I've worked - as an instructional assistant, substitute teacher, and full-time teacher - in schools for a little over 7 years. In that time, I've come to see that different students have different needs. For students who receive special education services, they have a legal document in place called an IEP or an Individualized Education Program. It basically lays out the modifications and accommodations that the school and teacher must comply with in order to meet the student's needs.
But, IEP's only apply to K-12 education. There are no IEP's in college or graduate school. However, many colleges do have an Office of Disability. And colleges can't discriminate against students for any disability the student may have.
I don't know how I found out about accommodations at the higher education level, but this summer I sought out the Office of Disability at my grad school to find out about what I am entitled to. Yesterday I finally followed up with them.
I brought a letter from my psychiatrist stating that I have a mood disorder and am under her care. And I had a 30-minute intake meeting with a staff member to discuss my medical and school histories. She determined that the two accommodations that would suit my circumstances best are extended time on 1-2 assignments per class per semester and 1-2 excused absences per class per semester. I knew about extended time as it is one of the accommodations some of my students received. But I was unaware of the excused absences.
I'm grateful to have been approved for these two accommodations. But in all honesty, I'm hoping that I won't need to use them. When I'm stable I can produce work. It's when I'm in the midst of an episode that I would need the help.
I really needed the help the first time I went to graduate school (for my Master's in Education. I'm now in school for my Master's in Social Work). I was depressed and could barely get out of bed to make it to student teaching and my seminar class. I did no work for my seminar class at all that semester; in fact, I didn't finish that work from fall semester until the spring semester. But at this time I wasn't diagnosed yet. I was just acting erratically. I didn't know what the problem was. I just knew I wasn't myself and I couldn't focus long enough to get my work done.
I'm hoping to make it through this grad program without enduring an episode. My program is three years long, so here's hoping. I say that because I have been manic and hospitalized every spring for the past three years. Three hospital stays in three years is a lot.
Despite that history, I'm hoping to stay stable. Thereby not needing the accommodations. But if I need them, they are there. I can't tell you how much peace of mind this brings me.
Showing posts with label teacher. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teacher. Show all posts
Friday, October 30, 2015
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Literature Workshop Summer Camp
For the past three years (this summer will make four), I've taught a 5-day literature workshop summer camp for elementary-aged campers. Grades 2nd to 5th. I teach high school English during the school year, but my master's is actually in elementary education.
I've worked at the following grade levels: Kindergarten, 2nd, 5th, 9th, 11th, and 12th. High school is definitely my favorite. The students can have adult conversations. And I find the curriculum more interesting and stimulating for me.
Although I do miss elementary school sometimes. But not enough to do it full time. You have your students all day and can't even take a bathroom break!
This is where summer camp comes in; it gives me a nice dose of the little ones. I usually teach one or two sessions (5 or 10 days) during the summer. I'll be teaching summer camp soon: July 21 to August 1.
My camp supplies: pencils, colored pencils, crayons, scissors, notebooks, construction paper, paint, yarn, post-it notes.
A list of all the topics I cover in my camp. I treat it like AP English! I've found that the campers rise to the occasion.
Sunday, June 22, 2014
A Letter to My Younger Self
I bought this book, but haven't read it yet. The concept is that you write a letter to your younger self, giving the advice you wish you would've received at the time. Here's my letter. I've chosen to write to myself after my first hospitalization when I was working at the Newark charter school.
Dear Krystal circa 2008 (age 25),
Life is not over. You just hit a bump in the road. No one plans on getting sick. You cannot account for how an illness might derail your life.
I know you write your life in pen. You are a planner. You're meticulous that way. I get it. It's one of the things I love about you. But you have to learn that you cannot plan every minute of every day. Learn to become flexible. Trust me. You'll thank me later.
I know you are disappointed that you did not graduate from Rutgers on time. I know it is hard to see all your Duke friends living fabulous lives. To see them in medical school or law school. To see them on track with their goals. You'll get there one day. I promise.
Do not lose sight of your own goals. Yes, you went to graduate school to become a teacher. But working as a teacher's assistant and substitute teacher is not the end of the world. Observe. Hone your craft. You can learn a lot by watching others teach. I know you will view the two years you spent at the Newark charter school as a waste. But don't. You learned a lot about yourself. You learned that even though you had your heart and mind set on teaching in Newark, urban education is not for you. This does not mean that you are not "down for the cause." There are other ways to give back. The cause is not more important than your sanity. You can't make a difference if you are depressed.
Be kind to yourself. Don't beat yourself up over the $10,000 in credit card debt. In a few years your credit will recover.
It will take you two years to finish four papers. It is hard to do school work when your job is so toxic and you are depressed. But push through. Finish the degree. As your therapist says, you don't have to become a teacher, just finish the degree. I know the real reason you are not working on your degree: you fear that teaching will cause you to become depressed again. In your mind you have connected your depression in 2006 with your student-teaching. The two are not connected. Yes, the student-teaching was a trigger. But you can learn to manage your triggers. You will learn bipolar disorder inside and out. You will become attuned to how you act when a manic episode is looming. You will learn how to manage. I promise.
I just wanted to say that I love you. So very much.
Love,
Krystal
June 2014 (age 30)
Dear Krystal circa 2008 (age 25),
Life is not over. You just hit a bump in the road. No one plans on getting sick. You cannot account for how an illness might derail your life.
I know you write your life in pen. You are a planner. You're meticulous that way. I get it. It's one of the things I love about you. But you have to learn that you cannot plan every minute of every day. Learn to become flexible. Trust me. You'll thank me later.
I know you are disappointed that you did not graduate from Rutgers on time. I know it is hard to see all your Duke friends living fabulous lives. To see them in medical school or law school. To see them on track with their goals. You'll get there one day. I promise.
Do not lose sight of your own goals. Yes, you went to graduate school to become a teacher. But working as a teacher's assistant and substitute teacher is not the end of the world. Observe. Hone your craft. You can learn a lot by watching others teach. I know you will view the two years you spent at the Newark charter school as a waste. But don't. You learned a lot about yourself. You learned that even though you had your heart and mind set on teaching in Newark, urban education is not for you. This does not mean that you are not "down for the cause." There are other ways to give back. The cause is not more important than your sanity. You can't make a difference if you are depressed.
Be kind to yourself. Don't beat yourself up over the $10,000 in credit card debt. In a few years your credit will recover.
