A Suicidal Bipolar Speaks
A Suicidal Bipolar Speaks
By Cynthia Mounsey
I remember how the whole thing started. I had been working full time and raising two children while I was going to school full time to become a psychiatric technician. After about two months of 4 hours of sleep a night followed by an entire day of work and school, I decided to take a nap. All of a sudden a loud voice yelled at me, “Why don’t you just die!” Now, I know what you are thinking…that it was just a bad dream. The thing is, from that moment forward I could not get the idea out of my head.
Something you need to know about me is that I have always been bipolar. In my baby book my mother talks about what a dramatic child I was. Either very, very happy, or very, very sad. I remember being told, “Why can’t you be less happy!” My mom never got what being a bipolar child was like for me. I have always felt things very deeply. When I was happy, life was filled with more joy than words could describe. When I was sad, there was so much pain that I didn’t know how I would survive.
Back to the original question. Why don’t I just die? This thought was so profound that I sat up in my bed and could not go back to sleep. This thought followed me through the rest of the day. I got up and got ready for work thinking, why don’t I just die?
My job at the time was as a psychiatric technician assistant at a local community hospital. I worked in the children’s wing. The children in psychiatric distress were in my care. I made sure they ate their dinner, brushed their teeth, and settled in for bed. I was in the habit of sitting in the middle of the hallway and reading aloud as a kind of way of helping the children relax enough for sleep to come. I would listen to the sounds of their gentle breathing and know that I had done my job well.
I usually got off work at about 10:00pm. I lived in the mountains at the time, and it took thirty minutes to make it from work to my home. Sometimes the weather was so bad that I would have to stop at a local church at the base of the mountain until the weather cleared enough for me to drive the rest of the way home. I would try to grab a couple hours of sleep in the back seat of the car. Not much sleep happened on those nights because I knew that my children were at the top of the mountain, waiting for me to come home. In the winter, the snow would come down so hard that I had to open the door of the car to see the line on the road to keep to my side of the street. Towards the end there, I was so tired that I began hallucinating that there were people running across the street in front of me as I made my way up the mountain.
When I got home from work, I was able to get another hour or two of sleep before I had to get my children ready for school. Luckily for me, they were good kids that got up rather easily. (My son needed a few extra minutes to collect himself). Once they were safely on their way to school, it was time for me to take a shower, get dressed, and go to the local gym. I was in the habit of working out for a couple of hours before starting my shift at the hospital. I tried to work at least two double shifts per week in order to bring in more money. Working doubles was something that happened on o regular basis. 16 hours of hanging out with the young, hurting children took all that I had.
Three days a week I went to class at the local college. I wanted to learn everything that I could to become a good psychiatric technician. Every day I became sure that becoming a psychiatric technician was exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I took 3X5 cards with my vocabulary words to work with me. When I had free time at work, I would flashcard myself. When I was at home, my children would help me by working the flashcards with me. It was a way of spending time with them. They took great pleasure when I did not know the answer right away because it meant that they would get to read the answer to me. This kind of studying was a lot of fun. But it took a toll on me. It meant that I did not take much time to relax or sleep.
Why don’t I just die? I just couldn’t get the thought out of my head. I went to the gym and did my workout with that voice screaming at me, “Why don’t you just die!” That night I was scheduled for another double which would get me off work around 10:00pm again. At the end of my shift, I went to the parking lot knowing full well that if I got into my car, I would drive myself off a cliff on purpose. I started to cry. Who would take care of my kids?
One of my coworkers saw me leaning against my car crying uncontrollably and asked me what was wrong. I told her about me wanting to drive off a cliff. She put her arm across my shoulder and gently walked me back to the hospital. She explained to the admitting doctor and the supervising nurse about how she found me in the parking lot. Because they were coworkers of mine, they were unsure of what to do with me. I was clearly in need of help. It was decided that I would get sent to a neighboring hospital for observation. That was my first ride in an ambulance.
At this point I should probably say that my children were teenagers. So leaving them home alone was not as bad as it sounds. Still, I worried about how they would take care of themselves while I was in the hospital.
