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Well, for those of you playing along at home, you may have picked up on "Quitter" that I wasn't only referring to Camp Fire Girls and Job's Daughters but about my life. Raise a hand if you caught the barely veiled references to suicide. Anyone?

If you don't know it yet, I brought that bit of prose to my therapist and, on her very strong urging, I checked myself into a psychiatric hospital for Thanksgiving. 

I was in there for a week. The first two days I spent most of my time in my room. I came out to the Day Room for meals and meds, I was examined by a physician, and I went to a couple of group sessions. While the group sessions were fine, they were nothing earth-shaking. The meds were supposed to be what I brought, but the pharmacy apparently would rather bend me over provide me with their meds rather than use what I brought and somehow everything got messed up and I was off my two primary meds for three days, and off one of them for another two after that! So I was experiencing weird withdrawal symptoms as well as being in a strange place both spatially and mentally. 

11.11.11 — Welcome to My Party

Depending on who you listen to, today's binary date brings either great evil (Zombiepocalypse anybody?) or great good (The Rapture, if you are of a specific belief system; The Rapture, if you are the rest of us). All I know is that I have fallen many steps backward in my journey out of the Abyss. As I told a friend last night, I'm just a goopy, weepy mess right now. Kind of like a puddle in the Abyss. A goopy puddle. And this is my Great Big Goddamn Pity-Party.

I'm stressed about all the stuff I still haven't done, especially the Estate bills so we can close out and I can get my damned money (you would think that would motivate me; maybe I procrastinate so the others won't get theirs?), and the manager/coordinator job, which I haven't done much at all with. I feel guilty and I beat myself up over it. And no, the apartment is no better ... it's worse. It's almost a year since it's been entirely clean. Almost a year since the carpet (which is not entirely visible) was vacuumed. I'm afraid to look under some of this stuff — I know there will be dead (please oh please oh please no) bugs under it, or in it.

Getting fatter, not getting stronger. Eating junk with lots of sugar, something I have such an addiction to that I seem powerless in the face of it. If I have sugar, then that's all I want. It's overwhelming and compelling. I'm not walking, nor am I exercising. At my age, I need to change this. I need to be as strong and flexible and mobile as I can be; there is no one to take care of me in my old age.

I feel lonely, in that "I have no family" sort of way. No family, no partner, not even any friends who love me enough to invite me to be with them during xmas or New Year's. Except my BFF, but if the others don't seem that interested, there's no point in flying all that way. And feeling unloved. My BFF and his whatever-she-is are nice enough, but exceptionally dysfunctional (pot? kettle?) that it's sometimes uncomfortable to be with them. And BFF and I have minefields galore. And I have no friends here who are so close that they will spend significant (if any) time with me, much less holidays. I love my online friends, but that's what they are: online.

I need to touch and be touched. I desperately need to be held; I have had little of that since Mom died. I need it for comfort and to fill a physical need that connects me, to the ground, and to other people. I feel so inexpressibly alone.

All of which leads me to the goopy, weepy mess. Fat & flappy? Check. Self-pitying? Check. Weepy? Check. Sliding backward, erasing months of progress? Double-check.

Thoughts (which Karen the Therapist would tell me I should address with Cognitive Therapeutic thoughts, but I just don't feel up to it, or even deserving of it):

• If no one else cares enough to take care of me, why should I care enough?
• I'm going to disappoint everyone eventually; might as well get it over with.
• I'm going to live my life alone. I'm going to end my life alone. So what's the point of it? I'm not suicidal, but some days the thought of slurping down the entire bottle of one of my meds seems attractive.
• Maybe some people are right and mental and emotional problems only get worse as we get older — never better. That would suggest that I am engaged in a futile waste of energy.
• I cannot have the man I love. I have seen him less than 5 times this year. It's not entirely rational, but I feel unloveable and always second-best. Hell, the guy I lived with for a few years even chose computer games and video recordings over me. Given my experience — decades of it — I have to conclude that men just don't want me particularly. They don't value me particularly. It's all written in invisible neon lights over my head.

Well, that should provide a selection of what I'm thinking and feeling. I'm a mess. I'm weepy. And I am gloopy — disgusting and flabby and disturbingly sticky.

I don't like myself. I don't like my life. I want out. But I don't see any way to like myself or get a life I like, so I'm stuck. I don't see anything — possible — that I want or that is more satisfying that what I have.

If you are still reading, then thank you for attending my pity party. Time to go now. I feel another cry coming on.

Not Dying

On the one hand, I think the folate/folic acid is working as an add-on to handle my depression. On the other hand, I think my anxiety has moved into stealth mode. It perks up when I start thinking about paying bills, but because I am in a very quiet mode where I'm focused on dealing with the house sale and the estate sale and having to go back to Oregon — many logistic details — I think my anxiety is simply being quiet, too. As long as I don't disturb it.

I'm glad that we're getting a chemical handle on the depression; I should be able to begin getting a personal handle on it, too. I'm also becoming more functional on some fronts — I'm not crying so much. But I wish we had a national short-term disability program, or at least have a disability program that didn't take years to get covered under, because I'm not fully functional yet and don't know when I will be.

I feel completely submerged by my current focus. It's like swimming in dark water with a flashlight: I can focus on only one section at a time. There are some other logistic issues that I've simply had to throw up my hands at and walk away from because I can't handle them right now.