It will take you two years to finish four papers. It is hard to do school work when your job is so toxic and you are depressed. But push through. Finish the degree. As your therapist says, you don't have to become a teacher, just finish the degree. I know the real reason you are not working on your degree: you fear that teaching will cause you to become depressed again. In your mind you have connected your depression in 2006 with your student-teaching. The two are not connected. Yes, the student-teaching was a trigger. But you can learn to manage your triggers. You will learn bipolar disorder inside and out. You will become attuned to how you act when a manic episode is looming. You will learn how to manage. I promise.
I just wanted to say that I love you. So very much.
Love,
Krystal
June 2014 (age 30)
Monday, June 16, 2014
Pardon Our Planet Comic
This comic strip hangs on my bulletin board in my classroom. Sometimes I worry that we coddle the students too much and that we're not building resilient people. Coping skills are life skills. It's incredibly important learning how to bounce back from setbacks and disappointments.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Marbles: A Graphic Memoir
I read Marbles: Mania, Depression, Michaleangelo, and Me in December 2012. I remember thinking that the images were arresting and intense. Forney definitely presents an interesting examination of one woman's experience with bipolar disorder from diagnosis to treatment to making sense of what the label/treatment mean for her creativity. I appreciated how she explored the link between mental illness and creativity via various deceased poets, writers, artists who are thought to have suffered from unipolar depression or bipolar disorder.
I've asked to teach this graphic memoir in my graphic novel elective (comic books). I'm not sure if it'll get approved by my principal since it's such a sensitive topic. Here's hoping!
I'm in the process of re-reading the memoir. And coming off of a manic high, I recognize a lot of myself in Forney's words. It's eery how the disorder manifests in the same way in different people.
Here's her blog. And here are some of the arresting images from her book. If you want an illustrated glimpse into bipolar disorder, I highly recommend this book.
If I do get to teach this text, I crafted a trigger warning disclaimer to read before we begin:
“This is a sensitive topic and it affects our community. Other than Health and Wellness, mental health is not addressed in our school community. Maintaining confidentiality is important. I’m not asking anyone to self-disclose if they suffer from any disorders. But full disclosure: I have bipolar disorder. Be respectful and mindful about the comments you make. I’ve had it since graduate school and have been hospitalized three times for manic episodes. I’m not ashamed to have this diagnosis. I also don’t want to make this about me. So we’re going to watch a documentary where you’ll get to hear multiple voices talk about their experiences. The one drawback to the documentary is that there are no people of color represented. They are affected too. There also is a failure to discuss challenges for lower income communities and folks with limited access to affordable health care to find proper care for mental afflictions. If the next few weeks raise any triggers for you, I encourage you to speak to one of the nurses or social workers. Remember: smart women use their resources.”
I've asked to teach this graphic memoir in my graphic novel elective (comic books). I'm not sure if it'll get approved by my principal since it's such a sensitive topic. Here's hoping!
I'm in the process of re-reading the memoir. And coming off of a manic high, I recognize a lot of myself in Forney's words. It's eery how the disorder manifests in the same way in different people.
Here's her blog. And here are some of the arresting images from her book. If you want an illustrated glimpse into bipolar disorder, I highly recommend this book.
If I do get to teach this text, I crafted a trigger warning disclaimer to read before we begin:
“This is a sensitive topic and it affects our community. Other than Health and Wellness, mental health is not addressed in our school community. Maintaining confidentiality is important. I’m not asking anyone to self-disclose if they suffer from any disorders. But full disclosure: I have bipolar disorder. Be respectful and mindful about the comments you make. I’ve had it since graduate school and have been hospitalized three times for manic episodes. I’m not ashamed to have this diagnosis. I also don’t want to make this about me. So we’re going to watch a documentary where you’ll get to hear multiple voices talk about their experiences. The one drawback to the documentary is that there are no people of color represented. They are affected too. There also is a failure to discuss challenges for lower income communities and folks with limited access to affordable health care to find proper care for mental afflictions. If the next few weeks raise any triggers for you, I encourage you to speak to one of the nurses or social workers. Remember: smart women use their resources.”
Friday, June 13, 2014
There's More Than One Way to be Black/ More Than One Way to Give Back
So. Thursday (May 2009), at the reception for my graduation, a young, black psychology professor joined my table. He congratulated me and then proceeded to ask me about my plans. I informed him I'd be teaching high school English at an all-girls, private school in a wealthy, overwhelmingly white district. However, the school is more diverse than the town, as the students come from various communities. Anyhoo, he made "that face" when I said the town and school. That disapproving face. That face that questions your commitment to "racial uplift." That face that I wanted to slap...
For the past two years I've been working in a charter school in the heart of Newark. Let me be clear: I HATE IT! The leadership is lacking, to say the least; the students are difficult, disrespectful, and ignorant to their own ignorance; the morale of the staff is non-existent; and the physical environment is not safe (my first year there were about four shootings nearby). I have very strong ideas about the problems of urban/low-income education. Poor students do not need to be educated "differently." What Newark needs: a strong, firm leadership supporting quality teachers teaching a quality curriculum holding high expectations for the students' academic, social, and behavioral abilities. I honestly cannot speak for all of Newark, but I am so saddened by what is/has transpired at my school.
Newark, obviously, it is a Title I district. In this era of accountability frenzy (which is not a bad thing), some districts have taken to "teaching to the test" in a way that narrows the curricular focus. One result is that the students are shortchanged on an education. The content is lacking. Students at my school thought the Earth was the center of the universe :( Students at my school could not tell me who Hitler was or about the Holocaust :( The only black activists they know are MLK and Harriet Tubman :(
I shared this with the black professor and he, playing the devil's advocate, tried to guilt me into re-evaluating my choice. He said who but you then can/will address these issues? Newark is inundated with the least prepared teachers, the teachers no other district will take, why would you leave? I told him I, an eternal optimist, am jaded and cynical now. And for my sanity I cannot be swallowed by the cause. Its hard work when all around you the weight of the lack of support and services and technology and morale make you exhausted.
There are black students in the private school. Having been in a PWI-environment (predominantly white institution, Duke) myself I feel equally situated to contribute to the black students in the suburbs as I do with my Newark heritage and feeling obligated to give to Newark. I have matured and my thinking has evolved. I don't HAVE to be in the thick of the ghetto to make my mark. But in order to make ANY mark I have to feel supported and happy and optimistic.