I ended up being put on a 72 hour hold. For three days I was monitored. I was put on mood stabilizing drugs and was sent home with a counselling appointment. This is when I discovered that I am allergic to lithium. I was home with my kids when I noticed that I was having difficulty breathing. I looked in the mirror and saw that I was turning red. My ears had swollen up to the size of sausages. The pastor of my church had befriended us on a more personal level some time back, so I called him for help. He took one look at me and shoved me in his car. He drove me to the hospital where it took about three minutes before a doctor was by my side giving me a shot of Benadryl to help me fight the massive allergic reaction that I was having. It still amazes me that it only took three minutes before I was seen and help was given. I’m still impressed.
This was the beginning of my cycle of going to hospitals, staying for a few day, trying new medications, and going back to work as if nothing had happened. Somehow I managed to graduate from my psychiatric technician program with honors. Then I began working in earnest. Working 60 to 80 hours a week was something I felt would lead to the path of a better lifestyle for my family. On the weekend that I wasn’t working, I would take my children out and we would spend the money that was suddenly such a large part of our lives. Looking back, it seems that the only time I was able to get any sleep was when I was hospitalized.
I was so tired. I was given a prescription for sleeping pills to help me get more sleep. I decided to take several. I don’t know who called the paramedics that day, but I do vaguely remember waking up in a room full of firemen trying to figure out how to get me down the stairs to the ambulance. I also remember my neighbor telling me not to worry about my children. She said that she would make sure that they were ok. I remember taking one look down that hill of stairs and thinking that the firemen were trying to push me down them. I fought.
The next thing I remember is waking up strapped to a bed. Apparently I fought hard. The nurse on duty told me that if I promised not to struggle anymore, that she would take off the straps. I assured her that I was calm and would not be a problem. I thought that this was just another of my many trips to the hospital and that I would be there for the usual three days of observation. This was not to be. I spent the next thirty days in the hospital learning how to bead necklaces and smoking a lot of cigarettes.
I spent many nights unable to sleep. I lost a lot of weight because I could not eat. I called home to check on my children every chance I got. Other than that, I did not speak. My doctor told me that it was time I called the rest of my family. I called my father in New Jersey who called my sister in Fresno who called my mom in Sacramento. After much back and forth, it was decided that I would go to Sacramento with my mother. My children were to go to my sister in Fresno. My small dog would come with me and all of my other pets went to neighbors. I was very depressed.
My mother, with the help of my aunt and uncle, “packed” my house up. One of my sisters went to my children’s school and picked them up. Her first task was to convince them that she was in fact related. The next chore was to get my kids home to pack up their belongings. Next was the 6 hour trip to my other sister’s house in Fresno. My mother picked me up at the hospital and took me home to pack some things. My house looked like a tornado hit it. I grabbed what I could fit into my car. My mother said I could drive to Sacramento from my home in San Bernardino if I felt up to it. It usually takes 8 hours to make the trip. I did it in 6.
When I got to my mother’s house, I parked the car in the back of the driveway. My stepfather parked his car in front of mine. I was going nowhere. I laid down, curled up in a ball, and shut my eyes. I was on suicide watch. This means that my mother had control of my pills. Every morning she would leave my daily pills on a plate on the counter. At night there would be my evening pills on a plate. I took my pills. I called my children on the phone daily to check on them. This was a very dark time in my life. I spent the next two weeks curled up in a ball under a blanket. When I was awake, I carefully sorted beads just like at the hospital. I was in a major depression.
After about two weeks of this, my mom decided I could drive my car. I saw that there was a job fair. I went and put in several applications. One of the jobs was at a prison. I thought it sounded like a good place to work. Luckily for me, they thought I was an ideal candidate. 30 days later, I was an employed person again. I was back on track.
The pressure was on. I had to get my children back and make a home for us to live in. I had to keep working as if nothing was wrong. I had played this game before. I had been doing it for the last 6 months. Tell everyone that you are fine. Don’t let anyone see you cry. Be strong. Pull myself up by the bootstraps.
