Rose Delaney’s Common Threads — Stories of Survival & Recovery From Mental Illness

 I found the following story of Rose Delaney in the book Common Threads post on the book publishers website. 

Rose Delaney is a remarkable woman. After years of isolation and long-term
hospitalization she found her way back to a life filled with possibilities. She is a leader
in the f ght for quality mental health services for consumers throughout the state. Rose
continues to live in Lehigh Acres and work with the Compeer program with NAMI,
and she is a proud participant in the Florida Self-Directed Care program.
Rose identifies many of the same common threads for recovery that our other storytellers
have. She particularly emphasizes the importance of peer support and the value of
educating yourself about your illness. She is a wonderful example of the power of helping
others.
I knew from childhood that there was something wrong with me; at least I felt
that way. I was always so serious. I always had to make sure, even when I was little,
that everyone else was okay or happy. Th roughout my childhood, I remember
hearing my parents say to other people that I was this perfect child. “We take
her places and she is so quiet and well behaved” was a common phrase. So I just
thought that was it, I was a quiet, well-behaved little girl. Meanwhile, I felt so sad
inside and didn’t know how to express this to anyone.
When I started junior high school, I began having horrible panic attacks. I would
fear when I got home from school that there wouldn’t be anyone there and I
would be all alone. It didn’t matter that this never happened; I was just scared it
would. So I started to skip school. I would sneak back in the house and stay there
all day. Eventually, the school notified my parents. They brought me to the school
counselor. I told them of my fear, and they just said it was the anxiety of starting
junior high. Inside, I was just desperate for someone to listen to me. I knew there
was something else going on.
High school was horrible. No one realized there was something deeply wrong
with me. I think that made it worse for me. I just continued to try to hide it from
myself and everyone else. I felt as if I had to live up to the perfect child my parents
saw me as. I didn’t want to cause them any problems, so I would keep everything
inside. I had suicidal thoughts back then but never acted on them. I was very, very
depressed, yet my parents still just thought this was my personality, quiet and well
behaved.
Eventually, I got married. I think I went for someone who I thought would take
care of me. I didn’t think about his character and how he would treat me, just
that he would take care of me. I didn’t fi nd out until the day we went to get our
marriage license that he had been married twice before.
At first I was told I couldn’t have children, so it was a surprise when I became
pregnant. I had a very rough pregnancy. I was bedridden from my fourth month.
Th is was very stressful for me because I was alone in the house all day. After I had
the baby, the stress continued. My daughter was premature and had to stay in the
hospital for a month. I just continued to keep everything bottled up inside. The
first time I saw a psychiatrist was after the birth of my daughter; I was 22.
My husband came home one day when my daughter was about a year old. I was
sitting in the corner on the floor just sobbing. I couldn’t take care of the baby or

anything. The doctor suggested I see a psychiatrist. This was my first experience
with a psychiatrist, who said what I was going through was normal. I just had a
baby; back then, they called it “the baby blues.” “You’ll get over it and everything
will be fine,” the psychiatrist said. I wanted to scream at this doctor, “Everything is
not going to be fine! It’s not fine!” My depression really progressed from there, and
I really only just existed. I did what I had to do to take care of my daughter and be
a wife.
My first manic episode was in my mid to late 20s. I went on a major spending
spree. I bought for myself and everyone else. I don’t mean fi ve dollar things either.
I maxed out all of our credit cards, took all the money out of our checking and
savings, and left us with nothing. My husband didn’t know at first because I
always handled the finances. When I started coming out of the mania and into the
depression, I realized what I had done. Bills were coming in, there was nothing
in the bank, and I didn’t know what to do so I had to tell him. He was livid! He
didn’t think this was because of a mental illness or anything. He just thought I
was this horrible person to have spent all the money with no regard for how hard
he worked or anything. This was the beginning of the decline of the marriage. He
started seeing my best friend. Then one day, out of the blue, he told me he wanted
a divorce.
Once he left and I had to tell the family what was going on, they were very
supportive. They found me a place to live with my daughter. My daughter was 5
and it was hard on her. One day I received a call from school that she was upsetting
other children because she was telling them that her father died. Th e school
recommended she see a psychiatrist. When I would take her there, I would think to
myself that I was the one that needed to be seeing a doctor.