For the past two years I've been working in a charter school in the heart of Newark. Let me be clear: I HATE IT! The leadership is lacking, to say the least; the students are difficult, disrespectful, and ignorant to their own ignorance; the morale of the staff is non-existent; and the physical environment is not safe (my first year there were about four shootings nearby). I have very strong ideas about the problems of urban/low-income education. Poor students do not need to be educated "differently." What Newark needs: a strong, firm leadership supporting quality teachers teaching a quality curriculum holding high expectations for the students' academic, social, and behavioral abilities. I honestly cannot speak for all of Newark, but I am so saddened by what is/has transpired at my school.
Newark, obviously, it is a Title I district. In this era of accountability frenzy (which is not a bad thing), some districts have taken to "teaching to the test" in a way that narrows the curricular focus. One result is that the students are shortchanged on an education. The content is lacking. Students at my school thought the Earth was the center of the universe :( Students at my school could not tell me who Hitler was or about the Holocaust :( The only black activists they know are MLK and Harriet Tubman :(
I shared this with the black professor and he, playing the devil's advocate, tried to guilt me into re-evaluating my choice. He said who but you then can/will address these issues? Newark is inundated with the least prepared teachers, the teachers no other district will take, why would you leave? I told him I, an eternal optimist, am jaded and cynical now. And for my sanity I cannot be swallowed by the cause. Its hard work when all around you the weight of the lack of support and services and technology and morale make you exhausted.
There are black students in the private school. Having been in a PWI-environment (predominantly white institution, Duke) myself I feel equally situated to contribute to the black students in the suburbs as I do with my Newark heritage and feeling obligated to give to Newark. I have matured and my thinking has evolved. I don't HAVE to be in the thick of the ghetto to make my mark. But in order to make ANY mark I have to feel supported and happy and optimistic.
Invictus
I used this poem in my demonstration lesson for my current job. I had the students imagine they were therapists, then they had to write about how they would use this poem in a therapy session with a client who was going through a divorce, unemployed, and about to lose their house,
May this poem inspire you...
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
My First Episodes (2007 to 2009)
I have realized that I have always been bipolar even though I wasn't diagnosed until age 23. Age of onset for mental illness is late adolescent/early twenties. I was ripe for an episode. Episodes are also triggered by traumatic life events. My first episode (a bout of depression) occurred during the fall semester of my second and last year of graduate school. I was student-teaching 2nd grade in New Brunswick, NJ. I had a lot of anxiety around teaching. I mean, who would trust me alone in a classroom with their children? I was terrified to teach despite always wanting to be a teacher. Around November 2006 I became depressed. I stopped eating, I stopped grooming, I stopped hanging out with friends and taking phone calls, I cried almost every morning before I had to go to the elementary school for student-teaching. I was around 120/125 pounds. I dropped down to 106. I looked skeletal. I wasn't sleeping. I stopped sleeping in my bed because I couldn't fall asleep there so I took to sleeping (or rather "laying," since I rarely slept) on the couch downstairs in the living room.
I felt like I was a failure at student-teaching. I was teaching full time and had one graduate class for a few hours every Thursday night. I told my cooperating teacher how much I sucked. She had done alternate route (meaning, she did not do a traditional teacher preparation program). She told me that I was a lot better than her during her first year. Her kind words did nothing to placate me.
I don't know how, but I managed to finish student-teaching in December. I knew something was wrong. I worked up the courage to seek help. I went to Rutgers student health services. I had every symptom of depression except suicidal thoughts. The therapist told me that since my mom had private insurance I should seek outside help. I felt dismissed. He did not take my depression seriously because I wasn't suicidal. I never sought help again. It took all I had to go to see him; I couldn't do it again. My mom snapped her fingers in my face and said "snap out of it." Such an insensitive comment, from my otherwise very kind and thoughtful mother. No one says crap like this to people with cancer or diabetes: "you can will yourself to be better." Yeah, right. The reason I stopped taking my family and friends calls was because they were so well-meaning, trying to cheer me up. I knew I was being irrational, but I couldn't change my negative thoughts. So instead of sounding like a broken record, I just avoided all contact. Even though I wasn't suicidal, that doesn't mean I wanted to live. I wanted to press the "pause" button on my life and wake up when I was back to normal.
January came and I went to Jamaica with Chavonne and Niama. I don't remember having much fun. And I haven't been back to a Caribbean island since. (I travel frequently; I've been to Spain, Morocco, Egypt, Italy, Japan, South Africa, and Costa Rica).
I don't remember what month it was, but sometime in the spring semester I started to feel better. I didn't spend any money when I was depressed because I didn't think I would ever have a job or money. At this point I had zero credit card debt. However, I started shopping. I bought two Gucci bags ($1400), three Lucky jeans (at $100 a pop), $100 in costume jewelry accessories, and I have no idea what else I bought. But when all was said and done I had charged $10,000 on my credit cards in less than two or three months. I still wasn't sleeping or eating. When your manic, your brain doesn't think it needs food or sleep. I got very euphoric. I started talking very fast. I got excited about my future again.
The euphoria turned to irritability after awhile. I started arguing with the members of my household. Grad school was going so-so. My professors and advisors thought something was off. Because clearly it was. I applied for a job with a charter school in Newark, one of the better ones in the city. The interview went well considering I was manic. However, it all fell apart when it came time to ask for a recommendation from my cooperating teacher. Since I gave her such a hard time when I was depressed in the fall, she requested I not be returned to her class in the spring for my teacher-researcher project. Instead, I worked with a first grade teacher down the hall. Needless to say I did not get the job. In retrospect, I'm glad I didn't. Charter school schedules are too demanding and are not sustainable for healthy people, let alone diagnosed folks.
In April I was committed to the hospital. I knew I needed to go. But first I wanted to have a going away party at Makeda's in New Brunswick. I wanted to go to the mall to get a new outfit, I wanted a new hair do, and I wanted a manicure and pedicure. Needless to say I did not get to have my going away party. I was very upset about it too!