Most folks handle all this stuff plus work a job plus handle a family. I don't think I could care for a cat.

I know everyone has been telling me I can handle it all and cheering me on and saying that the Universe/God/whatever never gives us what we/I cannot handle, but I've seen otherwise. I am experiencing otherwise. My anxiety is sitting there like an undetonated bomb — will it go off; how much vibration will set it off? I'm coping because I'm ignoring a lot of it and I'm desperately hoping that the bomb isn't triggered. If you judge that simply staying alive is "handling" what the Universe sends us, well that's no big deal; there are many reasons for not offing yourself that have nothing to do with indicating one is "handling" what the Universe has "given" you. Being a zombie for months or years, shutting off large sections of yourself or your life, living inside a very tiny virtual cocoon: I don't consider these ways of "handling" it. These are ways of not dying.

I look like I'm doing well to those outside my home. I probably look like I'm handling things better to those of you who read this. But for the most part, I'm really just not dying.

I'm going to do what I can do with the house and all. I can handle certain responsibilities and the pain/fear of not doing this stuff is greater than the pain/fear of doing it. There's a motivator for you. I'm terrified of dealing with my own storage unit, which is completely necessary to keep me from having to pay for two storage units with my own money.

Progress? It's been almost a year since Mom died. I can now wash my dishes after each meal (altho' today I am four meals behind) and I make my bed 75% of the time. Before you start cheering me on for these positive steps, please note that I haven't completely cleaned my bathroom or vacuumed since I moved in in December. I haven't finished unpacking. I haven't paid bills in a couple of months. When I venture out of my apartment it is notable. There are still a lot of things for me to trip and fall over on the floor. And I still don't shower every day (you really need to down here, what with the sweating and all).

Yeah, sure, celebrate the little steps I suppose. But they are like throwing pebbles in the ocean. So far, I'm just not dying. Now you're going to go and make that into some big positive thing, aren't you.

Life Changer

"Depression is a lifelong, chronic condition, and it needs to be maintained like any other disease." Catherine Winters

A "lifelong, chronic condition." "Like any other disease." 

Oh my fucking god. No one has ever expressed this concept to me. All these years, depression has been something that happened to me, or that I let happen by not stopping it in time. It was something that came and went, often for no discernible reason. And I've always wondered why it keeps happening to me. Why do I keep getting depressed?

Because clinical depression is a chronic condition, like my fibromyalgia. Neither of them currently has a cure or even a known cause, just surmises and theories. But the depression, like the fibromyalgia, needs to be treated and I need to stay on top of things that may trigger an event. Looking at it this way, I can handle it. 

I know how to handle my fibro (and I haven't been doing so well, but I think the heat and sun are providing balance against the lack of exercise), and I have to take a regular med to keep it under control. I know the warning signs of a fibro event (and I am thankful that I haven't had a major one in years). If I can stay on top of the fibro, I can stay on top of the depression. (You have no idea how difficult it was to type that sentence without any modifiers such as "I think I can stay on top" or "I can probably/most likely" stay on top.)

For example, if I overexert myself, do something physical enough to cause extreme fatigue, then I will suffer from this fatigue for a few days. I know that fibro makes me become more tired faster than other people, and it takes me much longer to recover from fatigue. Strong emotional events or highly stimulating events (such as going to a crowded festival or concert) have similar effects. And if I keep going and don't attend to my health needs and the signs from the fibro, I could end up in bed for days and barely able to move for weeks.

So how does this translate to the chronic condition of depression? Well, I didn't have a lot of options this last time, what with grief and exhaustion and all that I had to do. I got hit with a sledgehammer and there was no way around it. But I'm coming out of it, here and there, so I have the opportunity and the mental and physical capacity to examine this condition and learn how to keep it under control in the present and the future.

Like with the fibro, keeping myself healthy will have the greatest benefit for my mental condition. If I eat well, I'll have all the right nutrients and chemicals roaming around in my body and brain. If I exercise regularly (take walks, do a few body strengthening exercises, do some yoga), I'll get endorphins and keep the fibro pain down — pain can trigger depression, which is why fibro and depression are such close companions. And probably one of the most important factors in controlling the depression: do what I love to do. Write. Draw. Make things. Play. Dance. Maybe the effort it takes to completely inhibit my creative aspect causes depression because it takes so damned much mental energy!

There. This whole idea is going to roll around in my mind for weeks now. Always before when I've been told ways to get out of depression, it seemed like guessing. And besides, it always came back. Well now I see it from a new perspective and suddenly everything looks different. As a visual person, I can tell you everything literally looks different. As a tactile/kinesthetic person, I can also assure it that it all feels different, too, as if the texture of everything around me — even the air — has changed.

I'll probably go on about this in the near future. A lot. So you've been duly warned. Now I need to go watch the marbles roll around inside my skull.

The Cure

If you could be completely "cured" of your oddities — your moods, your tics, your dysfunctions — would you?

In the past, I have fought against reining in my moods because I didn't "want to lose my creativity or lose my real self." I was in my early 20s then and felt that having large mood swings were integral to who I was and that losing them would make me dull and boring. I fought my therapist on this point and, after a particularly bad phase agreed to consciously control my mood swings. Guess what? They weren't integral to my personality and losing the extremes didn't make me dull or boring. 

