Category Archives: Life Decisions

Because I Can

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I’m finally letting myself show anger, even rage, call people on the bullshit they hand me, their lies, singular or repeated, all of it.

Because I can.

I purged an old, dead email account of its contents the other day.  What (at the time) I felt was a stupid move was reading a bunch of those emails first.

I was aghast.  I saw myself being emotionally and psychologically abused to a horrifying degree.  Had there been a physical analogue, I would have been the woman in the ED who “fell down the stairs”, “walked into a door”, or was “just the clumsiest woman ever, you won’t believe what I did to myself. . .”  And I would have ended up there daily, until eventually I landed in the ICU, on life support.

Reading those emails was something that needed to happen, though, because it wasn’t just one relationship, and it hadn’t been just with guys I was “involved” with.  I took a long, hard, painful look at the woman I have become, and I’m angry.

I’m angry at myself, but I’m also angry at all of the people who had a big hand in turning me into this woman.  Because I never used to be this way.  You swung at me, I ducked and hit back twice as hard.  You lied to me, I called you on it straight out and gave you the option of being honest henceforth or getting the fuck out of my life.  You treated me badly, or took advantage in any way, I walked and never looked back.

I entered treatment for my bipolar, and slowly, but slowly, I began to wear down, and people took advantage of that.  Even though I knew I was doing everything possible to be well, and that I had never taken my illness out on others — except for a few, a very few, bursts of shouting and tears — I felt like I was a burden just being in people’s lives, and I had to do everything I could to compensate and please others.  This belief was reinforced when friends I’d known for years started backing away; the mother of one of the children I nannied for started distancing herself and telling me how disappointed her child was when I didn’t show up for something because I was curled up in my bed, sobbing, unable to even move (yet I always at least gave her notice that I wouldn’t be there); and finally, my sister, with whom I had always been very close, and my best friend of 20 years both decided to cut off all contact with me, basically telling me that they couldn’t handle “my drama”, and other behavior that was completely beyond my control — even though I was still working my soul to the core trying to prevent them or anyone else from being negatively affected.

Clearly, there was something wrong with me beyond my illness, as a person, and I was lucky to have anyone still in my life at all, so I had to (and did) do anything and everything to keep them.

FUCK THAT.

A sister who walks out on you when you are at your lowest is not a sister.  For a long time I have been compassionate, because she genuinely didn’t get it.  She couldn’t understand why I wasn’t getting well.  But you know what, it doesn’t matter if you understand or not; you love someone, you support them.  You do not call them “a black hole”.

A friend who uses her children to hold you hostage — consciously or not — because you know they are little and they love and need you, and that if you call Mommy on her lies and bullshit and manipulation she will cut off the contact you have with them, I don’t even have a word for that.

Friends who back away because you are as contagious as a leper, and even if they know that statement is true, who don’t want to deal with the fact that you have to fight constantly to keep your head above the swells while they can get up and live their lives every day are not friends at all.

And new people in your life whom you will put up with, excuse even, all manner of garbage from, all while hiding or making light of how bad things have really gotten, because you’re desperate for someone, anyone, to “support” you and show you kindness. . .  Well, that one is on me, but I never would have gotten there without the concerted efforts of the people above.  Yes, they had every right to make a choice to remove themselves from my life, but they were cruel and weak and cowardly to have blamed me, instead of having the guts to admit that they couldn’t deal with being spectators to the struggle I was living and the constant pain I was in.  Because, had they done so, they would have had to admit to themselves that what I lived every day was an enormous struggle, and so unspeakably painful, and they were cutting and running, abandoning me when I needed them more than I ever had.

For years I have searched for the reason I let my former psychiatrist lie and manipulate and force me into electroconvulsive therapy — I can finally use the word FORCE, for the very first time, and you don’t know what a triumph that is — and at last, I have found it.  It was the result of a long line of abandonments and betrayals and manipulations and lies by those I loved and trusted most.  I had been made to feel like less than nothing for so long that I had come to believe it as gospel truth, and who cared that the old me, the real me, had been firmly and unwaveringly against ECT with all of her being for three-and-a-half years?  She wasn’t standing guard any more, and my opinion didn’t count.  How could it, when I didn’t count as a person myself?

That’s something I get to carry with me always.  The permanent brain damage, and the post-traumatic stress I have from being anesthetized, having electrodes hooked up to my head, having a current, a shock pass through my brain to induce a seizure in me — sixteen times over.  I blamed myself for that, too.  Up until about an hour ago.

