What We Lovingly Refer to as the LB

As I have said on many occasions in the past, for the most part I am simply just average. Of course this is not to say that every era or every aspect in my life thus far has been uneventful. I have on occasion had some extremely eventful situations occur one of which was a week long stay in what we have lovingly come to refer as “Moms stint in the L.B.” L.B. short for the Loony Bin or in other words the local mental institution. Mind you now, I was there as a volunteer patient who had just so happened to lose volunteer status while in the midst of confinement. It would seem that the Doctors of such a prestigious establishment did not take kindly to sudden outbursts, terrifying cries of anguish and refusals of much needed medications.

Needless to say it did not take long to regain my composure and I was eventually allowed to leave the sanctity of those walls as those more qualified than myself were able to determine when it was that I reached a point of sanity. Either I was truly sane or I was able to successfully bull shit my way through it. None the less, I was healed or at the very least pointed in the right direction and left to whirlwind down a path of self perseverance. If the truth be told I don’t really think I was ready to leave the peace and serenity of the L.B. but, those with infinite knowledge and power within my insurance company begged to differ. I suppose “they” having much more experience with crazy people than I surly know better than me when someone is deemed able to brave the outside world, or not.

I was diagnosed as having a complete nervous breakdown, a diagnosis I have yet to be able to completely understand. I mean, is there even such a thing as a partial nervous breakdown? And if so, wouldn’t it stand to reason that if one did have a diagnosis of merely a partial breakdown wouldn’t that in some way signify that they did it all wrong and maybe, just maybe they should go back and try it again until they get it right. Wouldn’t having anything other than a complete nervous breakdown imply that there much more to follow?

A complete nervous breakdown occurs when your mind and body are stretched so far apart from each other that they have no choice but to shut down before they split apart. Well, that is not the technical term used, just the easier one to understand. You do not get to voice an opinion as to when said split is going to take place. As a matter of fact chances are you wouldn’t be able to use your voice in the midst of a breakdown anyways. You just have to get through it and do so as quickly as possible. Your body does not have time to wait for the stupidity of your brain to be able to decide when either has taken on more than can be handled. Your body does not have the patience for your brain to come to some sort of understanding as to why you allowed it to be forced into a situation where the outcome could in any way be favorable.

A body has the ability with the help of a brain to preserve itself. Somehow, somewhere, somebody assumed that we being only human, not to mention far from perfect would allow our bodies and minds to become screwed up so there must have been an escape hatch implanted in the midst of our psyches. A throw switch so to speak that has the ability to shut itself off in order to save it from, well, itself. I mean if I was not willing to turn it off on my own should I not be thankful for such a switch? Should I not give praise and thanks to the tiny switch for throwing itself into a salvation mode and shouldn’t being thrown in a total whirlwind of turmoil be a small price to pay for a switch saving my sanity. Shouldn’t I sing out with jubilance in the sheer presence of such a miraculous switch? How many woman of average being can honestly say they were allotted the opportunity to get to know their salvation switch on an intimate level? O.K. so maybe the average woman is not allotted the pleasure of getting to know ones safety switch on an intimate level and quite possibly I could be considered just a tad bit above average.

When you are at the lowest possible point in your life, and the closest you can get to the top feels like it is just out of your reach, how do you find your way back? Can you find your way back? How do you find the missing pieces that seem to elude a resting place in the integral puzzle that is your life? I can’t say how anyone else finds their way out of a hollow of emptiness but I can explain how I very slowly crawled up and eventually out.

