I Heard the Devil Call My Name

Not really. Not literally, because that would put me into a whole new class of crazy.

This is the essential trap any loony faces: I'm on meds. I feel great. I have friends. I'm friendly at work. I don' stay at home, sitting on my hands, counting the minutes that I've managed not to kill myself.

So hey! I must be all better, right?

And when you've been sick and you're better, what do you do? You stop taking your medicine.

No.

First of all, I have been warned many times in many degrees of harshness of the foolishness of that act.

Secondly, I no longer have a death wish.

Thirdly, I have forgotten how horribly painful it was to be sick in the head.

I've got these meds fine-tuned now, to the point that I know I need to increase the anti-paranoia meds within the prescribed limit and can tune down the anti-anxiety meds, again within the prescribed limits.

Lately, I've read some articles about how people with a similar diagnosis but apparently deeper pockets have found themselves in a holistic program, which only makes sense. Healthy mind in a healthy body and all that.

I can probably organize this myself, although I doubt that it will be as easy. Still, I think I'm going to give it a try.

First step: Establish a baseline. That's the easiest part. Well. We'll see.

I am compliant, which is something relatively new to me. It astonishes me that it brings good results.

Balance

I've never had a good sense of balance.

The balance beam in junior high scared the bejeezus out of me and I fell off it regularly. We were supposed to, as a class, have our own individual routines to do at the culmination of the balance beam training. Mine was dumbed down to the point where I nearly walked across the floor in a straight line.

Now the uneven parallel bars - that was a different story altogether. I loved that. I suppose because I had the equipment to get the momentum going.

These days with the head meds, I generally go careening down the hall. Sometimes I bounce from side to side. Sometimes I keep one finger along the wall, just to give me that feeling of connectivity. I now go down steps one at a time.

But the balance within my head is a new and interesting thing, too. I think by now that I have at least four weeks of consistently taking all meds as ordered. I have been able to fine-tune the dosages within the parameters my shrink gave me. For example:

1 - 2 Trazadone per night: Two make me feel like I've been beaten up and will never rise from my bed again.

1 - 2 Risperdal per night: Again, two make me feel all beat up. I never did, thank God, try two Trazadone and two Risperdal on the same night.

Again, at my discretion is how I divide up the five Klonopin I take during the day. I've learned that I cope best with the world, taking them at 7 a.m., 10 a.m., noon, 3 p.m. and bedtime.

When I look at the tray of little compartments that I put together every Sunday evening, I'll think, wow. That's a lot of pharmaceuticals. And then I'll thank God or Sanofi or whoever, glad that the craziness seems to be gone or at least pushed so far back I can't see it.

I especially want to thank the people who told me bluntly that I was behaving in paranoid manner. I see clearly now that I was. The Risperdal has taken that away and saved me from enduring many anxious hours. Thank you.

It's a fine balance. I think I've got the hang of it for now. I pray that I do.

A Lot About Nothing

Usually at this time of the morning, I'm dressed for work and getting ready to go. But since we're enjoying a pea-soup fog, I'm waiting until it's vaguely daylight outside.

Cousin Karen Update

I've been thinking about this hard, the whole situation. I realized that part of my initial enthusiasm in lending a hand was selfish. I have a hard time admitting when I'm lonely. It's just background noise at this point. I remembered that it doesn't take much for my gregariousness quota to be full. I'm not sure this would work on a long-term basis.

I also realized that my Cousin Danny is legally her next of kin. So I started texting him the other day. He sounded far more rational than she did. (It's not her fault.) He sounded fairly confident about the loss mitigation/mediation program they're going through, but I got no other details. I haven't been able to reach him to actually speak to him.

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Emma Update

Emma had been ill for over a week, unable to keep anything down. When I talked to her Monday evening, she sounded like she was at death's door. Sven was at home, so I told her to get dressed and let Sven take her to the tiny emergency room they have in Podunkville. Astoundingly, she did. They gave her IV fluids and sent her home with anti-barf meds.

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Boris Update

Friends, he is slowing down. He's no longer grooming himself, but he still has an appetite and still loves to cuddle. He has a jones for Whiskas Temptations. He likes to get brushed. So he gets all of these things in abundance.

Everyone else is A-OK, although I suspect Dylan has arthritis in his front paws. It's hard to realize that the youngest one, Blue is 10 this year. And kind of scary, too.