And still, I put up with bullshit and manipulation and being treated as less than a person by people I love, because it is all I know anymore.  Almost three years to the day of my first shock and seizure.

Now, three years and fifteen days after that first blast of electricity, arguably the lowest point of my life, it ends.  I’m done.  I’m worth more than that, a hell of a lot more.  I am often a hard person to have in your life, and that has always been so, it has very little to do with mental illness.  But I am the best friend you will ever have, if you are willing to accept me, all of me, and give back.

I am smart.

I am compassionate.

I am intelligent.

I am strong.

I am creative.

I am resilient.

I am supportive.

I am loving.

I am beautiful.

I am selfless.

I have a strong moral compass.

I am patient.

I am understanding.

I am honest.

I am accepting.

I am forgiving.

I am idealistic.

I am open-hearted.

I live my beliefs.

And I once again believe that I am worth it, that I am worth more, much more than I have been given in the past six years of my life.  From friends, from lovers, from family.

So I will live my life accordingly from this day on.

Because I can.

“I ain’t a soldier, but I’m here to take a stand. . .”

~ Jon Bon Jovi/Richie Sambora/Billy Falcon


© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The Terrible Twos

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blog cupcake two

This is the proper way to celebrate my blog’s second birthday, which was Friday.

I think my blog and I may have hit the terrible twos, unfortunately.  An expression I think is a misnomer, as it happens, at least in my experience raising children. Both my kids were great during their second years. Three was where things got a bit difficult.

I’m having problems both with me and with WordPress at the moment.  Currently, I’m just waiting these problems out to see what comes next, because that’s all I can do.  But both will have a pronounced effect on the immediate future of this blog.

Oh well.  Whatever happens, at least I got to enjoy a cupcake.

And in these past two years, I’ve made (and even gotten to meet) some wonderful friends through blogging.

“We can spend our lives letting the world tell us who we are.  Sane or insane.  Saints or sex addicts.  Heroes or victims.  Letting history tell us how good or bad we are.  Letting our past decide our future.  Or we can decide for ourselves.  And maybe it’s our job to invent something better.”
~ Chuck Palahniuk, Choke


© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Will You Be There To Catch Me If I Fall?

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For 31 years of my life, this one was a done deal.  Okay, I can’t speak to my younger years entirely, but something happened to me around age 14 that made me my own and only support.  I had my first breakdown, and in true Ruby style, it was one hell of a mess.

Crying hysterically when your mother tries to drop you off at school may sometimes be normal for some adolescents.  But I was never bullied, I had lots of friends, and I wasn’t afraid of any of the teachers.  So for me it was a bit extreme.  To my mother’s credit, she knew this was not one of those “You’ll feel better when you get to school” things, and she didn’t force me to go in.

Hiding in the basement, cowering in terror from your very good friends when they try to come and find you at your house after school definitely does not fall on the spectrum of normal for a 14-year-old girl.  It would be more than a decade before I had any idea why I did it.  Even before then, I never really thought about how incredibly strange my behavior was.  And no one was home with me to see the degree to which things had deteriorated.

Now don’t take that to mean I had absentee parents.  They simply both held jobs, and as the crying and anxiety seemed to relax almost entirely when my mother brought me back home in the mornings, she went to work at hers (not without reservations, I’m sure).

At some point I pulled myself back together.  I couldn’t really tell you how.  It probably had something to do with the looming threat of not graduating the eighth grade and getting the fuck out of that school forever.  Even if my days in middle school weren’t as miserable as some, that place still sucked.  There’s a reason they parcel those three years away into their own little hell.  That way you can get through them and start semi-fresh somewhere else.

There are a lot of now infamous parent/teacher/principal/student conferences that went on while they tried to figure out what to do with me, as I was so far behind in so many classes.  May it suffice to say I gave a lot of the staff a lot of hell, but in a very adult, don’t-you-dare-talk-to-me-like-I-am-a-freaking-child kind of way.  I was pretty incredible, even my parents thought so.  My theory on why I was graduated is that I had one or two good teachers who were on my side and realized that there wasn’t really anything else they could teach me, and the others just wanted me the hell out of their lives.

Point being, after I got back up onto my feet, I made the decision that no one was ever going to see me off of them again.  Fuck all to what was going on, I could hide it.

And I did, with one exception when I was 16.  Never mind the details, but it caused a shift in my perspective.  It was no longer I’m going to hide this, damnit.  It ceased to be an issue of pride and independence and turned into a belief that ultimately, I really was the only one I could rely on to take care of myself, at least emotionally and mentally.

