It's been said, "All things in due time." Which means you're not going to be ready right this minute, it may take a while. Two weeks ago, due time came about. I finally got back on Facebook after three years.
I didn't mean to be away from Facebook for three years, it just kinda worked out that way. Three years ago, I was a mess. I was on all the wrong medications and wasn't taking what was prescribed and I went into a manic mode that tops anything I've ever done in my life. It didn't happen overnight, it built and built over a six month period. Everything was crazy.
During that time, I was cranking out three and four blog posts a day. That number escalated to almost ten blog posts a day by the end of December 2011. I was also making You-Tube videos. I wrote, acted in and edited around 24 videos. Crazy. Plus, I was spending hours a day on Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr. I had something like 16 Twitter accounts and blogs to go with each one. I had nine different websites. It makes me tired just thinking about all the work I was doing.
Then the people started showing up. I had semi-homeless guy with Asperger's Syndrome, a homeless bus boy from Denny's, my Schizophrenic friend Chuck and a handful of other characters. Some were staying with me, some came and went.
The guy with Asperger's we nicknamed Dr. Horowitz and made him my doctor. And I couldn't do anything with out consulting my doctor. Horowitz would eat up all my food and I had a very limited food budget. So, we'd go dumpster diving for pizza, just to stay alive.
The landlord came over one day and freaked out. "Everybody out." So we called Sam, the bus boy and told him to come get his clothes or we were going to burn them. He's calling back leaving frantic messages, "Please don't burn my clothes." Let's just say everything turned into one big LMAO.
And then something snapped. I went into a full-tilt manic phase. I decided that I WAS GOING TO THE HOSPITAL and I knew exactly how to get there. Horowitz started throwing up and had to leave. I ran for the Magic Markers.
I started writing. Not on paper, but on the walls. I AM NOT A DOG. DADDY IS DEAD. FUCK YOU. I didn't miss a wall in the living room or dining room. Then I got on the phone.
I called my X and left an insane message on her machine. It caused her to get a restraining order against me, even though I was 2,300 miles away. I called the Las Vegas Police and said, "THEY KILLED MY DAUGHTER." and hung up.
One insane phone call after another for about a half an hour and then there was a banging at my door. It was the local police. They had about twenty cars surrounding the house and an ambulance.
I had a very civil discussion with the police and said I want help.
We had a caravan of cop cars and the ambulance and they took me to the hospital. Five cops were in my room at all times. The nurses shot me up with some stuff that knocked me out pretty quick.
Turns out, there wasn't a place to put me. So they moved my bed into the hallway and I spent four days in a hallway with light and people constantly walking by.
Finally, they sent me to a Cleveland Clinic facility. I had been in the psyche hospital before and this was like the Ritz Carlton. The floors were gorgeous. The food was gourmet. The activities were worth doing. I thought, "I could get to like this."
I made friends quickly with all the other nut cases. And we came up with an idea to have a talent show on Saturday night. I got it approved by who I thought was the head nurse. We all worked on making signs to promote the show.
There was this girl that would never speak to anyone, except me. And I had her convinced to go up in front of everyone and tell three jokes. They weren't good jokes, but I was getting her to do something her doctor could only dream of.
Then the bottom fell out. About two hours before the talent show, this other nurse, who I guess was the real boss, said the show was cancelled. She said it interfered with visiting hours and we'd have to do it later.
Well, half the reason we were doing this show was for the family members to see their loved ones do something that was completely out of their realm. I had everyone on the floor in the show and there were some people that couldn't talk to themselves in the mirror.
When I found out the show I was cancelled, I went off. I started screaming and swearing up and down the halls. Then I went to my room. Five minutes later, a team of people came into my room, held me down and shot me up. Off to La-La-Land again.
About 2:30 in the morning, they woke me up and transported me to another hospital. Northcoast Behavioral Institute.
I spent and interesting three or four weeks there, where I was shot up a couple more times and actually put in leather restraints, spread eagle on a mattress, with my arms above my head.
From there I went to a halfway house and spent a miserable week there. Then, made arrangements to stay with my friend Chuck and listen to him practice his trumpet all day. My landlord wasn't quite ready to have me return to the scene of the crime.
After four weeks at Chuck's house, I said the wrong thing to my psychiatrist and I wound up in the hospital again for a couple days, that was hell. Then I was moved to rehab facility, where all we did was bum cigarettes from each other.
I saw my psychiatrist when I got out of the rehab facility and he put me on a group of medications that have made all the difference in my life. I don't know how to be depressed anymore. I haven't had a manic episode in three years. My anxiety twitches have gone away; although, my left hand shakes a bit. The things that bothered me, I accepted and I've learned tolerance.
I actually had a job for two years, which I lost the week of Thanksgiving. But I had found another job to start the Monday after Thanksgiving. That job lasted a month. So now I'm back on disability and looking for part-time work.
But with me, there is never a simple end to the story. I'm currently working on a website project that, if it works, it will allow me to go back to Las Vegas and see my daughter, who I haven't seen in five years. She's fourteen now and I want to be back there by the time she turns sixteen.
I told one of my Facebook friends in the Philippines that in America, you always get another chance. You can always make good, somehow.
The website journey coincided with my return to Facebook. It took me about a day to figure out my login and password, but I did it.
You can't imagine the amount of crap that accumulates on your Facebook page and the messages and the friend requests when you've been away for three years. But I'm back and back at it again. It's like I never left. Same old people are still typing away on the other end and I'm typing back.
Maybe I needed to rest. Maybe I needed the time away. Maybe I had to reinvent myself before it would matter. All I know is, I finally got back on Facebook after three years, and I'm glad I did.