Sam is an astounding writer and so amazingly puts into words things in a way I wish I could grasp. I was in a situation much like this in January of 2014. I had a partner that wasn’t abusive, I had my hormones, I had everything that I wanted, and it didn’t matter. I ended up in a crisis unit anyway. Sam states it well when he says “Because mental illness doesn’t care about the life you’ve built. It’s only interested in what it can take away.”
I’ve spent an hour, give or take, furiously pacing the floor of my apartment. They call this “psychomotor agitation,” though I don’t know it yet.
I feel like I can’t stand to be in my skin another second, like I’m completely wired and simultaneously the most depressed I’ve ever been. They call this a “mixed episode,” though I haven’t realized that yet.
My apartment is my sanctuary. I remember when I moved into the place – the joy I felt to be downtown, to be in the heart of things. It was full of 1920s charm. It felt surreal to be in a place so nice. I put a lot of thought into how I decorated the place, down to the candles and the twinkle lights and the succulents.
It was my safe place – was, up until that moment, when suddenly the train was coming…
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