TheBanyanTree: The Schizo Diaries, 090704

[Monique]

I haven't been saying much lately, have I? It's not that there's nothing to
say, it's not as if the entire mental illness situation has gone away, it's
not as if I don't want to say anything . . . I think we've just been so busy
living our lives that we've neglected to keep up with bemoaning the sad
state of affairs around here. Maybe that's because we're refusing to wallow
in the sad state of affairs.

Yesterday morning Stew called me. Said he didn't want to worry me. Of course
he doesn't want to worry me. He never wants to worry me. But I make him talk
to me anyway. Said he was suicidal. He's so tired of being so tired and he
doesn't feel like he can do anything. I told him I'd be right over and we
could go to the ER. It seemed like that might be necessary, though
admittedly there's nothing much they can do there except make sure he's
safe, which I can usually handle myself, but there comes a time when I'm not
sure what to do, and at those times I resort to the ER. It's been a long
time since he's visited the ER.

On my way out Colver told me to take over some pancakes -- he'd made us some
for breakfast, and there were some left. So I took a plate of pancakes and
drove over to Stew's. I wasn't overly alarmed -- his moods can change so
quickly, and overreacting too quickly doesn't help anyone. 

As I was looking for a parking spot, he called. Said not to bother, he was
okay. See what I mean? I hadn't even gotten there yet, and already he was
telling me not to bother. "But I'm looking for a parking space right now and
I have PANCAKES," I told him, "So I'll be right in." As if I'm going to just
turn around and go home after that. Right. 

I took the pancakes in and dog became overwhelmed at the thought of all
those delicious pancakes just for HER. Of course. I tell her she can have
just a piece of one and the rest are for Stew. She looks at me in disgust,
as she usually does when she doesn't get everything she insists she's
entitled to. Stew told me he'd talked to his therapist and since he didn't
have an actual plan in mind, there was really no point in going to the ER --
they'd just talk to him, after all, and his therapist could do that himself.

Or me, for that matter . . . I'm cheaper and I make house calls. 

I heated the pancakes, put butter and syrup on them, and gave them to Stew.
And we talked. More precisely, I talked first. Not about him and his
suicidal ideation, but about me. I'm quite self-centered. My entire life
revolves around me, and I want everyone to know about it. It's one of my
character flaws. (Hah! And you thought I didn't have any!)

Then I let him talk for a bit. It's good to share, I think. It doesn't have
to always be about me after all. 

And you know what? Despite the way he feels and the way his emotions run
rampant and the way he sometimes feels so out of control, he's been doing
well. He's sick of being sick, both physically and mentally. He's physically
sick from being mentally sick, and he's tired from taking the meds, and from
the almost constant stomach disturbances he's been experiencing, and he's
tired of being sleepy all the time, and he's tired of his eyesight getting
worse. Who wouldn't be? I'd be pretty tired of all of it too. We talked
about how, even though he feels like he's doing nothing, he really is. He
did much spreadsheet work for me in the past week, he has sales on ebay, he
takes care of dog, he IS doing things. And sometimes I get so tired I just
have to sleep, and that's just from me being me, and I always feel like I
don't do enough, so I understand how frustrating it can be. 

But it's not enough to kill oneself over. I'm sorry, Stew, but it's just NOT
ENOUGH. Especially with the progress you've made. It's not enough. And I
think he knows that. He better. I tell him enough. 

We talked. He felt better. And then I left so I could go see a client. He's
doing okay, with demons or without. Sometimes I see the demons as impotent
little red monsters, trying to make some sort of progress with this guy,
trying to make inroads into his psyche where they can cause more damage, but
he just fights them off, and he goes on his way, and the demons are mad
because they can't get far enough in. 

This week he also felt rejected by an agency that deals with people with
schizophrenia -- as we look for resources to help with this, we come across
roadblocks. He's not on Medicaid yet, he's still on private disability, no
social security, and that was one of the requirements for this particular
program. I've emailed the agency myself -- we're just looking for RESOURCES,
for crying out loud, for any information, we're not asking for the full
treatment or any treatment at all. Two days later, no one has responded to
my email. 

No doubt they're understaffed, but could someone please just let me know if
you can help us find resources or not? I feel rejected by them too. 

This evening he went to an ebay group. Drove himself to Seattle safely,
though when I talked to him as he was driving down there he was sick again,
retching violently, an all too common problem lately. But he went. And he
stuck it out. And when it was over, he left and got himself home. Though it
was getting dark and there was a slight problem finding the freeway and he
started to lose it, he managed to keep himself together enough to get
through it and get home. He did well. He learned more things. He did it on
his own. He's capable of so much, even with this thing, he's still able to
do so much. Perhaps he has to take things a bit slower sometimes, and
perhaps he needs to stop expecting so much of himself. 

Perhaps we all do. At least everyone else does -- I should be expecting more
of myself. That's what I think.

At the end of the day, everyone is doing okay. 


Monique