I'm done.

The dreaded "Lamictal Rash" appeared last night, along with a very stiff and painful neck.  Lamictal was my last, best chance at an acceptable maintenance medication so this is a big disappointment.  I placed calls first thing this morning to my primary care physician and psychiatrist explaining the situation, as I was instructed to do if this should ever happen.



*crickets* for several hours.



I finally heard back from my primary care physician's nurse, who said that I should direct my issues to the prescribing doctor.  I explained (again) that the prescribing doctor is in fact a psychiatrist who had instructed me to contact my primary care physician if any adverse reactions (rash) occur with Lamictal.  Psychiatrists have offices with velvet divans.  They do not have exam tables and paper gowns.  (sarcasm)  The nurse asked if I was able to breathe.  Really?  Of course I can breathe; I'm talking, right?

I was once again told to contact the psychiatrist/prescribing doctor with my issue. 

I did.

Again.

No answer.

When (IF) the psychiatrist calls he will say that I should be seen by my medical doctor to determine if I am having an allergic reaction to the medication, or he will send me to the emergency room. 

Ah, the emergency room.  If I go there I will wait hours upon hours.  They will take a look at my rash and then refer me to the two doctors who are throwing me back and forth like a hot potato.

So this is what the bottom of the crack looks like after you fall through.  Interesting.

Here is the plan:  I no longer have Bipolar I, Anxiety/Panic disorder, PTSD, ADD, OCD, Dermatillomania, etc. - I have been cured.  Isn't that wonderful?!  I have to stop taking the medicine because I truly am on my own and if I take another dose and the rash REALLY takes off....then what?  Who's going to treat me?   

I am sick and fucking tired of being treated like an idiot because I carry these labels.  I am intelligent, underserved, overcharged, and, at times, harmed by my medical team.  I've had to fire people, hire others, and beg for treatment, only to be denied assistance when things go wrong.

The health care system in this country is bullshit.  I'm done.  I'm cured.  There is nothing wrong with me at all.  I'm sending the FUCK YOU flag up the pole.  I navigated this alone for 40+ years, I can do the rest of it in the exact same way.  Should be loads of fun.

*mic drop* 


UPDATE at 4:20 p.m.  Psychiatrist called.  He said that my PCP should have fit me in, but it doesn't matter because the Lamictal is done.  Once I described the increasing nature of the rash and stiff neck he said that I should stop taking it immediately.  We are back to square one.

Come Josephine in my Flying Machine

"Oh! Say! Let us fly, dear
Where, kid? To the sky, dear
Oh you flying machine
Jump in, Miss Josephine
Ship ahoy! Oh joy, what a feeling
We'll go through the ceiling
Ho, High, Hoopla we fly
To the sky so high

Come Josephine in my flying machine
Going up she goes! Up she goes!
Balance yourself like a bird on a beam
In the air she goes! There she goes!
Up, up, a little bit higher
Oh! My! The moon is on fire
Come Josephine in my flying machine
Going up, all on, Goodbye!

One, two, now we're off, dear
Oh, you, pretty soft, dear
Whoa! say, don't hit the moon
Oh, no, not yet, but soon
You for me, Oh, gee! you're a fly kid
Not me! I'm a sky kid
Gee I'm up in the air
Above you for fair..."

Last night was bad.  It was another "Just let me go...I want to die...you would be better off without me...I drag this family down...I'm tired...no more...please, just let me go..."

This morning I woke refreshed, reset, level, and ready to work on my goal(s) for the day, even though I'd clearly set none the day before because I wasn't planning on living to see today.

Going up she goes...up she goes...

Today is better.  I am a couple of pounds lighter, don't feel like dying, and managed to shop for food and drive about the city without incident.  The swings are hard to manage, but I'm here.

Right now I'm here. 

Make way for the secluded island of misfit minds

dig·ni·ty  [dig-ni-tee]

noun, plural - dig-ni-ties.

1. bearing, conduct, or speech indicative of self-respect or appreciation of the formality or gravity of an occasion or situation.

pri·va·cy [pri-va-cee]

noun

1. The quality or condition of being secluded from the presence or view of others.

2. The state of being free from unsanctioned intrusion: a person's right to privacy.

3. The state of being concealed; secrecy.

I learned a very important lesson in this process.  If you want to keep your dignity and have things remain private ... forget it.  Nothing is ever private.  In spite of your very best efforts, someone tells another and yet another embellishes the story and a few more add to the telephone game and then ... then you're sunk.  When the game makes its way back to you, and when potential employers get wind of your "mental illness", you're cooked.  The only answer is to pick up your hoop skirts and leave town with your head locked in a barrel.  Head for the hills, sister.  Make way for the secluded island of misfit minds.

Fair?  Fuck no. 

In my next life I choose to avoid mental illness.  However, if I must have mental illness, I also choose global deaf-muteness.

 

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.

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.

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. 

-EXTREME-

This is written at the top of every page from my psych nurse:  Bipolar I Extreme w/o Psychosis, though a few times there was psychosis and those were dark times indeed. 

I look at that and wonder what the fuck happened.  How did I get here?  How did this happen?  What fucking worm worked its way into my head and jumbled things about in such an EXTREME way that I can hardly manage the basics for daily living -- like self care? 

I have learned one thing - how to manipulate things (probaby not, but allow me this one indulgence).  If I say that I want to die - that sounds the alarms.  If I say that I want to hurt people, that sounds the alarms.  If I THINK those things but stop short of SHARING those things, all is well with the psych people.

Maybe.  Is it?  I don't know.  Perhaps they are smarter than I give them credit for, the fuckers.

Quite simply, I want my brain back in one piece, and I don't want to get lost on a ward forever.  I want things to work.  I want to be brilliant.  I realize now that much of my brilliance was probably a result of mania....and we are planning on losing that.  It's a shame because mania - controlled - is responsible for some of the most amazing things that humans have thought, written, acted, created...

I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy.

FACT.