Filling the Days By David Morgan
As I relax to the smooth sounds of "The Benjamins" by P. Diddy, Lox, & Biggie Smalls, I am reminded of the good times I had in the clubs before my hospitalization. There are at least two hands in the air pumpin’ for the lyrics to continue while I remain seated cautiously but slightly enjoying myself. Still in the hospital at this point (waiting for housing). With the music blasting out of the hospital stereo you would swear it was a backyard house party.
These were the times I enjoyed because when hospitalized, certain relationships develop between patients and/or staff. Usually the climax of the days are meal time due to lack of pleasurable activities during the day (which can lead to eating disorders). Let me break it down. My day begins at 7:30 am and ends around 10:30 pm. That’s a 15-hour day.
Groups are held during weekdays, amounting to about two hours a day, leaving me with 13 hours to fill. Sometimes we get to go outside for awhile, amounting to about an hour. Simply put, fighting boredom is a daily struggle and can cause regression in people with depression or other painful brain disorders. Weekends are even S...L...O...W...E..R and usually the “can't factor “ is presented over and over.
Let me explain: the “can't factor” is common when dealing with people with disabilities. “Can't’ is often used when describing the activities & options that a patient/consumer can participate in. The “can't factor” is often used when speaking about cigarettes, which are a big no-no. However, some how they make it into the hospital.
When I asked a fellow patient how the “can't factor” affected her stay when it came to cigarettes she yelled over the music that it makes her anxious and often sad. But the music soothed her addiction for the time being. As the fresh air break ended, time re-awakened and so did the feeling of reassurance along with my fellow patient. It was meal time. - D.M.
Battling Stigma. By David Morgan.
Why must I battle stigma? What did I do wrong? Or what have I not done, to deserve discrimination and disrespect? I have not committed a crime, I have hurt no one. I am a man with a purpose who walks tall and braves the elements.
Weathering the storm of mental illness is a stigma that can be only be handled with an umbrella of compromise. My understanding of mental health is that it is well being that can be strengthened by medication, exercise and nutrition. It is not fair to say I don’t feel angry at times but the inquisition of horror and misunderstanding has plagued the topic of mental disabilities, probably since they were first recognized.
Isn't it also enough to say that the disability of anxiety cripples most Americans at one point in their lives? Most will say yes now, since 20% of all visits to the doctor are from anxiety disorders. For those who say no, I say give me a room full of students without prior knowledge of a pop quiz and I’ll show you teens who need to change their underwear. Or convince me that the stress of the American way of doing business doesn’t make millions dysfunctional every year.
So what is it about the stigma of brain disorders that Americans can’t shake? The fact is, at least 20 million of us are in need of counseling services each year! That also happens to be a lot more than the estimated number who do seek help after the illness disrupts their ability to function. That is a lot of treatment and care not received. I thank God that I am among the 6 million who can honestly say I went and benefited from treatment.
So stigma do your worst because my determination, intelligence and tax dollars will fight back.
I leave you with this thought: please recognize your symptoms and surroundings and ask yourself are you one of the 20 million in need of help? There is no reason to be afraid to seek it. - D.M.
Sometimes Breakfast Has Meaning By David Morgan
As I awoke, my mind raced at the thought of having breakfast. The hospital I was temporarily living in, had provided a great spread. To say the least, I was content. There's nothing like the taste of food as soon as
one arises. As I put my socks on and got out of bed, I felt a feeling like no other... the feeling that the whole day ahead of me was mine to arrange minus the mental health and cognitive therapy groups. In most cases
breakfast was a thing I loved to arrange but for this story it was different.
I am partially disabled. I have no issue if I have to take some medication. There is however no limitation to my future. Who am I then? Well this word game is not a simple one. At rare times I get high anxiety and
schizoaffective disorder. I would describe the feeling as tension not eased by words or actions but supplemented as such. It’s not an easy thing to describe but I guess you'll have to keep reading. It took awhile to admit to having a problem because I didn’t want to seem weak by seeking help, but that was just a for a relatively short period.