My mother would tell me how inconvenient it was for my sister to have two teenagers living in her home. It was necessary for me to work as many overtime hours as possible to save enough money to get us back together. On my days off, I would drive from Sacramento to Fresno to visit my children. Finally it was decided that they would come to Sacramento and live with me, my mother and stepfather. This was a huge mistake.
I would come home from work and be greeted at the door with horror stories of how everyone was not getting along. My son took to hiding out in the bedroom we all shared and not coming out. My daughter stopped talking. I needed to find us a home. Fast. I looked for apartments in Sacramento that would be big enough for growing teenagers and myself. I found the perfect place. 1000 square feet and available immediately. We moved in at once.
Serendipitously, I inherited a large amount of money from my grandfather’s estate at about this time. We bought enough furniture to fill a two bedroom apartment. Now was the time for some fun. I took three days off of work and took my children to Disneyland. Unfortunately, that small steady voice kept hounding me. Even the happiest place on Earth could not shake me from the feeling that I should die.
I spent the next several months convinced that things would get better. I had been given the number of a hotline designed to help people in crisis. I had good insurance that afforded me the ability to see a counsellor on a regular basis. My children were settling into our new lives.
During that time I fell in love with a nice man. We decided to move into a large house. I had a lockbox for my medication and gave him the key. This helped with the occasional overdose problem that still happened. I do recall one hospital stay when, during visiting hours, we made out like two teenagers in the bathroom. To this day, that is the strangest place I have ever made out. Well, after about 9 months of me getting committed every once in a while, it was finally too much for him. The relationship fell apart. It was just too much for anyone to handle. We parted amicably. He helped me to move back to the apartment. The difference was that my son had moved back to Southern California when he turned 18. It was just my daughter and myself.
We got into the routine of work and school interrupted by the occasional hospital stay. I still insisted that everything was fine. I would come home from work and get drunk. Then I would overdose and go to the hospital. I would go to bed at night and wake up strapped to a gurney in the ER. Most of the time I was able to talk my way out of a hospital stay.
My mother was a real trooper. She would get out of bed at all hours of the night and get me out of the hospital. She says that caregivers should always have a full tank of gas in the car and a cell phone by the bed in case they are needed.
My daughter tells stories about all of the strange places she would find me whenever I took sleeping pills. One particular story involves our apartment manager holding me by the ear and bringing me home at 2am. Apparently I had been wandering around the complex trying to get into the pool.
There was an interesting phenomenon going on at this time. My boss would call and check on me every couple of months. She would decide that I was fine and allowed me to continue working. As long as I showed up on time, and called in on the days I was hospitalized, I was allowed to keep my job. I often wonder what would have happened if she had looked closer.
For the next five and a half years I followed this pattern. I learned to keep groceries in the house so my daughter would always have food in case I got committed again. At one point, I gave her access to my bank account. Just in case.
One day I called my mother. I told her I was feeling very depressed. She suggested that I take a day trip to San Francisco. When I got there, I was to find a nice seafood restaurant on the wharf and order some clam chowder. Next, I was to go for a walk on the Golden Gate Bridge. Only half way so that I would not be too tired to return back home. I was too depressed to get off the couch. A hotline did a follow up call that day and asked me what my plans were. I told them about my day trip plans. 20 minutes later, there was a knock at my door. It was the police. I was taken to the hospital where I did three days of observation. Thanks Mom.
One day my mother decided to take me to breakfast. I drove to the restaurant in my new car. She was so worried about how I looked that she insisted I follow her to her house for a break. I got into my car and headed to my mom’s. Halfway there, I dropped a cigarette in my lap. While trying to get it, I swerved into oncoming traffic and hit the car in the opposite lane. I was taken to the hospital where they super-glued the wound on my chin. My mom was the emergency contact on record, so the hospital called her to come and get me. My stepfather tried to convince her that she was too upset to drive. She convinced him that she would be fine. She won the argument. While she was on her way to pick me up, my stepfather died. He was an extremely brittle diabetic and it just caught up with him. I still feel that if they had not argued about me, he would not have died.
