Mental Health Memes

I love memes. They’re great fun, and a great delivery system for just about any kind of message. However, there is a darker side to memes that we need to respect, and that is their tendency to reduce complex ideas down to something pithy and memorable.

Leaving us with examples like this sage advice from the 16th President of the United States of America.

Good advice? Absolutely.

Correct attribution? Doubtful.

Memorable? Certainly.

Memes are the hieroglyphics of our age, and I hope someone prints them out and stuffs them in a time capsule because it will leave future archaeologists incredibly confused.

A friend shared this meme with me recently.

As memes go, it’s a pretty good one. Strong typeface font against a stark, black background, and memorable celebrity names.

It packs a punch full of pixels, but I do not agree with the creator’s point.

“So, let me say this really loud so the people in the back of the room can hear me… Sometimes you need to check on those who seem the strongest.”

The tone is remarkably condescending, and I do not care for it.

Even worse, there is no attribution for these quotes. That is one significant downside of memes, you can make anyone say anything and it looks like they said it.

I took the liberty of hunting down these quotes.

• Robin William’s friends:

  • I cannot find quotes from his friends that match exactly what the meme states.

  • I did find this from Ben Stiller, which I felt was pretty close: “His kindness and generosity is what I think of. How kind he was to anyone who wanted to connect with him. And he could not help but be funny all the time.”

• Kate Spade’s Father really said:

  • "The last I talked with her, the night before last, she was happy planning a trip to California to look at colleges. She doted on her daughter."

• Anthony Bourdain’s best friend, Eric Ripert:

  • "He was an exceptional human being, so inspiring and generous. One of the great storytellers of our time who connected with so many.”

Back to how the meme ends, I strongly disagree with the tone of the creator’s point, and I disagree with the proffered advice because it lacks specificity.

https://afsp.org/find-support/when-someone-is-at-risk/

“You need to check on…” can mean anything; so it inevitably means nothing. To one person, it might mean text. To another, it might mean to sign commitment papers.

The meme is written to encourage people to reach out to those who may be suffering from mental illness and thinking about suicide. I applaud the objective, but I condemn the effort.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine.” How most conversations will end.

“Do you have a plan to end your life?”

“…”

“I’m worried, are you thinking of ending your life by suicide?”

“…”

“Please, talk to me, I’m here, do you have any plans to hurt yourself?”

“…well, I wouldn’t say a plan, exactly. Well, maybe…” How a specific question can tease out plans.

It took my fictional person three tries to get an answer, and in reality it may take forty tries. But if you are concerned about a loved one’s safety, then it helps to get specific.

Now, I am not about to argue in the negative without providing an example of something better. Here is my take on an improved meme:

Routine: Interrupted

I love routine.

In the morning:

• Deep breathing exercises

• Stretching in bed

• Meditation

• French Press Coffee with book

• Shower and hygiene

• Medications

At work:

• 10AM - Tea break

• 1PM - Lunch

• 3PM - Simple stretches

Before bed:

• Turn on red lamp

• Hot shower or bath

• Roll out or stretch

• Read until sleepy

It thinks it’s so superior because it uses “electricity”…

Due to my love affair for routine; travel has generally been a disruptive force for my mental well being. Not only am I in an unfamiliar environment, I am also unable to follow my routine exactly. Up until a year ago or so, I struggled when traveling. Building up anxiety until I had an inevitable panic attack during my trip, or not long after returning home.

One of my areas of personal growth has been becoming more mentally flexible. I do not follow the routines I listed to the letter, every day. I tried that, and anytime I missed something I felt like a failure.

Now, I try to hit for five hundred instead of one thousand. That has helped me tremendously when traveling.

I am writing this from my Dad’s office, overlooking the back porch, while listening to a bunch of dogs bark. I woke up this morning, stretched, meditated, cleaned myself up, took my meds, used by sister’s old Keurig to brew a latte. The big change is the manner in which I create my cup of coffee, and in the past I would have allowed that change to bother me.

In other words, I thought I was not performing my routine “right”. Which, when you step back from that observation, you realize it is absurd. I cannot tell you to stop judging yourself; that is part of our nature.

I advise you, as I try to remind myself, that you can judge yourself in a healthier manner. I term this

the cultivation of discipline

Discipline - “Train to obey rules or a code of behavior, using punishment to correct disobedience.”