I fought going on medication for my depression, because I didn't want drugs and I was afraid they would tamp down my personality, make me dull. Neither happened in that case, either. It took years, but I finally accepted that I would need to be on some medication for my whole life. I became okay with that.

I have not come to terms with the amount and levels of medications I am currently on. I have good reason to be against this on a long-term basis because last year at this time I was on just two of these meds, and at significantly lower dosages. It's my belief, thought, and opinion that once I've healed to some specific extent, or once I've dealt with enough trauma through therapy, or once a fairy drops enough pixie dust in my hair, I will be able to drop back to last year's medication regimen! 

Last year, I felt good. I felt right. I've always had and always will have mood cycles — we all do, but most people's don't affect how well they function — but they were controlled both by the medication and by me. My anxieties — free-floating, social, PTSD-related — were controlled, probably almost all by the medication. Or else, enough was controlled by the medication that the rest of any anxieties became insignificant, maybe weren't even there because the big stuff was fine. But I felt Just Right. The way I would feel if I hadn't had to struggle with this mental and emotional crap.

I'd love to be cured of needing medications. I'd love to be fully functional for the rest of my life without wondering if and when another bomb will drop me into the Abyss again. But would it be good for me to be entirely free of them? And would being free of my "cycling mood disorder of unknown origin" and my PTSD and other anxieties also "free" me of my idiosyncrasies and quirks? I know that I've always been afraid of losing myself and all my quirky bits. So afraid that a "cure" will cure me right into being just like "the norm" rather than the endearing little statistical outlier I have always been.

I've learned self-discipline (which I always seem to forget about) when I began to control my mood swings. I learned self-awareness by becoming aware when my moods were becoming negative; I could use the discipline and skills to dampen the intensity. Maybe I would have learned them some other way, but maybe I wouldn't.

However, there is no reason to stay handicapped if you don't have to be. My mental and emotional turmoil have handicapped me for months, keeping me from being able to even look for work, thus taking me to the very brink of absolute poverty (I'm not kidding here — I need money NOW). I would agree to be cured of my mood disorder and my anxieties, but not my personality or my way of looking at things from my own special perspective or even those times when I think I'm being perfectly normal and everyone else is looking at me like "and how long have you been visiting our planet?"

I'm pretty sure that no one knows where mood disorder stops and personality quirk begins. Maybe it's all just about how well you function.

Karen the Wonder Therapist wants me to not define myself as "mentally ill" or by my mental and emotional problems. Sometimes I do and sometimes I don't; it depends on how they are affecting my life. I have felt terribly ill since my mom died and have been barely functional for most of the time since then. Insurance isn't paying for my therapy — they obviously have decided I'm not sick — but I'm not exactly well.

I'm just me, swimming around in the Sea of Life, looking for hospitable land and trying to not drown in the meantime. I really could use a life preserver about now.

Chemistry for Sadness

I saw my psychiatric nurse practitioner today (aka psych). I told her that I am feeling better mood-wise, but I'm still anxious and I just cannot seem to break that inertia-to-active barrier. (I didn't call it that; I just came up with it. But it's a great and intelligent-sounding phrase, isn't it?)

She listened to me this time (and I felt listened to, although she did call a patient and leave a message while I was in there — there is always something that takes up part of our 10 minutes or so together). Then she made notes on her computer and kind of rummaged around and came up with a med that is currently being used as an "add-on" to help bump up an anti-depressant. It's folic acid, the thing that they give pregnant women so that their fetus will have what it needs. This version of the folic acid, however, passes through the blood-brain barrier, which is what allows it to help with depression, so said my psych. It's been used very successfully with cancer patients; I hope that means they've also used it people who are depressed but don't have cancer.

I picked up my prescriptions and asked to talk to the pharmacist because I hadn't been on this particular med before. The first thing she asked me was were my folate levels down. Well, my psych didn't ask for that to be tested, which I didn't mention to the pharmacist (but I probably should have). I told her it was being used to treat my depression; she said yes, because when your folate levels are low you can get depressed. Okay ....

I'm on this med, wondering if I need to get my folate levels tested and if I should keep taking it if my folate levels get too high. Did my psych think about that? Does she know what would happen? Now I need to call her to ask her.

I suppose this is just another of the things I should probably be tested for, but I'm putting off going to the doctor for my "well woman" exam. Why? Because the lab tests cost a lot of money, and I'm still about $1500 from reaching my deductible. That's a hell of a lot of money for me right now. Therefore, until I have money (income or winning the lottery), I'm putting off my exam, my mammogram, the dentist, and lab tests.

In the meantime, assuming that my psych puts my concerns to rest, I anxiously await the effects of my new med. While I now have my new visualization for getting over "speed bumps" (that inertia-to-active barrier I mentioned earlier) — a big, black classic Jeep, built for extreme off-road action, it sneers at speed bumps — I still could use some help. I hope that my new chemical, which supposedly has no known side effects but could cause an allergic reaction, which is why I took my pill when I got home rather than waiting until just before bed, provides me with that help.

I wonder if it will cure me of extreme punctuation use?

