Welcome to a series of stories that basically make up my autobiography. It’s not entirely thorough, but I’ll do the best I can with the memories locked away inside my head. Could be therapeutic for me. Could be humorous for you. Either way, enjoy…
Previously on Life Story… I had seizure. It’s the only reason they let me see my parents on a really horrible day.
The powers that be believed that my life might actually be on the line, so they got my parents to Radford as soon as that old Corsica they drove could carry them. This was about the time it was decided that the good people at St. Alban’s Psychiatric Hospital absolutely couldn’t help me anymore.
This was also about the time that my parents were made aware of the pants wetting incident during that group session that I wrote about in an earlier post. Needless to say, they were upset. They were also upset about the multiple prescriptions that I had been on and suddenly taken off of, just in case those pills were what caused my unexplained seizure.
I think the decision to have me taken home was a mutually agreed upon solution between my folks and the hospital staff. The counselors and doctors decided that there was nothing more they could do with me. I mean for me. They had been so helpful and giving throughout the previous seven weeks anyway. And my parents were pretty angry with their brand of help and treatment. So on January 17th, 1995, I was given my walking papers.
I was out of the hospital for the first time since Thanksgiving. Nearly two full months were spent inside those padded walls. Okay, they weren’t really padded. But the place was full of doctors and therapists that believed they knew everything about everything and could do no wrong. I can’t say anything bad about the nurses. They were genuinely kind and actually cared about their patients. And, of course, Hank.
The doctors, well, they thought I was going home to die. They truly believed that I would either be dead within a few short months, or my parents would be forced to send me to a different hospital. Their recommendation was Johns Hopkins. Neither of their scenarios played out. I never went to any other hospital. And, as you can plainly see, I didn’t die.
I went home. I struggled a bit. But I got better. It wasn’t long until I had the appetite of a normal teenage boy, just eating and trampling everything in sight.