Cultivate - “Prepare and use (land) for crops or gardening.”

Dad’s jersey (7) on the left. Mine (13) on the right.

The hard skill is discipline, and the soft skill is cultivation. For too many years I focused exclusively on discipline. Punishing myself for failing to attain the goals I set for myself.

I learned that you cannot have the hard skill without the soft skill. You cannot plant a hard seed in unyielding soil, and expect to find purchase for new roots.

Traveling has become a way for me to practice the soft skill of cultivation. An opportunity to become more flexible. Even the chance to find something new to incorporate into my self-care routines.

So on this day of gratitude. I am grateful for my family, the six dogs at the house, a healthy body, a stable mind, and another day to cultivate discipline in a healthy manner.

This is written at the top of my whiteboard wall in my apartment as a daily reminder.

Mental Agility Workshops

“The mind can go either direction under stress—toward positive or toward negative: on or off. Think of it as a spectrum whose extremes are unconsciousness at the negative end and hyperconsciousness at the positive end. The way the mind will lean under stress is strongly influenced by training.” - Frank Herbert

I detest the phrase “mental toughness.” I find it lacking.

It is used to falsely empower both kids and adults with the idea that they must endure whatever they face, regardless of the potential damage to be inflicted upon them. This phrase has also spawned many other, and equally useless, phrases:

“I got this, just keep piling stuff on me.” - Atlas

• Life is hard, get a helmet

• Be a man (for young boys)

• Be more assertive, but don’t be bossy (for young girls)

• Tough it out

• Suck it up

• Deal with it

• Other people have it worse

I think we say these things because our grandparents told our parents, our parents told us, and now we, in turn, tell the next generation.

The unsaid part is to continue doing whatever it is you are doing. Don’t think, just do. Don’t take advantage of your brain, the most complicated organ found in any animal species on this planet. Just put your head down, get tough, and you will pull through.

This advice may be practical at certain times in life, but it is by no means a panacea.

I’ve been punched in the face before. Plenty of times in kickboxing. Not once did my instructor tell me, “That’s kickboxing, tough it out.” Instead, he taught me how to move, how to evade, how to counterattack. I would absorb some damage while bobbing and weaving, but I worked to maximize damage against my opponent, while minimizing damage to myself.

What if, instead of “mental toughness,” we taught Mental Agility? The development of a nimble mind that can quickly adapt to changing circumstances using a combination of breath work, body awareness, meditation, mindfulness, journaling and visualization.

If a business organization taught these skills, their workers would be able to adapt to a changing market.

If a sports team were taught these skills, their competitive advantage would increase over other teams.

If a person learned these skills, they can put down the helmet that everyone said is needed to get through life.

I have a plan for workshops geared toward professionals, student-athletes, and individuals. At these workshops people will learn how the brain works, what the stress response is, how to hack the mind, and how to use their body to influence their mental state for the better.

For my permanent recovery from mental illness, I only use what works. I’ve done the research, read the studies, and integrated many different disciplines into my daily life in order to keep my depressed, anxious, and suicidal thoughts to manageable levels.

Since these mind hacks work for someone with a severe mental illness, they will work for anyone.

What is Project Semicolon?

I could explain the misunderstood nature of the semicolon, but The Oatmeal does it so much better.

“Project Semicolon is an organization dedicated to the prevention of suicide. Our work is based on the foundation and belief that suicide is preventable and everyone has a role to play in preventing suicide. Through raising public awareness, educating communities, and equipping every person with the right tools, we know we can save lives.”

Why use a semicolon as a logo for suicide prevention? Because a semicolon is where an author could have ended a sentence; instead choosing to continue the story.

The idea is that we are all authors of our lives; those that attempt suicide metaphorically attempt to put a period at the end of theirs.

I tried to put a period on my life a couple times; I did not succeed.

A few years ago, I saw someone with a tattoo of a semicolon on their wrist. I was unsure of what it symbolized, other than an affinity for generally-misunderstood punctuation. So I went up to this person and asked… I’m kidding, I Googled it.

That search led me to Project Semicolon and to a wealth of stories that mirrored mine. As a fan of tattoos, it was not long before I walked into Read Street Tattoo and asked for one on my wrist.

