The More Things Change

I recall a conversation with my therapist last year during which I asked,

"Am I really bipolar?  Couldn't this just be a time of crisis?  Some sort of fleeting thing?"

Her answer surprised me.  I expected her to agree with me and say that I was right - this was just a temporary thing and everything would be fine.  However she said no such thing.  She chuckled and said,

"You have a biochemical disorder - bipolar disorder.  YOU are not bipolar.  You are you.  You just happen to have a challenge not unlike a diabetic; you manage the condition but it is not who you are."

That wasn't what I was asking.  I truly wanted to know if this shit was for real because every now and then I felt normal.  Calm.  The voices in my head were relaxed and the screaming silenced.  I did not believe my diagnosis during those neutral times.

It has been several months since my last post and a lot has happened during my absence.  I got a job - a very good job.  I stopped seeing my therapist soon after due to issues of scheduling.  I settled in at work and spent my days navigating a steep learning curve. 

I stopped seeing my psych doctor right after the new year - January 2nd, to be exact.  I forgot about an appointment.  I was so busy at my new job, so worried that someone would find out about my illness, that I was jumping through hoops to impress right out of the gate.  I figured out that I missed the appointment when I received a bill in the mail for $200 for the missed appointment, and a note that this amount was my responsibility and not covered by my insurance.  No reminder call prior to the appointment, no inquiry regarding my health with the invoice - just an impersonal, face-slapping bill.  I cut all ties on the spot.

That put me in a difficult situation.  I never cared for my psych doctor, but I needed him for ongoing prescriptions.  Our appointments were ten minutes at most and it was clear that he had to relearn who I was with each visit.  He often confused me with other people which left it up to me to explain what medications I was taking, at what dosages, etc.  I found that dangerous given the types and amounts of medications we were dealing with at that time. 

So I was without a psych doc for meds, which meant that refills were impossible.  The only reason why I was even able to see this doctor was because my therapist pulled a favor to get me in faster than the usual 3-4 month wait.  With the realization that I would be without medication in less than a month, I made the decision to titrate down and off of my medications. 

Dangerous?  Yes.  Stupid?  Yes.  Unfortunately I felt completely alone and vulnerable so it was the only choice. 

I brought my levels of Depakote and all other medications down very slowly.  I experienced no side effects whatsoever.  Everything seemed fine, only I wasn't really fine.  I'm not really fine. 

Depakote was a fucking bitch of a medication.  It was better than Lithium and Risperidone, but not by much.  It did nothing to help me lose the monumental weight gain from Lithium and Risperidone.  It was not without side effects, but it DID level out my moods.  I was never super happy or sad - just living in the middle.

I have been without any sort of mood stabilizer for a couple of months now and things are starting to get scary.  The intrusive thoughts are back.  The deep sadness, self-harm, explosive anger, mania, screaming inner voices - all are back. 

I am doing my best to manage this on my own (regular sleep schedule, proper nutrition, supplements, etc.), but I know that I will need help.  Soon.

So that conversation with my therapist regarding my disbelief that I am, in fact, bipolar, runs through my mind.  I no longer doubt my diagnosis.  It's a shame that I had to fall through the cracks to finally accept it as fact.

   

The Chair

The weeks since my last post have been very difficult for me.  I know - broken record - but they were the worst in many years because they robbed me of the last thing I held dear: the ability to put my thoughts into words.  The fear consumed me, wrapped around me, suffocated me, and forced me into a tiny three by three foot square:  The Chair.  The Chair is my safe place - home base - no evil can touch me here.

Of course the warped part of that is the fact that The Chair is, in itself, evil.  It is my prison.  I don't see it that way, but it is.

The Last Stand.  

If you are of a certain age you remember the old tube televisions.  After turning off the set I used to watch the once vibrant and engaging picture get smaller and smaller until it glowed as the tiniest little dot in the middle of the screen.  That dot stayed there for quite some time, and then it was gone.  Much like that concentrated speck of light - an entire universe on the head of a pin - my world has shrunk to the size of a recliner.

After the failings of Lithium, Risperidone, and Lamictal, which gave me Stevens Johnson Syndrome (still dealing with the side effects of that), my doctors have moved on down the pharma line to depakote.  My doctor was so concerned about side effects that he started me on a very small dose - 250 mg daily for four days, and 500 mg daily thereafter for a couple of weeks.  We will move up at that time if all goes well.  I took my first 500 mg dose last night.  So far, so good.

