That's great, but you're not just there to talk to your therapist; you need someone you can work through issues with. Seems like you're often having the therapist equivalent of "small talk" where you don't really get into anything deep and that's totally understandable considering the nature of some of your issues.

By getting a male therapist you will (eventually) find it easier to talk about the things which really need to be talked about, instead of just chatting up someone. If you find a male therapist too intimidating then do it online so you don't have to do it face to face.

This doesn't mean you have to drop the female therapist.

As is often the case, I probably didn't get my point across very well in that post.

I think that due to the fact that a lot of your issues are of a sexual nature you will have an easier time broaching those topics with a member of the same sex. I believe originally your goal was just to get through the sessions (which is a fantastic first step) but you've progressed far past that and should now have loftier goals. Speculation on my part, but I think a big reason why you find it easier to talk to the female therapist is because you know what she wants to hear and you can both humor each other will therapy small talk:

This session stopped being about you as soon as you sat down. Instead of talking about the things you wanted, you ended up trying to please her and make her feel like she was accomplishing something. You did your therapy small talk, she left happy because she felt she accomplished something and you left happy because you made her happy... but nothing was actually accomplished.

By having a same sex therapist you'll hopefully remove that component of the session, and also (once again, imo) have an easier time broaching the real issues.

As I said before, if that's too hard try a skype therapy session; it might be easier if you can't see them. I think you made some pretty big hurdles but now you're spinning your wheels without moving. A same sex therapist might be a way to get over that next hurdle.

I spent the last 6 days in a psychiatric hospital and before that 1 day in an ER.

Most of the staff and patients were pretty cool. I lost a heads up NLH freezeout to a homeless meth addict yesterday. She's funny and sweet tho. We both got discharged today. I'm back home, they took her to the salvation army since she had nowhere else to go. I gave her my phone number, she said she wanted to call me and to come visit her because she doesn't know anyone in the city (the psych hospital was way out in the suburbs.) When we were in the van going to the salvation army to drop her off, she pulls out her little bag-o-meth or whatever and says "do you think they'll let me bring this in?" I said "uh... probably not."

Full write-up of the adventure later.

bgp,

That post you quoted was from december 2017. Since I've restarted therapy in october I'm much better about getting down to business. The only small talk we have now is when my therapist walks out to the lobby and we say hi and she says something obvious about the weather. When we get into her office it's straight to the real **** now.

The things I've told my therapist that I've never told anyone else are too many to count. We have a solid relationship and she knows me very well. I don't think I'd be able to talk to a male therapist the same way, in fact I know I won't.

Dating is on the back burner right now anyway. I have a net worth of around $5k and I'm about to have low 5 figures in medical bills. The ER I went to (I was there for 12 hours) wasn't in my insurance network, there was a 1 hour ambulance ride to the psych hospital, and the psych hospital was $700/day + an $850 co-pay.

I'm glad you're out now and feeling a bit better. It's just horrible thinking that someone having been through that then has to face a medical bill that large. You should start a gofund me, I'd certainly contribute.

Glad you're alright and good luck with the bills

Try not to worry about the medical bills. I know, easy for me to say.

You can talk to a hospital administrator and explain your income situation and get on a low monthly payment plan.

Hope you’re feeling better. Hope they’ve evaluated your medications too.

1/4/19, Friday, 5:30 AM

I can't sleep. My body and mind are amped, it feels like I'm gearing up for something, but I don't know what. It's strange, there's nothing to be anxious about. All I'm going to do today is go to my therapist at 11:30 and maybe go to Whole Foods after. Then go back home to re-immerse myself in depression. I eat a Quest bar, make a cup of tea, and check some tennis scores.

At my therapist's office, I tell her how things are going. Every concievable aspect of my life is failing. I've been waking up every morning for the last 3 weeks trying to come up with a reason not to kill myself. She looks concerned and says she's worried about my safety. She says my depression has always been cyclical but this time feels different and more severe. We go back and forth about the specifics of how I'm feeling.

Her: I think you need a higher level of care.
Me: Such as?
Her: A hospital or some kind of outpatient program
Me: I don't think that would help me
Her: I don't feel comfortable with you just going back home alone feeling the way you're feeling. I think you should be in a place where I know you're safe.
Me: I don't want to do that
Her: I don't want to have to make this an involuntary thing

I look at the clock, it's 1:15 pm. This was supposed to be a 55 minute session. We've been talking for 105 minutes. At that moment, I realize she's made up her mind that I need to be in a hospital. Now it's only a question of whether I go voluntarily or not. She's trying to give me as much time as possible to change my mind. I start crying.

