Brief and Intensive...

My neighbor, Joyce, had to go into B.I.T. last night. B.I.T stands for a local psychiatric program called Brief Intensive Treatment. I've been several times myself over the years -- their finest moment being the fine food they serve.  I stood out in her yard as I watched the paramedics take her away around midnight. I was worried and sad.

"She wouldn't be able to live here without you," her sister told me, standing next to me as the flashing lights of the ambulance lit up the neighborhood.

It made me feel good that I was doing something to help -- that another person's life was positively effected by my own. I just wish I could do more and keep her out of these damned hospitals.

Things have actually been well at home for me yesterday. I had a spell of paranoia where I thought the walls were watching me, and any movement made me jump. That passed, though, with laying in the bed.  Maggie has a knack for aggravating me during these times -- always jumping up on the bed to groom herself, or barking maniacally in the backyard. 

So many aspersions were cast my way yesterday that I don't even know where to begin. No, I am not living like a homeless person. No, I didn't pawn my camera for beer. It was already in my fridge. Yes, I was having a hard few days, and it just seemed people started to pile on me on my lowest moment in months. I am seriously considering making the blog private and to just invite a few friends. People I know I can trust, and who won't watch from the bandstands with sneering, unhelpful comments as I self destruct.