Yes, that is a Llama in tree pose. My sister painted it, and it’s the best Llama painting in the world. http://caitlincorsetti.com/

http://theoatmeal.com/comics/semicolon

You may notice that my semicolon is not oriented correctly (this makes it an Arabic semicolon). That is mainly so the sweeping tail of the punctuation covers a scar on my wrist. I earned that scar due to stupidity; putting my hand through a window in anger.

What I have come to deeply appreciate about my tattoo is that some people will ask me about it, but others will see it and say, “me too,” or “my wife.”

Or I’ll trade a subtle head nod with someone waiting in line at the grocery store.

Despite the use of a semicolon as a moderate pause in speaking; it has generated a great deal of memorable conversations.

So now you know what a semicolon tattoo means. Someone may have made an attempt. Someone may know a friend or family member who tried to die by suicide. It means the story isn’t over.

Gordon tried to die by suicide; he survives.

https://projectsemicolon.com/ - beautiful in style and placement.

Why I Dress Nice

When my dad was a kid, his mother, my nana, would tell him to go to the deli, and get some “nice ham”. Not just any ham, “nice ham”. That became a running joke in my family. If we bought some cold cuts, invariably, one of us would ask, “did you get the nice ham?”

With my sister’s BF, Nick, in Fells!

My coworkers commented on my change of style to a nicer, even quite dapper, look at the office. Since I have always felt like I should have been born in the 1960s or earlier, I quite like the idea of rocking a debonair look.

A few days ago a friend said he liked my new look, and was curious why I was walking around in nice shoes, a buttoned down shirt with cufflinks, and a vest. Was it to “look good, and feel good”?

Almost, but not quite. I dress this way for two reasons.

First, changing my clothes after work is a custom-made mental doorway. Have you ever walked into a room of your home, and stopped with no idea why you are now in that room? There are some fascinating studies on the doorway, or “threshold”, effect on the human mind. The hypothesis is that crossing a barrier frees the mind from the constraints of the previous environment.

Establishing mental dominance over my sister’s BF.

This is why the first few days of a vacation feel awesome, and the last day is considerably less awesome. The mind has a sense of where you are, and when you are in an environment where you have work and personal stressors, there will be thoughts in your subconscious relevant to your regular surroundings.

My “nice” look gives me something to shed when I get home from work. I step across the threshold of my front door and change into something more relaxed. I have noticed a much smoother transition out of “work-mode” and into “do whatever I want” mode.

The second reason is more personal. I know my anxious and depressive triggers. I know them very well, but sometimes I miss one. Before I can raise my defenses, I might be on slippery mental ground.

My dapper look means more time for me to notice pre-depressive and pre-anxious indicators. If I do not feel like ironing my shirt in the morning, which is a lovely moving meditation, I can ask myself why. If I do not feel like taking some care in how my tie matches the rest of my ensemble, I can analyze why. If I do not want to shine my shoes, I can examine why.

All of these are new personal measures to combat mental slippage into stress and depression, with the pleasurable side-effect of compliments on my appearance.

https://projectsemicolon.com/

Plus, I get to wear my semicolon tie clip!

Life in a Psychiatric Hospital - Part 5 of 5

It took my fourth hospitalization before I realized the folly of lying to expedite my release.

During my first three hospitalizations, I learned the rules and then acted accordingly. Doctors, nurses, and other caretakers are, in my experience, personally invested in a person getting well. I had many wonderful interactions with compassionate and empathetic professionals at each hospital where I spent time. That said, the medical business is a business.

Insurance companies are not keen on paying for beds for patients who are stable. A hospital cannot be financially sound if patients are kept on the ward until their caretakers are absolutely sure a patient is capable of taking care of themselves, or at the very least, not in any danger of self-harm.

It is a system that constantly cycles people in and out. Because it is a system, though, it can be gamed.

I am exceptionally good at putting on a facade to the world. In my first hospitalizations, I lied.

Told the nurses I felt great. I smiled. I held doors open for other patients. I politely requested shaving privileges, and did my very best to be of no concern to those running the ward. This strategy worked brilliantly to get me released because there was no behavior the doctors or nurses could point to where I demonstrated the desire for self-harm.

I appeared psychologically “stable,” and that meant I should be released, and my bed given to someone at more acute risk of overdose, self-harm, etc.