Me: Ok where is it

She puts the address into google maps on her laptop and shows it to me. The hospital is just a few blocks away.

I walk to the hospital. As I get close to the entrance I stop. It feels like I'm crossing a threshold. Going to an emergency room just because I'm crazy and not because there's anything medically wrong with me is not easy to accept. I doubt this place will help me. Not that most doctors and nurses don't want to help, they do, it's the medical system that won't be able to help me. I see some benches near the entrance and I sit down for a few minutes. I start crying again. I know my therapist cares about me and her professional judgement has determined this is necessary, but I don't want to believe it. I walk into the ER.

Me: Hi, my psychologist told me I should come here
Receptionist: Ok, follow me

The receptionist takes me to the back area of the ER with about a dozen beds setup around the outer walls of a room about the size of a tennis court. When I walk in I'm the only patient there. They tell me to change into a hospital gown and put my clothes into a box. They'll need to take my cell phone, any device with a camera in it is not allowed.

About 3pm, a woman enters the area, being pushed in a wheelchair. She was brought here in an ambulance.

It's strange how when you're talking about your mental health issues with a psychologist or psychiatrist, they have strict rules about confidentiality. In an ER, or at least this one, doctors and nurses are just talking out loud to patients about all of their issues, medications, treatments, etc, and everyone else in the room can hear.

Chantel was brought here because she was being drunk and disorderly in public. She's an alcoholic and has a 9 year old daughter. She's feisty and demanding. She resists giving up her phone. She demands water and juice. She doesn't want blood drawn. She keeps asking to be discharged. "I have to go to work. I'm a dancer. I have **** to do. I'm gonna get fired if I don't go to work. I want to sign out against medical advice!"

About 4pm, a social worker comes to talk to me. I tell her what I told my therapist and how I got here. She asks me a bunch of questions about my life and family.

As I sit in the bed, I have short bursts of crying about every 10 minutes.

Chantel finally settles down and takes a nap.

Around 6pm she sits up and looks across the room at me.

Chantel: Hey, are you ok?
I nod
Chantel: I'll pray for you
Me: thanks

An older guy walking with a cane is brought into the area. He's an opiate addict and says he's suicidal. He says he needs this and that medication, I don't remember the names.

Around 7pm the nurse brings some more food and replaces the food that had been sitting in front of me since I got here. I can't eat. Not when I'm feeling like this.

The old guy starts getting agitated and walking around saying he wants to leave. The nurses talk among themselves and say that he's just drug-seeking and when he found out they weren't going to give him the drugs he wants, he got mad.

"You can't just keep me here. I'm leaving." He tries to open the door, it's locked. He walks to the other side fo the room. The nurse and a security guard are following him. "The other door is locked too sir, you need to calm down" says the nurse. "Sir, I'll have to ask you to stay calm or we'll have to restrain you" says the security guard.

The guy walks back to the front of the room and starts breaking ****. I couldn't see the action because there was a wall partially going across the middle of the room, but I could hear everything because it was only 20 feet away.

"SIR STOP THAT. SIR YOU NEED TO SETTLE DOWN. SIR YOU CANT CLIMB UP THAT SHELF. SIR GET OFF THE DESK."

I can hear things crashing and quite a bit of commotion. A nurse asks another nurse to hit the panic button. 10 seconds later 3 more security guards come running in and they start wrestling the guy down.

"YEAH YEAH BREAK MY ****ING ARM DO IT!!!"

The security guys eventually strap him down and a nurse injects him with haldol. They call the police and say they want to report an assault. Apparently the guy had hit a security guard in the shoulder with a metal detector wand. Also they just want to get rid of him.

The cops show up and fill out paperwork for roughly two hours and then take the guy away.

About 10pm Chantel gets discharged. For all the begging to be discharged she did, she sure is taking her sweet time to leave now. Changing into her clothes and asking all kinds of questions about AA and such.

Shortly after, the social worker comes back and says I'm going to be transferred to a psychiatric hospital way out in the suburbs.

After that, I stopped crying and felt a little better. Not because I was going somewhere else, but because I had decided to accept my reality and not judge and pity myself for being a "mental patient."