The funeral was set for three days later. I was so out of control that I missed it. I had spent those days drinking and popping pills like candy. I was so out of it that I forgot about his death until a month later. My family and friends were very concerned about me, but somehow I managed to go to work every day and do my job. I have no idea how.
There is this thing called Gap insurance. My car was completely paid off as a total loss. There was even enough money left over for me to buy another car. So I bought a red convertible Mustang. I spent the weekends driving around California with my daughter. We went everywhere in that car. We would get up in the morning and decide to take a road trip. I really liked that car. Driving down the road with the top down and the music loud. It had a soothing effect on me. I felt like I was flying.
During this time, my daughter developed an illness that caused her to pass out and come to with a major migraine. When she came to, she would have memory loss as well. Since she was still a minor, I was called at work often to come and get her from the hospital. We spent 2 ½ years searching for a diagnosis. Many tests and hospital stays later, we discovered that my daughter’s brain had grown outside of her skull into her spinal column. Any time her blood pressure went up…she passed out. I lost a lot of sleep over this.
I began going to work several hours early just to escape the pressure of being at home. I would make a pot of coffee and put music on my computer. My co-workers smelled the coffee brewing and stopped at my desk first. I was able to find out everything that was going on without leaving my desk. But this had the consequence of me being very tired.
It was about this time that several very interesting things happened. First, I received a letter from work stating that if I ever stopped working for them I would receive a large sum of money because I was vested. Next, my daughter decided to marry her boyfriend and move to New York State. Which brings us to the third interesting thing. One of my bosses came up to me and said that because my daughter no longer lived with me that it was expected of me to work Thanksgiving. At the beginning of the year I had arranged to have that day off. A few days later, another one of my bosses came up to me and told me that I would be working Christmas day. This was also one of my scheduled days off. A few days after that a third boss told me I would be working New Year’s Eve and if I didn’t like it I could quit. I told her that I’d get back to her about that. I went back to my desk and thought for a few minutes. I went up to my third boss and quit my job.
A giant weight was immediately lifted off my shoulders. After 5 ½ years of working at the prison, I felt that the pressure to look normal was gone. It was the beginning of a very long manic episode. I packed everything I owned and called my son. He helped me find a place to live in Southern California on Craig’s list. I cashed out my retirement and received a large check. I purchased a laptop computer to job hunt on. I was ready to go.
My son loaded the U-Haul and we were off. I drove my car and he drove the U-Haul. We communicated by walkie talkies. It was an exciting adventure. I like to believe we had a good time together.
When we got to San Bernardino, we went to check out the room that I was going to rent. It seemed ideal for my purposes. The landlord even liked my dog. Our next stop was the storage facility. My son’s friends unloaded the U-Haul. My new life had begun.
I was on top of the world. I had money, a place to stay, a really cool car, and my dog. I started looking for work immediately. Every day I would spend a few hours working on the computer putting in resumes. After about two months, I found a lead on a job working for the Veteran’s Administration. I would be helping soldiers deal with PTSD. It was very exciting. I also found a job working at a recovery home. I figured that the recovery job would tide me over until the Veterans Administration job kicked in.
The temporary job at the recovery home was fun. I would get a call at about 4am on the days that they needed me. I worked 12 hour shifts. All of my meals were included. Because I had no children, the hours were perfect.
When I wasn’t working, I was drunk. My new landlord and I got along famously. I loved buying a variety of alcohols and he loved drinking them with me. Life was one big party. I was on a major manic. Everything was louder and faster. Money poured out of my hands like water. Eventually, the well ran dry. But I had money coming in from my per diem job…so I was okay.
One day I came out of the house and found that my tires had been slashed. It was time to move. I called one of my very good friends and ended up sleeping on her couch. This started a long period of couch surfing. At this particular house, religion was very important. Being a Pagan, this presented a bit of a problem. My manic mouth got the better of me and I made a comment that was offensive. He husband kicked me out that day.