It was about a month after my husband left when I decided I just couldn’t take it
anymore and swallowed a bottle of pills. My parents had gone away and had taken
my daughter with them because they thought this would be good for me. My
brother, who was about 18 at the time, was the one who found me. I remember it
like it was yesterday. He was shaking me and screaming at me, “If you don’t tell me
what you took, I’ll kill you!” Now, years later I feel so bad for putting him in that
position. That was my first suicide attempt.
Within a year, I really went manic! I went through all that I had left. I had a job
as an office manager and was PTA president. The PTA needed to raise money, so
I thought the best way to do this was to raffle off a car. My position as an office
manager gave me check-writing privileges, and I chose to use those privileges to
purchase the car for the raffle. I never thought what I was doing was wrong. I
justified my actions. I figured since my boss was always donating money, this would
be like donating money to the school. I thought I wouldn’t have check-writing
privileges if I weren’t allowed to decide where to write the checks. During this time,
I never thought I was manic or realized anything could be wrong. Th en, of course,
I swung into the depression and realized what I had done. I went to my boss and
told him about the car. He didn’t take it too well. He pressed charges and I was
arrested.

By this time, I was suicidal and was placed on 24-hour suicide watch at the jail.
I had to wear paper clothes. Th e guard, who was male, told me to change into
them. I told him I wouldn’t until he walked away, not realizing they had the
mirrors. He walked away, and then I heard them laughing as I was changing. I was
mortified! I was detained until they sent me to a local private psychiatric facility a
few days later. I stayed in there for about 6 weeks, but the doctor felt I still needed
additional inpatient care. My insurance had lapsed out, so they took me back to
the community mental health center until a bed opened at G. Pierce Wood State
Psychiatric Hospital. This was in 1987.
I was frightened. When I was admitted to G. Pierce Wood, I was coherent enough
to realize what was going on. The hospital wasn’t in the best of conditions. On
arrival, I was taken to the Intake Ward. Most of the people on this ward were pretty
psychotic. People were fighting and screaming, and I just sat there wondering
how this place was supposed to help me. When I fi rst got there, I was kept pretty
heavily sedated, almost zombie like. My dad and my uncle would come up every
day to see me. They were very upset when they saw the condition I was in. They
set up an appointment for me to see a doctor. At first, the doctors said they had
to keep me sedated to get me stabilized. My father didn’t understand what they
meant by stabilized. He just thought I was drugged and that was it. To him, that
wasn’t stable. I became okay. I felt protected by two of the older staff members.
I think they saw that I wasn’t streetwise and didn’t know the “in’s” and “out’s” of
this type of facility, so they took me under their wings. Some of the other residents
didn’t feel so inclined and used to call me Princess. My parents would bring stuff
for me, and this bothered them. They would take the stuff that was brought to me
and lock it up and not give it to me when I asked for it. So I said something and
filed a complaint. The doctor wanted me to tell him who was doing this, but I was
frightened because I knew they would retaliate. The doctor kept assuring me that
nothing like that would happen. I told him that he wasn’t here at night and didn’t
know. Well, sure enough, something was said to the people who were hurting me.
Th at night, they humiliated me in front of everyone, saying, “The little princess
complained so now we can’t do this or that and it’s all her fault.” Of course, some of
the other patients there believed this, so it was pretty rough at first.
Eventually, I was transferred to another ward. I tried to make friends with the staff
once more because I was afraid that I was going to be mistreated again. The stuff
that went on there, I used to say I would write a book about it. Then I thought
people would just think I was psychotic if I did tell them some of the going-on.
People would think I was mentally ill and fabricating stories. This wasn’t the case,
though. Things that were happening there were not in my mind. Staff members
were having sex with clients. I was at this hospital for more than 3 years. Clients
were getting pregnant. Th ere was physical abuse. Verbal abuse was constant. Most
of the workers didn’t care. I don’t mean the nurses or employees who had degrees.
Not to sound demeaning, but the other workers weren’t educated and were just
there for their check and that was it. Th e night staff in particular would come in
and just eat and watch TV. To have gotten better there had to take shear willpower
because you knew for certain that you weren’t getting any help from the staff .
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However, some people at the hospital did seem to care. It seemed as if I would
always find them somehow, or they would find me. I really don’t know which.
Toward the end, I was refusing to leave the hospital. They tried several times to
discharge me, and I would go into such a depression. I was afraid to leave because
although all this hellish stuff was going on, I still felt like I was safer there than in
the outside world.