I was in the hospital for 17 days. It's incredibly hard to be the only manic person around severely depressed people. Whereas everyone else was moping around, I was literally bouncing off the walls. I couldn't sit still long enough to watch a movie. I couldn't sit still long enough to eat my meals; it took me anywhere from 40 to 60 minutes to finish eating. I was irritable with the staff and other patients. I threatened someone, saying, "You don't know me, I'm from Newark, I'll cut you!" I don't even talk like that. I had one fight in 6th grade with an effeminate boy and he beat me. The staff threatened to involuntarily sedate me with a needle if I didn't calm down. They didn't. But I moved rooms to remove myself from other people. I took my blankets and went to sleep in the observation room (I call it the padded room, except the walls weren't padded). Two symptoms of mania are hypersexuality and lack of impulse control. I remember one time after I got out of the shower, I came out of the bathroom in just my towel. One of the patient care technicians saw me and told me to put some clothes on. Despite being 106 pounds I was still shapely. I think I aroused him. And he treated me like an asshole. The psychiatrist (the one with the negative connotation to his name) called me psychotic. I was offended. They tried at least four or five different medicines. I was on 2500mg of either Depakote or Risperdal. 2500mg is the highest dose possible. It did absolutely nothing for me, I was that manic. Next, the doctor tried Seroquel. I had vivid nightmares the first few nights. I dreamed that the nurses and doctors had Tommy guns and were coming to get me. It felt so real. I remember calling my mother and crying about the hallucinations I was having. I have consciously chosen not to do drugs (I've never smoked; I drink probably twice per year) and here I was hallucinating. It was a hard pill to swallow. All of the staff treated me poorly. They treated me like I was their first manic patient. I did not have a positive experience on the behavioral health unit. However, there was one nurse who was nice to me. She was a middle-aged black woman. She treated me like family. And I will be forever grateful. This was in 2007, when I went back to the hospital in 2013 she was still working there. I wrote her a thank you card. She was so moved by my words that I saw her sharing the card with the other nurses!
Next, I was put on a small dose of Lithium. I don't remember the dosage; I think it might have been 300mg or 600mg. But it began working almost immediately. I felt the fog begin to lift. Now, I was still manic but I felt myself coming down. It was hard to still be on the unit when people came after me but left before me.
My mom came to visit me every single day. I can't imagine how hard this had to be on her. How draining and taxing. I made her buy outside food for all of the patients. She complied. I don't know why she didn't tell me "no." I also had other visitors. I really appreciated them for coming to see me. Especially when I was not a nice person. I am now embarrassed by my behavior. Luckily I have not acted this way since.
After my 17-day bid (because that's exactly what it felt like: a prison sentence), I did 6 weeks (or 18 sessions) of Intensive Outpatient Therapy (IOP). It meets from 10:30am to 2pm daily. It's a combination of group therapy led by nurses and therapists, individual sessions with a therapist, and individual sessions with a psychiatric nurse practitioner or psychiatrist. I thoroughly enjoyed IOP. I recognized some familiar faces from the hospital. But not everyone at IOP is hospitalized prior, some come in on their own or at the recommendation of their providers.
I withdrew from graduate school with only one month to go to graduation. I was very sad not to finish graduate school on time. I attended Duke University for undergrad and the majority of my friends were in law school or medical school. Looking at their updates on Facebook I felt like such a failure. Playing "keeping up with the Joneses" was not good for my self-esteem. One of my grad school friends got a job teaching kindergarten at a Newark charter school. She told me her job was hiring teacher's assistants. I applied. Got the job and started working there in November 2007. My first year I was a kindergarten teacher's assistant and as-needed substitute teacher. My second year I was a 5th grade teacher's assistant. My first year I was a star employee. However, by my second year I stopped caring. I hated my job. It was such a toxic environment: the teachers yelled at the students, there were fights everyday (mind you, this was a K-5 school), the principal was ineffective. He'd hide out in his office avoiding confrontations with parents. I started coming in late every day. I just didn't want to be there but I needed the job. I had student loans and credit card debt to pay off. I was making around $25,000. Well below what my degrees could demand. I was three classes away from finishing my master's degree and becoming a certified teacher. I was more highly educated than half the teachers at the school, but I wasn't a teacher.
After my second year, my friend from grad school, the kindergarten teacher, told me I was a "b*tch." And she was right. I, too, started yelling at the kids. At 125 pounds I do not have a commanding presence; and my classroom management skills were non-existent. Working at the Newark charter school changed me. For the worse. Even worse than my personality change was what I did to my nephews. At the time, my brother, his fiancee and their two kids were living at my mom's house. When I came home I was so drained. I would go into my room and shut the door to avoid my nephews. This was not fair to them.
Meanwhile, I was avoiding finishing up my grad degree. I had an irrational fear of teaching. I thought if I taught I'd get depressed again. My therapist, whom I love, told me: "Krystal, who cares if you teach, just finish the f*cking degree!"
I was depressed practically the entire two years I was working at the charter school. I was still in therapy and compliant with all of my meds. Then something turned around during the spring of 2009. I had had it with my job and started applying to other places. I started working on the 4 papers I needed to finish for my master's. In retrospect, it's crazy that it took me two years to write four papers. If I had been mentally well I could've written them all in a week.
I applied to about 20 different jobs. Most were with non-profit organizations. I applied to two teaching jobs: a GED teacher at a halfway house and a high school teacher at a private school. Would you believe it that the only callbacks I got came from the teaching jobs! I interviewed for the GED teacher opening. I thought it went well. The interviewer made it seem like I had the job. Then they never called. My aunt works in the halfway house's headquarters. Her view was that I didn't get the job because I was too pretty. It was an all-male halfway house. In April 2009 the private school had a diversity recruitment event. I saw it in the Star Ledger. The event was beautiful. The people were warm (the students, parents, teachers, administrators). I was struck most by one teacher's story about feeling guilty after she transitioned from a public school to this private school. Her words resonated with me.
I spoke to this teacher. And I also spoke to the Diversity Director. There was an opening for high school English. I went to graduate school for elementary education and would be certified to teach K-8. I did not have high school certification. But the Diversity Director told me that I didn't need state certification for private schools. That made my day. Next I talked to the Associate Head of the School. She was really nice. She asked me if I attended a Nemnet recruitment event. Nemnet is a hiring firm for school districts specializing in placing people of color in schools. I did register for the Nemnet event, but I was hospitalized when it took place so I couldn't attend. But she remembered my resume! I was so impressed.
The next day the Associate Head of the School emailed me to ask if I would be interested in applying for the high school English position. A few weeks later I had my interview. I had to teach a 40-minute demonstration lesson to a class of students. I asked the teachers at my job for feedback on my lesson. I taught the poem "Invictus." I had the students closely read the poem. Then for "homework" I had them imagine they were a therapist, they had to write about how they would use the poem in a therapy session with a client who was going through a divorce, lost their job, and was in the process of losing their house. It was a full day of interviews. I had one-on-one interviews with the Upper School Director (principal), the Diversity Director, and the Associate Head of the School. I had a group interview with the entire English department. I was on! I was my usually bubbly and alert self. I answered their questions thoughtfully and asked them questions in return. A few weeks later I was informed that I got the job! I have been at this school for five years now. I love it: the students, my colleagues, my principal.