Benched

Couched is more like it. Today was a day that I spent on the couch. My long list of things to do sat there on the screen looking oh so lonely. I saw it. And I imagined doing the things on it, but that didn't happen.

But I couldn't get up. No shower today. Lunch was a couple of sticks of string cheese. I hope dinner will be healthier: I have PB for a boring sandwich, and I have salad stuff for a very good salad.

I even had a fall-unconscious moment. It wasn't as bad as it was when I was fully on the Haldol, but it was strong enough for me to shut the computer and make myself comfortable on the couch. Then I was out. Only two hours, this time. It has been worse. But naps like this don't leave me refreshed and ready to do stuff. They leave me lethargic and thinking of more naps. I even had two energy drinks before this nap and they had ZERO affect, obviously.

I don't know what the half-life of Haldol is, how long it will take for it to entirely leave my body. And my body is sensitive to drugs, so it could take a while longer than the professionals would say anyway. I just want it gone so I can stop having half a life. I need a lot more time and energy if I'm going to do what I need — and what i want — to do.

Is there like a spell to "dispell" the need for nap-comas?  :)

The Zombiepocalypse is here --- but I'm winning

In case you don't remember, I spent over two weeks as a virtual zombie, being unconscious far too much, eating junk food in an effort to increase my energy, and being unable to form complete sent ....

What? Sorry, must have fallen asleep.

Some folks suggested it was meds and some suggested it was simple exhaustion. I think it was both ... but mostly the meds. I say that because, as a sufferer of a fatigue-producing syndrome, I know from exhaustion. Exhaustion doesn't make me have to immediately stop everything I'm doing so I can lay down before I simply fall unconscious. It also doesn't cause me to sleep away entire days — not just drowse or lounge on the couch, but actually sleep. It doesn't cause me to be incapable of writing at all. In addition, I cut in half the med I think has been causing my zombie-like behaviors and after six days I can say that the coma-like sleep compulsion has almost disappeared, although I still require excessive caffeine to stay fully alert throughout the day.

There are other symptoms — such as itchy skin, blurred vision, Vicodin-like urination difficulties, unable to be my usual chatty self because I have to think a bit too much (my typing sucks but the words flow just fine) — that are still a problem, but I expect them to fall away, too, as the med leaves my body, because the psychiatrist agreed I could go off of it (although she doesn't believe any symptom but the sleepiness is related). I have another, side-effect-free med I'm going to use for anxiety. It's not perfect, but it doesn't give me weird symptoms, so that gives it a win for me.

And if any of these symptoms persist past next Tuesday, then I will make a very urgent call to my doctor for an appointment. I promise.

Deep thoughts #3 --- Deep thinking

I'm a thinker. I've always considered myself an intellectual, but I also have considered myself very emotional: a "feeler" as is described in the Myers-Briggs Personality Types. But a previous therapist told me that few people actually think about their feelings, like "what am I feeling?" "why am I feeling this?" "what does this feeling mean or related to?" and that sort of thing.

I was stunned. I thought that everyone approached life that way, or almost everyone. I feel. I think. I look at each of those things from the other perspective to understand myself. Apparently not everyone does this. It somewhat explained some of the areas where my mother and I lacked rapport. I think my brother was probably more like me in this than like our parents.

So I think all the time, even when I shouldn't. I think when I'm trying to sleep. I think when I'm on the toilet or in the shower. I even think during sex when I shouldn't be thinking (or rather, back when I used to have sex), making orgasm a very difficult feat for me, one worth cheering for when it did happen. I do it even with myself! (So I understand how frustrating it can be for a lover ....)

My mind doesn't turn off. And if there are no deep thoughts currently needing attention — or my medications are turning me into a zombie — then my mind plays with superficial or tiny thoughts, the way a kitten plays with a piece of fluff. Back and forth, back and forth. I've also just recently learned that this back and forthing, as much as my mind does it at any rate, is part of obsessive thinking. That explains a lot, too. Like how some thoughts won't leave, much like Daffy Duck getting stuck in taffy, repeating the same movements back and forth over and over again until I would like to scream. But I don't because my mother taught me not to make scenes.

If only my mind would get stuck on positive thoughts, that would be acceptable. But, of course, my brain gets stuck on the negative things, or disturbing thoughts or images (Never, ever, EVER watch even a tiny film clip about the Human Centipede movie. Don't even look at the poster. Just. Don't.) In addition, I have a vivid, creative imagination and a vivid, detailed memory. Do all obsessive thinkers have the same kind of imagination and memory? Are all people with such memory and imagination obsessive thinkers? Am I the only person I know whose mind does this to them?

For the most part, I love my mind. I love the detailed memory and imagination, I love the vividness and the full-sensory details they provide me. Some of my dreams are unbelievable! But the obsessiveness has got to be controlled. The latest drug that was supposed to handle that is probably the one making me a zombie. Maybe we can handle it with therapy; I'd love to cut down on the medication, for certain.

Do you have a love-hate relationship with your mind?

Deep thoughts #2 --- Going ... up?

Do you ever find, after having been terribly sick or terribly down for a long time, that you resist feeling or seeming or accepting being better?

For example, I have bitten my nails most of my life and over the past decade and a half have managed to slowly make time periods between biting them longer and longer. Then last summer, when the troubles began to get worse, I began biting my nails again. I bit all of them, at some point, to the point of pain. 