Swallowing that first depakote pill took every bit of bravery and strength I had.  It took me two days to build up the courage...turning the prescription bottle over in my hands for hours.  Pills have not been my friend.  In fact, the pills charged with bringing me back from suicidal ideation nearly killed me. 

The words come so much harder now, so I have very little to say.  It is important to mention that I am not a victim to my diagnoses.  If you could see inside my head you would see an epic battle being waged against the disorders by my desire to be well and live a balanced and joyful life.  I do not sit here because I've given up.  I sit here because I'm holding this fucking mountain as a last line of defense against disappearing forever.           

Waiting to die

I've had a rough couple of days.  The good news is that I have an appointment with my psychiatrist on the 16th.  The bad news is that it is on the 16th, which seems like a lifetime away. 

I have no idea what "normal" is in life.  My life is not normal.  Other people are able to drive places, work, shop, clean, read a book, listen to conversation, take showers, laugh, love, feel - I am unable to do those things.  I want to do those things, and try very, very hard, but I just can't. 

It is impossible to accurately describe the difficulties that I am experiencing, because I honestly have no idea what is possible or normal.  My brain fails me.  I used to do so many things.  I was capable of great things.  Now I avoid causing myself any pain by staying in my home.  I rarely go out.  If I do, there are issues, and those issues are getting harder and harder to overcome so I've stopped testing the waters.  I very quickly move from one mood to the next and have lost the ability to "snap out of it" or respond to assistance from my husband to either calm down or climb out of a deep depression.

I want to be angry about this.  I want to be sad.  I have no feelings.  I have no life.  I serve no purpose.  I am of no use to myself or anyone else like this.

My day:

Wake up.  Breakfast.  Prednisone (still dealing with the Lamictal Rash).  Check email (if I can - fear of the unknown causes me great anxiety). 

And then I sit.  And sit.  And sit.  Sometimes I fall asleep, but mostly I just sit and think about how much I hate myself.  I do not watch television because it moves too fast for me.  Conversation makes me very angry.  I do not clean the house or shower or brush my teeth.  I have some facial wipes that I will use if I remember, perhaps once or twice a week before or after bed. 

I'll have some lunch.  If the dog has to go out I see if someone else in the house will put her out.  I'll do it if I have to.  I hate looking outside. 

If the dog barks, I freak out.  If a car drives by, my heart jumps.  If I receive bad news I will cry and want to end my life.  If something good happens, I feel nothing. 

I only go to the restroom if it is an emergency.  I spend my days frozen in place.  It is mentally and physically painful to do more than that. 

My therapist says that I am not lazy.  I argued with her, but she's right - I'm not.  There are so many things that I desperately want to do - take a walk, clean my closet, fold some towels, make a phone call - but those things cause me actual pain. 

I have been like this for years.  Back when I was working, I had to make a choice - do I shower?  If I shower I will have a hard time driving to work.  When I get to work I will have to find the ability to work.  Most days I just sat there and quietly cut my skin.  I would do a couple of things (type a letter, draft a document) but that was it.  When I got home I would hit the chair and dig my skin until I fell asleep.  I usually woke up the next morning in the same spot, wearing the same clothes.  If I'd showered the day before I would just change my shirt and brush my hair before heading out the door for another day at the office.  Near the end of my employment it was common for me to go for 4 days without showering. 

Right now I only shower if I have an appointment with my therapist.  I usually go at least 5 days in a row without a shower. 

My therapy appointments are scheduled on dates and at times when my husband is off work so that I have a ride.  I do drive on occasion (to buy a breakfast sandwich or go to the market), but I should not drive.  I stay within a 4 mile radius of home so it feels relatively safe, but it is not safe.  My brain has a very hard time keeping up with the speed of driving.  I used to zoom my ass down the street like a maniac.

The zoom is long gone but the maniac remains. 

I want to take care of myself.  In my mind I do not deserve a walk or nutritious meals.  Those are reserved for people who earn a living.  I am not working and should not be spending work hours (8:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m.) doing anything but sitting and thinking about what I should and would be doing if I had a job.   

This is not a life.  I do not have the tools to figure out how to live my life.  At this point, I have not found anyone else who knows how to help me.  Several medications have failed.  I suffered a horrible reaction to one of them, and the other two contributed to a 40+ pound weight gain in a few short weeks. 