And for the next 15 years, that was my life.  I had friends, I had family, and I had doctors, eventually.  And they were all good people looking to help me in my time of terrible distress.  But I wouldn’t have it.  Not really.  Yes, I sobbed in my mother’s arms more times than I’m sure I ever did as a child.  Yes, my father cleaned up my financial messes and babysat with me during the days as I went through electroconvulsive therapy.  Yes, my friends made themselves available to me to the degree that they were able to and then some – but they did all have children, most were spread across the country, and for a lot of that time I wasn’t really with it.  And yes, on more than one occasion I know I begged for help from my psychiatrist.  I had even begun to develop a strong support network through blogging.

But still, when I got down to cases, I was the only one I could count on.

It’s funny how the most unexpected things can change your whole perspective.

Last Winter, I spent about three days in the worst migraine I had ever lived in my life.  By the third day I couldn’t even think, and when I went to speak to my mother in the early morning hours on a Saturday, when she was getting ready for work, I was pushing back hard on the tears.  You cannot cry when your head feels like that.  Crying equals more pain.

The solution she quickly came to was for my father to take me to the urgent care.  Sensible enough, except my father hates all things medical, he doesn’t deal so well with them, and dear Lord, in the past five years had I put him through enough doctor and emergency room visits to last several lifetimes, and I just didn’t want him to take me, honestly.

I expressed something like this to my mom, tears rolling down my face in spite of myself, and she told me that maybe that was something my father was meant to learn from all of these experiences, how to be able to deal with the medical world (my mother is so very Catholic and, I swear, everything with her is “meant to be”).

I don’t think my dad learned anything that day, but I got to thinking about what maybe I was supposed to learn from all that had happened to me in the preceding five-and-a-half years (yes, I’ve got some of it in me, too).  And sometime after the Vicodin and the ice packs and attempting to sleep and the muscle relaxers and throwing up, I came to the most amazing realization.

I have so many people in my life who are reaching out their hands to catch me.

I have friends who would put a roof over my head and food in my mouth should I land on their doorsteps.  I have aunts and uncles and cousins of my parents who would take me into their lives in an instant.  I have two grandfathers who would give me shelter and love and whatever I could need.  I have so many wonderful cousins.  One particular branch have absorbed me into their lives and made me feel like closer family than I technically am, and never so much as blinked when I asked them to help me find a pharmacy where they live and drive me there (twice) because I was going off-the-wall manic.  I have my parents, I have always had my parents, but I feel differently about their taking care of me than I ever did before.  I have so many of you lovelies, who would scoop me up and tuck me into your lives and set me on the road to recovery in an instant.

I have the whole beautiful world.  There will always be an endless number of kind hands, even if they are the hands of strangers, reaching out, willing and wanting to help me should I need it.

Kind of amazing when you think about it.

There won’t be another breakdown.  I may have my moments here and there, but I can say with absolute confidence and certainty that I will never go back to where I have been.  But while I can’t list for you all the things that journey through Hell (capital H) taught me, one of them was definitely how to let love in.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

On Being A Bitch

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(I really wanted to first write a post on all the sweet comments and commiserations and sympathy I got from the lovelies who responded to my most recent post, but I guess this needs must come out now.) 

My mother and I were heading upstairs a few minutes ago, her to go to sleep, me, apparently to write this post (though at the time I had no thought nor intention, the fact that I am now hitting the keys with a formed idea tells me it was a forgone conclusion).

Mom said to me, “You’re so sweet.”

I thought about it, and struggled for half a moment, before responding, truthfully, “Sometimes.  Sometimes I’m just a bitch.”

My lovely mother responded with something like incredulity (on my behalf).  ”What, like I’m not ever a bitch?”

You would have to know my mom and me and have been privy to years of us in our most intimate moments to follow the rest of the conversation.  But the gist was about how when my mom is a bitch, it’s in an ‘I’m tired, I’ve had a long day/week/month, I need some space, I’ll snap at you’ way.  Every man, woman, and child had been a bitch like that.  And yes, through the years, she has sometimes upped her game and been a real bitch, but it has been rare.

Even at her worst, though, her most intense, out-of-control-bitch-ness, I don’t think she has ever come close to me (and she agrees, though she loves me much too much to outright say so).  My level of bitch cannot even be explained away as mood disorder related, though on some occasions that has added fuel to the fire.  I am something that there isn’t even properly a word for, when I am a “bitch.”