My current school is so different from my job at the Newark charter school. Night and day is an understatement. My current school suits my temperament much better. And I don't yell at students! And I can teach. I love discussing books. Every school should be like mine.
I felt like I was a failure at student-teaching. I was teaching full time and had one graduate class for a few hours every Thursday night. I told my cooperating teacher how much I sucked. She had done alternate route (meaning, she did not do a traditional teacher preparation program). She told me that I was a lot better than her during her first year. Her kind words did nothing to placate me.
I don't know how, but I managed to finish student-teaching in December. I knew something was wrong. I worked up the courage to seek help. I went to Rutgers student health services. I had every symptom of depression except suicidal thoughts. The therapist told me that since my mom had private insurance I should seek outside help. I felt dismissed. He did not take my depression seriously because I wasn't suicidal. I never sought help again. It took all I had to go to see him; I couldn't do it again. My mom snapped her fingers in my face and said "snap out of it." Such an insensitive comment, from my otherwise very kind and thoughtful mother. No one says crap like this to people with cancer or diabetes: "you can will yourself to be better." Yeah, right. The reason I stopped taking my family and friends calls was because they were so well-meaning, trying to cheer me up. I knew I was being irrational, but I couldn't change my negative thoughts. So instead of sounding like a broken record, I just avoided all contact. Even though I wasn't suicidal, that doesn't mean I wanted to live. I wanted to press the "pause" button on my life and wake up when I was back to normal.
January came and I went to Jamaica with Chavonne and Niama. I don't remember having much fun. And I haven't been back to a Caribbean island since. (I travel frequently; I've been to Spain, Morocco, Egypt, Italy, Japan, South Africa, and Costa Rica).
I don't remember what month it was, but sometime in the spring semester I started to feel better. I didn't spend any money when I was depressed because I didn't think I would ever have a job or money. At this point I had zero credit card debt. However, I started shopping. I bought two Gucci bags ($1400), three Lucky jeans (at $100 a pop), $100 in costume jewelry accessories, and I have no idea what else I bought. But when all was said and done I had charged $10,000 on my credit cards in less than two or three months. I still wasn't sleeping or eating. When your manic, your brain doesn't think it needs food or sleep. I got very euphoric. I started talking very fast. I got excited about my future again.
The euphoria turned to irritability after awhile. I started arguing with the members of my household. Grad school was going so-so. My professors and advisors thought something was off. Because clearly it was. I applied for a job with a charter school in Newark, one of the better ones in the city. The interview went well considering I was manic. However, it all fell apart when it came time to ask for a recommendation from my cooperating teacher. Since I gave her such a hard time when I was depressed in the fall, she requested I not be returned to her class in the spring for my teacher-researcher project. Instead, I worked with a first grade teacher down the hall. Needless to say I did not get the job. In retrospect, I'm glad I didn't. Charter school schedules are too demanding and are not sustainable for healthy people, let alone diagnosed folks.
In April I was committed to the hospital. I knew I needed to go. But first I wanted to have a going away party at Makeda's in New Brunswick. I wanted to go to the mall to get a new outfit, I wanted a new hair do, and I wanted a manicure and pedicure. Needless to say I did not get to have my going away party. I was very upset about it too!
I was in the hospital for 17 days. It's incredibly hard to be the only manic person around severely depressed people. Whereas everyone else was moping around, I was literally bouncing off the walls. I couldn't sit still long enough to watch a movie. I couldn't sit still long enough to eat my meals; it took me anywhere from 40 to 60 minutes to finish eating. I was irritable with the staff and other patients. I threatened someone, saying, "You don't know me, I'm from Newark, I'll cut you!" I don't even talk like that. I had one fight in 6th grade with an effeminate boy and he beat me. The staff threatened to involuntarily sedate me with a needle if I didn't calm down. They didn't. But I moved rooms to remove myself from other people. I took my blankets and went to sleep in the observation room (I call it the padded room, except the walls weren't padded). Two symptoms of mania are hypersexuality and lack of impulse control. I remember one time after I got out of the shower, I came out of the bathroom in just my towel. One of the patient care technicians saw me and told me to put some clothes on. Despite being 106 pounds I was still shapely. I think I aroused him. And he treated me like an asshole. The psychiatrist (the one with the negative connotation to his name) called me psychotic. I was offended. They tried at least four or five different medicines. I was on 2500mg of either Depakote or Risperdal. 2500mg is the highest dose possible. It did absolutely nothing for me, I was that manic. Next, the doctor tried Seroquel. I had vivid nightmares the first few nights. I dreamed that the nurses and doctors had Tommy guns and were coming to get me. It felt so real. I remember calling my mother and crying about the hallucinations I was having. I have consciously chosen not to do drugs (I've never smoked; I drink probably twice per year) and here I was hallucinating. It was a hard pill to swallow. All of the staff treated me poorly. They treated me like I was their first manic patient. I did not have a positive experience on the behavioral health unit. However, there was one nurse who was nice to me. She was a middle-aged black woman. She treated me like family. And I will be forever grateful. This was in 2007, when I went back to the hospital in 2013 she was still working there. I wrote her a thank you card. She was so moved by my words that I saw her sharing the card with the other nurses!
Next, I was put on a small dose of Lithium. I don't remember the dosage; I think it might have been 300mg or 600mg. But it began working almost immediately. I felt the fog begin to lift. Now, I was still manic but I felt myself coming down. It was hard to still be on the unit when people came after me but left before me.
My mom came to visit me every single day. I can't imagine how hard this had to be on her. How draining and taxing. I made her buy outside food for all of the patients. She complied. I don't know why she didn't tell me "no." I also had other visitors. I really appreciated them for coming to see me. Especially when I was not a nice person. I am now embarrassed by my behavior. Luckily I have not acted this way since.
After my 17-day bid (because that's exactly what it felt like: a prison sentence), I did 6 weeks (or 18 sessions) of Intensive Outpatient Therapy (IOP). It meets from 10:30am to 2pm daily. It's a combination of group therapy led by nurses and therapists, individual sessions with a therapist, and individual sessions with a psychiatric nurse practitioner or psychiatrist. I thoroughly enjoyed IOP. I recognized some familiar faces from the hospital. But not everyone at IOP is hospitalized prior, some come in on their own or at the recommendation of their providers.