I knew the system. I had read about emergency psychiatric hospitals and insane asylums. The best patient is typically one that causes no problems. So I lied and became the best patient I could at the expense of my health.

At this point someone might rightly condemn me: “How could you lie to your doctor? Didn’t you want to get better?” Spare me.

If everyone told their doctor the truth, there would be no medical drama category on Netflix.

I wanted out of the hospital, and I was willing to sacrifice my long-term health for short-term freedom.

There are no quick fixes for mental illness, and lying can only be maintained for so long. Eventually, I did not have the energy to keep the facade going. My mask of normality crumbled away.

My last hospitalization was a result being committed following my outburst in the seclusion room. I stayed in my bed for days. A nurse kept coming into my room to encourage me to venture out and interact, but I stubbornly stayed under my sheet. After a while, though, it was pretty boring by myself, and I shuffled outside.

Six years after my first hospitalization I had finally had it with putting on a show of normality. It was exhausting and counter-productive. Once I stopped playacting and started working on my recovery, life got better.

It is realistic to expect that I will be back in a psychiatric hospital someday in the future. I learned that fact from a delightful older woman who checked herself into the hospital every year or so for a couple of weeks. She knew that when she did not feel safe, she should be in the safest place possible.

That was a great lesson to learn. I can use the hospital just like any other treatment. That understanding makes it much more bearable to willingly be locked into a ward, watch Law & Order SVU reruns, eat poor food, and talk with doctors.

Using the system, as opposed to gaming the system, was the lesson I wish I knew years and years ago.

Life in a Psychiatric Hospital - Part 4

Group is a regular part of every day in a psych ward. The type of groups may differ between facilities, but they are invaluable to the patients and to the caretakers.

Facilities have different rules on expected behavior. Ridgeview required me to attend all groups in order to get the privilege of dining in the mess hall. Those that avoided group, got their food delivered to the ward in a styrofoam box. At St. Joseph, food was delivered to the unit so there was no real penalty if you did not attend group, but, since group is a primary method for determining a person’s readiness to leave, attendance is a good idea if you want to get past the locked door at the front of the building.

Most of us went to group begrudgingly. If nothing else, it passed the time. Also, the staff turned off the television during group time.

Looking back, I would say that Ridgeview’s groups were focused on everyday life skills, and St. Joseph’s groups were focused on communication and interpersonal skills.

Behold! My awesome hot plate!

I definitely enjoyed group more at St. Josephs, because they were more fun.

Reminiscent of a kindergarten class. Feel like coloring? Go color! Want to play with blocks? We have all the blocks! I even learned to grout and made my own hot plate over a three day period.

At this point, some readers may be wondering, “Really? Coloring books? This is supposed to make you better?” No. Group does not make a person better. It facilitates recovery because human beings are social creatures.

Isolation can destroy a person. Ask any prisoner who has spent time in solitary. Or, just watch this video about Harry Harlow’s Pit of Despair experiments with rhesus monkeys:

Now, I am an introvert’s introvert. I find nothing more enjoyable than reading a book on a lazy Sunday afternoon, and never saying a word to anyone for the entire day. That said, I am human, and I do not do well with extended periods of isolation. No one does.

Group, in the context of psychiatric care, establishes a place where someone with a frayed mind can get their bearings under controlled circumstances. The depressed person who cannot speak can, at least, listen.

The person coming down from a manic episode can ease out of it with people who won’t judge. The addict who just got through the worsts of withdrawal can talk about their experiences.

The hospital is not real life, and group allows for an approximation of life. As such, it gives insight into a person’s state of mind around other people that is objectively measurable by those providing care.

For instance, for the two days that I avoided group entirely and stayed in my bed, I was not ready to leave the hospital. Because I likely would have gone home, got into bed, and avoided my life. But, oh how a nurse’s face lights up when you walk out of your room and sit down in group! Even if you do not say anything, your presence shows a willingness to engage with others.

Group is a means to an end. It gives patients the opportunity to experience time with people in a controlled setting. Combined with daily therapy, consistent medication, a good diet, and sleep, the whole treatment becomes greater than the sum of it’s parts. It is a staggeringly simple idea, but that is why it works. Put a human being in varied, yet safe, social situations and give them time to learn how to exist with others.

Life in a Psychiatric Hospital - Part 3

My seclusion room story requires a bit of set up.

