Big. Fucking. Apple.
Yes, that's right, I'm in New York City. A lot has changed obviously since last I posted. I ended up trying to kill myself a few times, I had already gotten rid of my guns so I tried pills in like, November 2015, then again in July 2016, then I spent a week and a half in a mental hospital, then two days after getting out in early August 2016 I tried drowning myself, and went back into a different mental hospital for another week and a half. The first 2016 suicide attempt happened to fall right in the middle of an event that I was running out at Westworld in Scottsdale. Oh, right, I should probably mention I got another promotion in February 2016 to Event Manager. That's right, full on black shirt, company cell phone, company laptop, my own desk, among other perks. Anyways so yeah I tried killing myself in the middle of an event and as such I completely dropped the ball, leaving Huey, who had just come back from vacation, to pick up my slack. Despite this, ProEm was more concerned with my health and safety than the event being at risk, and was perfectly willing to allow me to jump right back in after being released from the mental hospital. Which, I was about to do, and then I tried drowning myself and went right back into the hospital.
It was at this point that I realized that there was something seriously wrong with me and that I would need to take some time to get help from some mental health care professionals. I told ProEm this, and they were very understanding about it. Tora (VP) even told me that they all appreciated me, and that I was a fantastic manager, and that even though they were sad to see me go, they completely understood my reasons for doing so and that whenever I got my shit together, my job would be waiting for me, be it 6 months, 2 years, or whatever.
So that's awesome, but it still left me unemployed. I didn't think I could handle any job really, because at that point I was still very very unstable, and I didn't want to make any commitments I couldn't follow through on. I tried reaching out to the VA, and various other charitable organizations throughout the valley to get financial assistance in order to prevent myself from becoming homeless, but to no avail. It seems that the only way anyone is willing to help you is if you're ALREADY homeless. But if you're literally days from being on the street with no way to stop it, you're shit out of luck. You lose everything. You have to start over. Square one. It's fucked up.
So anyways, there I was, still in my apartment, no electricity, no internet, about to be out on the street, and my mother agreed to let me move in with her and her husband Jeff, back in Rockford. Needless to say I fucking LOATHED that idea, but at that point I didn't really have much choice other than just being homeless in Phoenix. Looking back, the latter would have honestly been the better choice. Coincidentally, it was around that time that Annika was planning to move from Phoenix to Michigan to live with her boyfriend/daddy, so, naturally, we decided to caravan up north together. I packed all my shit (well, not ALL my shit, only what I could fit into my Honda Civic, so, about half) and we headed to the 'great' midwest. I moved into a bedroom that had formerly belonged to one of Jeff's kids, before they made the completely understandable decision to never speak to him again, and I began the arduous task of getting signed up for treatment at the Rockford VA clinic.
Now, it's worth mentioning that before I even left Phoenix, while discussing the move back with my mother, I made a point of letting her know what kind of situation I was in, mentally and emotionally, and make sure she set her expectations accordingly. I did this because I know her, I know Jeff, and I know how they felt about my brother, who was also still living with them at the time. I told her to not expect rent from me. I told her to not expect pretty much anything at all really. I told her that it was not uncommon for my depression to become completely debilitating at times. Crippling. It had the ability to render me completely ineffective for sometimes days at a time. I shouldn't really have had to impress this upon her, since it should go without saying that if I was capable of still working a job, I wouldn't have voluntarily left my perfectly awesome, well paying job in the first place, and I would still be in Phoenix. In fact the ONLY reason I was driving my happy little ass clear across the country from my favorite place to my most fucking hated place was because I couldn't work. But impress I did, albeit to no avail, because, almost immediately upon moving in, my mother was already trying to push me out the door to find a job. Now, knowing that I wasn't able to financially compensate my mom and Jeff for their hospitality, I did my best, as I said I would, to do what I could to help out around the house. I washed dishes, I cooked, I took out the trash, I walked/fed the dogs, I even dropped them off and picked them up from the airport before and after their trip to NYC at whatthefuck o'clock in the morning. One thing that we talked about me possibly doing was me mowing the lawn sometime during said trip. Now, had I been operating at my full potential, this would have been no problem for me. This was not the case that week. It was the second week I was in town, and I was getting absolutely zero help from the Rockford VA clinic. The lawn did not get mowed, and all hell broke loose. I'll explain why in a moment but first I just want to give a little more detail on the shittiness of the Rockford VA clinic and their scheduling practices.
