the one

I love life.

Or at least I used to.

I mean, I think I did.

When I think back to my childhood, it’s just mixed feelings of,

being smart and successful and helpful,

but all of that backed by feeling worthless and never good enough.

It didn’t matter how many awards I had, or what my grades were,

I’d always be second best, because there was always someone as number one.

And I wasn’t that one.

I am never number one. Hell, I’m never the one.

I’m the stepping stone so people can become their greatest potential,

all while I’m left in the rubble, piecing myself back together,

because I’m just never,

good enough.

My childhood troubles and why today is so important

May 7 is Keiki (Children) Mental Health Awareness Day.

I was thinking about my childhood and how much my friendships had affected me. Honestly, I didn’t hold too many friendships in high school. Not very strong ones at least. There are only a few people I still talk to today from high school, and I could name them on one hand. These ladies know me like we just met in 7th grade yesterday. Outside of that circle, everyone knows my life from what they read on social media, which isn’t too much.

I was actually bullied in high school when I moved to Japan. My junior year wasn’t bad, but when it got to my senior year, it was really bad for me. I remember when I was on myspace one day, I saw a song on someone’s page. I listened to it, and it was a rap that three boys had made… it was about me. I knew it was about me because they spelled my name backwards in the song, and told me to tell my boyfriend at the time to go back to Hawaii. It was a diss rap and honestly, it was really hard to fathom that someone would take the time to record it.

I was really distraught after that. I remember my dad being so mad for me, and we brought it up to their parents because of the status one of the boy’s dad held on post. I remember being shoved around in the hallway for no reason. I remember getting thrown into a bush on my way to the library. I remember eating alone in the library because I had lost my friends to those bullies. They had all known each other for so long, why would they leave their side for me? I was a loner my senior year, and I tried to say I was okay because I had my boyfriend… in Hawaii…

I remember that year, I stopped eating. I’d tell my mom I had eaten when I was cooking so I wouldn’t have to eat dinner. When they’d all go to sleep, I’d throw up what I ate. When I couldn’t stand the hunger anymore, I’d eat Honeycombs cereal because they were empty calories that were easy to vomit. I remember taking solo trips to Shibuja and Shinjuku just to feel surrounded by other lonely people.

I don’t have a lot of memories of my senior year except sad ones. I lost my best friend to suicide (OD), and that’s when a majority of the bullying had picked up. I wanted to kill myself. I don’t think my parents really knew the extent of my sadness and depression then. I started smoking and drinking. I didn’t care for myself anymore. It didn’t get any better when I moved to Seattle to start my young adult life. If anything, it had gotten worse. I started hanging with the wrong people. I started smoking and drinking more, and eventually started smoking pot.

Anything felt better than what I was doing. I was promiscuous. I’m not going to lie and say that I was an angel. My life was in shambles, and I didn’t feel worthy of anything. I didn’t feel worthy of love. I didn’t feel worthy of trusting relationships. I stayed the night at one of my auntie’s house, who was at the time, married to my childhood molester. He tried again when I was there… He had my photos up on his big screen TV and was looking at my photos. He said I could use his tablet but when I opened it up, it was Teen porno. That’s when I tried to kill myself again, because what was my worth?

My childhood is nothing too good to think about… It’s hard to notice the positivity in my childhood when the trauma is so strong. I guess my biggest point of this post, is to be kind to those who you don’t know much about. You never know what people are going through, and if you are the person to make their life worse, you never know how far off the edge they really are. I know there are positives in my life that I appreciate. After saying all this, I have to tell everyone that I am grateful for what I had in

One of the people who used to bully me, apologized to me last month when I lost my shit on Instagram. It was nice closure to a hard chapter in my life, but still, the scars still carry.

So be kind, to anyone and everyone. No matter how annoying, no matter how loud and oboxious, no matter how rude… Because you never know what is causing them to be that way…

What's it like on the ward? A trip into admission.

It never really occurred to me how many of my group mates had never been admitted to a psych ward. Well, I’ve got two different perspectives on being on the ward: as a nurse and as a patient. It’s definitely eye opening when you know what it’s like on the other side. It’s hard knowing that every staff member on that unit has read into your file and knows what your deepest secrets are, and they casually talk about it during their lunch breaks with comments like, “God I feel bad for her” or “Jeez, I didn’t know she was crazy like that.” It’s definitely painful to know that I’ve worked alongside some of those nurses too. Which is why it was so hard for me to seek help in the first place.