A friend recently pointed out how they are growing again. "No they aren't," I said, pointing to the shortest one. "I bit this off just recently." "Yes," she said, "but I see white on all of them."

I wanted to argue with her. I'm not letting my nails grow. I'm still biting them because I'm Not Better Yet! I'm not getting better!

Why? Why would I resist any sign that I may be rising from the Abyss? Why would I want to continue to be or appear to be suffering or ill or unbelievably depressed?

Maybe I'm afraid that if I seem to be getting better, then no one will have patience with me if I'm not completely better — Now! — and all the time hereafter. Or maybe they'll think I was malingering: how long do you have to be in a Bad Place or State before you have legitimacy?

Or maybe I'm afraid I'm doing a disservice to my mom's memory by getting better now. Or maybe to myself in some odd way: if I'm well now, was I really that down and unreachable or was it really just ... all in my mind. Nerves. All those things that say I'm just a hypochondriac or just trying to get attention. Or maybe that I'm actually crazy. But something.

I have honestly turned the corner and I want to live now. That's an amazement in itself.

I'm still not doing my homework regularly, but I believe that my sleeping sickness over my vacation trumps that. Once I have the sleepiness under control and am feeling more me-normal again, the new "better-ness" will be more perceptible.

I'm going to show it off. Let others make their own judgments. I've been down to the Abyss yet again — my third time? my fourth or fifth? — and I beat it yet again. How many others can say that?

Floating lightly, as if smoke on air, and peeing

Between feeling like a cat — just a breath away from a nap — and feeling as if I have no responsibilities when I'm here (which isn't exactly correct), I've been drifting from one thought to the next, none of those thoughts being particularly deep. That's fine, but half of my two-week vacation is gone and I haven't accomplished what I planned to do: go through the storage unit to sort more of my things out and to find things to send home. I do have a couple of hours here and there I could devote to it, but so far most of my hours are completely filled. It's totally weird. And I still haven't set a time for dinner with the neighbors.

My two deep thoughts are about my health. First: why am I so bloody tired? Needing to take one or more naps a day is not normal for me, and my first (always my first) thought is that I have cancer or some other wasting disease. Because dying now would simply round out the story of my life: 1, 2, 3, 4 — Dad, Jim, Mom, me. Hypochondriac? Maybe, but more likely it is just another part of hypervigilance and always expecting the worst so I'm prepared for it. And yet, as with Mom and last summer, I'm only prepared for the worst in respect to myself. I mean, I've been grieving since September 12th; I've only been sleeping all the time for the past two months or so. The napping and the grieving don't match up.

The other health concern is about my urine. If you have a problem with bodily TMI, better skip out now. Are they gone? Okay, now it's just us. The problem with my urine is that it's gone completely clear and it smells a bit odd. No pains in my kidneys, but this seems like something wrong. Is it my medication? Am I dying? Is it something else? I've called and left messages with my psychiatrist and my physical doctor (because the psych wasn't calling back). I left info about symptoms. That was earlier in the afternoon for them. It is now mid-evening back there ... I doubt they are calling me back today. Does this mean the symptoms are nothing to worry about or that no one has actually looked at or listened to their messages? A call back would have been nice. Kind of like a signal on one of the SETI radio telescopes. "Yes, we heard you. You are not alone."

Napping and peeing: important issues at the beginning of life and often at the end. Let's just hope it's also a problem in the middle of mine. Not like I'm paranoid.

By my fingertips

London Mabel made an interesting metaphor in her comment on yesterday's post:

You're the intrepid explorer, reporting back saying: "Yep, guys. There really truly is jack ---- up here. And now I'm lonely as hell. Why did I get sent on this mission??" And we're all. "Thanks Chameleon! You are SO brave! You have confirmed this theory that we have long suspected! We must depend on ourselves." And then only one person remembers to send you an e-card for Explorer's Day, because we're very selfish. And you're all: "Being an Intrepid Explored SUCKS."

Not only does it suck, but I am hanging on by my fingertips. Only two other times have my mental health issues been this bad: in my 30s, when I ended up taking health leave for mental health reasons TWICE in the same year, and in my 20s, after my little brother killed himself; that time I felt quite suicidal myself. At least this one has the upside of my not feeling suicidal at all. Unfortunately, while I would not step out in front of a speeding truck, I might not move too quickly to get out of the way if one came speeding toward me.

Not a worry though: I can barely make a move out of the apartment even to take care of myself. I have very few food items in the house. My mail keeps stacking up and the mail carrier then keeps it at the post office so I have to come get it or lose it. (Well, my little bitty mailbox gets overly full.) My legs are going to atrophy off. Okay. I can't detail any more of the very real issues, in a funny manner or not. My anxiety just popped the top of my head off.

New med: Haldol. Among the things it can do is make you sleepy (I took a 4-hour nap today) and photosensitive (I am a fair-skinned person living in the South). Yippee.

The balance between gravity and flight

Tonight, I and several friends spent time on Facebook accomplishing a group project and it spawned a great deal of activity; double-, triple-, and quadruple-checking; and laughter. It has also left me with the jittery feelings that come when I let loose the dogs of hypomania, to completely destroy a phrase. The feeling is the same as when I was in college and didn't know about mania and mood swings and crashes as anything other than the regular feelings I experienced and assumed that many others experienced as well. 