I went to the clinic on DAY ONE trying to get an appointment for some kind of therapy, and almost two weeks in I had gotten nothing. I spend some time trying to beg and plead the providers that I had made contact with at the VA for even just the assurance of when I would be able to get an appointment, or a phone call to set one up, but all I got was, "It takes as long as it takes, can't tell you anything" Now, they were FULLY aware of the gravity of my situation. They knew I was fresh out of two separate mental hospitals from two very recent suicide attempts, they knew I had severe depression, and was still in a suicidal mindset. Yet they left me to twist in the wind. Understandably, this was incredibly frustrating and only made things worse for me mentally. It got to the point where I had to call both the Suicide Prevention Coordinator and the Patient Advocate office at the Madison VA, whose umbrella the Rockford clinic operated under. After going above everyone's head, the admitting nurse who had been my primary point of contact, called me, and begrudgingly told me that she was able to get someone from scheduling to give me a phone call later that day. Now, when I tell someone that there is nothing that can be done, it's because there is NOTHING THAT CAN BE DONE. But that's because i'm not a fucking liar. When someone tells you that nothing can be done, and then later that day after you call them out by going over their head, they do something they could have done all along from the start, then obviously they were lying to begin with. This pisses me off. But call they did, and scheduled I was, for an appointment. An appointment that was ANOTHER TWO WEEKS in the future. An appointment, NOT with a licensed therapist, psychiatrist, or psychologist, but with a CASE WORKER who "has experience talking to people". And even after ALL OF this BULLSHIT, I was still in danger of running out of my medications because I couldn't get a goddamn appointment! Now, this was frustrating to me personally because of the difficult situation I'm in, but I also know that there are other people who are in similar or potentially even worse situations mentally and emotionally, who are also being blown off and treated like shit at the VA. Now, I was able to do the critical thinking, do the research, find the right contacts, make the phone calls, and get what I needed through my will and determination. But how many of these other veterans can and will do the same? My guess is not many. And for them I feel truly horrible.
So back to the story. It was days of dealing with this kind of bullshit with the VA that had left me completely drained. Not that I even ever needed a reason to go into what I have come to refer to as a "depression coma", I sometimes would become bedridden when everything was going completely fine, but this did it for me. I had used up all of the VERY limited amount of energy I had just trying to get the bare minimum of adequate health care (and failing at it), and I was done. Just done. I didn't really do much of anything during that week, I didn't go see friends, I didn't shower, I watched some TV with Aaron, but other than that I barely left my bed to eat and pee. I was able to rebuild enough energy to go pick up my mom and Jeff at whatthefuck o'clock in the morning the day they flew back into town, but then I was back in hermit mode. So when Jeff gets back and sees that the lawn isn't mowed, he starts talking shit to my mom behind my back. Because of my truly exceptional sense of hearing, I heard it, and when I did, I snapped. I got very confrontational, but rightly so, I believe. This turned into an argument which brought out the truth of the matter which was my mother and Jeff already having a problem with me not doing enough to contribute to the family unit. This, after only having been there for TWO WEEKS, after REPEATEDLY telling my mother that I couldn't make any promises about what I would be able to contribute, and after still contributing whatever I could, whenever I could. To me, it was a complete and total slap in the face. It was my mother and Jeff telling me that my mental and emotional health and safety matters LESS to them than getting rent money and/or free labor out of me. It was finding out that they didn't see me as a beloved family member in desperate need of help, rather, they saw me as a servant, or another revenue stream. I packed some essentials. I left. I haven't looked back yet.
I crashed on my friend Eli's couch for a night, then in a parking lot in my car the next, and then I heard the call of the road. It was time. I had probably known all along but I was finally able to see clearly again that Rockford wasn't the place for me. It never had been and never will be, regardless of any circumstance. I hit the road and for the first 8 or so hours I didn't even know where the road was taking me. It didn't really matter though, as long as the distance between me and Rockford grew larger, it didn't matter one bit. Once I decided to get my bearings I discovered that I had been heading generally in a southeasternly direction. This was the moment for me to make a choice. I could do the 'sensible' and 'responsible' thing and go back to Rockford and seek help from other friends or family members, possibly try to patch things up with my mother, or I could just pick a new city to begin a new life in. Well, given my hatred for Rockford, and my gypsy nature, I'm sure anyone who knows me (which is like, nobody. Not even me. Maybe Mandy...) could have guessed what I would do. When I do something, I go all out. I don't half-ass anything, even mistakes. If i was truly going to start over I wanted an experience. I wanted a good story. I wanted to get my ASS kicked by life, because I knew the harder the ass kicking I recieved, the more satisfying it would be when I got up and kicked life's ass back. Hence, New York City. Of course I have come up with a whole list of less insane justifications for why I picked NYC for anyone who I think wouldn't quite understand, but really, at the end of the day I picked it because of my masochistic tendancies.