Around 1am, an ambulance arrives to transfer me. The paramedics find out where we're going and say "whoa that's an hour drive." This will be my first time in an ambulance, and first time in a psychiatric hospital.

krunic hope you r feeling better, seems you're interested in tennis do/did you pl@y? been digging out of my own depression sports h@s helped lots

I played a lot as a kid, took lessons and played with my best friend and older brother. I haven't played for around 20 years. I don't know anyone who plays tennis, and my brother lives in another country now.

going to dust off my rusty g@me, give it @ shot!


https://www.usta.com/en/home/play/pr...rtunities.html

1/5/19, Saturday, 2:00 AM

Through the back window of the ambulance, I see malls, cheap motels, and trailer parks. We're not in Chicago anymore. I've never been in this suburb. The ambulance pulls up to a large building and they roll me in. I'm greeted by Jason, a bald energetic and chatty white guy. We go into a room and he starts asking all kinds of questions about what brought me there. He fills out like 15 pages of intake forms. He says I'll have a roommate. Oh great, I'll be stuck in a room with some psychotic nutjob who's going to strangle me in my sleep and then wank on my corpse. He says I'll be out in 2 or 3 days. He asks me what I do and I say pastry cook. He tells me he used to be a chef at a Cracker Barrel.

After that paperwork is done, Wesley walks in. Wesley is about 6 foot 5, 400 lbs, with the vast majority of that mass being in the chest and shoulder area. He'll be doing the insurance and legal paperwork. This is another 15 or so pages. Wesley is also very chatty. He likes to bake and tells me about all kinds of things he bakes for his church functions and at home. I'm so tired I forgot how depressed I am, I just smile and nod. After over an hour of paperwork and chatting, Jason leads me upstairs.

Upstairs I'm greeted by a nurse who, of course, needs to do more paperwork. She asks me many of the exact same questions Jason asked me. It's now about 3:30 AM. The nurse takes me to my room. There's two beds, one occupied. I lay down and stare at the ceiling until the sun comes up. It's then that I realize the bathroom in our room doesn't have a door, just a thin plastic curtain, like a shower curtain. Fun.

At 8am a woman walks in and announces breakfast is ready. I go out to investigate, knowing I still won't be able to eat when I'm this stressed out and in a strange place. I go to the day room, drink 2 cups of water, and go back to bed. At 10am a woman walks in and announces group is starting. I'm not interested in group therapy. I hate being in groups, and I'm mad at my therapist for getting me into this place. My roommate, Jack, is also uninterested in groups.

We both lay in bed silently until lunch at noon. I get up and go to the day room. Drink two cups of water, and go back to bed. I'm still crying intermittently, but not as much as the day before.

After lunch, a nurse walks in to give my roommate some meds:

nurse: hey Jack, I have your meds
jack: ok
nurse: has this one helped with the shaking?
jack: uh, I don't know
*jack takes the pills*
nurse: I think it has, I noticed you shaking less today
*nurse starts to walk away*
jack: f*** you
nurse: what?
*jack rolls over and goes back to sleep. Nurse walks out.*

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, a little more anxiously, until dinner at 5pm. At dinner I walk out to the day room, drink two cups of water, and go back to bed.

An hour later I'm called to the doctor's office. The doctor is a tiny Indian guy. He does a basic physical exam and declares me in great health. I go back to bed to stare at the ceiling. At about 9pm a nurse walks in and says they're getting worried about me not eating. She asks if it would be ok if they setup a table for me to eat away from everyone else. I said ok.

I get about 2 hours of sleep total. It's hard to sleep because every 15 minutes someone needs to open the door to check on every room. I have no idea what they're checking for, but it sure prevents me from sleeping. At dawn I just stare at the ceiling and wait for breakfast.

1/6/19, Sunday, 8am

Breakfast time. I have a horrible headache from not eating for 2 days. I go to the day room and cautiously get a breakfast tray. I open it up to find an english muffin and a hard boiled egg. I crack the egg slightly and notice some brown watery liquid all over it. It smells terrible. I eat the english muffin, plain, and drink 4 cups of water. One of the other patients asks me if he can have my egg if I don't want it. I tell him he can have it. I go back to bed to stare at the ceiling until lunch. I don't remember what I ate for lunch, but it was terrible. All the food was gross and smelled bad. I had a nasty lingering taste in my mouth the entire time, and it lasted until 2 days after I got home.