Finally, they moved me. I was like a pilot project. There was housing where some of
the doctors used to live on the grounds of the hospital. So they started this program
in which some of us started living in those cottages. We would cook for ourselves
and do our own laundry, etc. These cottages were our own little apartments.
They thought it would be good for me. They thought that once I saw what it was
like to be on my own again, I would want to go home. In my eyes, it wasn’t bad
because it was like I was at home but still in their environment and still protected.
Eventually, they realized this and assigned me a guardian advocate who was an
attorney. He would come and talk with me for hours, trying to convince me to
try to leave on my own. I just kept telling him no, that I was fi ne. I had a plan
and when I reached old age, I would go to the geriatric ward and die there. I was
serious. I told him I was fine with this and I was. I was content and there was no
problem. I had a little job while I was there as well. The staff took me under their
wing and would talk with me. They would tell me how well I was doing, that I
really did need to get out there and try and think about my daughter.
While I was in the hospital, my husband fi led for custody. That was really the final
blow when I lost custody of my daughter. She didn’t want to see me either because
she felt I had abandoned her. So our relationship wasn’t good. She only saw me
because they made her. There was no emotion, no affection, nothing, whenever I
was around her. If I would try to hug her, she would stiff en up like a board.
So I thought I didn’t have anything out there and I would stay at the hospital.
Finally, I felt sorry for the guardian advocate because he kept coming up there and
pleading with me, so I thought, “Okay, I’ll try it.” They tricked me. They said I
would just go for a week to this supervised housing through the community mental
health center in the town where I lived. So I just packed a few things, unaware that
they had packed all my stuff . I wasn’t too happy when I found out this was what
was going on. I lived in the supervised apartments for a year before graduating
to an apartment I shared with only two other residents. I think there were six
apartments in total, so I still kind of knew everyone and a staff member would
come once a week.
At fi rst, I was very dependant on the staff . In the supervised apartments, the staff
was just downstairs from us. I was constantly in the offi ce. I felt like I couldn’t
do anything. I felt like I didn’t know how to shop or cook. Prior to all of this,
I managed an offi ce of 25 people. I was an excellent cook. I even cooked in a
restaurant.
Now it was like a learning process. I had to be taught all over again how to live.
When I think about it now, I can’t believe I had become that way. I would say the
fi rst year was the hardest. Then one day on my way home from cashing my first

paycheck, I was mugged. Well, I had such a fear of the police that I wouldn’t let
the staff call the authorities. Th ey said they had to, though, but I didn’t want any
part of it. Whenever I would see a police car anywhere, I would just start trembling
because in my mind, I thought they were there to get me.
Once I had been in the unsupervised apartment for a year, everyone thought I was
doing well and should get my own place. So again, my parents came. I was still not
making any decisions. Either my treatment team or my family was making all my
decisions for me, and I was fine with that. While I was in the hospital, my driver’s
license expired. For some reason, I developed a fear of driving so I waited about 4
years before I even got my driver’s license again.
I got my own place, which was very hard at first. I couldn’t sleep at night because
I was very frightened to be alone. I was working at this cute little café. I loved it
because I loved cooking and baking. To me, it wasn’t even like a job because I loved
going there every morning. I loved the people. It was in a small offi ce building, so
basically all the customers were the same people that came in every day. Th is was
my socialization. I would speak with everyone there, but then I would go home and
that was it. I would remain inside my apartment. Th e doctor would always harp on
me about this. He wanted me to get out more for socialization. He would tell me,
“I know you can do it, you just have to get out there.” I would say okay, but I knew
I wasn’t ready for that. I was afraid I was going to tell people I was mentally ill, and
I was fearful how people would react to this. I didn’t even want to tell the rest of
my family, like my aunts and uncles. I don’t even remember what my parents were
telling people about where I was for those 3-plus years.
Th e only friend I had was my boss. I found the job through job service. I didn’t tell
her at fi rst, but my case manager kept telling me I needed to tell my employer. I
was so fearful that she wouldn’t let me stay there, and I loved the job. Finally, one
morning I came in and asked her if I could speak with her after work. Th at whole
day, I was so nervous because I thought it would be my last day. Once we fi nally sat
down, I just started crying. She said, “Oh, please don’t tell me you want to quit.”