So here I am! I'm set up with some really great therapy (The Manhattan VA system is INFINITELY better than Phoenix or Rockford...), I'm living in a shelter for homeless veterans, and it's a really good situation, and I'm in the process of getting my own apartment under section 8/HUD/VASH (not the stampede, tho). I'm already researching different opportunities for getting involved in the LGBT community through volunteering or just socializing, and as soon as I get settled in my own place I will be able to spend the next year or two focusing solely on my recovery and becoming a stable person. After that I'm going to Europe for a few years, and then probably back to phoenix to get back into event management. One day at a time though. Ciao.
EDIT: Holy shit I just realized after posting this that my LJ is exactly 12 years old today. Fuck i'm old.
It was at this point that I realized that there was something seriously wrong with me and that I would need to take some time to get help from some mental health care professionals. I told ProEm this, and they were very understanding about it. Tora (VP) even told me that they all appreciated me, and that I was a fantastic manager, and that even though they were sad to see me go, they completely understood my reasons for doing so and that whenever I got my shit together, my job would be waiting for me, be it 6 months, 2 years, or whatever.
So that's awesome, but it still left me unemployed. I didn't think I could handle any job really, because at that point I was still very very unstable, and I didn't want to make any commitments I couldn't follow through on. I tried reaching out to the VA, and various other charitable organizations throughout the valley to get financial assistance in order to prevent myself from becoming homeless, but to no avail. It seems that the only way anyone is willing to help you is if you're ALREADY homeless. But if you're literally days from being on the street with no way to stop it, you're shit out of luck. You lose everything. You have to start over. Square one. It's fucked up.
So anyways, there I was, still in my apartment, no electricity, no internet, about to be out on the street, and my mother agreed to let me move in with her and her husband Jeff, back in Rockford. Needless to say I fucking LOATHED that idea, but at that point I didn't really have much choice other than just being homeless in Phoenix. Looking back, the latter would have honestly been the better choice. Coincidentally, it was around that time that Annika was planning to move from Phoenix to Michigan to live with her boyfriend/daddy, so, naturally, we decided to caravan up north together. I packed all my shit (well, not ALL my shit, only what I could fit into my Honda Civic, so, about half) and we headed to the 'great' midwest. I moved into a bedroom that had formerly belonged to one of Jeff's kids, before they made the completely understandable decision to never speak to him again, and I began the arduous task of getting signed up for treatment at the Rockford VA clinic.
Now, it's worth mentioning that before I even left Phoenix, while discussing the move back with my mother, I made a point of letting her know what kind of situation I was in, mentally and emotionally, and make sure she set her expectations accordingly. I did this because I know her, I know Jeff, and I know how they felt about my brother, who was also still living with them at the time. I told her to not expect rent from me. I told her to not expect pretty much anything at all really. I told her that it was not uncommon for my depression to become completely debilitating at times. Crippling. It had the ability to render me completely ineffective for sometimes days at a time. I shouldn't really have had to impress this upon her, since it should go without saying that if I was capable of still working a job, I wouldn't have voluntarily left my perfectly awesome, well paying job in the first place, and I would still be in Phoenix. In fact the ONLY reason I was driving my happy little ass clear across the country from my favorite place to my most fucking hated place was because I couldn't work. But impress I did, albeit to no avail, because, almost immediately upon moving in, my mother was already trying to push me out the door to find a job. Now, knowing that I wasn't able to financially compensate my mom and Jeff for their hospitality, I did my best, as I said I would, to do what I could to help out around the house. I washed dishes, I cooked, I took out the trash, I walked/fed the dogs, I even dropped them off and picked them up from the airport before and after their trip to NYC at whatthefuck o'clock in the morning. One thing that we talked about me possibly doing was me mowing the lawn sometime during said trip. Now, had I been operating at my full potential, this would have been no problem for me. This was not the case that week. It was the second week I was in town, and I was getting absolutely zero help from the Rockford VA clinic. The lawn did not get mowed, and all hell broke loose. I'll explain why in a moment but first I just want to give a little more detail on the shittiness of the Rockford VA clinic and their scheduling practices.
