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As a friend of mine pointed out, there was a weird thing happening in cyberspace this week: People were rationing grief. Portioning it up like that really can be done, like any of us could put a cap on sadness, anger, denial, fear.
Recently I was invited to write on my personal blog about weight stigma and what does it mean to me as part of fellow blogger and ED activist Voice in Recovery's Weight Stigma Blog Carnival. (ViR is HealthyPlace blogger Kendra Sebelius, author of Debunking Addiction.) I wanted to continue the conversation about weight stigma on Surviving ED.
I was very nervous about writing "Weight(ing) For Change: Why Weight Stigma Impacts Us All." Why? Because it forced me to face my own prejudices and fears towards people who are overweight or obese, and about weight in general.
I'm a few days late with this post, but with good reason: we've been trying to orchestrate Ben's hospital discharge plans. Yes - after this six-week relapse, he is finally back with us (as of yesterday), in so many ways.
If you've been following this schizophrenia relapse, you know that this had been Ben's first relapse in over six years, and that it was precipitated by a too-quick-and-unguided move from a group home to independent living. Once he went off his meds this time, there was the danger he might not agree to take them again - and that, if he did, they might not work again.
Yet, here we are. I could cry from relief and happiness. For today, we have Ben back.
During the time I was trying to save my marriage, I made quite a few mistakes. One of them was naming the type of verbal abuse he used as he said the words.
After educating myself with many books (mostly by Patricia Evans), I made a list of the abusive techniques he has at his disposal. I learned them (hint: great idea) and posted them on the fridge (hint: terrible idea). Then, when he'd pull one of those tricks out of his hat, I named it, told him that I would talk to him when he was NOT trying to control me, and then turn on my dainty heels to leave the room.
I dropped Bob off this morning to spend the next week with his father. On the way, we hit the pharmacy to pick up his medication refills. I handed him one of his pills, as we'd been out when he took his morning doses. "It's chewable," I said, "so you can take it without water."
When we reached his father's house, I got out of the car, gave him a long hug goodbye, and got back in the car. As he and his father drove away, I noticed, in the passenger seat, the pill I'd handed him twenty minutes earlier.
Amanda_HP
Sharing your mental health with the world can backfire sometimes. There are stories across the Internet where people have lost jobs, severed relationships, and been severely criticized because they admitted to having a mental illness like depression, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder or you name it. Of course, that's why most people use a false identity when posting on the web, so others won't know it's them.
In January the FDA had a meeting about whether electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) machines should be moved from the most dangerous category of medical devices (Class 3) to the less dangerous Class 2.
And the freak outs began.
I saw people screaming about how wrong it was and writing petitions and wanting to go to the FDA meeting to voice their opinion. I mostly ignored this issue because, well, I didn't care. I have so many important issues on my plate there just wasn't room for one more.
That is until I can across an article in Psychiatric Times by Charles H. Kellner, MD. Kellner explains why the move from Class 3 to Class 2 is important and its possible effect on patients.
What if you didn't have access to ECT anymore?
Monday, I took Bob to the water park with my sister and her daughter, who is Bob's age. The kids get along well, and my sister and I saw this as our opportunity to beach ourselves at the wave pool while they did their "kid" thing.
Later, I recounted our day to my husband. "You let them go off by themselves?" he asked, incredulous.
Hi. Thanks for joining us as we expose the biggest myths in mental illness. Today's myth: a bad childhood causes mental illness.
Recently I became very depressed for no apparent reason. My therapist and I decided I needed to be evaluated, and that's when the nightmare started.
I live in a cluster apartment, so staff called hospital security to take me to the Crisis Intervention Unit (CIU). Hospital security said no officers were available, so staff called the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. The police called for a medic, but both the medic and the police refused to transport me, saying that transporting me was hospital security's job. They made me sign a form refusing transportation, and said that all the psychiatric beds in Indy were taken.
I was taken to the emergency room, evaluated, diagnosed with suicidal ideation, and sent home because there were no beds available.
Where do we go from here? Most of the family thinks just to let her hit bottom and then if she reaches out to help any we can. Some want to just keep paying her bills and just let her sit in the house with no responsibilities. Never been on medication and impossible to get to her when she refuses to talk to ANYONE.
Help.
On the day we agreed to videochat to make things less awkward IRL she woke up with a migraine so we rescheduled to the day after, I made sure to assure her that it was okay and to take her time. Later that day, in the late evening we had a nice chat but suddenly she stopped replying, even though nothing had happened. The day after I texted her good morning and said I hope she was feeling a little better. she wouldn't open my texts.
A couple days after I sent her a longer text saying that even though I had only known her for a short time I care a lot for her and would like to know how she are doing, telling her I'm there for her, assuring her I'm not going anywhere even though things might not be very easy. She wouldn't open it.
A week later I sent a text saying not to feel bad about not answering and that I will be there when she is able to answer again. It's been two weeks since this and she still hasn't opened my texts. She hasn't been active at all.
I don't know what else I can do. I assumed she might have fallen into a depression. I have tried to just not think about it anymore, and I haven't that much but when I do it sort of kills me inside...