I told her I wouldn’t have to because she was going to let me go. She asked why I
would say that, and I proceeded to tell her about my mental illness. She was just
looking at me while I was telling her I spent more than 3 years in a state mental
hospital and that I currently receive psychiatric care and am taking medication
for it. When I was fi nished, she asked me, “You really thought I would let you go
because of that?” I said yes and she said, “Well, Rose, we’re kind of a rag-tag group
here.” It was just me, her, and two other employees. She also stated, “Th ey have
stories, too.” She said she thought it was just her personality that attracted people
in need of help. I remember going to my therapy session after that. I told everyone
she didn’t say anything. Nothing! Not even a “why didn’t you tell me this before
I hired you.” She acted like it was nothing! I was in such disbelief that people like
this really existed.
Anyway, my boss was getting older and was in the process of deciding whether to
sell the business. My hours were cut because of this. It just so happened that this
woman who came in every now and then for lunch was opening a restaurant. She

offered me a job. I moved at this time as well because I really wasn’t driving yet, and
I needed to be closer to work. I rented a little cottage off McGregor Avenue. Th e
main house was big and beautiful, and the cottages were where the help used to
live. Th e restaurant was only two blocks away. I worked there until it closed. I think
that was approximately 3 years.
I did make a couple of friends. One of them introduced me to another male friend.
I was very attracted to him and I thought he felt the same way. Well, to make a
long story short, we started seeing each other exclusively. I didn’t know, but my
family told this man that I had a mental illness. I never told him anything. I felt
as if I were 16 again. I was in love! So I didn’t have to take my medicine anymore
because he was my medicine. I was on a high all the time, not realizing that high
didn’t necessarily mean good.
My new boyfriend had me sign a Power of Attorney agreement. I put his name on
my bank accounts. He then went through all my funds. So, a year and a half later
I was penniless, homeless, and suicidal. Once he saw I had no money left, I was no
use to him. I came home one day, and there was a locksmith in the driveway. He
had all the locks changed and wouldn’t let me in the house. When my family found
out there was no money, they were very upset with me.
Th ey asked me, “Why were you so stupid to put him on your bank account?
How could you be so stupid? What are you doing to do now?” I still had my
car, unaware at the time that he hadn’t been paying for it. So I went to visit my
daughter. I was very depressed. I lay on her couch for 4 days, in the same clothes
and everything.
My daughter was getting upset with me and said she couldn’t have this. She said no
one understood why I was doing this. I told her she was right, that I needed to get
my life in order. I told her I was going to go, not telling her what was on my mind.
I left her house and got midpoint between her house and Ft. Myers when I stopped
at Wal-Mart to get a drink. I remembered it was Hawaiian Fruit Punch. I sat in
the parking lot, took a bottle of pills, and drank the fruit punch and proceeded
to drive. I still say, to this day, that God was on my shoulder because I managed
to make it to the community mental health center. I don’t know how; I don’t
remember anything.
Th ey said when I pulled my car in, I was straddling parking spots and they called
911. I remember when they were putting me in the ambulance I was trying
to scream at them. We got to the hospital while they were trying to pump my
stomach. I remember fl ailing my hands and legs and screaming for them to leave
me alone. Th ey put me in restraints and pumped my stomach anyway. When I
woke up, there was a police offi cer in the room. Now I was really scared. I said,
“I’m being arrested for trying to kill myself?!” He replied,, “Oh no honey, we know
you need help and I’m just going to take you over to the crisis unit.” I lay there and
thought to myself, “You’re stupid. Everyone was right, you can’t even kill yourself!
How stupid could you be?!”
So I was taken to the crisis stabilization unit. I think I was there for a couple of
weeks. When it came time to be discharged, no one wanted me. I kept telling them
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to call my parents, brother, or two sisters. Th ey said they had and none of them
wanted me at their houses. I was, of course, shocked. I just couldn’t believe this. I
didn’t have any money; what was I going to do? Th ey told me they were trying to
place me somewhere. I said, “Place me somewhere?” I was just shocked that my
family would do this. I thought there was no way they would. I said I needed to
call my family. So I called my brother, and he said they felt that this the best thing
right now. I said, “I have nothing! I have no place to go! Th is is best?” He said they
were sorry but that was how they felt. Th e mental health center told me that the
only place they could fi nd for me was a homeless shelter in Naples.