I've lost everything.  I don't know how to make this right.  I'm just waiting to die because this is no way to live. 


 

On my own...again

All of my appointments have been cancelled.  I have no therapy, psych nurse practitioner or psychiatrist/med management appointments at all.  I am on my own...again.  We've come full circle.  It's hard to avoid feeling down right now.  I thought someone had discovered the elusive answers to the issues that have consumed my life.  I thought that things would get better from that point forward.  There would be hard work, but I was willing to do that work - to put forth an honest effort to invest in my health, something I have been unable to do until now because I simply did not know where to begin...what was wrong...how to fix it.  I was told that it would "get better from here." I put faith and complete trust in that statement.  I believed that statement with every cell in my misfit body.  I had hope. 

Everything happened all at once back in April.  All of the balls that I had flying in the air came crashing down.  I was up and down and up and down and down and...down.  I wanted to die.  I wanted to live.  I wanted to squeeze the shit out of life with my fabulous plans...fabulous plans that I could not make happen because my mind was a jumble of bits and pieces and nothing fit.  Nothing made sense.

I fell into the deepest and most frightening despair of my life.  Self harm was almost constant.  I would cut my stomach with scissors under my desk at work (usually while my boss was grilling me), claw at my body at home, in the car, while I was sleeping.  When I saw blood, I felt better.  Contrary to what most people say about self-harm being a release and a cry for help - it was more; I wanted to die.  I made plans to die.  I was going to take my life.  The living world had lost its pull on my heart and all that was left was my mind.  My mind was saying yes to the end.  It felt right to finish the journey.  People would be better off without my negative energy in their lives.  They would go on.  Be better.  Do better.  Learn from my illnesses.  I had to give myself permission to stop trying so fucking hard to be well.  I gave myself permission to stop pretending. 

It happened all at once. 

After letting the mask fall, I told my husband that I had to leave.  I wasn't going to, but after 20+ years of marriage I was not going to leave him with a letter.  I was not going to leave this world without saying goodbye to my one true friend.  He did not ask me to stay, but he did beg me to wait.  He stopped everything and asked that I join him in a discussion with our family doctor.  I agreed and we saw him the next morning.  Our family doctor referred me to a therapist and psych nurse practitioner.  After some discussion and many tests, they diagnosed me with several disorders and started therapy and medicine.  I had hope, I think.  I certainly had something.  It gave me a moment to focus on myself - perhaps to stay alive and see if I could salvage the second half of my life.  Perhaps find joy.  No, not even joy.  I desperately wanted PEACE in my heart and mind.

The answer quickly turned sour and became a problem.  Another problem.  Another thing to endure and survive.  I tried.  I FUCKING TRIED, but the cure was just another cross to bear, and my weary shoulders had long since worn out.  I gained a massive amount of weight, pissed my pants, drooled, and started to loathe the very sight of my ever-expanding, hideous body.  This was not the answer.

I discussed my issues with Lithium and Risperidone at every appointment, but my concerns fell on deaf ears.  I felt like a prisoner to another problem.  It was my problem - they gave it to me and expected me to make it work.

That did not work.  I spoke and no one listened.  I became the patient.  The mental patient.  I was not a partner in my own care - my opinion did not matter.  I had no say - no control.  The people charged with my care - my life - would just ignore my questions and carry on as though they were never asked.  I would ask again, and the conversation would continue.  I was invisible.  My input did not matter on this train.   

In the meantime, I had a career and responsibilities.  I have a husband and children.  I have a home.  I have an extended family.  There were life events - graduations, college, new responsibilites, injuries, demands, bills...

It happened all at once.

My boss, who had abused me for years (and I permitted it because I needed that job), layed the final straw on the trembling pile when he demanded that I cancel two medical appointments and tell personnel why I had those appointments.  I made the decision to leave my job of almost 11 years.  In doing so, I knew that I would leave that career forever.  I'd lost my edge many years ago and it was time.

It happened all at once.

I wanted to die, attempted to die, left my job, received shitty care, was twice almost involuntarily committed, agreed to a forced intensive outpatient program that nearly killed me, gained 45 pounds, and lost every last regular contact with coworkers, colleagues and clients.  I lost control, my self-respect...I lost nearly everything.

