51-50; Not A Vacation

As I lay in the gurney, in the back of the ambulance, the paramedic said, "I find it interesting, how people can talk to spirits."  I denied the whole idea and it was though I turned a switch on to go back to the "normal" Leslie.  We carried on a nice small-talk sort of conversation.  "You smell good, " I said.  It was a soapy scent.  Italmost permeated the whole ambulance.  "Thank you.  I have to be clean for the work that I do," he said.  His phone rang and he didn't answer it.  "Someone is thinking about you and sending you positive energy," I said, as though I were a wise old soul.  "I bet it's my wife because she just called," he said. I felt like an idiot.  I was thinking someone from his past was sending him positive energy, someone dead.              They rolled me into the hospital and into the main elevator.  "Sure, make the White guy do it."  I guess one of the paramedic guys, who happened to be White was prompted to do something, work related and he joked about it.  I sang in response.             "White men! White men!  White men!  White men can't jump!"  I sat up in that gurney and they thought I was probably "nuts."  But I was really sick with my illness, something I couldn't put a finger on at the moment. I stopped and told the paramedic gal that she reminded me of an old childhood friend.  She thanked me but you could tell that she didn't want to be in the same room as me.  They rolled me onto the fourth floor and I was still sitting in the gurney and stared at the White paramedic guy's nametag.  "Wow, this is a nice picture of you," I said.  He smiled at me, as though he felt sorry for me.  They took me off the gurney and escorted me to a chair.  A heavy set woman approached me and took my shoelaces off and gave me two rubber bands to keep my shoes together.  This is when I knew. This was no vacation.  The paramedics disappeared.             I remember they took my shoelaces away when I was hospitalized at 14, for psychosis and depression.  What the hell?  But for a moment, I forgot where I was and they took me to my room.  "Can I get some underwear?" I asked.  I was bleeding from a period and needed sanitary pads immediately.  "Also, can I get some shampoo, body wash, and lotion?"  The bald man smiled at me and said, "I'll see what I can find."  He came back minutes later with the toiletries and I was very grateful.  "Thank you so much." He left the room and I walked into restroom to take a shower.              The water was so hot and dripped onto the floor, outside of the shower curtain.  I remembered my old host mother from Bath, England.  I stayed in Batch for four months in college.  She used to yell at me and told me to stop letting the water drip onto the floor. "I know you're in here Carol.  I'm trying, I'm trying!" I yelled.  I thought I could feel her presence as she was dead  and laughed to myself.  I started feeling again like I was being watched on a reality TV show and started beating on the shower walls with my knuckles in a rhythmic beat.  I did that for several minutes and got done taking my shower.  I walked out of my room and kept on walking.  I walked through doors that buzzed at me and I yelled out, "Ahhh!" in shock.  I noticed one of the staff ladies laughed nervously at me. Finally, I found myself entering a room, with a group of people and in the center of the room was a mental health worker.  She was talking about medication and I yelled out of nowhere, "You're a crock of shit!"  One of the patients got pissed off at me.  "Why don't you let her finish talking?" he asked brashly.  One of the other patients started to badmouth the lady and I admired his team effort to bully her.  I stormed out of the room and one of the other mental health workers found me.  "Leslie, are you OK?   Follow me dear, it's going to be alright."  I followed her into another room that had several chairs and one table.              She was filling out paperwork and had me sign a whole mess of papers.  I paid attention to all the numbers in the dates and thought I had a special gift with the numbers, linking them to dates that she was a part of, dates that were painful to her.  I thought I had the power to feel her pain.  I also thought that she had undergone plastic surgery to disguise herself for a reason that only she knew.  We got done with the paperwork and I went into my room to lay down for a bit.  I was overwhelmed and also felt very cold.  Savior             About half an hour later, the mental health worker knocked at my door, the same one that was in the group, and she smiled at me. "Your pastor is here to see you," she said.  I thought that she was talking about some sort of pastor that visited the hospital from time to time.  But it was the pastor of the church I belonged to at the time.  