I ended up at St. Matthews House. When I got there, I saw that it was basically
for alcoholics and drug addicts. I told them a mistake had been made and I didn’t
belong there. Th ey proceeded to tell me there was no mistake, that they were the
only ones that would take me. Th ey told me it was either there or on the streets. I
called my brother again and told him he didn’t understand. I said to him, “I don’t
think you know where they sent me, this place is for alcoholics and drug addicts.
Th is is where you want me to live?!” He said at least I had a place to live and hung
up. At this point, I’m still in shock that my family would do this. It was also well
known that people there didn’t want me there because I had a mental illness. So I
got uppity too and thought I didn’t want to be with a bunch of drunks and drug
addicts either. I thought I was better than they. I thought it was so far out there.
Th ey had me going to AA meetings. I got to my fi rst AA meeting and saw that they
all introduced themselves like, “Hi, I’m so-and-so and I’m an alcoholic.” I asked
what I was supposed to say, “Hi, I’m Rose and I’m mentally ill.” I thought that was
funny, but the people there didn’t because I was making fun of them. I was told
not to be disruptive during the meetings. I replied by informing them that I didn’t
belong there. “What do I have to talk about? I don’t drink and I don’t do drugs.”
I said. Th ey replied, “No but you do have a problem, so that is what you need to
talk about.”
Eventually, we all got to know each other. My nickname became Crazy. It didn’t
bother me because I knew they were joking. I lived there for a year. I tried working,
but I stressed, so I wanted a meaningless job. I got hired at the Hess station to
work at the Blimpie’s. I was happy with that, making sandwiches. I was there for 1
week when my supervisor asked me if I would consider a management position. I
replied that I only wanted to make sandwiches. My supervisor said they had been
watching how I worked and liked my initiative. Meanwhile, I’m asking myself why
I can’t just get a job and stay in the position I want. I went home that night and
started having a panic attack. When I was asked why I was having this attack, I said
Blimpie’s wanted me to be a manager. I said, “I can’t do that, I don’t want to do
that, I can’t go back!” I ended up trying another job, and the same thing happened.
It was then that it was suggested that I apply for disability. I had never been on
disability before; I had always managed to work. Th ey helped me apply and I was
granted disability, which was a surprise. Usually you aren’t approved the fi rst time
you apply, but I guess they saw my history and that I had tried and I was in my
50s. Perhaps they just thought, “Let’s just give her a break or whatever.” Once on
disability, I was able to fi nd a place of my own. I was living in Bonita at the time,
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Common Threads — Stories of Survival & Recovery From Mental Illness 􀂙 October 2007
and it was when my father was fi rst diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and my mom was
having a hard time. My siblings then decided I would move back home.
I had gotten back together with my family by then, but it wasn’t the same. Th ey
never included me in things unless I was sitting there. When they would call me,
it was always superfi cial. It was never as it used to be where I would always know
what was going on. It was 4 or 5 years that we talked like strangers, but now they
needed me again. My doctor, therapist, and case worker diligently tried to convince
me not to make this move because they felt it wasn’t a good situation to be so close
to my family. All I kept thinking about was how my father would always come and
visit me and now he needs me.
I moved back to Lehigh. My case manager had told me about a new program called
Compeer. She wanted someone to come and talk to me about the program. I said
no because I felt like it was just one more person to come into my home and get
into my personal business. I felt as if I were an open book after being in metal
heath treatment for so long, so I just said no. It was about a month later that my
case manager asked me again. She said she wouldn’t ask me if she didn’t think it
was something I would enjoy. I still wasn’t getting much socialization; I was in a
little cocoon. I would visit family and church and that was it. So I fi nally agreed
to let this other woman come and tell me about the program. I just fi gured she
would come and ask questions, I would say yes, and that would be it. Well, little
did I know that it would end up becoming one of the biggest turning points in
my road to recovery. Judy was that woman. We talked and she told me more about
Compeer. I said I’d do it.
Compeers are volunteers from the community who are matched with someone
with a mental illness. Usually they’ll meet for lunch together or something like that
and just start a kind of friendship. It’s just like you gain a friend you know is there
for you.