Next was my son’s girlfriend’s mother’s couch. The mother was fighting for her life with Lou Gehrig’s disease. In exchange for room and board, I watched over the mother for the night shift. I got no sleep at all. I called another one of my friends. I needed some sleep.
My friend had a trailer in her back yard and a rather large liquor cabinet. I wasted no time. I crawled into a bottle and stayed there for a month. During that time, my daughter came back to me. She was divorcing her husband and came to stay in the trailer with me. She made herself useful. She babysat my friend’s children over summer vacation. She then crawled into the nearest bottle at night and joined me in my wallowing. At the end of a month, my friend had enough. We were asked to leave.
This is when the panic started again. My daughter and I moved back into the house where my tires were slashed. It was crunch time. My daughter needed a safe place to stay and this wasn’t it. I put in for a job at a local hospital. During the interview, the doctor in charge excused me and went to a phone in the hall. I heard him say many times, “But she is bipolar.” I did not get the job. This is where I actively started trying to kill myself.
Chapter 2
I believed that I would never find another job again. I felt like a complete failure to my friends and family. I believed that if I died, they could get on with their lives. My shame and embarrassment for my behavior was unbearable.
I took a bottle of pills and drove to my favorite peaceful spot in the mountains. I brought my cell phone with me. I felt that suicide notes were not for me. I was going to call people and let them know how I felt and why I was doing what I was doing. I had no idea that calls on cell phones could be traced to their location. My last call was to my counselor. She kept me on the line until the trace was complete. Imagine my surprise when I realized that the helicopter circling above was looking for me. The paramedics put me in the ambulance. I was taken to the hospital for another three days of observation. I had played this game before.
When I got out, I received an e-mail from a psychiatric hospital in Coalinga offering me a job. I had three days to get my paperwork in order and present myself at the gate to start work. I packed up my daughter, my dog, and our possessions and headed to central California. I started my registry job in August. We stayed at a local hotel that accepted pets.
It felt as if I was seeing some light at the end of the tunnel. With my first full check I arranged for the rental of a nice house. My daughter and I drank several bottles of Absinthe in celebration. Of our good fortune. But the nagging thought had returned.
I was not allowed to have dogs in our new place, so a friend in Sacramento agreed to take my dog. Around Thanksgiving, my dog died. My friend called while I was at work to let me know. I arranged for my mother to bring the ashes to me when she came to visit. I was beside myself with grief. But I continued on.
I was given the opportunity to work full time for the State again. I was trained, oriented, and chosen to work in one of the units. After about one month, I told one of my coworkers about how suicidal I was and that I was bipolar. The next day I found myself sitting in front of a staff psychiatrist in the administration building. He decided that I was too sick to continue. I was sent to a local hospital by ambulance. I talked my way out of a committal.
By this time, I was done. I could not understand that with treatment I would be able to go back to work. I believed my days of being an employed person were at an end. I decided to try suicide again. I made a chocolate pudding with maraschino cherries and rat poison I put on a brand new outfit and sent my daughter to Starbucks. I took my dog’s ashes, sat down in my car, and ate the pudding. I waited to die.
My daughter called a friend who called the police. I woke up three days later in the hospital. They kept me for two weeks. During that time, my daughter moved back to Sacramento with my mother. My mother called me when I got out of the hospital and convinced me to move back to her home in Sacramento. I packed everything I owned and drove straight to Palm Springs to hang out with my friend.
He took me in without a word and tried to help. I spent a few days there enjoying his hospitality. But the nagging voice continued. Only now it was screaming, “Kill Yourself!” At one point, my friend took me to the hospital where I convinced the doctors that I was fine and left in my hospital gown. I didn’t even take the time to dress. I told my friend that I had to go up to Sacramento to be with my mother and my daughter. He insisted that I stop along the way in a hotel to rest. His treat. I made it back to Sacramento.
The feeling that I should be dead was overwhelming. I continued overdosing and drinking and finding myself in the hospital. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided that the rat poison was still the way to go. So I checked into a local motel with a box of rat poison and a chocolate pie. Oh yes, and a six pack of beer. I drank the beer. I mixed the poison into the pie. I ate the pie and called my mom to say that my car needed to be picked up in a little while. I woke up in the hospital once again. But this time it was different, I was in a regular hospital. Apparently I had done some damage to my heart.
