For the past couple of days I have been in a downward mental spiral. It may have started a bit earlier, but I admitted defeat when I called work on Friday to say that I wouldn't be in. My mind is playing with me, and like a jumbo-jet awaiting clearance for landing I am circling. It is possible that it may just be P.M.S., but my Manic Depression is so severe that any dips in my mood have to be taken seriously.

Most people talking to me wouldn't have a clue of how fragile I am right now. I can pull up a public persona that would work well for the C.I.A. But Cricket ("My Best Friend Cricket." of 5/20/08) is aware of how I am feeling, because she is the one who lives with me, takes me to the hospital in times of crisis and I have to tell her how I am doing.

There is a lot going on in my life right now that I don't want to mess up. Tomorrow, I start my first day volunteering in a Prisons Program. Last week, I joined a class being run by Oasis, which is a portrait class exploring the issues of being mentally challenged, which I will write about later. I have an extremely painful physical ailment that is being explored by various tests this month. I am also doing restoration work at a house up the street from mine, which has not been a bowl of cherries to begin with, due to the owners' differing view on the project! (My unrelenting standards for my work can play havoc on a good day. The good news there, though, is that the husband's brother came up and looked at my work. My work got the gold star, so the husband is now behind what I am doing, thank God).

Problem is, the feelings of hopelessness and awful sadness have come again like pigeons to roost. I pick away at the scabs that I always work at, and for moments, just brief moments, the thought of making a bigger, more lasting injury flicker through my mind. I was thinking about the whole issue of isolation of a person with mental illness, because of an interview question in the portrait class that I'm taking.

Say if some one is sick because of their appendix, or due to cancer, their friends, co-workers and family would be visiting them in the hospital with flowers, cards and well-wishes. I have been in mental hospitals, I believe fifteen times. My parents came to visit on the third stay. I don't know the stats for family visits to psyche wards, but I can tell you from what I have seen, it's not high. I was on the dual-diagnosed ward of Wright-Five at Penn-Presbyterian for three months, (most were in as an involuntary detox so that they could be made stable enough to enter a re-hab program).

The other two long-term psyche patients were not visited at all. This is a pattern that I have seen repeated at all the hospitals I have been committed to. I did ask a site that I went to if they had data on the difference between visits of families to those of physical vs. those of mental health issues. About a month later, I still have no reply.

One thing I miss, is the show. I used to be a scenic artist for the movies (don't Google me, this ain't my real name, to protect my mother, who still speaks to me!). I remember the first time when a show was gearing up and I wasn't involved. I had done about ten films by then, including stand-by scenic/on-camera. My whole social life had collapsed. I couldn't go out and drink with them, I didn't work with them anymore and I was completely messed up from all the E.C.T that I had received.

Hopefully, tomorrow I will wake up Celebrating The Joy of Being Female. Or else, I'll be circling the airport, looking to land in an area without any battles.