Because when I am a bitch, I am intense, intelligent, persuasive, subversive, focused, relentless, forceful, and ten million kinds of dangerous.  I could probably do more damage than an H-bomb.  Seriously.  Ask anyone who has known me intimately and at length. Actually, don’t.

I don’t bring out the bitch very much any more.  I keep her in check, because I know well the harm she can do.  She can destroy nations (though her work typically runs on a slightly smaller scale), because she has a pretty spotless history.  All of her crusades have been honest, informed, and honorable.  How powerful is that?  A bitch who only ever fights for causes that are noble and worthy of her faith, and who can stand up to everything that is dished out at her and still walk away without a spot or a stain.  Gives me chills.

Liberty Leading The People ~ Eugene Delacroix

So yes, I have reined in the wrath, and I have learned to wield my power responsibly.  And I have gone from Liberty Leading The People to La Belle Dame Sans Merci. Which has actually brought me full circle in a way that is not worth my words to explain.  

I present, instead, a visual for all of you. I’m not sure whether to be proud of myself or frightened. Probably both.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci ~ Frank Cadogan Cowper


© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

If You Ever Come And Find Me Crying. . .

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. . . now you know why.

(This song and video are solely the property of their respective owners and artists. Absolutely no copyright infringement is intended.)

Moral of the story: I don’t know. I haven’t gotten to the end of mine yet.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

I’m Finding My Way Back To Sanity Again. . .

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. . . Though I don’t really know what I’m gonna do when I get there, And take a breath and hold on tight, Spin ’round one more time, And gracefully fall back to the arms of grace. . . ~ Lifehouse, ‘Breathing’


(This song and video are solely the property of their respective owners and artists. Absolutely no copyright infringement is intended.)

This song, years ago when it was first released, made me think of a particular person and a particular situation.  It still does, only now both have changed.  The person is me and the situation is the state of my mind and heart.

I’ve had no Klonopin for two days.  I won’t have any more in the foreseeable future.  I have a very limited supply of Valium, and I’m dropping that down too.  The gabapentin I’ll do more slowly, because since it’s an anticonvulsant, it should help offset some of the dangers involved with benzo withdrawal.

What I’m doing is very dangerous.  Stopping a high dosage benzo after five years cold turkey could induce seizures, even a permanent seizure disorder.  But I have been left with no other choice.  I have played all of my cards, and my hand is empty.

I should be panicked.  I was scared for a bit.  And I’m not looking forward to what’s to come.  Best case scenario, I have no seizures at all and just experience intense benzo withdrawal.  That by itself is a little piece of Hell on Earth.  The misery is indescribable, and it takes every ounce of control not to pick the bottle up and just take a pill, if you have any left.

But that’s the trick.  That’s what it does give back to me, and that’s why I need to do this, if I am ever to have a “grown up,” independent life.  I’m not saying I’ll stay medication free, I know I can’t function that way.

But I need to know, I need to prove to myself that I am controlling the medication, the medication is not controlling me.

This blog may go on pause, I don’t know, or I may bring you all along for the ride.  But I am eerily calm right now.  I have dealt with all of my immediate, pressing concerns.  I have boarded the windows and laid up a stock of supplies in preparation for the hurricane.  It will not be pretty, but I know without the slightest doubt that I will make it through.  Never has an empty hand felt so good.

Ruby has returned, all.  Hide your breakables.

Moral of the story:  Look inside, you’ll find it.

And since I have a responsibility to be responsible, DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME, LOVELIES.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

What Is Mine

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“I don’t want pity

I just want what is

Mine. . .”

~ Faith Hill

I went to my doctor’s office yesterday to follow up my weekend foray into the land of emergency mental health care.  They were able to schedule me at 3:45 Monday afternoon, hooray.  Except it took every ounce of strength, every reserve I had in me to drag myself out of bed, put on a coat and make it to the car.  I didn’t change out of my pajamas, or look in the mirror or even brush my teeth.  I fastened the coat and slipped my feet into some flip-flops and picked up my purse and was on my way.

I arrived on time, and I sat in the waiting room and waited.  And waited and waited and waited.

Finally, after 45 minutes I went up to the reception desk.  I had made a very simple decision in my mind.

“Is Dr. ~ going to be able to see me in the next five to ten minutes?” I asked calmly, doing everything within me to hold it together.

The answer was “No,” along with “We’ve had a lot of emergencies and. . .” I tuned out.  When the babbling stopped, I stood there, voice cracking with desperation, fighting tears, and asked the following.