I'm right back where I started, only now I have nothing, save my husband.  I have less than nothing because my care up to this point has cost me thousands of precious dollars and did nothing but make things worse.  I am obese.  I am battling serious adverse effects of Lamictal.  The children (3) will soon be off (one is already) to colleges and careers.  We have to sell the house.  Life is forever altered because I dared to ask for help. 

I am exhausted.  There is nothing left under my burned skin.  I feel a small twinge of life deep inside, but those have let me down before.  The plan going forward is quite simple:  set goals, do my best, focus on what I have accomplished and not what is left undone at the end of the day.  If I run off the rails, I will seek help.  "Help" has been very unkind to me, but the twinge is telling me that I should keep trying.  Is this good?  No, no this is not good.  This is a dangerous time.  I know that.  My family knows that.  We tried.  I tried.  That twinge is all I have and I pray that it is enough to carry me through to the next source of help and hope, if there is such a thing. 

It's all me.  The scary part is that I have no idea who the hell "me" is.   

   

Rainy days and Mondays

Contrary to the next line of that song, this rainy Monday did not get me down.  Today was a good day for me.  I had a few issues during a focus group discussion this evening with two people that I shall refer to as the "chip cruncher" and "snot sucker", but other than that - things went well.  The chip cruncher and snot sucker lived to leave the room, and I did not even bother to choke them in my mind.

No issues. 

I have to start testing myself now - progressively adding additional goals and expanding my ability to live a full and productive life.

I've lost 6.2 pounds in the last three days, so the weight appears to be coming off almost as fast as it went on with the Lithium and Risperidone.  I look rested - not crazed.  

I'm hopeful.  I want this positive flow to continue. 

Holding on for dear life

In terms of severity of symptoms, this was a good day.  My sleep has improved and I think that has allowed my brain some time to rewire a few of the broken bits. 

I had breakfast (really enjoying coffee again), took a walk around the river with my son, and fueled my body with healthy food.  I'm down 5 pounds as of this morning.  I have a tremendous amount of work to do to reverse the significant weight gain caused by Lithium and Risperidone, but progress has buoyed my commitment to carry on.

Several people have noticed "a difference" in my speech and moods.  The depression is just under the surface and I work very hard to keep it at bay.  I can actually feel it creeping in and hold on for dear life to fight against it.  At this point it helps to stop the fall if I engage in some sort of mental exercise, but it's a constant battle.  I do not want the fear of falling to get worse than the actual fall, and hope that the increasing dosages of Lamictal will be the answer.  We have a lot riding on this damn drug.

That said, in the last two days I have gone from suicidal to so manic that I had altercations with two separate strangers (men) in less than 24 hours.  It was very dangerous behavior and I was lucky.  We are not there yet.  It's frightening.  I stay home most days because I never know how I will act or react in any given situation.  It's best to reduce the chances of legal or physical harm, so I stay home unless someone is available (and willing) to accompany me and swiftly deal with any issues. 

I am a liability and as a result require near constant supervision, and that breaks my heart.

Fresh starts, sputters, and stops

My daughter left for college.  The time leading up to her departure (and for a good twelve hours following) were the hardest moments of my life.  I cried nonstop for 28 hours - gut wrenching, ugly-faced, full-body-involvement sobs, wails, screams - and some stifled moments when I was in her presence.  At one point my husband begged me to take valium to ease the pain, and I agreed.  It helped, but not enough to stop the grief of saying goodbye to my only daughter - my youngest child.

I probably needed a good cry.  I rarely cry.  It's not in my nature to let go like that.  Eventually I gave up - utterly exhausted - and drifted off to sleep with my husband holding me tight.

I woke the next morning (my daughter about 5 hours into her 16 hour drive) feeling spent and ready for the next step - finally meeting my new doctor for meds discussions.  No more Lithium and Risperidone.

Driving to the city is always very stressful for me, but I managed.  I arrived early, scoped out the place, decided on parking, went up to the office to double check the appointment time (a bit of OCD was showing under my hoop skirts there), and went for a quick lunch salad.  After lunch I arrived early (of course) for the scheduled appointment.

It's always hard to start fresh with someone new.  Its hard to tell your story AGAIN.  I tell it so often that I wonder if I should just write it down and provide a written copy ahead of time for new people - just to save a half hour and most of my sanity.  It's hard to tell The Story; it drains what little reserve you have in the tank. 

The doctor is only there for med management and accepted the prior diagnoses without question.  He prescribed Lamictal (what my therapist wanted me on from the start) and I took my first dose that evening.  I have several issues that require medication (he said I will likely be on 4 total), but suggested that we start with one med at a time and add others on as we go - just to be sure that we know what to blame in the event of any sort of allergic reaction.