In my 20s, I always encouraged and followed that emotional arrow as it flew up and up, past the birds, then the clouds, sometimes clear into the lower Earth orbit. The arrow would halt there, for a moment, balanced almost perfectly between both up and down forces, and that moment of balance was better than alcohol, better than pot, better than sex. However, gravity always won and the emotional arrow would plummet down, faster and faster until it achieved terminal velocity and crashed into the solid Earth, leaving me exhausted, in a vicious mood, confused, and often ill. 

When my first therapist first talked to me about controlling my highs in order to control the crashes, I was ferociously against it. I was convinced I would lose my personality, be some dull drone. I knew I would lose my creativity and my whimsy and spontaneity. It was another 3 years or so before I gave in and, tired of the crashes, began to recognize and control the arrow as it flew upward. I was relieved beyond words to see that it didn't kill my creativity or those parts of my personality that I valued so much. In fact, I think it made those facets better by virtue of my achieving some control. Later, when we decided to go further and add a medication layer of control, I wasn't so dead set against that. I'd grown accustomed to and grateful for control and the loss of those crashes.

In the past few years, I've also learned that I do have a cycling mood disorder and that the medication doesn't remove the cycling, it only dampens it. The rest is still up to me. I didn't have any awareness of those cycles until a friend who had gotten to know me very well and who has a keen perception pointed out to me that I fell into these phases where I would feel as if rabid hamsters were running on wheels in my mind and I couldn't control them. During those times, I would become dramatic and sure that the very worst thing that could happen would happen. These phases happened, he pointed out, every three weeks. Nothing I could lay to female hormones. 

Now that I've become aware of those three-week events, I've been able to perceive and control them. Over the  years I've come to appreciate control. So do my OCD and my PTSD and my hypervigilance and my regular anxiety ....

Running in place

I haven't been so good at keeping up with the myriad details of my everyday life. I doubt this is a surprise to anyone. Bills, picking up, cleaning, phone calls, record-keeping, even getting together with friends — all of this has been difficult if not impossible for me in the past months.

I've even found it difficult to keep up with my therapy homework. Three hours ago, I started my homework for tomorrow ... and then spent two hours on the phone with one of my best friends. Talking with my friend was terrific; we haven't talked in a few weeks. But now it's after 10 pm and I should finish things up and go to bed.

.... Who the hell am I kidding? I haven't gone to bed before 2:30 in months. Often I'm up until 4 am (Hey Julie! ::waves::). Unfortunately I don't spend my time doing anything useful in any way.

My sleep schedule became completely fucked up in 2007, after my cat died. In the aftermath of the death of my companion of over a decade, I realized how much more she was to me than simply one of my most-loved companions. She was also my security system. If I woke in the night —a not-unusual occurrence — I'd automatically look to her. If she was asleep, or simply looking back at me as if wondering why I weren't asleep as I should be, I could lay my head back on my pillow and drop off easily. But if she were looking about alertly, then I had to get up and walk the house. Once I thought I saw someone in the back yard and I called the police. Several other times it was deer in the back yard; it is quite disturbing to carefully pull a curtain aside to look out ... and see a long deer face looking back at you! I was definitely the more startled.

After my furry security system died, I routinely woke in a drenching sweat from dreams of gangs of intruders hunting me down in my home. The sleeping pills my doctor gave me made the nightmares worse, so I quit them and began staying up later and later. To occupy myself during the late hours, I built a highly detailed imaginary life and I whiled away the hours between 9 pm and 3 am with this life, with listening to Vonda Shepards "Maryland,"and with watching the moon wash across my bed and the floor in the next room. It was pleasant.

Now I have no place that is washed by the moon and my heart is once more broken, even worse than before. I don't currently have anything to look forward to in the morning, or in the moment after that, or the moment after that, so I stay up, surfing the same sites over and over, and running in place in the hope that the next moment doesn't come any sooner.

Drugs

My medications are not doing me much good right now. I started Abilify on Friday to give me that extra kick, but I think the only kick I got was in the face. I feel like hell: jittery, mood up then down, a slight tremor in my hand, slightly dilated eyes, and exhaustion and sleepiness. I took a four-hour nap yesterday and a four and a half hour nap today. I only napped because i suddenly Could. Not. Stay. Awake. Even when I'm not ready for a nap I just feel off.

In addition, my typing skills have deteriorated to the extent that I might do better using the two-finger method. My spelling skills are likewise effected.

I left a couple of messages for my psychiatrist but received no calls back (one email to the front desk, one voicemail to the front desk). So I called my pharmacist. She was great. She asked about what each drug was being used for and how long I'd been on it, dosages, etc. and decided I should go off the Abilify. The Pristiq may be causing the jitteriness, but possibly the Abilify is increasing that. And the dilated eyes have her stumped, the way they stumped everyone last year when my previous psychiatrist was trying to find something to handle my anxiety and social anxiety. Dilated eyes is not a typical side effect of any of my drugs, singly or in combination. It might be time to find my old MRIs to compare to the new MRI that's probably coming. Why? Well in addition to the dilated eyes, one eye is dilated more than the other.