After lunch a psychiatrist came to talk to me. He looked about my age and was wearing jeans and a fleece sweatshirt. He asks me how I got here. He says he doesn't really understand why I was transferred here, and that I probably don't need to be in a facility like this. He says he'll prescribe lexapro, which is something I took for about a year in 2016-2017. He says he'll try to get me out in a day or two.

I went to bed and stared at the ceiling until dinner. Then I layed in bed and stared at the ceiling until breakfast.

k - you're a helluva writer (I think I've said so previously, possibly in your H&F log). I got a lot from reading your recent posts (especially post #257) - hope it was helpful/therapeutic/useful in some way for you to write them.

Excellent writing, thanks for sharing.

Regarding something you said in the first segment: I would be shocked if anyone here thinks you're crazy, I sure dont.

Thanks bros

1/7/19, Monday, 10am

After a hearty breakfast of a plain english muffin and three cups of water, I'm called out for a meeting with my assigned social worker, Nancy. We talk for a few minutes about my situation. She explains that I'll probably be here for 6-7 days. My discharge will depend on how they perceive my depression. They determine how depressed a patient is according to 1) whether or not the patient says they're having suicidal thoughts, and 2) how many group therapy sessions a patient attends. I try to emphasize my 4 year relationship with my therapist and that it really helps me. She says I'll have a new psychiatrist that will meet with me later today.

I go back to my room to stare at the ceiling until lunch. After lunch, they give me 10mg Lexapro, then I'm called out for a meeting with the new psychiatrist. The new psychiatrist, Omar, has a thick south african accent and is wearing a suit. He seems to think I'm totally suicidal, definitely need to be in a facility like this (unlike the previous psychiatrist) and says I'll probably be here 7-10 days.

I go back to my room fuming. Every time I talk to someone, they say I'll be here longer and longer. I start coming up with conspiracy theories that they're going to keep me here as long as possible just so they can keep billing my insurance.

Around 2pm, another group starts. I decide to investigate, considering that my attendance in these groups will be used to determine how depressed I am, and thus how soon I can leave. There's 6 people in the group, which is a lot less than I expected. I decide to sit down. The topic of discussion is how we got here and ideas for how to move forward and get better.

Samantha is in her early 50s and just got out of a long physically and emotionally abusive marriage. She's learning how to take care of herself and not constantly worry about everyone else and put everyone else's needs first. Samantha dominates the discussions and always has some words of advice for everyone else.

Dave is also in his early 50s. He's a recovering alcoholic, 12 years sober, and he came here because of suicidal thoughts. He's very talkative and friendly, and talks about God and how his faith is an important part of his recovery and mental health. He's been here many times before and knows all the staff.

Mackenzie is 19 and her parents sound like world class narcissistic jerks. They kicked her out of their house and won't let her back in to get her stuff. She likes to do a lot of drugs and has a general immature attitude towards life. This is her second time here.

Darryl is 30, and my new roommate, or as he calls it, my new cellie. He's a gangbanger and two of his friends were killed recently by a rival gang. He has reason to believe they're now after him and his family. He copes with the trauma, fear, and paranoia by getting blackout drunk on the regular. He doesn't like his lifestyle anymore and wants to have a normal safer life, but doesn't know how to extract himself from this situation.

Loretta is middle aged and very quiet. She is here because she's been "hearing voices" and that's about all she says.

Aurelio is about late 20s, has a wife and infant stepdaughter. He's an alcoholic and wants to get sober. He's been going to AA meetings, and has a whole bunch of legal problems, all related to drinking.

Tessa is also late 20s. She's rocking back and forth in her chair and crying. She's a meth addict with a variety of diagnoses that I don't remember, and has the dark sunken eyes and pockmarked skin to prove it. She's been homeless for 2 years, and has been living on the street and in the woods. Her hair is shaved except for the top front, which is about 6 inches long and combed straight back. Her soft feminine voice is a surprising contrast to her appearance.

Marilyn is about 40 and is here because her son committed suicide, she doesn't give any further details.