While I was in the hospital, my mom was told that she could either sign me up for ECT treatments or pick me up at the morgue because without help, I was going to surely die. She signed the papers. When my heart was stabilized, I was transferred to the psych hospital. Two days later I was on a gurney receiving my first ECT treatment.
I can honestly say that I do not remember much of my stay at that particular hospital. One of the side effects of ECT is memory loss. And they are not kidding. Standard protocol for shock therapy is one treatment every other day for a week, then 3 days later, then one a week later, until you end up with treatments once a month. I went home to my mother’s place a week or two later…I think.
The ECT went on for a year and a half. My veins got so bad from the constant administration of drugs designed to make me unconscious and drugs to paralyze my body, that a port-o-cath was installed in my chest. My last treatment was when the anesthesiologist put the drugs directly into my chest because she missed the port-o-cath. I hallucinated that I was an alien about to be dissected by them. I panicked. The nurse held my hand until the doctor found a vein and knocked me out. Instead of the usual 30 minutes it takes to wake up, I was unconscious for 5 hours. When I got home, I slept for an additional 2 days. That was the worst experience of my life.
I lost a year and a half to those treatments. It took another nine months to get to where I could think clearly. Somewhere during that time, I started Social Security Disability. It was the consensus of my family and doctors that I was never going to work again. My mother helped me work out a schedule to pay off all of my debits. She then helped me find a low income apartment. I bought a little pink scooter. My car was repossessed.
The depression came back. I found myself attempting suicide again and again. The paramedics knew my address. My neighbors gathered around my apartment every time the heard sirens. They knew that the show would begin soon.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to try rat poison once more time. I took my phone apart. I put on my favorite pajamas. I made my bed with my favorite quilt. I cooked up some pudding with rat poison. I ate the whole thing. I laid down on my bet to die. Apparently, I didn’t go to sleep right away. I am told that two days later my mother came to check on me. She had a nagging feeling that something was wrong. She couldn’t get me on the phone. When she got to my apartment she found it full of smoke. I had been trying to make frozen burritos on the stove. I was acting strangely. She decided that I was drunk. So she left. The next day I called my friend to tell her that I had tried suicide again, but that it hadn’t worked. I told her that I had just taken an entire bottle of Benadryl to finish the job. She called the paramedics. I remember none of this. All I know is that I woke up in the hospital five days later.
While I was in the hospital, one of the nurses came in with a cold. I caught it. After five days of involuntary commitment, they let me go. No one could come to get me, so I took a taxi. When I got home, I found an enormous mess. I had no recollection of how it happened. I laid down on the sofa to sleep. When I woke up, I had the worst cold I have ever experienced in my life. I had bits and pieces of cold remedies and a few tea bags. I called everyone begging for someone to come help me. No one came. I wrapped myself around my teapot and battled my cold.
After a couple of weeks, I was strong enough to try again. This time I used a knife. One of my neighbors called the paramedics. I resisted. At the hospital I tried to take the I.V. out with my teeth because they had me strapped to the gurney. They sedated me. When I came to, I was released. I walked home.
I got hold of a warm line dedicated to listening to suicidal people. This was different than a hotline. Hotlines are dedicated to assisting and sending help in the form of the authorities. With a warm line, they listen. I was given the number of a counselor who specialized in suicidal people. She saved my life.
Chapter 3
My counsellor paid attention to how I felt. She listened without judgment to what I had to say. She helped me get past the trauma of so many attempts. She connected me with a psychiatrist who took a special interest in my case. My counsellor accepted emergency calls and took time to talk to me on the phone during the week.
My new psychiatrist put me on a medication regimen that finally calmed my bipolar mind down. Meds removed the voices and hallucinations. They even helped with the depression. For the first month, the doctor had me come in every day for a vitamin B shot every day just to make sure I was still alive. They were painful, but in the long run, I was being monitored. This was something I desperately needed.