I will call my psych again tomorrow morning. I also have to take my car in for a few things. Maybe I'll get lucky and get to talk about mental health and medication issues in the sitting room of my mechanics!

This is all the post I can manage tonight.

Good night.

My moods ride a bicycle. Get out of their way.

Today I felt damned perky (sorry, Julie). The last couple of days I have felt myself coming up further from the Abyss, not really in the "happy" area yet, but not in the depressed area.

In fact, I felt beyond perky. As the morning went along, I felt the edge of mania* coming on. My mood and energy began to develop an edge. It felt to me there was a thin, electrical edge to my mood. My body developed a tremor and I felt ill. I felt nauseated and irritable.

My mood and physical feelings deteriorated quickly from there and I had to miss a commitment (but was able to email in what I needed to).

I wasn't expecting this. I'm on more and greater amounts of meds — twice as much for Pristiq (for anxiety), and half again as much for the Lamictal (mood disorder, cycling). And then my added Abilify (boost the other two). Plus, I have Lorazepam for sleeping and for taking off any anxiety that the Pristiq doesn't handle. This quick plunge made me feel — again — like I'm not on any meds at all. So I wonder what would be the effect of taking me off of everything and slowly bringing me back up? Cuz this isn't fun. And it's so reminiscent of the old days.

I was going to talk about my meds and my history of being on them, but I'm far too distracted and buzzy to write. At all. I'll write more later.

*Not the Bipolar I (Manic-Depressive) Mania. Something that is much, much less explosive. I might stay up extra hours, not days. I might spend a couple hundred dollars, not ten thousand.

OMG! I DID STUFF!!!!

It's entirely appropriate language and punctuation to use.

Today was a typical Sunday. I stayed up until almost 3 am because I couldn't sleep; finally took a pill. Then I woke up at 11 am.  At least I slept for 8 hours, which is good for you, right?

I dawdled, knowing I had so much work to do that I'd put off since Friday (down heah in the South, folks take Good Friday off, including school and gov'mint offices, y'all). Almost all of what I had to do was work-related — a press release I'll get paid for as the contract progresses, and the work samples for the potential contract, plus updating my professional web site.  I also have my therapy homework. I just couldn't start.

I wrote emails. I checked blogs repetitively. I drank two large mugs of tea.

Finally, I ran out of ways to delay myself and I started. Nothing like a tight deadline to motivate one! And then something weird happened. I. Got. Productive.

Here's the list of what I accomplished today:

• edited a press release
• added 6 or 7 PDFs to my portfolio on my computer
• added the same 6 or 7 PDFs to my web site area
• updated my web site: made minor changes to 5 pages, major changes to 2, added 13 or 14 new pages, included all the correct links (and tested and tested), tested and fixed some more (uploaded and tested and fixed and uploaded)
• via email, asked for testimonials/recommendations (from probably 7 people) that I can post on my web site (have received 4 yeses and no noes)
• swept the deck, including the deck chairs and around the door
• took took the two large boxes that have been lingering in the living room out to the storage closet on the deck
• paid a bill
• boiled some eggs
• ate some eggs for dinner when I realized it was almost 8 pm

In between were at least 30 texts with friends.

I guess the drugs have kicked in.

This. Day. SUCKS!!!

Taxes

There should be a hardship extension where you can just ask for the extension and get no penalties for not paying money. I don't have all my information; it turns out what I have is mostly Mom's. I'm not sure how to get some of mine. The H&R Block people didn't get back to me to answer the question of what happens if I just don't file yet. The other, highly recommended accountant I called didn't offer me anything more than that they can't help me because it's too late and they are busy. Fine. I'm in trouble either way.

I feel completely incompetent because I haven't handled my taxes in a timely manner.

Medication & Insurance

Insurance didn't pay for one of my new medications and I don't know why. I didn't buy it because it was $255.

I need to find out how much of my deductible I paid last year, and how much I've paid so far this year; I may find it best to double the deductible and decrease the monthly payment.

I feel incompetent because I don't know how to figure out the math to determine the best course of action regarding deductibles and monthly payments. I feel overwhelmed because there seems to be so much to do.

Anxiety through the roof

Interestingly, my anxiety was very high today. How odd. ::insert sarcasm emoticon here:: I took my new drug, which I prefer to the previous one for the over-the-top anxiety. I spent some time on Twitter and Facebook and IM chat with friends and had a very good time. However, I can feel the edges of feeling manic.* I can feel this kind of electric fizz zipping up and down my edges. There is a rushing in my ears as if I've been inside a rock concert or taken too much aspirin. I feel both hyper and exhausted. Kind of getting slugged in the gut by a bolt of lightning.

My anxiety also provides me with an added benefit of paranoia, the kind where I feel left out. On purpose. (There's this story from when I was in 4th grade, but I won't tell it right now.) I know the online community I'm part of is full of people making friends in their own ways and at their own rates. I just feel ... slow. Inadequate. I have one full-blown friendship, and another two that are growing. But the other people know all kinds of stuff about each other that I don't. About lots of the others. 

These factors bring me back to my feeling that I am broken or missing some important psycho-social developmental step.