 Fresh start.

I woke this morning feeling relaxed and loose - not much in the way of pain or worry.  I spent most of the day like that and then at around 5:30 this evening, the shadows crept in; slowly at first and then all at once.  They (the feelings of doom) are very much like shadows in the corners of my vision, taking over my body...surrounding me...suffocating me...and eventually taking over completely.  They fill the room. 



The depressive side of bipolar disorder is a very dark place, and I hate being there.

  
I am very impatient and waiting for this fresh start to make a difference - over the course of many, many weeks AGAIN - will be difficult for me.  I just want to be better now.

Then again, what is better?  I don't have a clue.  We have to find out what normal is for me, because I honestly have no idea what normal is; I have nothing to draw from for normal.

Now we wait.  We have to titrate up slowly with the Lamictal to therapeutic levels to avoid any potential adverse reactions, the most serious of which is a skin rash which, in some cases, is fatal.  http://www.lamictal.com/    

Meanwhile, I have to stay out of my daughter's room for a bit, and have plans to keep busy with other things until I am ready to clean that out.  It is hard to say goodbye.  It's hard to give her up to her own life, especially now.

Down the rabbit hole

I have reduced my psych medications to zero as if this evening.  In doing so, I have increased my mania ten-fold.  I should be hospitalized right now.  I am relying on Valium to get me through at this point.  Valium and avoidance.  I keep away from others to keep them safe from my razor tongue.  The shit that I say doesn't even make sense but I am tearing this family apart with every slice. 

I will burn it all down if I allow myself to think about it for very long.  I'm in here - deep in here - and it HURTS to be me.

I have lost so much, all at once, that I have no idea which end is up and the losses continue.  My only daughter will turn 18 in another state, away from me, just as she turned 16 in another state - without me.  It is probably for the best because I have been most unkind to her and I DO NOT MEAN TO DO IT, but there is that damn razor tongue again.  The little bits of buried me are powerless to the force that is mania. 

It's bad.  The medication was bad.  This is bad.  It's all bad.

Monday - new doctor - please hurry.   

 

EXHAUSTION

I have never experienced an exhaustion so complete and all-consuming as the one I am in right now. I would describe it, but I am so, so, so tired.  I told my husband that I should be in a hospital.  Instead, I am resting, drinking plenty of water (if I can), and eating healthy. 

I spent the night hallucinating.  Every single second of the evening, overnight and early morning hours (awake or asleep), I saw odd things - things that definitely were not there.  I am reducing my meds to zero in preparation for changing them next week.  My choice because I know that they will be changed and know that I want this fucking poison out of my body.  Immediately.  I want the weight to start falling off.

I am angry.  Angry that someone would ignore my pleas regarding the ill effects of an ancient medication and continue to up the dosages.  I am angry that someone would send me to a place with criminals for intensive treatment.  I am angry that someone would care so little about solving the puzzle that is my health.  That is the job - solving the puzzle.  You don't have to like me, but you DO have to be invested in solving the problems -THAT is why I paid your fucking amateur ass $1,000 an hour.

Bitch.

It is time to rest my head.  Monday - and my appointment with an ACTUAL DOCTOR - can't get here soon enough.

UPDATE @ 4:35 p.m.:  My head has been POUNDING all day long and nothing touches it.  The only thing I want is fresh air and a place to rest my head.  Food?  Fuck no - I'll puke. 

I haven't had the energy or desire to shower since Friday.  I don't remember when I last brushed my teeth.  If I even attempt to do either one right now I will vomit.  If I had a shower chair - perhaps - but the act of standing under pelting water makes me ill.  Toothbrush and toothpaste in the mouth is an automatic boot. 

One thing is clear, the medication, while old and goddamn sucky, was doing something.  I have been VERY manic today, in spite of the headache.  Irritability is off the charts.  I am unable to do anything but be a bitch, hold my head, and allow my heart to beat. 

Off to bed.  Again.

Cluster fuck

I went to the hospital and left 45 minutes later. It was every horror you could possibly imagine and then some. Lock down, in with drug addicts trying to escape jail time, alcoholics, thieves, etc. I was told to be there at 11:00.  I arrived early, of course, with all of my things ready.  I had my healthy lunch, a snack, plenty of water - that's what I do, you know?  I am prepared for everything.  After waiting 30 minutes I asked why I was there and what was coming next, only to be told, "Sorry - your person did not show up today - you can wait or come back at 1:00."