It was Pastor Mark.  He came in smiling at me nervously and I didn't want him there at first but minutes later, I felt comforted by his presence.  He was a handsome man, 40 and with red hair.  As he looked at me, he noticed I was covered in blankets and only my head was visible.  "Are you cold?" he asked.  I nodded.  "You know, you don't need to worry about me.  All these people are so worried about me but I'm fine."  I said.  Earlier, my father and aunt called to see why I was there and how I was doing.  I was tired of all the phone calls and all the worrying.  "It's OK to worry about you because we all love you.  You should let us worry.  Do you want to pray?"  I nodded and he took my one hand and held it.  I rubbed his hand with my thumb as he prayed and I felt a relief, like I was going to be OK.  He left shortly after he prayed and I felt like I was some sort of savior.  I walked down the hallway and heard a howling noise, which came from one of the patients.  But I thought that people's sins were being revealed and the demons were coming out of all the people that were there at that hospital.  I thought I could fix this somehow.  I was feeling so high and spiritual.  "Allergic Reaction"             I remember trying to fall asleep that night after they had given me my medication.  I noticed a mark on my hand, that looked like a flea bite.  I thought that it was from the medication they had just given me.  I marched over to the nurse's desk and yelled, "I'm having an allergic reaction to this medication!"  The nurse took my hand.  "It'll be fine. Let me give you something for that hand," she said.  I shut up for a moment.  I hoped the mark was nothing, maybe just a flea bite.  They gave me some other medication along with the crème.  "What is this?" I asked.  I was paranoid.  They told me that it was Benadryl and that it was supposed to help me sleep.  I didn't know if they were just telling me that.  I went ahead and swallowed it any way and went back to my room. I know now that it was truly Benadryl.  They had given me all that they could give me and Benadryl was my only option for the moment. Sexually Harassed             I woke up early the next morning and walked out of my room, into the hallway.  I saw the guy who was bullying the mental health worker with me.  "Oh Leslie!  I dreamt that you were sitting on my face and told me not to stop.  I went into your room last night and--" I cut him off.  "You what?" "Don't worry. You were asleep. I didn't do anything."  To this day, I don't know if he really came into my room and I don't want to know.  I walked away from him.  I thought I was hearing things.  I didn't report this incident until after he left.  The social worker was so annoyed. "That son of a bitch! He's is in the right place now.  He was harassing other women here.  Next time, tell someone right away." The mental health worker was annoyed. I looked at her nametag.  Her name was Susan.  I told her I thought I was hearing things, that my mind was playing tricks on me.  That bastard had written his phone number on a newspaper and had given it to me.   Susan threw it away.  I apologized to Susan for the way I was acting the night before.  I was in a better state now and knew that my behavior the night before was unacceptable.  She accepted my apology and told me she understood and not to worry about it.            Butt Dance I ate breakfast in the main room.  I was on a high and my breakfast was super delicious.  The maple syrup tasted so sweet, just the right amount.  I could smell the food, really smell the food, as though I were in the kitchen cooking it myself.  It was so nice.  The eggs were delicious, everything was just so yummy and I could taste ten times more than usual.  I felt the cold floor on my feet, through the fuzzy hospital socks.  I felt everything.  Hot was extremely hot.  Cold was so abrasively cold.  Before lunch time, I called my friend Fran.  She came to visit right away.  She came into my room and I told her the current diagnoses were postpartum depression and bipolar disorder, but I was sure that was wrong as I wasn't feeling depressed at all.  I just wanted to go home and immediately.  I tried playing the name game with her, the same one I played with the security guard back at the psychiatry office.  She laughed nervously.  "Fran, I think my hands have a special healing power." She smiled. "Oh yeah, well, my shoulder is giving me problems."  I rubbed her shoulder for a few seconds and she left an hour later.  It was so nice and comforting to see her.  I was walking the hallway, just minding my own business, smiling at the cleaning lady.  She approached me and smiled. "You're not crazy," she said.             "I know." I had her fooled.             