“Why would you schedule someone for an appointment when you knew you would not be able to fit them in?”  The tears were welling in my eyes now.  I have not cried in public since I was a young teenager, I have always made it to the car or my home.  I received a lot of useless garbage from the other side of that reception counter.  What I didn’t receive was one ounce of empathy, between three women.

“Well, I’m not waiting any longer,” I said, walking from the counter and collecting my purse and my coat.

I heard a faint, “I’ll let Dr. ~ know you had to leave,” as I was walking through the door.  They obviously don’t know about my ace in the hole.  I’ll share it with you in a moment.

I did make it to the car before the sobs overcame me (small favors).  And I cleaned up my face so that no one would have noticed (had there been anyone around to notice) when I walked into the house.

I know those three women didn’t know the specifics of my situation, and they are not used to dealing with mental health issues.  But what human being with one iota of human compassion does not offer to do something, anything, when they see a woman, a regular patient whom they know, in her pajamas, in front of them, eyes brimming with tears?  A cup of water, somewhere quiet and away from the public waiting room to have her breakdown?  Anyone that cold-hearted should not be in health care in any form or fashion.

And here is my ace in the hole.  My doctor has known me half my life.  He knows that it takes a great deal to push me over the edge, that I have endured many, many things in the name of keeping him as my doctor, that I have seen him through four or five practices and dealt with a mountain of bullshit higher than Mt. Everest, all because my priority has been exceptional healthcare.  He also happens to like me, as a person and as a patient.  And I have his private cell phone number.

I will never go back to that office.  I will never deal with those horrible women again, even if it means inferior healthcare.  And I will detail to my doctor the complete irresponsibility, lack of feeling, and disregard for the patients (it wasn’t only me) that I experienced and witnessed that day, names included.  It is not my intent to get anyone fired, but my doctor will absolutely censure them, at least informally.  Knowing what I have dealt with and what I am going through, knowing that even in a mood episode I am able to think on things and assess behaviors fairly and accurately, he will tell those women what’s what.  It may not change the fact that they are cold bitches, but it will put the fear of God into them.

As for what I’ll do. . .  I’ll settle for sub-par healthcare.  I’ve already begun weaning myself off of my medications (three at once, two of which are benzos, and through the holidays, no less, this should be fun) – why keep taking them when I have no one to prescribe for me?

And I’ll weep silently in stolen moments for what has been lost, but I’ll press on.  I always do.

Moral of the story:  Never, under any circumstances, let anyone treat you as less than you are worth.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Lessons I Have Learned: When Going To The Emergency Room For Psychiatric Reasons, Make Sure The Hospital Has A Psychiatrist Available To Assess You

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So last night it finally happened.  Enough became too much and I decided I couldn’t take it anymore.

I didn’t down a bottle of pills or fill up the bathtub and slit my wrists, no, not Ruby.  I very calmly and rationally decided that the way I had been “coping” could not continue, and I drove myself to the nearest hospital emergency department.

Yes, some one specific thing did happen that triggered me last night, but that wasn’t why I reached this point.  I had dealt with the mixed, I’d been dealing with the ultradian, but not in any real, functional sense.  I was gripping tight to the moment, hiding out in my room and watching old comfort films, completely cutting myself off from any and all contact with the outside world, sleeping whenever possible.  That’s the one thing I can say about being on a perpetual emotional rollercoaster, it exhausts you enough to cure insomnia while it lasts.

But last night I realized that even for me, this was getting to be too much.  I don’t have a psychiatrist.  I had a consult with one on Thursday, and though we scheduled a follow-up for a couple of weeks out, I don’t see it working.  I have another consult scheduled for January, and while I have a better feeling about this doctor just from one phone conversation, that’s still two months away, and I could meet him and he could be nothing like I had thought (hoped).  All of the other doctors my previous psychiatrist recommended have declined to see me on the grounds that they feel they can’t help me because my case is too complicated, or occasionally just that they’re not taking on new patients.

Now don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the honesty of the former reason, it saves me and the doctor involved a great deal of time and frustration.  But I am at the point of just Googling psychiatrists in my area and calling random names that come up.  I don’t know how much you lovelies know about Google and the way its algorithms work, but the doctors who show up first on there are unlikely to turn away a new patient, any new patient, no matter how out of their league she is.

Back to last night.  So I thought things through and decided my best option was to head to the ER.  I wasn’t a threat to myself, nor a danger to others, so I knew they couldn’t hold me against my will.  All I wanted was an assessment, some direction, something for my moods (preferably an atypical anti-psychotic, which by itself should tell you something, because those bastards have always been miserable for me in the past), and some Xanax for my anxiety if I could get it.  I figured I would get my consult with someone from the psychiatry department and be on my merry little way – at least merrier than when I had arrived.

