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.
Friday, June 13, 2014
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.
Votary
This is so me right now with blogging!
votary
PRONUNCIATION:
(VOH-tuh-ree) 
MEANING:
noun: 1. One who is devoted to an activity, person, institution, etc.
noun: 2. One who has taken vows to a religion, such as a monk or nun.
adjective: Bound by a vow or relating to a vow.
noun: 2. One who has taken vows to a religion, such as a monk or nun.
adjective: Bound by a vow or relating to a vow.
ETYMOLOGY:
From Latin votum (vow), from vovere (to vow), which also gave us vow, vote, and devote. Earliest documented use: 1546.
Freelance Writing and Speaking
I just self-nominated to give a TED Talk on bipolar disorder. Here are two on schizophrenia (they're really great and about 15 minutes each):
The Voices in My Head
Seeing Mental Illness
I've also emailed Essence magazine, Ebony magazine, Psychology Today, the Huffington Post, Healthline.com, PsychCentral.com, Health.com, Bipolar Magazine, and Bipolar Blogger Network. I asked if I can be a guest mental health freelance writer or guest blogger.
I'm waiting on a colleague to proofread my Spanish. Then I'm going to submit an Op-Ed to The New York Times. If they don't accept it, I'm going to submit it to Bipolar Magazine and the Star Ledger.
Wish me luck!
I'll let you know as soon as I hear back...
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.
IOP
I started IOP this week, Intensive Outpatient Therapy that is. IOP is generally 6 weeks, 3 days per week from 10:30am to 2pm. Although, I'm not sure if I'm going to do all 6 weeks this time around. We do three differnent group therapy sessions. And once per week we meet with either a psychiatric nurse practitioner or a psychiatrist and also a therapist.
Group starts every day with a check in:
I've never met another manic person in the hospital or IOP. I think it's because when people are manic they don't think anything is wrong. The high feels incredible! Last week in the hospital, one of the social workers said mania is better than any drug. I don't do recreational drugs, so I don't have a reference point. But I feel incredibly alive and alert and productive when I'm manic. But even though the mania feels good, it can be quite disruptive and dangerous. Last year in IOP, one of the social workers said that mania is worse than depression in terms of consequences. When you're depressed, you're too listless to make any decisions. But when your manic you don't have any impulse control or any sense of boundaries. People have affairs, quit their jobs, spend money. People even die. Not necessarily because they're suicidal, either. For instance, a manic peron might think they can fly. To test their theory they might jump off of a roof. They didn't want to die, but the grandiosity leads them to believe that they can really fly.
Today in IOP, one of the social workers said wellness is 40% medication and 60% therapy. Therapy can include behavior changes, meditation, changing your thoughts, coping skills, stress reduction, exercise, talk therapy, playing with your pets, journaling/blogging, listening to music, and hanging out with family and friends.
How are you contributing to your own wellness? What do you do to relax? Please share any tips you have; I'm always looking for new things to try.
Group starts every day with a check in:
- How are you feeling?
- Are you suicidal?
- Do you have any medicine changes?
- What are your concerns for the day?
- What are your goals for today?
I've never met another manic person in the hospital or IOP. I think it's because when people are manic they don't think anything is wrong. The high feels incredible! Last week in the hospital, one of the social workers said mania is better than any drug. I don't do recreational drugs, so I don't have a reference point. But I feel incredibly alive and alert and productive when I'm manic. But even though the mania feels good, it can be quite disruptive and dangerous. Last year in IOP, one of the social workers said that mania is worse than depression in terms of consequences. When you're depressed, you're too listless to make any decisions. But when your manic you don't have any impulse control or any sense of boundaries. People have affairs, quit their jobs, spend money. People even die. Not necessarily because they're suicidal, either. For instance, a manic peron might think they can fly. To test their theory they might jump off of a roof. They didn't want to die, but the grandiosity leads them to believe that they can really fly.
Today in IOP, one of the social workers said wellness is 40% medication and 60% therapy. Therapy can include behavior changes, meditation, changing your thoughts, coping skills, stress reduction, exercise, talk therapy, playing with your pets, journaling/blogging, listening to music, and hanging out with family and friends.
How are you contributing to your own wellness? What do you do to relax? Please share any tips you have; I'm always looking for new things to try.
Pet Therapy
In the hospital we had Pet Therapy twice during my 5-day stay. I don't really care for pets of any kind so I did not attend. However, the second time they came, I attended.
The dog had on a hoodie. It's owner also brought some other pieces from the dog's wardrobe to show us: a lace dress, a dress with a bow on it; there were lots of pink clothes. The dog owner also had a photo album of the dog in her various clothes. I feel like the dog has more clothes than I do. She is very fashionable! She even had a manicure and pedicure (with dog safe nail polish, of course).
The dog also sings! If the owner asks the dog to sing, she'll start barking in either a low or high register.
The dog is a volunteer with St. Hubert's Paws for People program.She is 9 years old. In order to be a pet therapy dog, the dog has to pass a series of tests: have to meet another dog and not be scared or vicious, people bang on pots and pans and the dog can't be bothered, they come in contact with various hospital equipment (wheelchair, IV pole, walker), and they have to follow commands (sit, stay down).
The dog's owner was very charismatic. I liked her. I'm glad I went to pet therapy. She became a volunteer to honor her dying mother's memory.
The dog had on a hoodie. It's owner also brought some other pieces from the dog's wardrobe to show us: a lace dress, a dress with a bow on it; there were lots of pink clothes. The dog owner also had a photo album of the dog in her various clothes. I feel like the dog has more clothes than I do. She is very fashionable! She even had a manicure and pedicure (with dog safe nail polish, of course).
The dog also sings! If the owner asks the dog to sing, she'll start barking in either a low or high register.
The dog is a volunteer with St. Hubert's Paws for People program.She is 9 years old. In order to be a pet therapy dog, the dog has to pass a series of tests: have to meet another dog and not be scared or vicious, people bang on pots and pans and the dog can't be bothered, they come in contact with various hospital equipment (wheelchair, IV pole, walker), and they have to follow commands (sit, stay down).
The dog's owner was very charismatic. I liked her. I'm glad I went to pet therapy. She became a volunteer to honor her dying mother's memory.
This is not a picture of the pet therapy dog (remember there are no phones allowed on the unit). This is a stock image from Google.
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