But I’m not here to talk about being a nurse. I’m here to talk about what it’s like being admitted to the unit. First of all, it’s absolutely terrifying. Most of the time, no one voluntarily goes into the psych unit. You’re usually placed there involuntary because you’ve said the magic words, “I want to kill myself… or someone else.” Me telling my OBGYN that I had thoughts of hurting myself and taking my baby with me was what landed me in the psych ward the first time. It’s still hard to admit that because I look at Maverick every day with love, and I couldn’t imagine taking him with me like that…

Stripped, uncomfortable, & cold

I hate the initial part of admission because you always spend so much time in the ER. Both times that I went, I was told to change into patient pajamas, and I couldn’t have anything with me like shoes with shoelaces, my cellphone, my wallet, nothing… I hated it, because as I was sitting there slipping deeper into my denial of what was happening, I couldn’t communicate with my husband - my only support person at the time. This is a problem for me. I hate that when we have suicidal patients, we take away their only means of communication to their support. I also hate that family can’t be the one to stay with you while you wait. They made it uncomfortable for me having a higher ranking officer wait with me, who knew nothing of what was going on with me. Unless the patient states it is a safety hazard for that person, hospitals should let the support person be the patient’s choice. I mean, come on guys.

The first time I was admitted, I waited in the room for almost 6 hours. In the ER, the room for suicidal patients is an empty room with 3 sets of double chairs. It’s a cold room. You have no pillow, no blanket, no call bell. Your safety attendant sits in the room with you, awkwardly staring at the same popcorn ceiling that you look at, because they also can’t have their phones. Also stupid. After a few visits with the ER doctor and your nurse, they all congregate in the back with the psychiatrist who makes the ultimate decision of whether to admit you or not. They wand you down to make sure you’ve got nothing on you that could be used as a weapon, and then take you up to the ward and do the longest admission process ever.

The stigma of the ward

The hard part about being on the unit for me was already explained. I hated being admitted and knowing that people could see that I was there. I begged to go elsewhere because I didn’t want nosey people in my chart. I almost asked to use an alias instead. It almost hurt me more being there than it helped.

In all honesty, the unit wasn’t very helpful to begin with. It was so dark, that you could barely tell the different between night & day. The windows were barricaded with a metal sheet that had holes you could literally peep through. They didn’t allow for much light to get in. So you could only tell the difference because you saw fluorescent lighting in the day time. You’d sleep in a room where there was a plastic bed frame, and foam doors. You weren’t allowed to sleep with the light on because it wouldn’t let you get “restful sleep”. Even if that was the only thing keeping you from thinking there were demons out to get you. The day would start early with vital signs, and you could either go back to sleep until breakfast, or wait in the milieu room. I always went back to sleep.

Breakfast was brought up, and there would be a morning huddle. People would choose who would be a leader, introduce themselves, and then choose “sponsors” for new patients. It was stupid, but it gave the ward some order. I never volunteered, and I rarely spoke. Group sessions were held throughout the day, but when I was there, it was a very poor group setting. Nothing particularly helpful. It was more helpful talking to the doctor, and that’s usually not the case.

I’d rather do outpatient treatment

When I was admitted to partial hospitalization, it helped me out more. I was able to see my family and have their support, while also being with group for most of the day to talk things out. I don’t normally talk to my husband about these things, because a lot of the time, I want to be distracted from them. If you need the help of your family, then opt for outpatient treatment. If you’re having a crisis, opt for inpatient treatment to stabilize before going to PHP.

High-functioning from Esme Weijun Wang's book "The Collected Schizophrenias"

“… I find myself uncomfortable around those who are visibly psychotic and audibly disorganized. I’m uncomfortable because I don’t want to be lumped in with the screaming man on the bus, or the woman who claims that she’s the reincarnation of God. I’m uncomfortably uncomfortable because I know that these are my people in ways that those who have never experienced psychosis can’t understand, and to shun them is to shun a large part of myself.”

When I first started going to therapy and wanting to uncover what was truly going on in my head, I spent a lot of time in denial with the thought of “but I’m not like them, I’m not crazy like that.” I have a college degree, a BSN at that! I graduated with a high GPA in high school and with honors in college. I would say most people think that I am highly determined and focused and I’m not crazy... Until you ask me if I hear voices throughout the day that tell me to do things I shouldn’t do. Until I say that there are shadows of people moving around my house that aren’t really there or that my house is infested with ants that don’t exist. Until that time that I wanted to take my life and take my baby with me. Until I have days where I can’t get up because my body doesn’t feel like it’s my own. Maybe I am a little short of insanity, but does that mean that it should become my identity?