I went to the clinic on DAY ONE trying to get an appointment for some kind of therapy, and almost two weeks in I had gotten nothing. I spend some time trying to beg and plead the providers that I had made contact with at the VA for even just the assurance of when I would be able to get an appointment, or a phone call to set one up, but all I got was, "It takes as long as it takes, can't tell you anything" Now, they were FULLY aware of the gravity of my situation. They knew I was fresh out of two separate mental hospitals from two very recent suicide attempts, they knew I had severe depression, and was still in a suicidal mindset. Yet they left me to twist in the wind. Understandably, this was incredibly frustrating and only made things worse for me mentally. It got to the point where I had to call both the Suicide Prevention Coordinator and the Patient Advocate office at the Madison VA, whose umbrella the Rockford clinic operated under. After going above everyone's head, the admitting nurse who had been my primary point of contact, called me, and begrudgingly told me that she was able to get someone from scheduling to give me a phone call later that day. Now, when I tell someone that there is nothing that can be done, it's because there is NOTHING THAT CAN BE DONE. But that's because i'm not a fucking liar. When someone tells you that nothing can be done, and then later that day after you call them out by going over their head, they do something they could have done all along from the start, then obviously they were lying to begin with. This pisses me off. But call they did, and scheduled I was, for an appointment. An appointment that was ANOTHER TWO WEEKS in the future. An appointment, NOT with a licensed therapist, psychiatrist, or psychologist, but with a CASE WORKER who "has experience talking to people". And even after ALL OF this BULLSHIT, I was still in danger of running out of my medications because I couldn't get a goddamn appointment! Now, this was frustrating to me personally because of the difficult situation I'm in, but I also know that there are other people who are in similar or potentially even worse situations mentally and emotionally, who are also being blown off and treated like shit at the VA. Now, I was able to do the critical thinking, do the research, find the right contacts, make the phone calls, and get what I needed through my will and determination. But how many of these other veterans can and will do the same? My guess is not many. And for them I feel truly horrible.
So back to the story. It was days of dealing with this kind of bullshit with the VA that had left me completely drained. Not that I even ever needed a reason to go into what I have come to refer to as a "depression coma", I sometimes would become bedridden when everything was going completely fine, but this did it for me. I had used up all of the VERY limited amount of energy I had just trying to get the bare minimum of adequate health care (and failing at it), and I was done. Just done. I didn't really do much of anything during that week, I didn't go see friends, I didn't shower, I watched some TV with Aaron, but other than that I barely left my bed to eat and pee. I was able to rebuild enough energy to go pick up my mom and Jeff at whatthefuck o'clock in the morning the day they flew back into town, but then I was back in hermit mode. So when Jeff gets back and sees that the lawn isn't mowed, he starts talking shit to my mom behind my back. Because of my truly exceptional sense of hearing, I heard it, and when I did, I snapped. I got very confrontational, but rightly so, I believe. This turned into an argument which brought out the truth of the matter which was my mother and Jeff already having a problem with me not doing enough to contribute to the family unit. This, after only having been there for TWO WEEKS, after REPEATEDLY telling my mother that I couldn't make any promises about what I would be able to contribute, and after still contributing whatever I could, whenever I could. To me, it was a complete and total slap in the face. It was my mother and Jeff telling me that my mental and emotional health and safety matters LESS to them than getting rent money and/or free labor out of me. It was finding out that they didn't see me as a beloved family member in desperate need of help, rather, they saw me as a servant, or another revenue stream. I packed some essentials. I left. I haven't looked back yet.
I crashed on my friend Eli's couch for a night, then in a parking lot in my car the next, and then I heard the call of the road. It was time. I had probably known all along but I was finally able to see clearly again that Rockford wasn't the place for me. It never had been and never will be, regardless of any circumstance. I hit the road and for the first 8 or so hours I didn't even know where the road was taking me. It didn't really matter though, as long as the distance between me and Rockford grew larger, it didn't matter one bit. Once I decided to get my bearings I discovered that I had been heading generally in a southeasternly direction. This was the moment for me to make a choice. I could do the 'sensible' and 'responsible' thing and go back to Rockford and seek help from other friends or family members, possibly try to patch things up with my mother, or I could just pick a new city to begin a new life in. Well, given my hatred for Rockford, and my gypsy nature, I'm sure anyone who knows me (which is like, nobody. Not even me. Maybe Mandy...) could have guessed what I would do. When I do something, I go all out. I don't half-ass anything, even mistakes. If i was truly going to start over I wanted an experience. I wanted a good story. I wanted to get my ASS kicked by life, because I knew the harder the ass kicking I recieved, the more satisfying it would be when I got up and kicked life's ass back. Hence, New York City. Of course I have come up with a whole list of less insane justifications for why I picked NYC for anyone who I think wouldn't quite understand, but really, at the end of the day I picked it because of my masochistic tendancies.
So here I am! I'm set up with some really great therapy (The Manhattan VA system is INFINITELY better than Phoenix or Rockford...), I'm living in a shelter for homeless veterans, and it's a really good situation, and I'm in the process of getting my own apartment under section 8/HUD/VASH (not the stampede, tho). I'm already researching different opportunities for getting involved in the LGBT community through volunteering or just socializing, and as soon as I get settled in my own place I will be able to spend the next year or two focusing solely on my recovery and becoming a stable person. After that I'm going to Europe for a few years, and then probably back to phoenix to get back into event management. One day at a time though. Ciao.
EDIT: Holy shit I just realized after posting this that my LJ is exactly 12 years old today. Fuck i'm old.