My post-captivity public relations campaign begins

mad hatterIt begins. The clean up of my life after something messy has happened.

I am on a sort of probation. Intensive outpatient treatment. Two weeks disability. It was the only way to get out of the hospital, agreeing to it. I don’t think I need it, but it’ll give me time to finish my applications for school. It’ll be financially lean around here, but whatever. I’ll manage. It means work is going to be left kind of high and dry because all of the sudden I’m out for three weeks, which really sucks. But I didn’t intend to do that to them. I just went to my doctor’s appointment and all of this happened. I have to remember this when I feel badly about it.

I still don’t know what I’m going to say when I get to work. I guess I have two weeks to think about it. I have to stop in to pick up some mail (transcripts) so I might not have that long.

Really, what do you tell people? I was in the hospital, but for what? They always want to know. I don’t want to lie to them. I can say I was having a reaction to my medication, I guess. My doctor did think it was life-threatening. But they might still ask for details. Oh, the shame of having a mental illness. I can’t be open about it at work. When I am, I feel people take a step back from me within themselves. It’s subtle, but it’s noticeable.

Friends: some of them trust that I’m okay. Some of them don’t. I can’t prove it to anyone. I can just keep doing the do. I am grateful, though, that I have people in my life who love me and care enough about me to worry. Not everybody does.

And I think Moms told her friend’s family where I spent my weekend over Thanksgiving dinner. (That’s a messy sentence. Moms went to a friend’s family’s house for Thanksgiving. I think she told them where I spent the weekend. That’s better.) I asked her if she did, and she said she didn’t, but apparently the topic of checking patients every fifteen minutes came up over dinner. How strange. Yes, one of the guests had been a nurse, but still, I don’t trust her to keep her mouth shut.

I don’t want you to worry, either. I feel so much better now that I’m off the Kayoed. Really, I do. I was getting haunted on the stuff. Someone in the hospital told me it either really works for people or it really doesn’t. I must be in the latter category. I am brighter inside, able to think more clearly, and have a lightness of mood that I haven’t had in a long time. I’m not taking shit so serious. It’s good right now. I hope it lasts.

It’s much easier to do damage control as a well person than it is as a sick person. I’m far less invested in it, and much more capable.

(I do have a wicked cold, though, so I’m spending a lot of time in bed. That’s why I may not be posting regularly the next few days. I was sick enough to skip Thanksgiving dinner. I didn’t post, either. Since I’ve already missed some days in November, I figured it was no big deal. I’m going to go lie down again right now, as a matter of fact.)



  1. Purse Maven

    You don’t have to tell anyone when they ask. Just say you’d rather not say. Or make up something to do with the cooter. That always gets the guys to stop asking!


    Miss you

  2. Pingback: Oh, you fuckers. You fucking fucks. Fuck you, too | Occipital Hazard

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