Except for one thing.  My nearest hospital doesn’t have a psychiatry department.

It’s no small hospital, either.  It specializes in all sorts of disciplines, has won awards for its achievements, and when I went in for the pseudoseizures (on a Saturday), there was a neurologist available to read my EEG.

But I guess mental health just isn’t really that important.

What ended up happening was this:  The ER doc did a cursory exam, checking my wrists and legs for any signs that I had harmed myself.  I get it, in that situation my word is not sufficient.  I was then made to go pee in a cup.  Drug screen, again something that (apparently) is routine in these situations.  P.S.  While I “get” why these things are procedure, they still piss me off and made me feel violated in a small way.

It was about then that I noticed the gaggle of police officers in the general vicinity of my room.  I had seen them coming in, but I wasn’t really focused.  A little later on the gaggle had dwindled to a single officer, and it was obvious he was settled in for some reason.  It was about then I began to have my suspicions that the reason was me.  The way he would deliberately not look up at me when I passed him coming out of my room, or deliberately not look in when he passed my room – to, I dunno, stretch his legs or something – made it quite apparent he was very carefully watching me from the corner of his eye.  This entrenched my suspicions more deeply.  Was I being paranoid?  I sure didn’t feel that way.  I felt like I was a potentially unstable “mental patient” and he was there to subdue me, should things get out of hand.  Not the nicest sensation I have ever felt.  But, once again, I “got” it.  I had chosen to be there, I had to play by their rules.

To continue with the evening, the “assessment therapist” was busy somewhere else and unable to see me until morning.  I had the choice of being discharged with the information for the place where they could “assess” me, maybe on Monday or Tuesday of next week (Psychobabble for a week, minimum).  At the point and in the state I was in, even a legitimate Monday or Tuesday seemed an eternity away, much longer than I could wait.  I guess the term “emergency” is highly subjective.

My second choice was to be given some Xanax, spend the night there, and see the “assessment therapist” first thing in the morning.  I went with door number two.  The bed was not terribly comfortable (ER beds are nothing like hospital beds, for those of you who don’t know – they’re pretty much a thin plastic mat draped with a sheet), but the nurse was nice and I figured this method would expedite things.  Ha.

The said “therapist” arrived in the morning at about eight.  Boy, did that bitch ever choose the wrong line of work.  She went through her little assessment form (coughing her disgusting old lady smoker’s cough throughout), never once smiling and only glancing up at me a few times. Two questions:  If you have voluntarily chosen this as your line of work, shouldn’t one of your job requirements include the ability to show at least a slight degree of understanding and empathy toward the patient?  And if you’re trying to get a read on someone’s mental state, isn’t it important to take in as much detail as you can?  Body language, facial expression, tone of voice, affect in general? Apparently no and no.

I understand that assessing some crazy chick in the local emergency room first thing in the morning is not necessarily the most fun way to spend your Saturday, but through all of this does in never once occur to her that “there but for the grace of Thee go I?”

I’m reporting that motherfucker if I can get it together to do so on Monday.

And the upshot of it all was that she wasn’t going to put me on a mental health hold (damn fucking straight she wasn’t, I guarantee I could have taken down her and the hospital security guy outside my room – he had been swapped for the real cop in the night, I guess when I was deemed slightly less of a threat – and anyone else who tried to get in my way if they tried to hold me without my consent), and she could get me in to the mental health center Monday or Tuesday, with an appointment with an actual psychiatrist in two to three weeks (Psychobabble for a month to six weeks).  I pretty much told her fuck you, I’m better off handling this one on my own – in only marginally more polite terms.

So I was discharged with a prescription for Xanax and instructions to follow up with my PCP on Monday.  The doctor wouldn’t even discuss the possibility of an anti-psychotic, because they’re apparently “too strong and serious.”  Really?  Because last time I checked, both benzos and anti-psychotics are schedule IVs, with benzos carrying a much higher potential for and incidence of abuse, dependence, and addiction.  The translation here from Doctorspeak would be “I known nothing about atypical anti-psychotics, so I’m going to hand you some benzos.  Those I give out like candy on Halloween.”

