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Well, for those of you playing along at home, you may have picked up on "Quitter" that I wasn't only referring to Camp Fire Girls and Job's Daughters but about my life. Raise a hand if you caught the barely veiled references to suicide. Anyone?

If you don't know it yet, I brought that bit of prose to my therapist and, on her very strong urging, I checked myself into a psychiatric hospital for Thanksgiving. 

I was in there for a week. The first two days I spent most of my time in my room. I came out to the Day Room for meals and meds, I was examined by a physician, and I went to a couple of group sessions. While the group sessions were fine, they were nothing earth-shaking. The meds were supposed to be what I brought, but the pharmacy apparently would rather bend me over provide me with their meds rather than use what I brought and somehow everything got messed up and I was off my two primary meds for three days, and off one of them for another two after that! So I was experiencing weird withdrawal symptoms as well as being in a strange place both spatially and mentally. 

Somehow, I managed to get better. I stopped obsessively thinking about researching the best and most painless way to end my own life. I cheered up. I laughed. I made very sexual jokes with a couple of the men (harmless and understood all around that we were all teasing — or else Mr. J is going to be surprised by an unexpected pegging!). I spent more time out of my room than in it. 

Then I began to pace like a bored tiger, which is when I knew it was time to leave. If I was willing to leave congenial (if not entirely well) company and bad food (but good desserts) and not having to do much for myself to go back to my scary-messy home, then I must be better.

It took another couple of days to get out because my psychiatrist changed my meds and wanted to see if any side effects occurred immediately. None did.

So, I'm back. I'm still tired, but one of my friends has pointed out that my blood sugar levels are probably all off because my sugar consumption has gone through the roof. I'm still doing well and I'm working on getting the "how to be well" knowledge to stick, rather than just rattle around inside my head.

Depression seems to be a chronic condition for me, like the fibromyalgia and, probably, the anxiety. My new psychiatrist is completely sure he can help me become virtually symptom-free on the mental side and my therapist is sure she can complete the cognitive-behavioral aspects of my mental conditions. 

Just think: I could actually feel like a healthy, happy person. I could BE a healthy, happy person.

I'd like that.

Stay tuned and find out.