In the L.B. we being, so much more then patients but guests were encouraged to not only rely on antipsychotic drugs but to participate in group therapy. Of course the drugs that we were to ingest were quite necessary in order to survive the depression of the ever constant bouts of “group therapy”. Each group consisted of several of your peers that were attempting to overcome obstacles that had overwhelmed their lives much as your own. We, as a group were to discuss and we, as a group we were to overcome, well in theory anyways. I must say that having been the only one in the group who had the ability to have a nervous breakdown the correct way felt that I most definitely belonged in a better group. After all, the others in my group had half assed breakdowns to say the least. What right did any of them have to even begin to comprehend what my breakdown was all about? The way I saw it my breakdown being the only complete breakdown in the group was done the right way. As a matter of fact had I been given a grade it would have been an A; where as, theirs being partial were nothing more than mediocre and should have received a C at best. Or better yet maybe each and every of those who pulled a partial should go home until they can learn how to breakdown the correct way and only then be permitted back into our group. Needless to say nobody else saw it as I did so I was more or less forced to group with below average peers. I went into it with no expectations.

Group therapy took place just after game time or as the staff called it, “social time”. It was after we were forced to spend an hour together in the break room drawing dismal pictures with broken crayons or, playing a round of solitaire or, just doodling on a blank piece of paper that the group therapy would begin. I assumed that our therapy session’s were always scheduled to follow behind a group activity in order to allot each of us time to just relax, and therefore feel more at ease with each other. The therapy sessions themselves take place in quite a different surrounding than the break room with round plastic tables and hard cold chairs. The therapy room is decorated in warm pastels and has an abundant supply of overly comfortable seating.

There are comfy couches and over sized chairs that are actually quite inviting. On every table there are bright colored vases with multi-colored spring flowers and never out of arms reach, is a box of Kleenex, which is pretty self explanatory as in sometimes when you pull off a scab you bleed. There was even art on the walls the type of art I define as motel art. Cheesy copies from unknown painters encased in plastic frames which leave very little room for conversation. And lighting is virtually non existent. Small table lamp scattered here and there always kept on a dim switch. I refer to this type of lighting as the shadow effect; I imagine it is to allow a bit of privacy for those that feel the need to burst into tears when a scab is pulled off before it is ready.

My first encounter with what was to be my “group” left me, well, it left me speechless. The lead counselor, whom I quite frankly thought should have been a participant, went around the room and introduced each of us, or rather, had us introduce ourselves, and state our diagnoses. Quite frankly it felt more like an AA or NA meeting, I was new what the hell did I know. Let’s see, there was me, “Mrs. Complete Nervous Breakdown”. Now bear in mind I had to use the word “complete” as it is just so very much different than my fellow peer who was sitting alone in the corner whose name was “Miss. Nervous Breakdown”. Note the lack of the word complete, she being one of mediocre with in the group. Moving on, sitting next to me there was “Mrs. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” and directly across from her was “Mr. Anxiety Disorder,” who just so happened to be the only man with in our group. Then there was the baby of the group “Miss. Manic Depressive,” a teenager, go figure. Lying on the floor propped up on a couple of pillow was “Mrs. Nervous Breakdown.” This was to be the makeup of our group of peers. I and 5 other people were going to attempt as a group to work together and in theory we would each be instrumental in helping each other to discover who we were and what brought each of us to this point in our lives, needless to say, I was less than optimistic.

The lead Counselor had a very important job which was to ease us into discussions, discussions that would inevitably bring forth some sort of turmoil. The counselor started with “Mrs. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” PTSD for short. Her question to Mrs. PTSD was blunt, straightforward and to the point, “What would you say was the final straw that landed you in our facility?” Mrs. PTSD answered without hesitation, “Well, several years ago I lost my brother to a drug overdose and I had been trying to get over that, you know, with the help of medication, but then with the stress at my job something just snapped and I could not stop crying.” As, Mrs. PTSD reached for the closest box of Kleenex the counselor directed her next question to the group “Can any of you relate to Mrs. PTSD’s situation?”

