In the late 1970's my parents had me in the hospital for "S-h-a-k-i-n-g."*
At the time I was running around with a group of kids my parents didn't approve of. (I was nearly a straight-A-student, well liked by my teachers, an outstanding student-artist, and depressed.
Misguided and in a troubled marriage themselves, my parents thought I was on drugs.
I was just laying there waiting for someone to tell me what was wrong with
me. I don't remember my mother coming to visit, but my dad came by
and we had a terrible fight. An hour or so later a nurse came in and I
was still sobbing. Days later, the doctors didn't find anything wrong
with me. But I had one doctor suggest I see a psychiatrist. My dad told
me what the doctor said, and suggested I pick a doctor from a hospital
list he had gotten from the doctor. ( Really!)
I knew my dad thought only "crazy" people went to see a psychiatrist,
so I picked up on his negative "vibe" and yelled "I wasn't going to go!"
So I never went and it wasn't until about five years later when....
I finally got help.* I was later diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. Just so you know.