So as I entered the dining room I contracted momentary s.b. (sniff breathing). This is when your only concern is inhaling the smell of warm food until you eat. However, the support of a "where the f%^& is my
food?" remark remedied my paralysis of s.b. No feeling of anxiousness just subtle familiarity and a dash of annoyance heated my aura.
Anyway, as trays were distributed and juice cups were given out, the memory of past mornings whisked past as a song played. Feelings of that second chance started to form and a momentary silence was broken by
shuffling feet and shaking sugar packets. My epiphany was complete. Nine years of smoke and mirrors were behind me, homelessness was over and family problems were resolved. Housing was on the way. Each bite
became sweeter, the jam and butter made love on the hot kosher roll. Time for eggs, scrambled like my mind when a woman asks me "does this outfit make me look fat?"
My mind should have been on well-being but the eggs were about as cold as the milk. Then I reached for the oatmeal and it happened. A flashback to my anxious feelings, a paralysis that made my chest tight and a hot flash with a racing heart. So I took a deep breath, got up out of my chair and walked down the long hallway. It was a humbling path to an Ativan and as I reached the tattered door I realized all plans of success were a little farther than I had believed. The water in hand and the pill to compliment it reversed my mindset to relaxation and sleep. So onto the road to recovery with the final destination being well-being in my heart and recovery through my soul. Sometimes breakfast has meaning in an environment where time moves as slowly as molasses
Take care and thank you for reading a piece of my recovery. - D.M.
As I awoke, my mind raced at the thought of having breakfast. The hospital I was temporarily living in, had provided a great spread. To say the least, I was content. There's nothing like the taste of food as soon as
one arises. As I put my socks on and got out of bed, I felt a feeling like no other... the feeling that the whole day ahead of me was mine to arrange minus the mental health and cognitive therapy groups. In most cases
breakfast was a thing I loved to arrange but for this story it was different.
I am partially disabled. I have no issue if I have to take some medication. There is however no limitation to my future. Who am I then? Well this word game is not a simple one. At rare times I get high anxiety and
schizoaffective disorder. I would describe the feeling as tension not eased by words or actions but supplemented as such. It’s not an easy thing to describe but I guess you'll have to keep reading. It took awhile to admit to having a problem because I didn’t want to seem weak by seeking help, but that was just a for a relatively short period.
So as I entered the dining room I contracted momentary s.b. (sniff breathing). This is when your only concern is inhaling the smell of warm food until you eat. However, the support of a "where the f%^& is my
food?" remark remedied my paralysis of s.b. No feeling of anxiousness just subtle familiarity and a dash of annoyance heated my aura.
Anyway, as trays were distributed and juice cups were given out, the memory of past mornings whisked past as a song played. Feelings of that second chance started to form and a momentary silence was broken by
shuffling feet and shaking sugar packets. My epiphany was complete. Nine years of smoke and mirrors were behind me, homelessness was over and family problems were resolved. Housing was on the way. Each bite
became sweeter, the jam and butter made love on the hot kosher roll. Time for eggs, scrambled like my mind when a woman asks me "does this outfit make me look fat?"
My mind should have been on well-being but the eggs were about as cold as the milk. Then I reached for the oatmeal and it happened. A flashback to my anxious feelings, a paralysis that made my chest tight and a hot flash with a racing heart. So I took a deep breath, got up out of my chair and walked down the long hallway. It was a humbling path to an Ativan and as I reached the tattered door I realized all plans of success were a little farther than I had believed. The water in hand and the pill to compliment it reversed my mindset to relaxation and sleep. So onto the road to recovery with the final destination being well-being in my heart and recovery through my soul. Sometimes breakfast has meaning in an environment where time moves as slowly as molasses
Take care and thank you for reading a piece of my recovery. - D.M.
