must i be my label?

there's an old addage i repeatedly hear in every recovery program i've survived.

you are not your illness.

yet as i recover from another verbal exchange with my mom and since she holds the keys to the place i lay my head i honestly can't tell wether or not she sees me as elizabeth her daughter or bipolar 1.

there's a lot of recovery i'm going through now and as my eyes glance over my last post i relize i have a long way to go.

i'm kinda emotionally feeling some of the pain in bearable incriments of the abuse of not even being told why i was locked up in Ft. Smith, or the fact that Sgt. Dallas abandoned me and i couldn't accept it right away recovering in St. Vincents in Little Rock.

to let people know i wrote the Dallas a final communique just asking for some items to be returned...i fully expect it to be ignored...but it was almost some closure to whatever happend as well. i never want to go back to ft smith...but i will miss some neighbors who were supportive and cool to the native new englander out of her element.

there's a lot of stories to be told about my excersion from Salem, Ma...but right now i'm just thankful to have a bed...clothes...food that i like to eat... and the prospects of reclaiming a functional existance (despite being in NE).

like i said there's still a lot to recover from. but i have a therapist, and thank you Jesus for being back on some medications. i know it's weird to thank Jesus for things like lithium, but just being in an era where the hospital stay at Mclean is now just about a week or so to get stable on chemicals i wake and take or take before sleep, as opposed to the fact it used to take months and scenes like those out of One who Flew over the Cuckoos Nest. i really don't think i need a lombotomy thanks.