One thing I notice is I'm in the best physical condition of anyone here, staff included, with the exception of Jason, the first guy I met who did the admission paperwork. This is a place where people are locked down 24/7, can't go outside, can't get any exercise, and are given lots of free food that's mainly refined carbs. 3 meals a day plus snacks at 9pm. Not to mention depressed and/or in a mental state in which exercise is not easy. There's a lot of incentive for the staff to keep the patients well fed and in a carb coma all day.

After group I go back to my room with Darryl and he tells me stories about some other psych hospitals he's been to and some of the nuttier cellies he's had. He seems to like me. He's going through alcohol withdrawals and also must be on some heavy meds. His speech is a slurred mumble and he moves very slowly.

After dinner, a new patient is admitted, and is given the room across from mine. Carly is 24, and has a "code 101." This means a staff member needs to be in close physical proximity to her at all times. When she's in her bed, a nurse is sitting a few feet away from the bed. This is used for patients they believe are a high suicide risk.

I try to take a shower, but soon realize the water is operated by a single button. When pressed, the shower turns on for 10 seconds, so you have to keep pressing the button every 10 seconds. There is no temperature control, the water starts out freezing cold and turns very hot after about 1 minute. I wash my face and junk for about 3 minutes and give up.

I go back to bed to stare at the ceiling and wait for the sun to come up.

You've written a really interesting insight into psyche care in the US. I think it's pretty courageous tbh. How are you feeling now that you're out? Do you think you will be as honest with your therapist in the future? Disregard any questions you don't want to answer

I'm ok now. The bolded is a great question. A therapist has a legal and professional responsibility to take action if a client says they're thinking about hurting themselves or someone else. The problem with that is it gives the patient an incentive to be less than honest if they're having such thoughts. The therapist is not allowed to use their judgement about whether or not to do something.

This experience was expensive, took 7 days of my life, and not really anything special happened in terms of me learning anything to manage my depression. If I was really intending to kill myself, I would've had opportunities to do so.

I don't know exactly what I'll say if/when my depression gets as bad as it did two weeks ago, but I know I'll have this experience in mind and it will probably influence my choice of words.

1/8/19, Tuesday, 8am

I force down two pieces of turkey bacon and the worst scrambled eggs I've ever had. I need the protein. The eggs taste like they're made from powdered eggs and then microwaved. There is no salt or any seasoning on anything.

After breakfast there's an "activity group" in which a woman brings some koosh ball type things and we toss them around for a few minutes. Someone asks out loud if anyone can juggle. I say yeah I can juggle, and a couple people give me their koosh balls. I juggle 3 then 4 koosh balls, rather poorly, because I'm so tired and anxious. Everyone is amazed. Juggling is one of those things that's very easy to learn, but looks awesome to people who can't do it. Kinda like pumpkin carving or cursive writing.

Today I feel like I'm going to explode if I lay in bed staring at the ceiling all day again. I stay in the day room and watch The Price is Right and some reruns of crappy 90s shows until lunch.

After lunch I have a meeting with my social worker. She says she called my therapist and they talked about me. She says it's great that I have that relationship with her, and she's happy that I've started attending groups. I explain to her that the things that have been most helpful for my depression in the past are 1) seeing my therapist regularly 2) going outside regularly and lifting weights, and 3) having a job I like. I can't do any of those if I'm locked up in this facility. She doesn't disagree, and says she'll try to get me out on thursday, but it's a joint decision between her and the psychiatrist.

I go back to the day room and watch bad movies until dinner. After dinner there's a group. I don't remember what happened other than Carly joined us, her code 101 was removed. She talked about being a Jehova's Witness.

Tessa is constantly pacing around the unit, she can't sit or stand still for more than about 5 minutes. I start pacing around as well, being excited about the prospect of getting the **** out.

1/9/19, Wednesday, 9am

After another disgusting breakfast, my social worker meets with me and informs me that I'll be getting out tomorrow. We do some paperwork and arrange for a van to take me home. I am now in a great mood.

I go back to the day room and watch The Price Is Right. Then we have a group. I don't remember what was discussed in the group, other than when the counselor asked how I was feeling I said "great cuz I'm getting out tomorrow!"

After lunch, I watch bad movies and start talking to Tessa in short spurts as she walks by from pacing. After a while it starts to become borderline flirting. She's getting discharged tomorrow as well, and we're both in high spirits. She's been homeless for 2 years and got accepted to the Salvation Army in their rehab program for 30 days.