I’m not going to say that I regret having gone to the hospital.  It will certainly make a splash with my primary when I tell him.  I have always been very anti-hospitalization (for myself, I know that it can be a good and necessary thing for many people) as far as psychiatric issues, never have I been to the emergency room for them, and in the five years I saw my former psychiatrist, I think I used his emergency doctor on call service maybe four times.  So if nothing else, my PCP might be able to get me in to see a competent psychiatrist very quickly.  He’s a jewel, he takes good care of all of his patients, but he pulls more strings more frequently for me than I think any other patient he sees.  I think I’m kind of like the daughter he never had (two sons a few years younger).  He’s a very good man, and I am very lucky to know a good thing when I see it (and follow it around from practice to practice to practice to practice over the course of more than a decade).

Moral of the story:  Should this situation ever arise again (God forbid), I’m going to drive twenty minutes instead of five to a hospital which has the capability to treat me.  Do your research when you’re sane, boys and girls.  It could really help you out a great deal when you are in dire straits and need good information most.

Note:  If you don’t read this blog regularly, you might gain further insight into this whole period in my life by reading the following posts:  It Was The Worst Of Times, It Was The Worst Of Times, Charting The Course To See Where I Fell Off The Map, I Am Disabled, and I Put The HOT In Hot Mess.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

In 5. . . 4. . . 3. . . 2. . .

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So two days ago (8 September 2011), I had my six month anniversary of when I began this blog with my first post, The ‘Miracle Max’ Moment.  It’s a little different from (but also much the same as) the type of posts I have come to write since.  It’s a bit of a process to get from throwing out a random thought and seeing what happens to it to letting anything and everything fly and not giving a rip who may be reading it and how they may respond.

For the record, I’m proud to have gotten here from there.  And thank you to everyone who reads what I write, and who has been brave enough to subscribe and be inundated with my ramblings on a near-daily basis.  A very special thank you to those who have stuck out my moods and my life, in non-blog interaction (of course), but also specifically among the bloggers I know, and those I ‘kind of’ know.

I am good at times, I comment and reply to comments and give quality feedback on posts on other blogs (I think, anyway).  And then there are the times – recently, for example – that I turn almost completely to myself and my world.  I may read, but I don’t comment.  I may not return emails or reply to comments on this blog for days.  I may struggle to do anything, both online and off.

But this blog has been my lifeline.  Lately, if nothing else I try to make myself post each day.  Sometimes I just fiddle around with the bright work (the behind-the-scenes stuff that usually no one can really pinpoint, but makes the experience better for everyone).  But this thing truly is my baby.

Thanks also to all of the bloggers who have decided to help in painting Canvas with their wonderful Minds.  ;P  Lulu, Always, ManicMuses, Novalee, and Manic Monday - you are all wonderful, and you occupy a special place in my life.  Being the site’s Admin (though not the only one behind the concept, ahem, Lulu) has given me a taste again of something I wasn’t sure if I was ready to handle, and it has done it in such a way as to not overwhelm me, or even really show its true face until I was well past the biggest hurdles (well, we’ll see about the hurdles part).

It has given me a responsibility and accountability to others.  It may not seem like much, and at the moment we’re in a place where there aren’t too many things I need to do in an Admin capacity (except for recruit more bloggers, we really want for you to join your voice to the chorus, everyone).  But there have been other times, with setup and implementing new ideas and contacting bloggers individually and all the various and sundries. . .

In any case, it’s different from writing this here blog in so many ways.  Not just in that I have a responsibility to other people (though I do), but also in that what I contribute there has to be more ‘focused and directed,’ and less ‘rambling whatever’ – the way I write here.  :D  So I am honing my craft as well.

I decided that six months of good, solid work here – I haven’t posted every day, but I averaged it out to 23 posts a month – deserved a reward.  If you are highly observant, you may have already noticed something a little different (and no, not the background color).  If you are a subscriber and are reading this in your inbox, I think you have to actually visit the page for this to work.  It’s alright, we don’t mind waiting for you. . .  Are you here now?  Good.

Now everyone look upward, all the way to the top of your screen, almost. . . look at the search bar. . . look at my address, my URL. . .  Notice anything?  Notice anything missing?

Yep.  I have my own domain, no more .wordpress.com, just .com!

It’s really much more symbolic than anything.  WordPress still hosts my blog, but I feel more now like it is in fact my blog.  It may seem like a baby step, a little tweak at most, and in a way it is.  But in another way it’s a huge leap from where I was.  I inched along in itty bitty bits, but I got so far.

I think the biggest factor involved is the symbolism.  Because doing this was a big, scary thing for me.  It was an acknowledgement that yes, I have done something worthwhile and kept up with it, and it was a sort of vow to myself that I will continue to do what I love and I will grow it and expand it in any way that I can.

Happy girl.  Actually. . .