Let’s just break this down, shall we? The loss of a family member and stress at the job, well you know, I could relate to both of those situations, so I raised my hand as did every other person in our Group. She then said “You see, Mrs. PTSD you are not alone”. Next, the counselor asked Mrs. Nervous Breakdown the same question. Mrs. N.B. paused a bit then said “I would have to say that I too had to deal with a lot of stress at work, but, the final straw for me was when my husband came home from work and did not even notice that I had cut and dyed my hair. I felt invisible.” In keeping with the true tradition of therapy the counselor once again asked the group, “Can any of you relate to Mrs. N.B.?” Once again we all raised our hands. “You too are not alone” said our counselor. Next in the hot seat was the only male of the group “Mr. Anxiety”. I almost felt sorry for him having to be thrown into a group with four over hormonal crazy women and a teenager all with not quite enough meds in their systems, so I shot him a look of sympathy. “Mr. Anxiety” stated “I am stressed out at home because my teenagers seem to be getting into nothing but trouble, drinking and using drugs and my wife is oblivious to it all. That compounded with the stress I have at work is pretty much what brought me here” Could I relate to him? Absolutely, I once again when asked, raised my hand as did the others.

Then came the turn of “Miss. Manic Depressive”. When the Counselor asked her “What brought you here?” She said, “My mom and dad don’t understand me, I am an artist and need to express myself.” She went on to say, “I am stressed out at school and my friends all hate me.” Typical teenage stuff I thought, so what was she doing in our group? Anyway when we were asked if anyone related to her situation I raised my hand, mostly because I did not want her to feel all alone. The next one up was the Nervous Breakdown lacking complete of our group who was asked by the ever inquisitive counselor “What is it that brought you to us?” Sadly she replied “I feel desperate and lost, My husband and I split up and he got custody of the kids and I am broke and need to find a new job” O.K, I can relate to losing a child there is nothing more traumatic than that. I can totally relate to the stress that is involved with finding a job. So when asked if anyone related I yet again raised my hand. After the other Nervous Breakdown was told she too was not alone it was my turn.

The counselor asked, “Mrs. Complete Nervous Breakdown, why did you end up a patient in our facility?” hmmm what answer could I possibly give that would entail how I ended up here. I did not know myself and I certainly did not feel anyone else there was qualified to help me so I said the first thing that came to mind. “My husband decided on his only day off from work that he was going to go jet-skiing with his friends and I became so upset because he would rather be with his friends than me that the first thought to come to mind was to drive to my office and shoot myself in my face with my dad’s revolver, but then it occurred to me that someone would have to clean up the mess and rather than clean it they would probably just let the bits and pieces of my brain stay all over the place so, I called my sister and asked her to drive me here. Oh, and everything each of them said.” I got up from my place within the group and went to my semi private room, laid down in my bed and cried. Needless to say, the charge nurse came in and said to me “Your doctor wants you to take this pill to relax and he is on his way in to see you.” You see, I had not cried sense I had been admitted. Oh I had a few outbursts but none that had included any form of tears. I could not talk when I arrived as by breakdown had robbed me of my ability of speech and my tears as well it would seem. I suppose the fact that I finally cried showed the dear people of the institution that I was indeed human.

My doctor quietly knocked before he opened the door, he walked in and pulled up a chair and said to me “I understand group did not go so well today?” he said it more as a question than a statement, so I answered him with well, with sarcasm “Oh I don’t know, I think it went rather well, can I go home now?” He looked at me and said “why do you feel you are ready to go home?” “You have only just had your first group session?” As I stared at him dumbfounded something inside me burst open. I swear I felt an explosion within my chest and the ramblings began, “Because the group of my peers happens to be idiots and their reasons for being here are stupid everyday things and they can’t help me!” I noticed him raise his eyebrows a bit before he went on to ask me “why do your think your problems are all that different then theirs or better yet why is it you think their problems are any less significant than your own?” Hmm, why did I think there problems were less significant than my own? “Let me just break it down for you” Let the semi-coherent ramblings begin and it went something like this:

