Three Years Later....

From "Spongebob Time Cards" by MickfromShik3 via YouTube

Well, I'm not so much a teenager any more... Being as I'm twenty. In fact, I had almost forgot this blog existed. So now that the "teenage" part of the title is out of date, let me also tell you that I've even questioned whether I'm really a girl. Like thinking I'm non-binary or something. So I guess that leaves the title with Psychology in the View of an Awkward, which sounds about right.

Nearly a couple years ago, I volunteered at an outpatient mental hospital. Mostly just clerical work. I was told on my first day that one of the volunteers were almost kidnapped from the parking lot the day before. Reassuring. I never really got to interact with any of the patients, which was a shame as I was hopping to make new friends. In fact I think I learned a lot more about mental health just going back to the tent I pitched in the back yard and reading memoirs about people with bipolar disorder.

By the way, in case you were curious what those books were:

Haldol and Hyacinths: A Bipolar Life by Melody Moezzi is about an Iranian American with bipolar disorder- which was a plus because I had a "pen pal" from Iran. I remember Melody's mania would give her a lot of energy to try to be some kind of revolutionary, I think one of her projects had something to do with hula-hooping. Which sounds great until she starts hallucinating or getting worn out from lack of sleep or pacing excessively. The other book was Confessions of a Bi-Polar Mardi Gras Queen by Marie Etienne. While we're talking about bipolar memoirs, might as well add Dark Side of Innocence: Growing Up Bipolar by Terri Cheney which although I haven't read it in several years, I still remember that part where she stabbed her brother with a fork. Sometimes I when I'd read a memoir about bipolar disorder I would think "Wow, that's like me, except without the mania.", then I realize that would just be called depression.

I got the idea to volunteer at a mental hospital as I was curious and fascinated by Elahan Place, the inpatient rehabilitation residential area I got an excuse to walk past on my loop that I walked several times a day. Besides the fact I liked the name, the sign was just as cozy, and I enjoyed looking at the protruding roots from the wall of trees by the entrance... I was curious by the place itself. What was it like? Who lived there? Were there anyone like me? Lost and confused with life, suffering because they haven't found their niche?

I kinda wondered whether I should have been volunteering at the mental hospital, or be a patient there, but I figured as a volunteer at least I'd make myself feel useful and maybe I had more to give than I had to gain. Yet, I remember one day fresh from the hospital, with the badge still on me, I haphazardly decided to run away. Sort of. On my way home, I was brooding over the unrequited limerence I had for a failing friendship so I got this idea to walk to their place, which would've taken a couple days assuming I wasn't going to sleep. I ducked through a large hole in the fence a homeless person must've incorporated into a makeshift shelter and crossed I-205 to the island between the lanes of traffic where there was a thin strip of vegetation. I figured if I walked north enough, I'd eventually hit Olympia or so. My trek was cut very short when a police officer stopped me. I am surprised he didn't check me for drugs as I didn't remember where I lived and I gave a vague reason for walking along the freeway (specifically, that I was taking a walk). That was the first time I was handcuffed and had ridden in a police car, but luckily I wasn't fined. He just dropped me off at my grandma's house because that was the address on my ID. This wasn't the only time I tried to run away. The next time, at least I brought a backpack and wrote down directions, but I only got as far as Ridgefield before I realized I was too afraid to sleep outside. A woman working at a convenience store brought me home at past midnight. I had walked at least 12 to 14 miles that day.

I went to my first counselling session a couple days ago, after my application got turned down by AmeriCorps NCCC for untreated depression and anxiety. Bet you didn't see that coming, HA-HA-HA. Both my parents had advised me not to mention in the AmeriCorps Medical Screening that I have a history of depression and anxiety since it was never diagnosed. In which I not only mentioned that, but also admitted to SI over a year ago. A counselor called me and I was supposed to have professional documentation stating that I was mentally stable enough to go into NCCC, which I'd barely even had a counselor in my life. I had my mom fill out one of the forms, which helped a little but not a whole lot. As a last ditch effort, I wrote a 9 page "Mental Self-Evaluation" to hopefully answer all their questions about the incident where I considered suicide, my depression and anxiety symptoms, why I didn't seek treatment, healthy coping mechanisms, how I've improved, and strengths I have to overcome my weaknesses. Although they were impressed by my insightfulness and writing skills, of course, I was still declined. I was in San Francisco during Spring Break when I got the email telling me the board probably won't accept me. I just barely cheered up enough by the time I watched sea lions make a fool of themselves. Back at the hotel, I had texted a friend I had initially asked for advice because they had been in FEMA Corps to let them know I wasn't going to get accepted. My friend called for the first time in nine months, in which they told me a story about one creepy guy they had met in AmeriCorps and the stupid bureaucracy there. So I guess there's one good thing out of it.

After all these years, what lessons have I learned about mental health? I don't know for sure because learning is a continual process, and lessons can be nebulous and transitional. The answers I have now could be debunked later, or maybe just fuel for more questions. What really do I know? Can I know? Sometimes I pick up patterns. I've learned that focusing on education can temporarily alleviate rumination and relieve loneliness. Yet I know from before I dropped out of high school that it can also worsen anxiety and depression. I've learned how to limit self-criticism and focus on the positive, yet I couldn't live without my full range of emotions and I also need to know that I have a problem to fix it. My fixation on abnormal psychology has subsided a little to focus on other interests. I still don't have all the answers, I still don't have my life together, and I still have some of the same problems from three years ago. It's all a process.