’m doing. Smiling and laughter, focusing on cooking and tasting food, watching a show without distracting into other activities, appreciating my new cat, listening fully to family discuss their own problems, and enjoying all my little victories happens more spontaneously. And I’m here to witness that, all in all, I really am okay.

I’ve made it this far. There’s more to go.

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