After dinner I chat some more with Tessa and she starts making fun of my facial expressions, saying she can always tell what I'm thinking just by looking at me. I say that's bull****, I used to play poker for a living and I don't give away anything from my face. She challenges me to a poker game and says she can beat me. I say let's do it, and ask if we have cards. She says she can beat me in 5 or 7 card stud or draw or something. I say I'm not going to play any nonsense games, I'll play texas holdem. She says fine. We go over to the shelf where there's board games and coloring books and stuff, and find a deck of cards. We pull out the Monopoly game, take out some money, and setup on a picnic bench in the day room.

I take the alligator Monopoly piece to use as a button. She asks me what a button is. I sigh and roll my eyes that she doesn't really know how to play, and explain what a button is. At this point she's been sitting down for almost 5 minutes and needs to get up to walk around. While she's pacing, I count out $9500 in Monopoly money for each of us. I count the cards to make sure they're all there, and shuffle.

Tessa sits back down and we start playing. The blinds will start at 100-200. I then need to explain to her what blinds are. First hand, she's on the button and raises 500, I fold some junk. She mucks and shows AA.

We play a few more hands and she seems to know how to play just fine, it's possible she was totally sandbagging about not knowing what the button and blinds are. About 15 minutes in, I've built up a decent lead. There's a big pot in which I have QT on a xxTTA board. She has AT.

After a couple more hands, she has to get up to walk around, she announces to everyone that she stayed sitting down for 20 minutes. We all congratulate her.

We continue playing and raise the blinds to 200-500. Over the next 30 minutes, I win most of the small pots. She gets two runner runner straights and a variety of some other luckbox bull****. We're about even in Monopoly money.

She gets up to walk around for a good 10 minutes. We raise the blinds to 500-1000. I win a few small pots and regain the lead. I get T8 on a AT97A board. She is all in and shows... AT.

She has about a 2-1 lead and wants to stop and declare herself the winner. I say we can't just leave it at that, if you're done playing then I'll go allin preflop and we'll run it out. We do, and she wins.

She announces to everyone that she won and high fives people.

Me: good game Full House
Tessa: what?
Me: I'm gonna call you Full House from now on
Tessa: ok

I put away the cards and monopoly money. We start watching Rainman.

Tessa asks for my phone number and I write it down in her notebook. She says she doesn't know anyone in chicago where the Salvation Army center is. She wants me to come visit her. Then she asks for my address "in case I need to run away from there." I feel like I don't want to give her a good reason to run away from the SA place, so I just tell her if it's really that bad then call me and we'll talk.

She goes back to her room. I finish watching Rainman, then go to bed.

1/10/19, Thursday, 7am

I can hear Tessa and Dave chatting in the day room. Tessa sounds excited. I go out to join them.

Tessa: hey buddy! good morning!
Me: good morning Full House

She laughs and we start talking about leaving together today. At breakfast, Tessa announces she wants to sit next to her buddy, and pulls up a chair next to me. I choke down some turkey bacon and a few bites of scrambled eggs. Tessa looks at me like I have two heads and asks how the hell I can eat those eggs. I say I need the protein. She got blueberry pancakes. She takes one bite, spits it out, then throws the rest in the trash. She sits back down next to me and watches me eat the gross eggs while looking disgusted and making me laugh.

After breakfast we have a group session. Since Tessa and I are leaving, we talk about how we're going to move forward with our lives and manage our respective issues as we go back to our normal routines. The therapist asks Tessa what her plans are and who/what is her support system. She says she'll have me to visit her in the SA center in chicago and there's a possibility they can give her a job in the SA store there. The therapist says that's great, but just make sure your boyfriend knows that you two are just friends that met here and you're supporting eachother. She says yeah my bf is cool he'll be fine with it.

The therapist asks me the same question. I say I'm going to try not to isolate myself from my family and friends. My reaction to depression is usually to judge myself for being depressed and not talk to anyone so as not to bring them down. Also to stop ruminating and over-analyzing my life.

After the group, Tessa and I are both pacing around anxiously awaiting the word that the van is here so we can leave. We do some paperwork and clean up our rooms. At about 10:30, the van driver arrives. We hug, shake hands and give well wishes to the other patients, and go downstairs.

Downstairs in the lobby, we get our clothes and belongings back. I just had a jacket and my phone and whatever was in my pockets. Tessa has two bags, a purse, a bunch of clothes, and a pink Barbie rolling suitcase. Then I remember she's homeless and it mght be everything she owns.