I had vitals taken out in the open in front of others.   I asked to be in a private spot for such personal matters and they refused.  I had to take a drug test in front of someone else (I'm bipolar, not an addict). I had to take a fucking Breathalyzer test! In front of other addicts!

Listen, I'm not knocking people, but I did not belong there.  I did not belong there. 

Openly crying at this point, a recently relapsed heroin addict (I know this because that is how she introduced herself) walked over to me and said that I should leave my pretty rings at home and keep my purse on my arm...."we're all a bunch of addicts and stuff goes missing here."  She was trying to be helpful. 

I left.  I don't know how I managed, but I walked to my car, opened the door, closed the door, locked the door 8 times, then started to scream.  I screamed for a solid three minutes.  I then picked up my phone and fired everyone who said that I should go to that mixed company hell-on-Earth cluster fuck.  It was the most unhealthy thing for me at this time. I am in fucking shock, exhausted, shaking, sick.

My therapist (the only person to survive the mass firing) is taking care of the referral I need to obtain a private doctor to help me with my meds.  As of this moment I am no longer taking the Lithium and risperidone.  My choice.  I don't care.  Gaining 45 pounds in 5 weeks is BULLSHIT and not good for anyone.

I am resting now - that is all I am able to do.  This was one of the worst days of my life, and I've had some seriously bad mufuckin' days.

Intensive Care

I don't want to go to the hospital tomorrow.

I am afraid.

I no longer wish to take this medicine.

I am so tired.

I want my old life back.  It sucked, but it was something.  This is a whole lot of nothing.

I am losing the ability to do the things I love.  I am losing the ability to love.

I am falling apart.

I'm right, as always

I took half of my Risperidone, something that she wanted to wean me off of anyway, and half of the Lithium, but all at once as she - the stupid psych nurse with an ENTIRE YEAR of experience - instructed.  Result?  I did not stand there and piss myself with my body on fire and my organs wanting to crawl out of their ugly skin suit.  I felt sort of sleepy, and I slept.

Oh my gosh , ain't that a trip?

No one died, least of all me, and I did not experience the expected horrific side effects of moving up TOO GODDAMN FAST, DUMBASS. 

Tomorrow begins at least 30 days of partial/outpatient (hopefully) hospitalization; I am at the hospital for the majority of the day, but am allowed to go home in the evening.  I have other health problems that require immediate attention, but apparently this comes first.

Are you fucking kidding me?!

To prove a point to my stupid (self-proclaimed genius) psych nurse, who claims that it is my eating that has caused this now FORTY FIVE POUND weight gain (fucking moron, I have only lost or maintained since 2007 and my eating has not changed), I 've had almost no food in two days.  What has this given me?  A total gain of 8 pounds.  Eight fucking pounds.  OH and when I took all my meds at once as prescribed last night?  I pissed my pants right where I stood.

I am starving, exhausted, can't make it to the bathroom in time to piss, can't reach my own ass to wipe myself, my entire body is screaming in pain, and I have gained 8 pounds in two days. 

What I want to do is stop the meds immediately.  They are known "weight gainers".  Still, I know that if I do that, it will be even worse in the form of probable death, because that was where I was headed before the meds.  By my own hands.

I'm going to a show this evening.  Whatever the dress code is at the theatre -- makes no difference.  I'm wearing a fucking second hand skort from goodwill and something that looks like fish scales to cover up what looks like a triplet pregnancy.  When I lift my hands even my long shirts show my belly.

OHMYGODIJUSTWANTTOFUCKINGSCREAMANDDIERIGHTNOW!!!

I don't care about anything anymore.  Meds to keep me alive that make me want to die.  I just don't know.  I don't know.

'isms

(On gaining 41 pounds in the blink of a Lithium/Risperidone eye):


"Yeah, well....sanity doesn't really matter if you can't stretch your arms around to wipe your own ass, now does it?"

 

Crawling

The bitch psych nurse upped my lithium even though I told her that it was NOT WORKING.  "You have not reached a therapeutic level," she said.  FUCK YOU.  I'm taking almost 2000 mgs now, all at once, all at bedtime, along with other antipsychotics.  My body wants to turn inside out.  I feel like absolute shit.