(This song and video are solely the property of their respective owners and artists. Absolutely no copyright infringement is intended.)

And as it happens, I opened my curtains this morning for the first time in ages, I swear with no conscious motive other than to let in the light.  I thought in the moment it was pure practicality, but it makes me wonder now.

Moral of the story:  I am Ruby.  See me shine.

(And in case you’re confused or concerned, you can still enter in my old address with the .wordpress.com and it will re-direct you here.)

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Whatever You Do In Life, You’re Going To Regret It

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I spoke with someone yesterday at some length about my decision not to have children.  Actually, she spoke, I nodded and smiled (even though it was on the phone and she couldn’t see me) and tried very hard to change the subject.

People in my life, even my closest friends, most of them don’t seem to understand that just because I have made the decision not to have kids, that doesn’t mean it’s an easy topic to discuss.  As it happens, it’s one of the more difficult in my life.

I helped to raise the two most perfect baby girls you could ever imagine.  I was there every step of the way (literally as well as figuratively), from the magical to the hellish to the every day.  Every moment on the spectrum.  And I never held them at arm’s length because they were “someone else’s kids.”  They were, and are still, my kids.  Their triumphs are mine, I endure their trials alongside them, when they bleed I scar.

I don’t think anyone in the world who has made the decision not to have children knows quite so well as I do exactly the particulars and consequences of that choice.  I would love to have a child, and I would be an incredible mother.  But this is something I have thought about long and hard over a course of years, it’s a decision I make again most every day, and whether it’s an easy or a difficult conclusion for me to accept, it’s the right one.

There are so many things I could have been, could still be, and I would be wonderful at them.  A doctor, a mother, a linguist, a writer, a photographer, a teacher, an advocate.  But I don’t do things in my life half-way.  I won’t throw myself into a million different ventures, because you cannot devote yourself to any of them wholeheartedly when you do.

Were I to have a child, everything else would be dropped completely.  Having spent so much time raising other people’s children, I’ll be damned if I will miss out on any of the moments in my own baby’s life.  From bath time to play time to meal time to nap time to being thrown up on and wakened because a diaper needs changing or a nightmare has caused for my little one the need to climb into bed with me.

Eventually, when my child started school, I might be able to return to writing.  The only way that I know how to write, you see, is to give it my undivided attention.  No phone calls, no knocks on the door, no distractions at all.  That’s how I’m wired, the end.

And we’re talking strictly of the “me” aspect on this one, not even beginning to consider whom the child’s father might be and his role and understanding of the way I am wired.  I am not going to deliberately bring a child into this world without a man whom I love and trust to help me parent, and that ship sailed long ago.  I know that there are many out there who think I am just being cynical, but you know not the details of that particular aspect of my life.  And you never will.  The best way I can choose to be a good, responsible, loving, caring, nurturing parent to my child is not to conceive them.

Still, last night, after I got off the phone with this dear friend, I did something I haven’t done in some time.  I curled up on the floor in my bedroom and I cried some.  Was I crying for my baby?  Yes.  Was I crying for love?  Yes.  Was I crying for the doctor I will never be and the roads I will never walk?  Also yes.

It isn’t something which can properly be explained, but that doesn’t mean I won’t attempt it.

Every choice you make in your life, big or little, automatically eliminates endless other choices.  You choose today to get the mint chocolate chip ice cream?  Well that rules out the strawberry.  You choose to spend your money on a plane ticket?  The newest bestseller and that dress you fell in love with and the shoes that would be perfect with it?  You can’t have them now.  You choose to devote your life to one path?  You rule out almost every other.  You choose instead to include in your life many different pursuits?  You miss the smallest pieces, the finest mundane moments of each.

I (I was going to preface this statement with ‘I think,’ but I don’t think,  I know) have a capacity to feel and understand and grasp the ramifications and subtleties of those things in life that nearly no one can.  Most people just aren’t wired that way, some are but choose not to let it all in.  And it has absolutely nothing to do with my manic-depression or mental differences.  Except perhaps insofar as the combination of my innate ability for seeing what others don’t coupled with my bipolar makes certain moments and life experiences more visceral.

The title of this post is, ‘Whatever You Do In Life, You’re Going To Regret It.’  Most people won’t, because most people don’t see the smallest, most infinitesimal threads that make up the greater fabric of life.  And that’s for the best, it’s as it should be.

Moral of the story:  I know I will look back and regret the choices I didn’t make, and the lives I didn’t lead.  But that doesn’t mean that those choices would have been right for me, nor those lives ones I should have lived instead.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.