“You can’t drive when you are like this,” dad told me the other day as he yanked my car keys from my hand. “You are outta your gourd as far as your mental illness is concerned. You don’t even know what day of the week it is.”
I was busily packing up my car with all the things I needed to live successfully on the few thousand acres of land my family owns. I had put so much in the car that you couldn’t see out the rear view mirror and back window. I was going live homeless in the woods where no one could find me or bother me – my social anxieties had been screaming for a break from life for days. I was also extremely delusional my father told me. “You were making up some wild and convoluted stories that just did not make sense.”
Wednesday rolled around and dad and I sat in my psychiatrists office. Dad went on and on about how I always want to be a homeless man when I get very mentally ill.
“He says he is going to live off the land!” dad told the doctor excitedly. “He says he is tired of people and just wants to escape.”
“I suggest we hospitalize him to get him stable,” Dr. K told my father.
“No! No! No!” I exclaimed as I interjected and started to get up and leave. “You’re not putting me in the psych ward for a few weeks where I can’t smoke.”
A compromise was reached where dad would come by every morning and give me an extra 3mg Risperdal on top of the six milligrams I was already taking at night. That did the trick. I felt better and better yesterday and am now back to normal now. Now comes the arduous task of unpacking my car. I literally got so much junk in my car that you wouldn't believe it. I was going to be one of the most best equipped homeless men in the state.