Everything is crawling.  Everthing hurts.  I feel wretched.  There are no words.

She made a point of telling me that she has been able to prescribe medicine for a year - like it was 25 years.  I laughed in her face.  What a self-absorbed bitch.  I told her it's not working.  She has a duty to find something else. 

And so it begins ... losing control of my life.

I start intensive care on Monday.  That will remove this bitch from the equation and put real doctors on the case.  I hope that they can figure this shit out because I am ready to take a nap on the tracks. 

Get on board or get the fuck off

I have no idea who I am anymore.  This person who gets painful rushes of adrenaline just getting up from a chair - has no strength to roll over in bed - hates strangers - frustrates and angers so easily ... this person who feels so fat, ugly, breathless and useless ... this person is foreign to me.

I want to be left alone while I deal with this.  Unfortunately, I have to perform each day.  A requirement of life is that you live it.  I have to find a job.  I have to deal with a psych nurse I hate and sit with a therapist I love, but who has reached the limit of what she can do for me.

With regard to my therapist:  she is wonderful, as I've said, but during our last meeting I asked her what came next ... where we went from here, and she did not have an answer.  I do not do well without a plan - that's just me - illness or no.  If you do not have a next step, you are not going to make it with me. 

The psych nurse is an asshole.  She is inappropriate and stupid.  She forces me to do things that I do not want to do, and threatens to do them without my consent if necessary.  I showed her self injury wounds that had healed and she grabbed my cell phone to call my husband to discuss blue papering me.  I explained that I had no desire to actually kill myself - self injury is rarely about that.  If I wanted to die I would not be at that appointment.  She asked me to share all and I did, only to have her grab MY phone?  Without asking?  I do not trust this person so she will never get the real me.  I plan on telling her just that tomorrow, along with my husband as he wants to be there as well to support me.  I also plan on telling her that I need someone else to manage my medication because she does not give two shits about my weight gain.  Thirty six pounds (it could very well be 40 today) IS NOT GOOD.  It must be dealt with.  Perhaps there is another health concern that has crept up.  Perhaps my thyroid is fucked up.  Dear nurse - do you not recall that thyroid issues were one of the things that we checked prior to Lithium therapy?  Don't you think we should check it again, given that it was borderline to begin with?!  WHY IN FUCK do I have to think about these things?  Isn't that why I am paying these professional people $500-$1,000 an hour?   

I need people to either get on board or get the fuck off.  I am paying the bills and make no apologies here.  I have silently lived with these torturous thoughts for most of my life, so don't expect me to sit back and take abuse after I've found the strength to ask for help...after I continue to display the bravery it takes to carry on down this road.  Either you're in or you're out.  I am not looking for someone to say what I want to hear or do what I want them to do, I am asking them to tell me the truth and do what is right for me.  If you are unable to do that - you're out.

UPDATE @ 11:30 a.m.:  I called my primary care physician to check the status of my thyroid and diabetes tests - both of which were normal.

NO idea what to do at this point.  I feel absolutely alone in my care.  This weight is not acceptable.  I will not go on living with this weight.         

Monster

I have gained 36+ pounds in just over a month.  I know for a fact that I am not eating 6500 calories a day, so the discussion the pharmacist had with me about "significant weight gain" caused by my medications, and the worry she displayed in regards to that fact, are valid.

I feel like fucking shit.  I don't have the strength to roll over in bed, so I am stuck in one spot and wake with countless aches and pains - it's like someone is beating me during my sleep every night.  Well, when I actually sleep.  I get an average of 2-4 hours a night so that is hardly sleep.  Speaking of sore, my knees are SCREAMING from the added weight that I am carrying.  I can see my ass parked in a rolling fat cart if this keeps up because the gain has been so much, so fast, that any more weight will make it impossible to walk.  Standing is torturous.  STANDING. 

I have to stop this medication that I desperately need to stay alive.  How will I do that?  Which would you choose?  I will not survive.  I will take enough pills to fall asleep on the tracks and wait for the next train.  In the alternative, I will continue down this road - each day gaining a few more pounds and looking more and more like a monster.  Each day hiding the beautiful person beneath.  When people see fat they see slovenly, lazy, stupid, gluttonous.  They do not see illness, sadness, despair, hopelessness.

 

They do not see me.