I withdrew from graduate school with only one month to go to graduation. I was very sad not to finish graduate school on time. I attended Duke University for undergrad and the majority of my friends were in law school or medical school. Looking at their updates on Facebook I felt like such a failure. Playing "keeping up with the Joneses" was not good for my self-esteem. One of my grad school friends got a job teaching kindergarten at a Newark charter school. She told me her job was hiring teacher's assistants. I applied. Got the job and started working there in November 2007. My first year I was a kindergarten teacher's assistant and as-needed substitute teacher. My second year I was a 5th grade teacher's assistant. My first year I was a star employee. However, by my second year I stopped caring. I hated my job. It was such a toxic environment: the teachers yelled at the students, there were fights everyday (mind you, this was a K-5 school), the principal was ineffective. He'd hide out in his office avoiding confrontations with parents. I started coming in late every day. I just didn't want to be there but I needed the job. I had student loans and credit card debt to pay off. I was making around $25,000. Well below what my degrees could demand. I was three classes away from finishing my master's degree and becoming a certified teacher. I was more highly educated than half the teachers at the school, but I wasn't a teacher.
After my second year, my friend from grad school, the kindergarten teacher, told me I was a "b*tch." And she was right. I, too, started yelling at the kids. At 125 pounds I do not have a commanding presence; and my classroom management skills were non-existent. Working at the Newark charter school changed me. For the worse. Even worse than my personality change was what I did to my nephews. At the time, my brother, his fiancee and their two kids were living at my mom's house. When I came home I was so drained. I would go into my room and shut the door to avoid my nephews. This was not fair to them.
Meanwhile, I was avoiding finishing up my grad degree. I had an irrational fear of teaching. I thought if I taught I'd get depressed again. My therapist, whom I love, told me: "Krystal, who cares if you teach, just finish the f*cking degree!"
I was depressed practically the entire two years I was working at the charter school. I was still in therapy and compliant with all of my meds. Then something turned around during the spring of 2009. I had had it with my job and started applying to other places. I started working on the 4 papers I needed to finish for my master's. In retrospect, it's crazy that it took me two years to write four papers. If I had been mentally well I could've written them all in a week.
I applied to about 20 different jobs. Most were with non-profit organizations. I applied to two teaching jobs: a GED teacher at a halfway house and a high school teacher at a private school. Would you believe it that the only callbacks I got came from the teaching jobs! I interviewed for the GED teacher opening. I thought it went well. The interviewer made it seem like I had the job. Then they never called. My aunt works in the halfway house's headquarters. Her view was that I didn't get the job because I was too pretty. It was an all-male halfway house. In April 2009 the private school had a diversity recruitment event. I saw it in the Star Ledger. The event was beautiful. The people were warm (the students, parents, teachers, administrators). I was struck most by one teacher's story about feeling guilty after she transitioned from a public school to this private school. Her words resonated with me.
I spoke to this teacher. And I also spoke to the Diversity Director. There was an opening for high school English. I went to graduate school for elementary education and would be certified to teach K-8. I did not have high school certification. But the Diversity Director told me that I didn't need state certification for private schools. That made my day. Next I talked to the Associate Head of the School. She was really nice. She asked me if I attended a Nemnet recruitment event. Nemnet is a hiring firm for school districts specializing in placing people of color in schools. I did register for the Nemnet event, but I was hospitalized when it took place so I couldn't attend. But she remembered my resume! I was so impressed.
The next day the Associate Head of the School emailed me to ask if I would be interested in applying for the high school English position. A few weeks later I had my interview. I had to teach a 40-minute demonstration lesson to a class of students. I asked the teachers at my job for feedback on my lesson. I taught the poem "Invictus." I had the students closely read the poem. Then for "homework" I had them imagine they were a therapist, they had to write about how they would use the poem in a therapy session with a client who was going through a divorce, lost their job, and was in the process of losing their house. It was a full day of interviews. I had one-on-one interviews with the Upper School Director (principal), the Diversity Director, and the Associate Head of the School. I had a group interview with the entire English department. I was on! I was my usually bubbly and alert self. I answered their questions thoughtfully and asked them questions in return. A few weeks later I was informed that I got the job! I have been at this school for five years now. I love it: the students, my colleagues, my principal.
My current school is so different from my job at the Newark charter school. Night and day is an understatement. My current school suits my temperament much better. And I don't yell at students! And I can teach. I love discussing books. Every school should be like mine.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
My Summer Reading
I plan on doing a lot of reading with my 3-month summer vacation. Here's what's on my list.
What are you looking to read?
Rutgers Grad School of Social Work Personal Statement
I am applying to the Rutgers School of Social Work because I know the value and caliber of a Rutgers education. My cousin received her M.S.W. from the School of Social Work in 2010 and has spoken highly of the program. And I received my Ed.M. from the Rutgers Graduate School of Education in 2009. When I was an undergraduate considering applying to graduate school I considered doing a dual degree in education and social work. But then I decided not to. I now regret that decision. So here I am in 2014 applying for admission into your Fall 2015 cohort.
I have always been interested in the intersection of education and social work. I used to want to be a non-profit coordinator that offered enrichment experiences to underserved and underprivileged populations. I also always wanted to be a teacher. I grew up in Newark and was a gifted and talented student in elementary and middle schools. And an honors and Advanced Placement student in high school. At Duke University, I double-majored in African American Studies and Political Science with a minor in English. I loved attending school; I still love learning. For the past seven years I have been an educator. I was an instructional assistant and substitute teacher in a Newark charter school for two years. And for the last five years I have been teaching high school English at an independent, all-girls' K-12 school. I love my job, my students, and literature. But after 7 years in education I am ready to transition into working in the social work field.
In 2007, during my last year of graduate school I was hospitalized with an acute manic episode. Shortly thereafter I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Graduate school was derailed as I was forced to withdraw from school only a month and a half from graduation. Undetered, I finished my degree two years later despite battling depression. I feel that my own personal experiences with mental health will make me a more compassionate, caring, and effective clinician. My hospitalizations have taught me a great deal about myself. I am resilient, creative, and innovative. I have not let my diagnosis steer me off the course I have set for my life. My "detours" have only made me stronger. I have started a blog to document my experiences; it is called Manic Monique's Meanderings: My Journey to Wellness. Writing can be very therepeutic. I've already had two former classmates contact me to tell me that they too suffer from bipolar disorder; they thanked me for sharing my story.
