Self-isolation Versus Social Distancing

Well, my arm is getting better, but is still not healed. I can type from my recliner with my arm supported. I’ve been isolated because of my broken arm for about 14 weeks now. I’ve been able to drive recently, using one arm. I couldn’t before because the cast was in the way and I now have a brace that allows more freedom of movement.

All of this isolation had me in a very dark place in January and February. I started to come out of it late February with increased sunshine and increased meds. I finally get well enough to go out and the Corona virus self-quarantine begins.

I moved in November and I haven’t had an opportunity to create a real routine for myself. I broke my arm just after we got unpacked in December. I still have a room full of boxes I plan on going through later. Not having my usual coping mechanisms in place, like writing, I’ve really struggled with how to keep myself occupied. I told my orthopedic doctor I was certain I would end up psychotic, and I did. Being psychotic with no way to cope has got to be the worst hell. I suffered through for a while as my doctor quit and then my clinic dropped my insurance. I finally found a new clinic but had to wait a month for an appointment. When things started getting more and more bleak, I called for a “crisis” appointment. Luckily, they were able to fit me in on short notice instead of waiting a month.

My intake was two hours long. I went through my entire mental health history in detail, but I found it suprising they never asked if I heard voices. When I mentioned it, my psychiatric nurse seemed surprised. I am not sure what the average medical person is trained on when they are taught about schizophrenia and shizoaffective disorders. They shouldn’t be supposed caught off-gaurd though, when you say you hallucinate.

I am so thankful that the sun is out and I am feeling better.

Get Your Groove On

Option-GI am still waiting for my groove to come back. Some days I feel closer than others. Knowing this is all dependent on meds or time (or both) is one thing. Accepting that this is a permanent condition is quite another. Recovering from a psychotic break is like dragging yourself across the playa in a rainstorm. I don’t know if it is the meds or the toll it takes on your body, but I am TIRED far beyond my forty years. Every day waking up through a fog, trudging through a day at work, and then finding there is no second wind for what remains when I get home. The meticulously kept apartment is now a kitchen sink overflowing with dishes, cat barf left untreated and overflowing ashtrays. And there’s the rub: the thought that this may all be from a simple desire to quit smoking the easy way – pain free – landed me quite simply in a world of hurt.


Today I was sitting quietly as my family hurried around me, shuffling boxes, packing and loading the truck in preparation for a move. Staring into space, that nothingness that knows silence again I softly said to myself, “I don’t want to be here any more.” Not in this life, not at this time, not here in this place.

I struggle to learn a new job when I was previously excelling. I struggle just to sit for eight hours a day, ever paranoid that it is not enough, that my efforts are not sufficient. I feel like an idiot and yet I know that this feeling will pass.

This struggle that I have been experiencing stretched itself past the moment into the infinite that I can perceive of my life; will I always be miserable, tearing my way out of yet another mud pit — time and time again.

And there is nothing I hate more than self pity, wallowing sadness and insufferable despair.

The Tepid One

The Tepid One, a Calendar Girl, unbeknownst to her until her friend released the printed version. She found the adoration most strange since the friend was more akin to an acquaintance than a confidant.

The Tepid One had difficulty waking up, couldn’t make it to work on time despite alarm clocks on every wall connected to every outlet within the limitations of standard power cord length for each unit. A standard measure within the industry, I suppose. She invited her neighbor to wake her… an older gentleman, though not at all a gent. Scraggled beard and unkempt hair and armpits that smelled of ripple and bar nuts. She was quite elated with the solution. I personally was a bit horrified at the thought of having some nastierthanshit dude walk into her apartment each morning. I envisioned him oogling her, The Tepid One being a beautiful buxom blonde whom, just a few years prior had breast reduction surgery (a personal point which also happened to startle most dogs).