Of course, the dog, Max, is asleep. It's before 10 AM, when he goes out. Although he is as mercurial as I am about his bathroom habits. When the mood strikes, and all that...
My therapist was pissed that I missed my last group session to do some dog rescue. I feel guilty that I missed, but it was a dog's life at stake. I am so codependent, the guilt just rolls in waves over me. My borderline fear of abandonment is kicking in, as well. So much terror from something so small. His point though, is that this DBT (dialectic behavioral therapy) can save my life. I know that's true...I have been to jail for being 'crazy' and it was not pretty. In fact, it was hell. They wouldn't give me my meds.
I know the fine line I walk, in the eyes of law enforcement: I have a fitting terror of their incomprehension. That's the way they want it. That's how the authorities roll. In any country. I wish I could say we have a lot of understanding about the advance science of brain disorders, in this country, but we do not. We are not free here, anymore or less than anyone else...
I will say this: Virginia is implementing a program to educate a select few police officers to 'deal' with people who have mental disabilities. I have talked to one, and he was, indeed, very kind and seemed understanding. It's a push to keep 'us' out of jails, because of lack of education on the police's part.
I appreciate the effort. I could have used it when I was arrested, 3 years ago. About 3 months after my Mother's death. I will not go into detail. I am honest, but not titillating. Not in this case. I spent 5 days in jail, by 'accident'. The lawyer just couldn't get to me before the weekend, I think on purpose, at the District Attorney's request.
I became psychotic at one point and lost touch with reality. I was very ill with a lung infection and had been robbed of my service animal, (my brother picked him up and took him to my veterinarian's to stay.) I wasn't on an anti-psychotic, and they wouldn't give me my meds with any consistency. They would skip one, here or there. I was a wreck.
I went in on a Wednesday night, and my lawyer and brother bailed me out the next Monday. The damage was done. I no longer have a respect for the law, just a terror of it. Which is always a bad thing...I was, eventually, convicted with a misdemeanor, trespassing.
I will balance that with this, to be fair. I went to a dog show one time, and locked my keys in my car. The police, for insurance reasons, no longer help with that situation. But a DEA agent, at an educational event there, did. After I told him that I had invisible disabilities, and was dissociating, from being in their company. He was the kindest man.
Since the destruction of the mental health facilities under President Reagan, we, more often than not, just end up in jail. Where else is there to put us?
Well. I need to shake this post off. I don't know if I will end up posting this or not. It's so very depressing. But it is part of my experience, as a person with invisible disabilities. It's all too easy. It happens everyday. A lot of the people in prison have mental diagnoses. I am just lucky that I am not one of them.
I think I need to bring myself out of the past and into today. I need to practice mindfulness. It's a DBT skill taken from Buddhism. I am not in jail, I am in my apartment. Jail is not impinging on me. It's over, it's gone. Just the fear lives on.
My gold clock stands next to a bottle of Chanel No. 5, and an old picture of a young woman on a horse. The persian carpet sits underneath the silver green silk footstool, by my bed. There is a picture of me, visiting Scotland, on the wall, as real as any memory of jail. The rocking chair that my Father nursed me in, sits in the corner, and Mom's favorite quilt is on the bed. Max's feet move, in a dream, and Ratty snores.
The coffee tastes very good this morning. The shower curtain, with the map of the globe, and each country individually marked, is just as fun to take a shower behind, as it is to look at...and I have a new tea tray, white, with sprays of cherry blossoms on it.
Minkins, of course, is awake with me, and gazes into the distance, watching ghosts. I spray some cranberry room spray, to be hedonistic. All of my senses are engaged in this moment. Mindfulness. But the smell of fear lingers on. I'll spend a moment with you, if you don't mind.
It's never good to be alone with the memory of fear. I know I am not alone. At some point, you will read this, and by that time perhaps, I will be showering, or taking my pills, or eating breakfast.
It's rainy again this week, and the sun might be up, or obscured, either way it will be hotter today. I will talk to friends this morning, and go to an AA meeting tonight. I lost some friends, going to jail. It still scars, despite my efforts, but sometimes that is the function of memory: to teach. I have lost friends to my diagnoses before, and I am sure I will again. Some cannot deal with it. I don't know that I could.
I like my mundane life, with my dog, the asshole, and the unicorn meat eating cats. I like my routine, and my things, and the friends who have hung on. My parents loved me, and I have a brother I love. I have Dark Star, my sister in life. I have control over my choices, and a therapist and a shrink. I have groups where I belong, and people who are pulling for my successful recovery. I am not in jail...
Somehow, this works for me, this morning.
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