Sandra

A successful woman's downward spiral into mental illness

     My parents are saints. If it were up to me, they’d be canonized. The other saints would have nothing on them. Mom and Dad would be St. Elaine and St. Robert.

 

      Higher education was a great field to work in. My forte was networking and I had the ability to get a huge university in South Florida to rent office space in my city, Jacksonville. This would allow more students to enroll and give the school a more professional look. Prior to this, classes met in churches. Eventually, the school created sites in other Florida and Southeast Georgia cities.

      I started out as a part-time secretary, then office manager, director, and finally executive director of four sites. Sandra Smith, Executive Director, was my new title. I should’ve known with bigger prizes, came bigger problems.

      My tantrums and slamming of doors became a way of life at the office. Co-workers could hear me crying through my door or my assistant would see broken objects on the floor after one of my rages. One day, at work, my assistant told me that my behavior was due to my “Type A Personality”. She caught me off guard because she was able to explain my poor conduct. The reason she gave wasn’t true, but I liked it.

      The problem was something that has been with me for a long time. I figured I could control it if I just kept busy. Striving to complete a new task and then getting that promotion was another rung on the corporate ladder and it brought attention and the feeling of elation, but it didn’t last long and down I went again.

      The problems at work were coming to ahead and I should have seen it, but when the bad feeling takes over, I can’t bring myself to even care.

The final straw came when I had to fly to Ft. Lauderdale for a meeting with other site directors, my direct boss, and the president of our school. I lost it and went off on the president. I apologized, but it was too late. This was after a series of other blunders such as, forgetfulness in other meetings, being late for appointments, and screaming at staff members.

      I received my walking papers two days later. My boss and the head of human resources flew in to fire me personally. Quickly, I lost my job, my apartment, and my car. I then moved in with my parents and it became worse.

 

      The following years were filled with being Baker Acted repeatedly and forcibly being taken to Jacksonville Mental Health Center.

      There were various anti-depressant medications on my dresser and in my purse. If the psychiatrist believed one wasn’t working right, then he would put me on something else. Honestly, I couldn’t even keep them straight.

      A drug addict and a w***e was my next occupation and this only made the bad feelings worse. I left the house ten o’clock at night disheveled and behaving erratically to score street drugs and to pick up any man that would give me attention, drugs, or both. I didn’t want my parents to know what I was doing, but they knew better.

      Each day in the house, I fought with my parents and my brother and sister. My bedroom would be a complete disaster due to my rages. Curtains were torn from the rods, shards of glass were on the bed and floor, and there were clothes everywhere. Mom cried all the time and Dad always looked defeated. My siblings were sick of me and told my parents to kick me out of the house. My parents couldn’t do it and I know it sounds bad, but I knew that. I was their child and they could not imagine their daughter out on the street.

      Dad came into the room one evening on an occasion when I was actually sane and sat down on the bed. I remember sitting down on the edge near the end table and Dad sat at the end of the bed. It was weird. For some reason I remember that. It was as if he didn’t want to be near me. Dad gripped his knees, his head bent down and he looked at me. “Sandra, you have got to look at your illness like any other illness. If you had a headache or the flu, you would do something about it. Well, you have to do something about this. Mother and I aren’t going to live forever.” With that, he got up and left.

      Dad’s words stuck with me. This time would be different. A huge effort will be made so that my parents won’t have to be so exasperated by my behavior. My psychiatrist was very happy at my next appointment because I was on time and we discussed new meds. That evening at dinner, I apologized to my parents for the pain and told them that I would change. Dad said, “Good,” and Mom patted my hand. My parents were skeptical and they had every reason to be. I called my brother and sister that night and did the same, but they were unmoved.

      I lay in bed and knew my life was going to be different even if they did not. My life did become different just the way I knew it was going to be. Instead of the sun shining in my face to wake me in the morning a big bright light met me.

　

Author's Note

This is a work of fiction.

Reviews

[Muse]

The sarcasm in this writing kept me pulled into the story. It's a tragedy when a middle upper class individual has a moment of weakness, costing them their career and their way of life. They go off in the deep end, sometimes so far down, the ability to return to a normal way of life becomes nearly impossible. I had a father I watched to this. He was a successful middle class white collar worker, one divorce later he became victim of this kind of story. I've washed my hands clean of him, his brain fried so badly around drugs, he often depends on the state, homeless shelters, and mental institutions to survive. If he tried to mingle with normal society, he'd be Baker Acted.

Great penning

Muse

[Priscilla Sayers]

This is just what I needed to read actually. Perfect timing!
A fabulous read that leaves me wanting to know more.
Not many writers can reel me in as quickly as you have...
I am honestly intrigued...

[Melati]

Please continue to write this. Well written, love it.

[Octob3r Star]

Very nice. Cheers!

[zero binty]

This better be just the first chapter. Love it so far. Except the whoring part. I never did that. Until eleven.