We step outside and breathe in the fresh cold air. Tessa immediately lights a cigarette.

We get in the van. Tessa asks the driver where we're going first. She says she wants to see where I live. The driver says we're going to SA first because they might have a deadline for when she can check in. She looks at me disappointed and I smile.

As the van pulls away, Tessa starts putting on makeup. When she's done, she looks like even more of a tweaker than without makeup, which I find hilarious, but I make sure she doesn't see me laughing. A few minutes later, she pulls out what I assume is a bag of meth from her purse, and asks if she'll have to get rid of it before she goes in to SA. I say I don't know, but it's a rehab program, so I would assume that's not allowed.

After an hour drive, we pull up to the SA center.

Tessa: do you see where this is?
Me: yeah I see
Tessa: will you come visit me?
Me: yeah just call me and let me know when they have visiting hours or whatever, you have my number?
Tessa: yeah

We hug and she gets out of the van. She lights a cigarette, looks back at me, laughs, and gives me the finger. I laugh and wave. Then she turns around and rolls her pink Barbie suitcase into the SA building.

The driver takes me to my apartment. I go inside, eat a Quest bar, and take a really long shower.

1/15/19, Tuesday, 11am

I go to an appointment with my therapist. I give her the play-by-play of my psych hospital adventure. She's happy I'm ok and doing better. She says she'll look into some outpatient support groups for depression and anxiety.

Tessa hasn't called me. Since the SA center is just a few minutes by train from my therapist's office, I decide to go straight there and see if I can talk to her, or ask when visiting hours are. The receptionist says the next visiting hours are wednesday at 5pm.

1/16/19, Wednesday, 5pm

I go to the SA center.

Me: Hi I'm here to see Tessa
Receptionist: OK, wait here

The receptionist talks to another employee, who then comes over to me.

Other employee: who did you want to see?
Me: Tessa
OE: she's not here anymore
Me: Really? When did she leave?
OE: I don't know but I know she left
Me: uh... ok.... thanks

I walk out, stunned, sad, and wondering if she's ok. Tessa didn't even last a week in there. She doesn't have a phone, or an address. I have no way of contacting her. The only way I could ever talk to her again is if she ever calls me, which if she hasn't by now I doubt she ever will. I go back home and try to figure out wtf happened. Why did she never call me? Not even to say she was leaving SA? I think it's safe to say she's gone back to being homeless and doing meth for a living.

Pretty fascinating read. That quest bar followed a long shower must have been so rewarding, showering would have been the first thing on my mind too.

How is it that you owe so much money but there's a homeless going too? What happens to her bill?

She has Medicaid, as did several other patients. I make too much money to get Medicaid, despite not working for 6 months.

When I went to the ER, that hospital was not in my insurance network, but the psych hospital was. They haven't sent me any bills yet, but I assume the ER and the ambulance ride are going to be a lot. I don't know how much the psych hospital will be, I heard from other patients that it's $700/day, and I was told by an employee there would be a $850 copay.

The last few months I've been ruminating frequently about past mistakes. Specifically, two jobs I shouldn't have taken last summer, and a friendship I ruined in 2017, during what I believe now was a manic episode.

I've been replaying these events almost every day for months and berating myself harshly.

Today I was reminded of the time I folded aces preflop in NLH, on purpose, way back around 2007 or so. I got the idea from Tommy Angelo after reading his blog post The Worst Play Ever.

I had folded aces preflop a few times by misclick, and got super mad every time. I wanted to do it on purpose once. I had a different reason than Tommy though. It wasn't about making the worst possible play just for bragging rights. I wanted to explore the nature of mistakes and how to deal with them.

If I folded aces preflop, what difference does it make if I misclicked or clicked fold on purpose? The result is exactly the same. The only difference is in my perception of the action. The misclick fold is a terrible mistake worthy of berating myself. I calculate the lost EV and tell myself to stop ****ing up and being sloppy. Folding aces on purpose however, is a courageous act of contrarian boldness. Yet the result is the same.

What if instead of ****ing up that friendship, I decided to end it on purpose? The result would've been the same, only I wouldn't be ruminating about it. I would remember it simply as a decision I made at the time. What if instead of taking two jobs that didn't work out, I had never taken them? I highly doubt I would still be thinking about those job offers at all.

My perception is my reality.