So, what are the ingredients of a successful re-emergence into the light of day from the darkness that was my life? I would say that a counsellor that believes in you, and a psychiatrist that sees you as a person. I think a strong network of friends and family help. They keep fighting for you when you can’t.
One of my biggest challenges was undoing the damage that the ECT had done. In the beginning, just talking in complete sentences was difficult. Reading books out loud helped me to practice. I would spend hours reading aloud just as I had done when my children were little. The subject matter was different. Instead of Peter Rabbit and Winnie the Pooh, I was reading aloud books on how to rise above anxiety and depression. I would read everything I could get my hands on. I particularly enjoyed a series I had discovered on an infomercial I saw on one of my sleepless nights.
Another problem was with manual dexterity. My counsellor suggested that I take up crochet again. At first, remembering how to move my hands while counting stitches was quite daunting. Fortunately, queen sized blankets give plenty of opportunity to practice. Every time I went to the doctor’s office I would take out my crocheting and spend the time before the appointment working on a blanket. I made a lot of blankets that year.
Next, I decided to do something a little more complex. I picked up my guitar and started to teach myself how to play. Moving fingers correctly while reading sheet music was not easy. I am still working on that. The feeling of accomplishment after playing a little tune correctly gave me a tickle. I was getting better. I find making music to be very soothing. I recommend it.
I started using my left hand to open doors and use keys. Every day I looked for new ways to increase my semi ambidexterity. It was a lot of fun. To this day, I cook, clean, and otherwise use both hands to the point that people have asked if I am left or right handed. Makes me laugh.
Probably one of the most interesting things about that time was my mode of transportation. It was a pink scooter. I would be seen all over town riding along in my leather jacket, with a helmet that had pink flames on it. Because it didn’t go very fast, I had a lot of time to think.
Another extremely important part of my recovery is following a routine schedule. Now, don’t get me wrong, spontaneity has its place in life. But for the day to day stuff, a good schedule is an imperative. I find that a routine helps me keep stable.
You want to know what had a great impact on me. It was a casual statement made by one of the counsellors. I was waiting for my appointment with my counsellor and the boss came into the lobby for something. I told her that I was starting to feel better and was not as suicidal. She said, “You know, the human body is a hard thing to kill. It wants to stay alive even when you don’t.” I got a major revelation. If I couldn’t kill my body, then I was going to be stuck in it for a long time. Well then, I might as well try to find ways to enjoy the confinement of inhabiting my skin.
I was about to turn 50 and my mother asked me what I wanted to do with that day if I could do anything I wanted. My answer was immediate. Disneyland! My mother took me down to my aunt’s house in Long Beach. My aunt had season passes to the theme park and was delighted to help make my dream come true. We had a blast! I wore a huge pin that said “Happy Birthday”. My uncle bought me a giant lollypop. I rode everything. I romped and bounced around like a child. It was exactly what I needed.
One of my very good friends decided that I needed to see a concert. She chose Kid Rock, Uncle Cracker, and ZZ Top. We started with Jello shots in the parking lot. It kinda went south from there. Every time my beer cup got low, she bought me another one. I got sooo drunk. The music was awesome! It was the best night! We danced and sang. We bounced around like teenagers. I hadn’t had that much adult fun in decades. Many thanks.
I will end with a funny story. One day I overfilled my scooter with gas and it spilled all over. I was in the habit of keeping my scooter in the front room of my apartment. The smell of gas was overwhelming. I opened all of the windows. One of my friends came by to visit. She smelled the gas and thought I was trying to kill myself again. I explained about spilling the gas. She left. The next day she came back in the morning to check on me. I was at work. I did not answer the door. She panicked and called the fire department. As the firemen were trying to figure out the best way to get past the bars on my door and windows, my neighbor came running up yelling, “Don’t do it! Cindy is at work!” Luckily for me, they believed her and they went back to their fire station. This is the last time a fire truck came to “rescue” me.
Yesterday I bought a bumper sticker that says, “Life is good”. Isn’t that the truth.
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