I voluntarily committed myself to Ridgeview in 2011, and was given a brief tour to get comfortable with my new little world. Part of that world was a seclusion room.

It’s pretty bare, but safe.

It consisted of four walls with a solid, rubber mattress on the floor. Why solid rubber? So that someone could not strangle themselves with sewn fibers.

A brilliant white light radiated from the light fixture that was mounted flush with the ceiling. Why flush? So that someone could not hang themselves from it.

A substantial, but easily opened door with a large window separated this little psych ward from the big psych ward. Why the window? So the nurses could keep an eye on the patient. The door was strategically located directly across from the nurse’s station for even easier tracking.

There is no straight jacket, no one is getting chained to the wall, and no one is locked in without round-the-clock supervision. But, I distinctly remember thinking,

“I’ll never be in one of those.”

Life, as I have come to learn, loves irony.

In the fall of 2016, I had the “choice” between involuntary commitment or voluntary commitment at a facility in Maryland. More on that in a later post.

After my release, I entered an Intensive Outpatient Program, or IOP. Basically, you go to the hospital every morning, stay till three, and get to sleep in your own bed at night. This program gradually gets a person into a more regular routine, and they can more easily transition into the life they choose to live.

Bedlam from 'A Rake's Progress' 1733, By William Hogarth - “Bedlam” was the byname of Bethlem Royal Hospital due to the noise. Visitors were welcome! For a shilling or two, you could walk through the hospital and gawk at the crazy people.

---

I was there for extreme panic attacks, that were a side effect of a new medication I was cycled onto by my psychiatrist. I have never experienced such terror, and I hope to never experience anything close to the sensations I had while on that medication. I write this because it explains why I needed the seclusion room on a crisp Friday afternoon in November.

“They’re looking at me.”

“They’re spying on me.”

“They’re judging me.”

https://thehowtobe.com/panic-attacks/

Such are the thoughts of a paranoid mind in the early stages of a panic attack. Truth be told, the nursing students had no idea who I was, and they certainly had no evil intentions toward me. But, my mind was unaccustomed to seeing them. The unexpected and unwanted presence of several new faces in my safe hospital ward triggered a massive panic attack.

Almost entirely paralyzed by fear, I somehow got a nurse’s attention and communicated with him by grunting and shaking my head “yes” or “no” to his questions. He gave me a high strength, anti-anxiety medication, which was nice, but at that point, it was about as effective as putting a single sandbag in the path of a massive flood. Using our meager method of communication, we agreed that I wanted to go into the seclusion room to feel safe and ride out the worst of the panic attack, but I could not move.

Four nurses picked me up in my chair and placed me in the room. They lifted me out of the chair, removed my clothes and put a paper gown on me. Why paper? Think about it and you’ll realize why.

A nurse asked if she would be safe sitting in the room with me. I grunted, “yes,” but my mind was on fire, and after a few minutes I told her:

“I need you to get out of this room and lock the door.”

She did, and I lost it.

Dramatic recreation

You already know that seclusion rooms are designed to prevent someone from significantly hurting themselves. I knew this too. So I used the room to cause pain that I could control.

I punched the walls. I chained combinations together until my knuckles bled. I screamed. I paced. I raged. When I could no longer lift my hands, I slammed my head against the wall.

I did not feel agony. I WAS agony.

I unleashed all of my panicked energy while the nurses and doctors pleaded for me to stop. Protocol dictated that they stay outside the room. Sure, it would have been nice to have someone restrain me, but the safer course is to let a person burn themselves out until they are no longer a threat to themselves or their caretakers.

Most hospital protocols specify that restraints be used for the least amount of time necessary.

Eventually, everything slowed down. I collapsed onto the mattress and the door opened up. Several large men secured my limbs and put me on a gurney, to which my wrists and ankles were strapped.

Didn’t I write no restraints earlier? They are used as a final resort to protect a person who has clearly demonstrated the recent capacity to hurt themselves, and to protect those around them.

A nurse injected me with Haldol, an antipsychotic drug that “decreases excitement of the brain.” It’s the human equivalent of horse tranquilizer - you get real chill, real quick. Then she gave me another injection to counteract the side effects of Haldol.

I woke up two days later with a pounding headache and swollen knuckles, and all I could think of was how wrong I was so many years ago.

Life in a Psychiatric Hospital - Part 2

Routine.

