If not for my mother, I don't know if I would have been diagnosed. I would have taken longer for me to get help, and I would have gotten into further trouble.
Just before I received my evaluation and diagnosis I spent a weekend in jail. I was arrested for taking my clothes off in public. I had disrobed publicly several times before being arrested. It made me feel somehow close to God, in His presence. I was relieved to be in jail. I couldn't do anything else like that while I was there. I made no effort to contact anyone to bail me out.
On the afternoon of my arrest, there were two of us in the cell they put me in. By late evening, when they began admitting us into the main jail, the cell was packed. I remember staying in the shower stall. I felt safe in jail. It felt like God went there with me.
I was taken to the courthouse with the other inmates on the Monday after my arrest. They had us sit in the jury box where we could look out and see everyone in the courtroom. My dad was there. I don't know how he found out I was in jail because I hadn't called anyone to let them know. I remember feeling deeply moved that he was there. I felt tremendous love from him by his presence in the courtroom.
The judge brought up my case. I don't remember what I said, only that it was brief. I was told to see a psychiatrist for six months, which I did. I was never able to talk to that psychiatrist about what I had done, or been going through. Our visits were always a brief fifteen minutes, and the six months of seeing him didn't help anything. I saw him after my stay in the mental hospital I was in, as well.
After my release from jail, I rode the bus back to my dad's house with my jail ID bracelet still on my wrist. I don't remember talking to anyone about what I had done when I got home. A day or two after getting to my dad's house, my mom and sister came to visit. They told me to get in the car, that we were going for a ride, and I was happy to do so. They took me to the local mental hospital.
Once admitted, I went to the intake room. My mom and my sister were there, and a hospital worker named Laura. Laura closed the door and began talking to me, and asking questions. For four years my illness grew worse and worse in me, and I had never talked to anyone about it. I hadn't known what was happening to me. I didn't know how to reach out to anyone for help. I started pouring everything out. I don't know how long I was there, but it was a relief to finally talk about what I'd been going through for years.
They admitted me and told me I'd be staying there. I remember noticing they locked the door after they let me in so I wouldn't be able to leave. I could tell something major in my life was changing from that point on. They gave me my diagnosis and began giving me medication. I now knew I was mentally ill.