I have been sqawking about the weight gain to my psych team for weeks now - since the beginning - and neither of my mental health team members seem to give a shit.  They are only interested in getting me into a hospital.  I was nearly blue-papered twice.  I'm not insane - I just need some assistance with these medications, assholes.

The fact is that the medications are not working.  While they may be pulling the poles in, they are not stopping the mad swinging between them.  I still go from manic to depressive in a matter of minutes, several times a day.  I don't want to kill myself - that is the only  change.

Whoopdefuckingdoo.        

Sometimes you just have to take a bipolar shit

Jesus H. Fucking Christ on a cracker - I went absolutely manic apeshit on the world after work.  I was sick all day - vomiting, exhausted, and still managed to work my ass off.  I held it together and LOST it when I left the building, which is when you are allowed to lose it, you know? 

Here is what happened:

"I am on the mother of all rampages this evening. Beware. Since 5:00 I have SCREAMED obscenities at:

1. Three random fucktards at the grocery store.

2. The person who parked next to me at said grocery store.

3. The delivery truck in front of me on my way home from said grocery store.

4. The road.

5. The red light (bitch did that shit on PURPOSE).

6. The garage door. Slow. Too slow. Hurry the hell... UP.

7. The trunk.

8. The car for having such a stupid fucking trunk. I should have a button for opening the damn trunk. Using a key is annoying.

9. The mail.

10.The U.S. Postal service for sending me said mail.

11.My kid, for not doing a damn thing in this house, but going out and having fun on a "sick day".

12.The dumbass visitor in my house who just used the words "queer" "lesbian" and "island". I had to go upstairs to "rest". That is code for "I am going to kill you, with pain, if I stay here."

13.The neighbor, who drives way too fast up my street. A young twit. I'll probably kick his ass.

14. The wall, board against the wall (construction is bad for people like me), stairs, bed.

Even the dog is afraid. I have sent myself to bed without supper. Again.

Actually, I just swallowed my risperidone, Lithium, sertraline, and a valium for good measure, because I was going to kill the subject of #12, and I am too much of a princess to handle prison.

Sleep well and FLY, MY PRETTIES!   

When one door closes . . .

 

“When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.” - Alexander Graham Bell

After the horrific experience at work earlier this week, I was completely drained - had nothing left to give.
 
http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=2305207368736623879#editor/target=post;postID=478760626101715239

It was as though someone pulled the pin on a grenade and threw it into the middle of my nightmare.  I did end up going to my appointments the next morning and learned that my illness had progressed to such a serious level - extreme was the word written on my chart - that my doctor told me that she was immediately admitting me to the hospital.  I refused.  She asked to speak to my husband and actually took my cell phone.  In the end, I assured my doctor that if I wanted to kill myself, I would not be in her office - - I would be dead.  She agreed, but insisted on daily telephone check-ins until Friday, when she fully expects me to enter the hospital for extended inpatient treatment.

I left the office with sincere promises that I would not crash my car or swallow pills and went to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription for Lithium.  After that, I arrived at work to an angry boss and a tossed desk.  Typical. 

I confided in a coworker and eventually made the decision to leave the firm.  Unfortunately, leaving the firm - quitting (such a harsh word for a perfectionist) - means that I would have no income.  I decided to meet with the personnel director to ask them to "let me go" so that I could collect unemployment.  After two meetings totalling 4 hours and many, many tears, they granted my request.  My last day at the office is Friday 5/18.  I have some training/transition work to do, but my days as a slave driver for satan are over.  That door will close.

Today was an interesting day.  The word was out and people were crying and in shock about my resignation.  While it feels nice to be wanted, the finish line is in sight and I am hyper-focused on crossing that line. 

I have moments of panic, extreme happiness, and great emotion; all of those a result of my illness, not necessarily due to the fact that I am leaving a place where I spent 11 years of my life...

Yeah - I don't believe it either.

I increased my risperidone dosage along with adding the Lithium to my meds.  I am also slowly decreasing, and eventually stopping, my sertraline, which was actually making me psychotic.  I am much more relaxed and the mania has decreased.  However, I am suffering from fairly severe migraine headaches and will discuss this with my doctor next week.

We have new doors opening every day, to include relocation and a potential business purchase.  Most people would let fear keep them from these new opportunities, especially during times of great stress, but I will walk through these other doors with my feet on the ground, my brain engaged, and my expectations flying high.   

Lithium and Kicking Ass

Day one for Lithium.  Day one for Freedom.  Day one for ME.