I was happy for the moment, after my run in with the cleaning lady and started doing the butt dance in the main room.  I stopped after thinking, what if there had been a camera watching me.  I laughed hysterically and approached the nurse's station.             "I was just doing the butt in the main room.  Are there cameras in there?" I asked.  The bald man that had been there when I checked in laughed and said I was in luck. I found out his name was Bruce.              "There are cameras in there dear, but don't worry, they're not working right now so let it rip!"             I went back into the main room and continued to dance and sing.  One of the other patients started playing the piano and I stopped singing.  I looked over her shoulder to watch her play and her music put me in a trance.  I loved it.  I suddenly started gazing off into the other direction and focused in on the jigsaw puzzles on the shelf.  I started to miss my family.  It started to sink in, that I wanted to be home desperately.  Pictures from Home             Bruce took my blood pressure and I smelled his aftershave.  It smelled nice and smooth, very comforting to me. a little soapy but not like hospital soap.              "You smell good."             "That means a lot coming from you.  In this profession, we have to be clean."  I loved him.  Bruce was so adorable.              In the evening, we were snacking on popcorn, which was considered a real treat around those parts.  I noticed one of the other patients was singing a Johnny Cash song.              "I'm gonna call you Johnny Cash," I said.  He liked that.             I made friends left and right.  I had nicknames for everyone.  The older woman in the wheelchair was Karen and I called her "Care Bear."  Another man had a big belly and had my father-in-law's voice.  I called him "Santa."  There were a few others and I felt like the popular kid in school.              Jeremy was able to visit me on the next day.  I talked to him on the phone before he arrived and pleaded with him to give me a picture of the kids and to give me my college sweatshirt.             "Honey, you're not staying there that long.  Why do you need your sweatshirt?" He sounded sad and I could tell he missed me.             "I'm just cold honey.  Bring me my jeans too."  I needed those comforts.             Jeremy took baby Jessica when he came to visit.  "Honey, what did they say?" He looked at me with concern in his eyes.             I told him I was probably going home soon, after the 72 hour hold.  Susan, the mental health worker came to talk with us about bipolar disorder.              After she left the room, Jeremy had a few minutes left to visit with me.  I told my husband not to worry and that I would be coming home soon.  I told him that Fran visited me and how everyone was so nice to me.  I thanked him for the clothes and pictures.  I knew the pictures from home would give me strength.  One of the photos was of the three kids at Christmas time.  They were posed in a row, on the couch.  Jessica wore a little Santa hat and the boys had reindeer ears on. I longed to hold all of them.  I was so happy to see Jessica though.  I was a bit worried that after seeing me, she would want to nurse.  Luckily, that didn't happen.  He also had given me a picture of just the two of us, him hugging me from behind.  I wanted to cry.  I said goodbye and told him not to worry.  I was sure I was going home once the 72 hours was up.             My mom and sisters came to visit me later that night.  My mom seemed so scared and confused.  She looked at me.  "See what happens when you get so stressed out?"  She looked at me with concern and frustration.  My sister Sal said, "Ate, you like fine.  There are some strange people here.  You don't belong here."  I looked at all of them.  All giddy and in a weird and sneaky manner, I said, "But I am getting better."  The visit was short and I hugged all of them.  I assured my mother I was going home soon.  The next day, my 72 hours would be up.              The same day my mother and sisters came to visit me was the same day Johnny Cash was released.   I was going to miss him as he often made me laugh during my stay.  He was such a big guy.  I stood on a chair and hugged him goodbye, and tight.  "It's not fair," I said.  "Take care of your baby," he said.  He walked out of  the room and I cried for a little while longer.  Still Spinning             The psychiatrist was good looking man in his thirties.  He told me I should probably stay one more day.  "There are certain risks that if you go home-" I cut him off.              "Risks?  What kind of risks? Am I going to have a heart attack?"  I was brash and gave him a stern look.             "No."  He looked very frustrated with me and I think he might have even rolled his eyes.              "OK then, I am fine."  I was determined to get the hell out of there and get back to my family.             With a lot of hesitation, Dr. Gomez sent me home.              At home, I was spinning.  I was talking so fast.  My words went faster than my thoughts, so nothing I said made any sense.  I was still on a high.  My mother-in-law phoned the patient coordinator for the outpatient program I was to attend.  "Please help me," she said.  She sounded so helpless and worried.  The patient coordinator asked my mother-in-law if she thought I could sit through a group session.  She told her yes so the next day, I attended one of the group sessions.              A lady named Sara met me.  She was Asian and had on black pants, a colorful scarf and a mismatched sweater.  She wore glasses and seemed soft in her manners.  She had a Chinese accent but her English was great.  She was a Marriage and Family Therapist.  I immediately asked her to be my caseworker and.  She agreed so I talked to her about my progress.             In the group, I ran into two buddies from the hospital.  One of them was a gal my age who was hospitalized for postpartum depression.  She said she almost hurt her baby. I could tell she thought I was annoying.  But I really was.  My mania took over me, which made me hard to deal with.             The groups were interesting.  They taught us breathing exercises and techniques to help us with anxiety.  I asked a ton of questions and loved being the center of attention.  Sadly, my voice was barely there due to laryngitis but I still volunteered and danced while another patient played his keyboard.  I didn't care what other people thought of me.  My dance moves were confusing, as I didn't have any actual rhythm.  I just loved performing for the group during the break.              My caseworker was surprised when I told her I sang and danced.  My buddy from the hospital, the one with postpartum depression said I was a nut.  I was a nut.              In the outpatient program, I did the butt dance again during one of the breaks.  One of the other patients smiled at me and I stopped.  "Continue," he said.  "Not if you're going to be uncomfortable," I said.  "No, I'm fine," he replied.  I decided not to continue.  I was still on a high but was calming down just a little, just enough to not get sent home.             One of the patients was drawn to me.  He was a hairy teenager and was all touchy feely.  I gave him a hug and told him he had pretty eyes.  He responded with a smiling stare and I immediately said, "I'm not coming onto you."  "I know," he said.             Another patient told me of the first time an old man jacked him off.  I have no idea why he told me that little disgusting tidbit.  I was grossed out by his disclosure and decided to stay away from him. Vote Obama or Hilary             I think about these moments in spurts.  I don't understand why I can remember those moments and want to rewind time to fix everything.  I just couldn't though as the bipolar disorder didn't allow me to.  When I was in my mania, the psychosis took over.  I truly lost touch with reality.  I saw my husband bawling while I was in my highest of  highs and it didn't even phase me.  I saw my six-year-old with anxiety a normal six-year-old shouldn't have and I didn't even think to comfort him.  I even thought the baby hated me.              We were so poor, we couldn't even afford to buy formula for the baby.  I was so thankful for WIC (Women, Infants, and Children), a government program that aids people with nutritious food and formula for babies.  I lied and told them I was being treated for postpartum depression.  After all, that was the one of the first diagnoses.  I had to stop nursing because of the medications.  WIC gave me vouchers for formula but for a later date.  Luckily, my mother gave us a couple hundred dollars.              I asked my grandfather to help us and he came through with five hundred dollars.  We were two months behind rent but this money helped feed us in the meantime.              Jeremy and I needed to go to the grocery store to buy a few things and he told me to watch what I say to people.  We went our separate ways in the store and I was talking non-stop about Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton.  With every person I came across. I said, "Well,  I hope you vote for Obama for Hilary."  I asked the older gentleman if he was voting for McCain and he shook his head and said, "No, Hilary."  He probably thought I was insane.  I would stop talking.  I apologized to my pretty cashier friend and told her I was a bit speedy at the moment and I would talk to her another time.  I was surely acting like my mother-in-law said; like I was on crack.