She mentions that when someone is diagnosed with illnesses such as diabetes or cancer, that person is usually described as, “Mrs. X has been diagnosed with cancer” rather than, “Mrs. X is a cancer patient.” But for people with mental illnesses that have experienced a period of psychosis, it’s usually the other way around. “Mr. Z is a schizophrenic” and not, “Mr. Z has schizophrenia.” Kind of like it suggests that there isn’t a normal person under the diagnosis, which makes it really hard to not be in denial of a mental-health diagnosis.

So does it really make it any better if you’re classified as a “high-functioning schizo"? I don’t really think so. Or any other kind of mental illness for that matter. Personally, I feel like I have to make it known that I do suffer from mental health illnesses and exaggerate how normal I actually am. Because in reality, I think I’m a pretty normal person until I experience a volume of hallucinations and dissociate from my body because of reliving a trauma or being paranoid. I’m a normal mom, who needs time away from her kid when my senses are overloaded. I’m a normal wife, who loves her husband but sits a couple feet away when I need my space. I’m a normal nurse (not at this time though because medication stability), and I’m a very strong advocate for maternal mental health. I’m a good friend, who slightly obsesses over whether I’m giving enough of my time to make sure they know they’re cared for.

I don’t know where I’m going with this anymore. I just want people to know that people with mental illness are still people, and that they should be care for… Whether they’re going through psychosis or they’re having a better-than-most-days kind of day… Whether they’re yelling on a bus or they’re in the office doing award-winning work. People are people whether they’re crazy or not.

Wow, that was embarrassing.

So, I got a wee drunk the other day, went on Instagram Live for the first time in my life, bawled my eyes out, probably spilled so many dark thoughts and feelings in the process… I can’t even remember what I said on Live, but I’m not sure that I want to. So if you listened, please don’t remind me. I already struggle making small talk with people, the last thing I want is to know the depth of embarrassment I had on Instagram. Thankful that I have a husband that deleted everything before even more people viewed it.

With that being said though, those who did end up viewing my feed and reaching out to me to make sure I was okay, I appreciate the fuck out of you. Those of you who reached out to my husband, I appreciate you. I mean, in the end, the cops got called to my house, my boss showed up, they made me go to the ER to do a psych evaluation and an alcohol blood level, but I ended up getting released home. I was safe, I am safe, we’re all good.

That would have honestly sucked though, because the psych unit here doesn’t discharge on four day weekends, meaning I would’ve been stuck there for 5 days hating myself for drinking that much. That place is like jail. There is no happiness that looms in those hallways. It’s just dread and misery that seeps through those cracks.

I am sad though. I constantly feel alone. I have the biggest case of FOMO, but I’m also the most anti-social person with FOMO… Which really doesn’t help. I hate feeling like I burden people with my depression. I think I’m actually pretty funny, I have a lot of dark humor, and I’m pretty apathetic to things that happen to me, but I’m really empathetic towards others. Which I guess just means, I feel like no one will ever understand me, but I’m pretty good at understanding others. I don’t think I’m super worthy of love, but I will love the fuck out of my friends.

I wish I had an easier time connecting with people. I wish people took the time to get to know me in a deeper sense. I always feel like I come in at the wrong time when I move. People are already super close to each other, they all have inside jokes and hang out on the weekends. I mean, just moving to El Paso, I literally put physical distance between me and almost everyone I know by living on the other side of the mountain. In Korea, I literally was the only officer that lived in Seoul while everyone else stayed 64 kilometers away. Geographic locations have never been on my side either, so I guess that also doesn’t help.

Maybe I just need to try harder at making friends, but honestly… and we’re being absolutely honest…

No one likes hanging out with depressed, anxious, and “crazy” people.

I think that’s the biggest reason why I distance myself. Because I’ve heard people talk about patients that come in with Suicidal Ideation, and I’ve heard people talk about people who get admitted to the psych unit, and those conversations are never 1) welcoming and 2) supportive.

So honestly… Maybe it’s okay that I’m anti-social, cause I’d rather have no friends than have fake friends.