Visit any psychiatric ward, anywhere in the country, and you will find a daily routine that the caretakers follow. Why is routine important? Why are vitals taken each morning? Why are meals served at the exact same times? Why are groups part of every day?

Because in the throes of withdrawal or with someone not long after a suicide attempt - the mind is shattered.

USS Constellation - I run by it most mornings.

Imagine your mind as a ship. You are the captain of the ship, but you are also every officer, every deckhand, and even every piece of wood and rope that make up the ship. Then a storm comes, the ship/you runs aground, and splinters into pieces. You reach out and grab hold of a floating plank, where you desperately try to keep your head above water in the heaving seas.

You become the captain of a wood plank, floating alone in the chaotic abyss.

Routine is the starting process for rebuilding a ship. You don’t throw wood and nails into a dry dock and expect a ship to come together without a plan. Nor should you expect that to happen with your mind.

Most hospitals follow a routine:

Vitals are taken every day so the nursing staff and doctors can notice any significant changes in a person’s physical health.

• Morning

  • Wake up, vitals, meds

  • Breakfast

  • Group session

• Afternoon

  • Lunch

  • Group session

  • Break

• Evening

  • Group session

  • Dinner

  • Meds

The routine is dull, uninteresting, and unexciting - by design!

Imagine you’re desperately gripping your wooden plank, and, by some miracle, a party cruise liner breaks over the horizon. You are rescued and immediately thrown into a world of bright lights, loud noises, curious food, and you haven’t a clue what the destination is. You’re grateful to be out of the water, certainly, but you have a whole new host of issues to navigate.

Now imagine you are saved by the Coast Guard. Everyone is wearing the same uniform, everyone fits into a particular role, everyone is calm in the face of danger. A medic checks you out, you’re given a blanket and a cup of coco, and told where you will be taken to next. You’re just as grateful to be out of the water as you were in the first scenario, but all of your issues are taken care of for you.

That is the magic of routine. It gives a mind in chaos something to hold onto. Something that makes sense. Something that can be counted on.

That is where recovery can begin.

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A GIGANTIC thank you to the following people for breaking my $1,000 goal for the Baltimore Out of the Darkness Walk!

• Collette Dixon

• Roger and Margo Coleman

• Lou and Mary Jo Corsetti

• Caitlin Corsetti

• James Hunt

• Samantha Perrine

• The Smith Family

• Natalie Wills

• Kate and Mark Bernal

• Andi O’Connor

• The Assaf Family

• Kevin Greene

• The Arney Family

• Jim Fiora

• Cara Morris

Life in a Psychiatric Hospital - Part 1

There is a common misconception that a psychiatric hospital will be eerily similar to “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest". Uncompromising doctors treating crazy patients with a strong helping of electroshock therapy and powerful antipsychotic medication. Such were my preconceptions of what was an underwhelming, boring, but ultimately helpful experience.

On July 5th, 2011 I voluntarily checked myself into the Ridgeview Institute after my hanging attempt. At intake I answered a myriad of medical and personal history questions in triplicate, was interviewed about my most recent mental health problems, given an ID wristband, and led behind the first of many locked doors in the complex. 

An orderly brought me into Cottage C, which specialized in addiction recovery and mental health issues consisting of depression, bipolar disorder, and schizophrenia. From intake I was sat down, got my blood pressure and temperature taken, then told to wait for a staff member to search me and inventory my belongings.

After thirty minutes of people watching, which is very amusing on a psychiatric ward, a nurse ushered me into a very utilitarian office where all of my belongings were searched. Even the clothes I wore were searched for contraband or possible weapons or tools I could use to harm myself. 

After the search I was fed a rather delicious meal of fried fish and vegetables, and then a nurse showed me to my bedroom where I met my roommate. A very polite older gentleman there for treatment of his severe alcoholism. Once I saw the bed, I laid down and tried to rest because I had not slept well since my suicide attempt three nights earlier.

I was on a fifteen minute bed check, which meant that every quarter of an hour a nurse came into my room with her smartphone as a flashlight to check that I was still breathing.

You may think that is a little much, but it is essential for someone not far removed from a suicide attempt. The bed checks also establish a regular pattern for a shattered mind to recognize and accept.

My mind was in utter chaos, and knowing a nurse would check in on me every fifteen minutes was oddly comforting.