“Let’s just analyze this shall we? For instance take Mrs. Nervous Breakdown, who happens to suffer from feelings of invisibility and stress at work. She is crying in her cheerios because her husband did not notice her hair, her hair for god’s sake. Let me just tell you about invisibility complexes I am an expert in being invisible. When I was 16 years old I was nine months pregnant, not 9 weeks but nine months. I had missed the beginning of the school year, actually I had already missed a month of school and my own mother, my mother, did not notice that not only had I missed a month of school, but that I was even pregnant in the first place. 16 years old with a belly out to here that moved around like a 7 pound Mexican jumping bean and my mother did not know until I told her and get this, 5 days before I delivered. You want to talk invisibility syndrome? And, do you think anyone’s husband notices a new hairstyle? Come on lets be real. My own husband would not notice if I grew wings and flew around the bedroom naked. Hello, stress at work, my employees even showing up at work is a pipe dream let alone any of them offering any assistance towards their own jobs or my mental well being and you know what? They are related to me, they are my family.

So you tell me in what way Mrs. Nervous Breakdown is even qualified to add input in regard to my Complete Nervous Breakdown she did not even have the audacity to do it the right way in the first place. Not to mention the Other Nervous Breakdown who lost her kids in a battle for custody, at least she gets to see her kids try going 18 years with out ever seeing one of your kids. Try going even 18 days with out seeing one of your kids. And, ex-husbands my own ex-husband would not give a flying fuck if one of his own kids was lying in a ditch somewhere. So excuse me if I don’t feel she is qualified to inject input into my tragic existence. Oh, oh, how about Miss. Manic Depressive, the teenage artist who sees a masterpiece in the making within the cut marks on her wrists. I am raising a teenager with Bi-Polar disorder who has permanent engravings on her legs and do you think I have any emotional support in my dealings with her? I mean my family would rather she be hidden away or better yet stay away so they don’t have to deal with her uncontrollable rage.

You think I could get any of them to even begin to understand her condition let alone understand what I am going through with her condition. You think I don’t understand what she is going through and then some? Do you think she can even begin to understand what I am going through? I resent her sitting there and cutting her wrists because she is an artist. Tell her to express her self on canvas or a sketch book the way I do and who does not have stress in school? Tell her to try living in the real world, and while we are at it who would put a teenager in a group with adults anyways? What teenager can comprehend the problems of an adult? And what about Mrs. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, stress at work after a death of a loved one, ok I can see that happening as it happened with me. I suffered a bout with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and do you really think I had anyone that was there to hold my hand through it? I lost my father not to long ago and was diagnosed with PTSD and had to run the family business at the same time. Do you think anyone crawled out of their bottle to assist me in anyway? Not to mention every one of my siblings, my mother and my husband knew I was being treated for PTSD. And you expect me to relate to what it is Mrs. PTSD is going through?

My own brother is a drug addict and it would seem it is just a matter of time before he OD’s, is this I have to look forward too? Mr. Anxiety who lives with the oblivious wife whose children are running the streets, drinking and drugging and doing god knows what compounded with his stress at work. Anxiety is my friend, it is my companion, it is the only constant I have in my life why would I want to lose it? You want me to give input as to his kids and their substance abuse problems? Jesus Christ man! Tell him to ignore the oblivious wife and take the matter in his own hands. How hard is that? I just went through a stint with my own teenager and drug abuse, I did not wait for my own oblivious husband to assist in doing something about it. I packed her up and took her to rehab and let me just tell you this, I did not have to worry about her getting drugs and alcohol from her friends at school I had to worry about her getting it from her uncles and their friends. At least his oblivious wife is just oblivious my oblivious husband is an alcoholic who would rather drink with his buddies after work than attend a family meeting with his own daughter.