My strengths are my intelligence, my organizational and time management skills, and my concern for others. I have been an academic advisor, a club advisor, a teacher, and a facilitator while at my current job. I am also interested in matters concerning social justice and diversity, as I advise the student clubs Black Cultural Association and Diversity Council. My students have consistently scored well on the Advanced Placement exams, evidence of my strong teaching of reading and writing. I have great rapport with both my students and colleagues. The countless thank you notes and gifts I receive from my students lets me know just what my impact has been. I believe having been a teacher will make me a better clinician. I have honed my classroom management. Further, as a teacher I redirect tangential conversations, ask thoughtful follow up questions, and craft meaningful lessons and activities. As far as weaknesses, I think I can care too much at times. I feel rather deeply (I think it has to do with my mood disorder). I actually consider this a gift and a curse. It's a gift because compassion is a necessary trait to better the world. However, it can be a curse because it can be debilitating when I think about how vast and deep the problems go. Problems such as poverty, felon disenfranchisement, ineffective schools, poor life chances, lack of quality healthcare and the list goes on ad nauseum.
Inspired by my own three hospitalizations, I want to become a clinician. I've had great therapists and psychiatrists, my own personal providers that I've been consistently with for the last seven years as well as the ones I've met at the hospital and Intensive Outpatient Therapy. I want to help the mentally unwell get their lives back on track. An illness can derail one's plans. But with the right support the derailment doesn't have to be permanent.
Recap: How I Ended Up in the Hospital
This entire past year I've felt awful. Last week or two (the end of May/ beginning of June 2014) I started to feel better. I thought I was turning over a new leaf in terms of my mood. But I was suspicious. If it acts like a duck, talks like a duck, it's a duck. Meaning: it's mania.
And I was right. It was mania.
I saw my therapist on Tuesday, June 3rd. I told him how I felt. At the end of the session we agreed I wasn't manic. It was just normal stuff to get excited about: dating, moving back home to get out of debt, wanting to get my driver's license, and traveling plans for my summer vacation. On Wednesday, June 4th I went to Brooklyn for a Janelle Monae concert with Chavonne and Niama. After the concert Chavonne asked me "What's going on?" At first I didn't know what she was referring to. Then she asked if I was manic. To be honest, I resented the question. Why couldn't she be happy for me that I turned over a new leaf? No longer sad and depressed? Then I had to check myself because I had been thinking the same damn thing! To placate her, I told her that I had seen my therapist the night before and we agreed that I wasn't manic. So I wasn't. But I still couldn't kick the doubt.
I got home from the concert at 1am. I did not sleep all night. I text my therapist at 10:56pm. We text back and forth for two hours. Then we spoke on the phone at 1:30am. I told him what Chavonne asked me and shared my own concerns. After we hung up I crafted the Update Email, but did not hit send because I didn't want to raise any red flags with a 2am email to my family, friends and coworkers. I proofread the email a dozen times. I really tried to lay down. But I kept getting up to add and tweak the update email. I read and responded to a few emails on match.com. I read a little of The Fault in Our Stars. And then it was 6am. Time to shower and get ready for work.
By now I'm totally spiraling into mania. I hit send on the email at 6:35am. I get dressed. I tell my mom that Chavonne asked if I was manic. I make the mistake of telling my mom that I didn't sleep. I really intended to keep that to myself. But I wasn't at my best going on no sleep and all. So I let it slip. Now her antenna is up. And she doesn't want me to go to work. I tell her that I talked to my therapist this morning. And that I was going to skip work Friday to go to Intensive Outpatient Therapy (IOP). I know I need to go get help. But I also need to go to work. It's the students' last day and I want to finish the year with them. I was so sad that I didn't get to finish the 2012-2013 school year with my students. I went out on disability April 19th through the end of the school year. I needed to hold out and finish my last day with my students.
By this point I'm fighting to keep my eyes awake. My mom and I have reached a compromise: I get to go to work but will be leaving early, at noon, then going straight to the emergency room. I try to play it cool and act normal. I sing along to the radio. I try to make light conversation. When all I wanna do is sleep.
Before my mom drops me off at work we stop at Dunkin Donuts so I can buy munchkins for my students. I also grab a coffee and some hash browns. I know I need to eat something. Walking into the building I feel like I'm sleepwalking. In fact my eyes are closed and I am walking slowly to my classroom. I run into a coworker. She sees my eyes closed. Shoot. I make up a half truth about how I was out late in Brooklyn at a concert; didn't get home until 1am. I don't mention that I haven't slept. Finally I make it to my classroom. It is nice and dark. And at this hour the building is still empty. I check the schedule for the day and see that Advisory starts at 8:30am. My advisees graduated on Sunday so I'm free during this time. I pull the beanbags behind my desk and lay down after setting my alarm for 8:30am. It's too quiet and my thoughts are starting to rattle around in my head. I turn on Pandora radio to the Mumford and Sons station and lay down in the darkness. I don't fully fall asleep but I lay there; I force myself to lay still, to rest since I didn't sleep the night before. I wanted to lay down until 8:30am; I didn't make it, I was too distractible. I go to look for my principal so I can tell her about going to the hospital. I preface the conversation by asking her if she read the emails I sent about the new senior elective I want to propose and about using the bipolar memoir in my graphic novel elective. I finally get around to telling her that I am going to the hospital. She is incredibly supportive; I love her so much. The fact that she is religious and a mom of four makes her incredibly understanding and caring. I then make my rounds to tell my colleagues that I'll be going to the hospital. I teach my classes. I read aloud Arthur's Summer Vacation, a children's book. I get great feedback from my students about their experiences in my class. I even cover a class for an absent colleague. I go see my colleague who also is my acupuncturist and she teaches me three yoga deep breathing moves. She tells me if I can get my breath to my gut that means my mania isn't as high. It works. I feel calmer, less manicky. Before I know it, it's noon. Time to go.
Before we head to the emergency room, my mom and I go grab lunch. I wanted to eat at Food, but there was no where to park. So we go eat at the restaurant that's on the ground floor of the hospital. We both order turkey burgers and sweet potato fries. We both cut our sandwiches in half. It took me so long to finish the half of the sandwich. I knew if I didn't make it a priority, then I wouldn't eat. We arrive at the emergency room around 1pm. I don't get admitted to the behavioral unit until 11pm. There's a lot of waiting. I said to my mom that last year's emergency room wait was more fun. She responded, "Krystal, people are sick." Indeed they were. There were a lot of people being wheeled in on gurneys in neck braces. Not sure if they were in car accidents or not. The emergency room was very somber. My aunt comes around 7pm to wait with us; she also was with me last year in the emergency room. While waiting, I text all my friends to tell them that I'll be admitted. I text until my phone's battery dies.