Additionally, my PTSD is having a good time. Hypervigilance is not my friend. I cannot relax completely. I see things out of the corners of my eyes. When I'm in the shower I think I hear someone at the door, or I fear someone important will come to the door or that I will miss an important phone call. And I fear bugs, because I'm not tossing all food wrappers every night and I'm not putting my dishes into the dishwasher every night. When my therapist asked me if I startle easily, I laughed.

Solitude

Since my best friend in Houston had a cardiac arrest this fall and decided to redevote himself to his marriage in his usual laser-focused manner, I never see him anymore and talk to him seldom or only in five-minute chunks. He's been too busy for lunch or for the occasional wandering off or even a walk in the park.

My two girlfriends locally have become too busy to even return email much. One of them I have not seen in months.

My best girlfriends far away don't call and seldom write, unless I initiate. They were like that when I lived near them; I don't know what made me think they would change. They love to see me when I'm there, but they don't think of me much in between. And Facebook really isn't a forum that encourages actual emotional intimacy.

Therefore, I'm developing some online friends, but expecting them to fill much of my need for emotional intimacy, especially given my extreme needs and intensity, is unreasonable.

I'm feeling ridiculous because my feelings are childish. I'm feeling incompetent at making friends and at being an adult.

Other than the online conversation I had, it's been a shitty day. 

* I am not manic depressive, but part of my lovely brain and mind is that I do get periods of what psychotherapists and psychiatrists call "hypomania," meaning that manic feelings and behavior that are not the bipolar I kind. They are lesser: I won't go out and spend $10,000 on a shopping spree, but I might spend $300-400. Or behave over the top. Or drink. Or just be excessively hyper and talkative.

Big love, bright life

Today I was drenched in prayers and good wishes from many friends in my extended community and now I feel light and shiny. 

How different from just a day or two ago!

I still have my depression and anxiety, but today I am feeling noticeably lifted above them. It feels good. Between good therapy and an amazing response from these friends, yes, it's a good day. This good day feeling directly recalls yesterday's post about the feel-good brain chemicals produced in women's conversations.

Along with the light and shiny feelings comes exhaustion. I conjecture this exhaustion comes from the emotional outpouring I made, and the emotional inpouring I received. How amazing the power that can be transmitted via email and cell phone!

One message that friends told me and told me was that Depression Lies.This message aligns with what Karen and I discussed in our session today. She said that whether or not I have some social developmental problem doesn't matter. The fact that I believe I do makes me act as if I do: I feel awkward in social situations, I don't know how to make small talk, I feel clueless and am tense, sure that I'll say or do something foolish or stupid (and in the past, I often have). Belief can create reality. (Julie, no crowing!)

Thus, I have another task, trying to change my belief and hoping it changes my behavior and thinking. I'll put it on the list.

I'll leave off some of the other things we talked about in today's session, because I don't want to bring down the tone of this post. 

I feel good. I feel a remembrance of when I was an optimist and rather bouncy. I can't wait until I get my new med — it may take me back to that place where I feel confident and calm. I'll hold onto today's light and shiny feeling for as long as I can, and I'll come back to this post to remind myself, when the dark days come, as they will do as I continue my therapeutic journey.

Thank you, my friends, for everything.

Signed,

Tinkerbell

Feel-good chemicals in the brain

Today a friend told me that women develop "feel-good" chemicals in their brains when they have long talks with friends. Given that I'd already had two long talks prior to electronically "talking" with her, and that I was feeling better, I'm predisposed to believe her to some extent. (I'd like the citation, though.) Then I spent quite some time online with her; anecdotally, I have to say that online talking provides feel-good chemicals as well.

If this information is correct, it would explain why many women enjoy talking for hours with their friends, especially their female friends: they are all getting the same happy drugs in their heads. 

I remember spending about four hours one evening last spring talking with a couple of girlfriends outside a restaurant. The restaurant was the kind that you order at the counter, then sit where you want. No waitstaff. It was a weeknight and the place wasn't crowded, so we sat at a table outside in the warmth and talked. The first friend had to leave about half an hour after friend #2 arrived; friend #2 stayed for nearly 3 hours ... until 9:30. We talked about many different things, most of which I don't remember now because they weren't long-term-memory topics; the important thing was the talking. The bonding. Feeling terrific.

The majority of my conversations and contacts currently are online. I do talk on the phone to one friend about every other weekend or so, but we'll talk for two hours. I talk on the phone to my BFF off and on; sometimes we'll talk every day, sometimes two weeks can go by and all we'll exchange is a few texts and some quick emails. My best girlfriends from way back don't call and they don't write, but if I come to town they seem happy to see me and spend time with me. I don't understand that, but I am rather clueless about many intersocial things. (Karen the therapist and I think it's due to my missing out on some important developments at key stages in my early years.)

I would love to add more friend conversations to help with both my brain chemicals and my social development. Given the recent boom in online-friend-making that I've come into, more long talks with friends may be a possibility. I'd much rather talk than take more medications. Good conversation seldom leaves me feeling drugged or hungover.

I don't think it's worth asking what gives men feel-good chemicals in their brains.

Note: Oftentimes, writing a coherent piece — be it blog post, non-fiction, or fiction — takes time and many revisions to make the piece logical and flowing. Sometimes — this time — the piece writes itself and requires very little editing or revision. Of course, maybe I'm seeing it that way due to the medications ....