The holidays have been going really well so far. My older
sister, Jessica, is in town, and despite her playing the scarcity card via her reunions
with her high-school and college friends, my fun-sized sisters (Nicole being
the other) and I were able to spend quality time at Christmas with my mother.
Looking back on it, throwing mom under the bus for the fractures
in our mutual dissatisfaction as it concerned the living arrangement was harsh,
but with the privilege of hindsight the friction was only natural. While the
dog incident proved to be the tipping point, there were other goings on, which
in retrospect, made my mother’s growing discomfort understandable. Generally speaking, being 30
with no kids, no warrants (that I know of, ha), of able body, and sound mind
made the house in which I was raised far from optimal for either one of us.
And about that sound mind thing. My last trip to the hospital
was far more of a tune-up of sorts as opposed to a critical/crisis
intervention, but as is typically the case, in retrospect, I can admit that I wasn't quite on point when
released. After ten plus admissions you learn, what to say, how to say it, and
when to say it, and to whom to expedite your exit and have your walked papers
granted. While psych wards had become something of a home away from home during
my twenties, they are still no place I’d want to be, unless there was no other
suitable option, hence me talking that talk while committed.
That said with my newfound optimism and experience, good
times were had this last go round nonetheless. The staff knows me well (cue the
“Cheers” theme song) at Newton-Wellesley Hospital (NWH), so it’s almost like seeing
old friends. This last time, I damn near played the role of host being wholly familiar
with the routine, hospital personnel, and typical clientele. Sure, the
circumstances surrounding these types of reunion are less than ideal, but familiar
faces in what could otherwise be seen as hellish places go a long way
themselves in allaying certain symptoms.
When I came home, there was many a hypo-manic hiccup, not to
mention side-effects from the newest medication, Seroquel, which simply did not
agree with me with its nauseating side effects. Throw in a little post
traumatic stress (though I may or may not meet the criteria for the disorder
itself, please believe it’s not simply reserved for those who have served), and
I was waking up extremely irritably, lashing out for any number of reasons,
poor sleep (thanks to the Seroquel), and no consistent place find it, and
having flashbacks when I did, were amongst the top ones.
Despite not being wanted at home as my mother made clear to
the hospital clinicians, there was nowhere else to go, as the shelters I had
looked into at that point were booked. That said, I came to my old bedroom, to
find my little sister in the midst of taking over my room and her trove of
stuff, half way moved in and mine strewn about as she prepped the room for a
fresh layer of paint. “Welcome home, thanks for helping me towards a speedy
recovery, guys” I thought.
In any case home used to be a good place to recoup, regroup,
rest, and recover. The rehabbed me (again thanks to the tour Atlanta ), left me well against any number of
measures, and there was simply no reason to be there. My mother and I were both
more than frustrated with my presence. She, as a freshly minted divorceé finally free of any maternal obligations, looked to indulge in her long
suppressed wanderlust between her side of the family in Pittsburgh
and a lovely renaissance of sorts with her new beau in South Carolina . Before I even left Atlanta , I looked to take
writing more seriously than ever before, but coming home threw a wrench into
those plans, which only now are being re-adjusted accordingly and most thankfully.
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