When the crisis worker came to interview me to see if I would be admitted or not, he asked tons of questions. Did I do drugs? Did I do drugs at the concert last night? Am I sure I don't do drugs? No heroin, cocaine, weed, cigarettes, alcohol? I answer a confident no. My vices are not drugs, they are sex and shopping. He asks how much have I shopped; I think I spent $1000 this time around, whereas in 2007 I spent $10,000. He asks about my family's mental health history. I don't have many answers for him. I don't know. My uncle, mom's younger brother, committed suicide when I was in middle school. And I have a cousin who was hospitalized with post-partum depression. But that is all I know. I have relatives receiving SSI, but I don't know what their diagnoses are.
And I was right. It was mania.
I saw my therapist on Tuesday, June 3rd. I told him how I felt. At the end of the session we agreed I wasn't manic. It was just normal stuff to get excited about: dating, moving back home to get out of debt, wanting to get my driver's license, and traveling plans for my summer vacation. On Wednesday, June 4th I went to Brooklyn for a Janelle Monae concert with Chavonne and Niama. After the concert Chavonne asked me "What's going on?" At first I didn't know what she was referring to. Then she asked if I was manic. To be honest, I resented the question. Why couldn't she be happy for me that I turned over a new leaf? No longer sad and depressed? Then I had to check myself because I had been thinking the same damn thing! To placate her, I told her that I had seen my therapist the night before and we agreed that I wasn't manic. So I wasn't. But I still couldn't kick the doubt.
I got home from the concert at 1am. I did not sleep all night. I text my therapist at 10:56pm. We text back and forth for two hours. Then we spoke on the phone at 1:30am. I told him what Chavonne asked me and shared my own concerns. After we hung up I crafted the Update Email, but did not hit send because I didn't want to raise any red flags with a 2am email to my family, friends and coworkers. I proofread the email a dozen times. I really tried to lay down. But I kept getting up to add and tweak the update email. I read and responded to a few emails on match.com. I read a little of The Fault in Our Stars. And then it was 6am. Time to shower and get ready for work.
By now I'm totally spiraling into mania. I hit send on the email at 6:35am. I get dressed. I tell my mom that Chavonne asked if I was manic. I make the mistake of telling my mom that I didn't sleep. I really intended to keep that to myself. But I wasn't at my best going on no sleep and all. So I let it slip. Now her antenna is up. And she doesn't want me to go to work. I tell her that I talked to my therapist this morning. And that I was going to skip work Friday to go to Intensive Outpatient Therapy (IOP). I know I need to go get help. But I also need to go to work. It's the students' last day and I want to finish the year with them. I was so sad that I didn't get to finish the 2012-2013 school year with my students. I went out on disability April 19th through the end of the school year. I needed to hold out and finish my last day with my students.
By this point I'm fighting to keep my eyes awake. My mom and I have reached a compromise: I get to go to work but will be leaving early, at noon, then going straight to the emergency room. I try to play it cool and act normal. I sing along to the radio. I try to make light conversation. When all I wanna do is sleep.
Before my mom drops me off at work we stop at Dunkin Donuts so I can buy munchkins for my students. I also grab a coffee and some hash browns. I know I need to eat something. Walking into the building I feel like I'm sleepwalking. In fact my eyes are closed and I am walking slowly to my classroom. I run into a coworker. She sees my eyes closed. Shoot. I make up a half truth about how I was out late in Brooklyn at a concert; didn't get home until 1am. I don't mention that I haven't slept. Finally I make it to my classroom. It is nice and dark. And at this hour the building is still empty. I check the schedule for the day and see that Advisory starts at 8:30am. My advisees graduated on Sunday so I'm free during this time. I pull the beanbags behind my desk and lay down after setting my alarm for 8:30am. It's too quiet and my thoughts are starting to rattle around in my head. I turn on Pandora radio to the Mumford and Sons station and lay down in the darkness. I don't fully fall asleep but I lay there; I force myself to lay still, to rest since I didn't sleep the night before. I wanted to lay down until 8:30am; I didn't make it, I was too distractible. I go to look for my principal so I can tell her about going to the hospital. I preface the conversation by asking her if she read the emails I sent about the new senior elective I want to propose and about using the bipolar memoir in my graphic novel elective. I finally get around to telling her that I am going to the hospital. She is incredibly supportive; I love her so much. The fact that she is religious and a mom of four makes her incredibly understanding and caring. I then make my rounds to tell my colleagues that I'll be going to the hospital. I teach my classes. I read aloud Arthur's Summer Vacation, a children's book. I get great feedback from my students about their experiences in my class. I even cover a class for an absent colleague. I go see my colleague who also is my acupuncturist and she teaches me three yoga deep breathing moves. She tells me if I can get my breath to my gut that means my mania isn't as high. It works. I feel calmer, less manicky. Before I know it, it's noon. Time to go.
Before we head to the emergency room, my mom and I go grab lunch. I wanted to eat at Food, but there was no where to park. So we go eat at the restaurant that's on the ground floor of the hospital. We both order turkey burgers and sweet potato fries. We both cut our sandwiches in half. It took me so long to finish the half of the sandwich. I knew if I didn't make it a priority, then I wouldn't eat. We arrive at the emergency room around 1pm. I don't get admitted to the behavioral unit until 11pm. There's a lot of waiting. I said to my mom that last year's emergency room wait was more fun. She responded, "Krystal, people are sick." Indeed they were. There were a lot of people being wheeled in on gurneys in neck braces. Not sure if they were in car accidents or not. The emergency room was very somber. My aunt comes around 7pm to wait with us; she also was with me last year in the emergency room. While waiting, I text all my friends to tell them that I'll be admitted. I text until my phone's battery dies.
When the crisis worker came to interview me to see if I would be admitted or not, he asked tons of questions. Did I do drugs? Did I do drugs at the concert last night? Am I sure I don't do drugs? No heroin, cocaine, weed, cigarettes, alcohol? I answer a confident no. My vices are not drugs, they are sex and shopping. He asks how much have I shopped; I think I spent $1000 this time around, whereas in 2007 I spent $10,000. He asks about my family's mental health history. I don't have many answers for him. I don't know. My uncle, mom's younger brother, committed suicide when I was in middle school. And I have a cousin who was hospitalized with post-partum depression. But that is all I know. I have relatives receiving SSI, but I don't know what their diagnoses are.
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