beloved troubles
Some of you know (some don’t) that there are a few beloveds in my life who struggle more than most with imbalances of the emotional and psychological sort. In my family, we throw the word “crazy” around a lot. My family is all about teasing and poking fun, about everything. Even illness is fair game (as is death — graveside humor, anyone?). So, between the inclination to make jokes and the repeated visits to psych wards and mental health facilities, it’s probably a coping mechanism. But it works and it’s more fun than when I cry about it.
I mention all this because one of my closest beloveds who struggles with this, Charlie, was having a hard time again recently. It breaks my heart. Every fucking time.
They switched Charlie’s one and only psych med from brand name to generic, and three weeks later he started getting unstable. During those three weeks he was also preparing for a trip to visit with distant family, which always poses to be a weird deal — and he hadn’t been on a plane in years, which undoubtedly added to his stress levels. He made it there and back fine. But, well, long story short: he lost it a bit, eventually (and luckily) ended up in a safe place, is now back home and doing a lot better. I think they haven’t quite got his meds right, but I’m hoping that’s a short-term deal.
I’m not sure what I can do about Charlie’s sitch, but damn! Washington’s mental healthcare system is fucked. Here’s a recent local story about just that. People used to worry about folks with problems falling through the cracks. It’s inversed now — you’re lucky if you can stop your free-fall by landing on some solid care.
