More history of treatment...
I was starting to get too skinny. So I went to the store and bought a gallon of ice cream, and ate some for breakfast. Then I would go to the gym and run six miles, working it all off, defeating the purpose. Damn that pointless ice cream eating!
I went on a home pass in the spring, and made the mistake of getting drunk off my ass on the way back. I mean, I didn’t black out or puke or anything, but I walked into the transition house and there was a process group going on (process groups are where you process house/interpersonal issues)! So fuck, I had to sit down. And they could smell it. They were sending me to stable, and so I said “by the time I’m sober I’ll be dead!” What a stupid thing to say. What I meant was, I wasn’t looking forward to the time when I was sober because at that current moment I was numb to what was going on, but when I was sober again I’d have to face reality. That was all I meant. But they had to take me to the hospital and run tests to make sure I hadn’t taken anything to kill myself, because they take these kind of comments very seriously. So they took me to the hospital (not the psych ward) and ran tests, then I spent the next two days at stable.
A week later, I was bored. Like, so bored I could kill someone. I had no money, I couldn’t afford cough syrup or even a simple alcoholic beverage. I wandered the house aimlessly, and in the laundry room I found some change - enough to buy an alcoholic beverage. And it wasn’t like I was stealing from anyone, because it was sitting in a public room, unclaimed.
I went to the nearest grocery store, bought one of those disgustingly sweet 12% alcohol beverages that come in a big can, drank it in the restroom. Then I wondered the streets, feeling happy, desperate for fun. I knew where a guy from aftercare lived, so I went to his apartment. He wasn’t there. I did something bad there, in that apartment complex. Something illegal, something that could be traced back to me and right now there might be a warrant for my arrest in Idaho. Seriously, I still worry about this.
It is because of this that I no longer drink. And I will no longer drink. Ever again. Because I like to think of myself as a person who has morals and what I did goes against my morals. And because I think people would respect me more if I didn’t drink. I think people who don’t drink are in general respected more than people who do, and that this would be especially true for me, due to the nature of the things I do when I drink.
The police showed up, and asked me something about me drinking. I said, “I haven’t been drinking.” He said, “You’re holding a beer can.” I looked down at the can. “Hmm. So I am.” I think what happened next was I gave him my name, and I was too drunk to think to give him a fake one, and he turned around to run my name and I bolted. I was wearing flip-flops, but I ran anyway. I kept turning around but he wasn’t following me. I slowed back down to a walk. There were three guys ahead of me, and they kept turning around and looking back at me. I was walking faster than they were, since I have a naturally quick stride, so everytime they looked back I was closer to them. Then I caught up with them and started talking to them, Then I started hanging out with them and went to their place. Stuff happened.
I left with one of the guys and smoked meth with him in his garage. Yes, METH! It really wasn’t that big of a deal. It’s the same thing as Adderall, it’s like taking Adderall after you haven’t taken it for awhile. Seriously, I’ve gotten just as high off of Adderall, and that was taking it under a doctor’s supervision at the prescribed dose. We stayed up all night, talked a lot, I fidgeted, it mainly made me bite my lower lip constantly. Biting your lower lip is a total tweak. I think some girls do it to be sexy. It might be sexy to guys who are into tweaker girls.
The next morning the guy dropped me off at Albertson’s because he had to do something and he was going to come back and then we were probably going to do some more drugs, but it was taking a long time and I got tired of waiting, so I called transition, let slip where I was, they picked me up and took me to stable. At some point I let slip that I tried meth, and that’s when they decided to move me from “transition” to “intensive transition.”
Intensive transition is a relatively new part of the program where the sort of strange, slightly “off” people go. I mean, that’s not the definition of it, but that’s the kind of people who go there. If you look at the cast of people who have resided in the lovely intensive transition house, it’s either been people who were off or guys who were aggressive. It’s for people who need “a little bit more attention.” The only person who’s lived here for the entire duration of the time I’ve lived here is Julia, a girl with Asperger’s. Most people find her really annoying but I am generally tolerant of annoying people, though we have had our ups and downs. In the past I’ve joked that if I had kids I would name them Klonopin and Zyprexa, two names of medications, because they are cool names. Julia told me she hoped that if I ever got pregnant I had a miscarriage or an abortion. I couldn’t stop laughing because that was such a mean thing to say.
But back to last summer. I became perpetually manic. I was trapped inside my own head, thinking about things over and over and laughing. I would rehash things, and when I rehash things it looks like I’m talking to myself. But I don’t hallucinate. This is the time that my parents will tell you I was so far gone it was a miracle I came back. This, I would like to say with emphasis, is a load of bull. My dad will tell you, “we tried several things and finally she came back when we switched her meds from Geodon to Invega.” No, actually, no. That was the first and only thing they tried, and it worked. It just took awhile because they made the switch very slowly. If you want to know how far gone I wasn’t, they didn’t even take me off Adderall or my antidepressant, because the doctor didn’t deem it necessary. That’s how far gone I wasn’t.
So I’ve been in intensive transiton ever since last summer. It pisses me off because other people make repeated mistakes and they don’t move them to intensive transition. Right now, I’m just here until I have 20 hours a week of volunteering or work or school, and then I’ll be moved to aftercare.
And I’m reminded of why I decided to write a history of my treatment to begin with. We have a new intensive transition/ aftercare coordinator named Lea. Let’s just say she is widely disliked. There’s another girl here named Caitlin who was in aftercare who moved into intensive transition after messing up. Lea told Caitlin that the other residents of intensive transition, including myself, look up to Caitlin because she has been to aftercare, and that Caitlin was setting a bad example by smoking. I don’t look up to Caitlin, I don’t look down on her either but she’s like four years younger than me. I don’t give a flying fuck that she’s been to aftercare, it doesn’t mean shit to me. I don’t think she’s better than me. I’m not trying to say anything mean about Caitlin because I like Caitlin. But I don’t think anyone’s better than me for getting through the program faster than me.
The point of me writing this is to say that I’ve had to deal with my share of problems, with the delusions, the suicidal attempts and thoughts, and all the med changes. I was probably just more fucked up to begin with. I didn’t feel a particularly strong drive to get out of the program. When I do feel a drive, it drives me crazy! Like this drive to get published.
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