How is Mr. Anxiety in any way qualified to advise me with my situation?” I went on to explain to the dear doctor that my life was a mess, and that I knew I was screwed up. I was alone in my dealings because there was no one that was available to assist me. I went on to banter about my son who grew a breast and the never ended battles with insurance companies in not just removing his breast but finding out why he grew a breast. I went on to explain about a nephew sent to me from Eastern Europe that had become my responsibility as my husband could not set down his own bottle long enough to see that this boy needed some straightening up. I cried about a boy that died at the age of 16 because I had wished it upon him. Everything spilled out and it did so between tears and strings of incoherent stuttering.

“Losing a family member try going to sleep with a baby and waking up with out one. Try living though that with out any support or understanding and then having to live as it never happened in the first place. I dare anyone in that room to even live one second of my life and come out of it even remotely unscathed! Try to understand losing your own kid and watching one of your sisters get to keep hers then tell me how if feels to be invisible. Try running a business for 10 years and having your own mother tell you how much you fucked it up and throwing what a bad parent I am into the equation along with letting me know what a bad daughter I was. How about having your family disregard you like a soiled diaper yet, accept your own totally oblivious husband. Come on, I can not just relate to their problems I have lived their problems. As I see it I am lucky that I am here and not already stuck in a maple box six feet under the earth.

I dare any of those people to walk a day in my shoes, try being a turkey wishbone that is being pulled at from more then two side. And being done so by people who don’t even understand what they already have is so very much more than anything they are looking for. Try living as someone who is supposed to have all the answers when I don’t even know the questions. Do you think any of them have to take care of not only their own family but their mother and their sister and her family just to be told what a piece of shit she is. Can you even begin to imagine being there for your own sister each and every time she needs you just to have her disregard you when you ask her for something as simple as checking on your kids when you are out of town. Did you know that I have been diagnosed with each and every illness each of them have and I am still here! I am still alive and wanting to go on. So I am sorry if I feel that those people don’t have anywhere near the problems that I have.

I suppose it was in that room with that doctor on that very day that I came to understand just exactly what I was suffering with or suffering from. I managed to find a bit of who I was or rather, understand a bit of who I was. I was and am a sponge, in so far as, a sponge will absorb only what it is capable of holding and everything excess will expel from it. I had expanded as much as I was capable of doing so and the excess was excreting from me in the only way it could and doing so completely out of my control. I am flawed, I am damaged, I will always be scarred. After all you can only glue a vase back together; you can not hide the lines that the break has left behind. I could and would learn to live with my broken pieces and eventually they would become a part of who I was. But, I could not make them go away. My problems were not manifestations that were somehow implanted in my head my problems were real and alive and growing as I grew. There would be no amount of therapy that would make the havoc subside and it was certainly not in the power of the doctor to fix a reality. Alas I was at the mercy of learning to live with what I was, with who I was and returning to the group.

In the end I did return to group and did so with a more optimistic attitude. I let those five other people who; ended up having a lot more in common with me than I thought possible, in. And, in doing so I learned how to well, for one, ask for help. Not that any was given but, I learned to ask none the less. I learned how to say when I had, had enough. I learned to ignore the problems of others as their best interests were certainly not in my own recovery. I slowly began to understand that I can’t help those who do not wish, need to want my help. It became apparent that closing my eyes was sometimes better for me than seeing what was put right in front of me. I became painfully aware that I did not need those to see me who had never seen me before as I had survived and done so as best I could. I learned that we don’t suffer loss as a punishment to ourselves but as a means to get through the loss. It took a while but I discovered that I am not the sole responsibility for those in my extended family and that what I want for them is quite frankly not even close to what they want for themselves. But, mostly I learned that I too deserved to have normalcy. I too deserved to have a life.

Upon my release from the L.B. my doctor gave me a piece of advice that I carry with me to this day. He said to me “Next time you feel like you are losing complete control of your life, don’t come here. Check into a hotel and order room service and a massage.” I have taken his advice on a few occasions and I am happy to say it helps, however, my problems are what they are and as it turned out repairing them in the situation I was in was dully impossible so I did what seemed to be the only thing I could do and ran away.