So Judy said that she had a match for me. I was going to a cooking class and could
meet her there. When Judy picked me up in her car, my Compeer was in the front
seat. I couldn’t see her face, but I thought her voice sounded familiar. When we
got out of the car, the woman and I just stood there looking at one another. As it
turned out, I knew her! Her name was Peggy, and we used to go to the same church
about 20 years before. Judy didn’t know this and asked, since we were looking at
each other in such a way. I told her that I couldn’t believe Peggy was the one she
had picked for my Compeer friend and that we already knew each other. Peggy and
I were thrilled. Peggy knew I was sick, although we hadn’t spoken in a while. We
ended up becoming very close. Th is was the beginning of my social life. We went
to the movies and lunch. I hadn’t been to the movies in years. I always used to love
going to the movies. Th ere became a waiting list for getting a Compeer friend, so
it was decided that Peggy and I would start doing Compeer calls. Four years later,
we are still doing the calls. It is as rewarding for me as it is for the person on the
phone. When we fi rst started the calls, I was going though a very bad depression
in which I thought I would have to be hospitalized again. Th en I would hear what
the people on the calls would have to say, and it would help me take just one step
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up at a time. Eventually, I became okay. I really believe that the calls were what got
me through it because I was very low and was having suicidal thoughts, which were
very scary.
Th en I became a member of NAMI. I used to say that I was dragged into these
things, but it really wasn’t that way. I felt like I was home. If I said anything, it
was okay. If I said nothing, it was okay, I was comfortable. I was seeing other
people with mental illness who were doing well. It started to dawn on me that this
recovery stuff really works. Each time I spoke, listened, and began learning about
my own illness, it just strengthened and empowered me. I think another turning
point that made me want to become even more of an advocate was when I attended
a certain function. Th ere were some people there who had been in the hospital with
me. One was at the level that I call myself at now, and the others weren’t. Th is really
bothered me because I knew how they were in the hospital, and I felt they should
have been better by now. But I also felt they hadn’t been given the opportunities
I had, such as the support systems, good mental heath care, and an excellent
therapist. I thought if they were aff orded these opportunities, they would be doing
better than they were. Th is really bothered me and made me want to do something
to make it an even playing field for everyone with a mental illness. Th is became my
goal. It almost became a rallying cry.
Th is was a big part of my recovery, especially when I started doing the NAMI
information and referral calls. Calls come in to the NAMI state office. These calls
ranged from finding an office near a client to helping someone who couldn’t get a
doctor’s appointment. Sometimes people who call are lonely and just need someone
to talk to. It can be a wide range of things. Parents of adult children call looking
for advice on how to handle various matters. Th e biggest thing is that they become
very emotional, although their kids are adults now. I just ask them how I can help.
I only tell some of them that I have a mental illness. When I do, I briefl y tell them
where it started and where I am today. Th en we both start crying, and the person
on the other end of the line is grateful for the hope I give, the idea that their child
still has a chance. Never give up hope. If I can give anyone anything, I want it to be
hope. I want them to see that they might have a long road ahead, but they will get
there.
I never feel as if it is too much for me. People will say that they don’t want to put
too much on me, but I know what my limits are now and I, not someone else, am
making those choices. Th is was another point that made me realize that the road
was getting better. I feel proud of myself now, what I do today, and where I’ve
come from. I don’t care what other people say about that. And this is a good thing,
especially since it took so long to feel good, proud, and happy. Even if I just help
one person, that is enough for me.
If I had to name a couple of other things that most helped my recovery, I would say
that one of the most defi nite things was education. I didn’t know all there was to
know about my illness. Once I started learning, I would say “Oh, okay, that’s what
happened and that’s what is supposed to happen.” Th at’s when I started to realize
I wasn’t the only one feeling this way. I would also say that support groups made a
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Common Threads — Stories of Survival & Recovery From Mental Illness 􀂙 October 2007
big diff erence. I have always felt very comfortable in a support group with people
more like me. I am able to speak what is on my mind and not be judged. Th at was
actually huge for me. I didn’t think anyone cared before that.
Now I think they do, even my parents. In the past, they didn’t ask me anything
about my life, like what I was doing with NAMI and things of that nature, but
now they do and they are genuinely interested. Th is makes me realize that maybe
they are starting to understand that they need to become educated about my
mental illness, too.
Th ey are proud of me now. Only one person has actually verbalized it, but I can tell
they are. I think it bothers them that I have become so independent because I was
always so dependant on them. My daughter is very proud. She will just say, “Oh
Mom, to see how you were then and now” with such love.
Rose Delaney

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