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Me Update

I'm tired of being tired. I'm very grateful for finally achieving a balanced mood, but the balance has to be carefully watched, all the time. One side effect of all of these drugs is to make me sleepy and/or fatigued. By the time I get home, I'm lucky to pour a bowl of cereal for myself and dole out cat food for the kitties. I get into my jammies, watch a movie, and fall into bed.

There has to be and is a better way. It's all very simple. I need to make myself a cup of coffee around 3 - 4 p.m. Good coffee, not that in-the-office bile. And while I normally take coffee black, in the afternoons it has to have some 1/2 & 1/2 in it. This is sketchy at work, although the company graciously provides milk and 1/2 & 1/2. I go in at 9 am and the fridge is full. I go in at 3 pm to the kitchen and there's 1/4 of an inch of skim milk left. The easy and rational solution is for me to take my own but disguise it so no one will think she can "borrow" it and no one will mind.

There is a serious misunderstanding at work of what's yours and what's mine, especially when it comes to the contents of the refrigerator. And if this is the biggest problem I have at work, I am truly blessed.

I have projects and things I want to accomplish at home but I'm getting exactly nowhere with them because all I do at home is sleep. At this point, I doubt Cousin Karen will come to live with me, but I still want to sort out the house. It's needed sorting for a couple of years now and I want to do it. Before, I didn't care but for some reason (head meds?) I care now. I see what needs to be done, have a reasonable plan in place for doing it, but when I lift a hand, it's usually to change into my pajamas. Wake up, Becs, wake up!

Update on the Rat Situation And Other Things

Silk posted a link to an excellent article about making sure your ratty lender knows YOU know how things should be done. It stinks that this has to be so.

Still, I think I want to get my mortgage away from the big rats and will try to get with the local little rats. It's not quite Bedford Falls Savings and Loan but it's close enough.

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Sam

I think Sam has gone. It has been a week since I've seen him. The last time I saw him, he was crouching over a bowl of food in the driveway. I got as close to him as I could without freaking him out. I edged my hand out and let him sniff my finger. Maybe that was such a harrowing experience for him that he never came back, but I think the truth is sadder than that. For what it's worth, I think I helped him make it through two more months than he would have otherwise and dined quite well.

Must admit, I had a horror of coming home and finding him dead in the driveway.

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Buster and Co.

The little fuzzy peach kitten was by this morning, looking both scared shitless and demanding, where the hell is my food, wench? Also seen lately: A black tail disappearing around the hedges. Another kitten? Or Buster? Buster has been spotted and so has Lily.

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The Horrible Incident

A week ago last Sunday, there was nearly a Horrible Incident here. Please excuse me if I don't go into detail. It shames me, which I didn't think was possible. The possible consequences were so horrific that I knew I had to get away from the cats somehow, someway. The only thing I could think to do was take enough clonazepam to knock me out for most of the day.

I saw Dr. Yeow yesterday and was fully expecting a stern lecture about abusing my meds. But he didn't. When I told him about the Incident That Almost Happened, he said, "I think that was one wise course of action to take." And then he fiddled with my meds. I have to say, I'm more mellow today than I have been in quite a while.

Dr. A called me last night and chastised me for not calling her cell phone. I told her that it seemed like an invasion of her privacy. She said, "That's why I gave it to you - for you to call me when something like this happens. We may be able to work on this problem immediately instead of you suffering for a week until you can see me." 

I told her what happened and she said, "I can see why that scared you so badly. But what was it about it that caused such a strong reaction in you?"

I said because if The Horrible Incident had actually happened, even that amount of rage without the follow through, was much too scarily like something my mother would do.

Dr. A said, "But you didn't do it, did you? You stopped yourself. You took steps to make sure everyone was safe. Would your mother have done that?"

No. She wouldn't have.

It's going to be an expensive week because Dr. Yeow and Dr. A are out of network. But it's so very much worth it.

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Will You Be My Friend?

I very briefly belonged to an online service called "Dating4Disabled". You didn't have to have a disability to join. I joined and had some nice online conversations with men - in England and Scotland. (See? I'm telling you, I don't belong here.) Anyway, when I went through the "matches", I would laugh darkly at the people who had listed their disability as schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. "Heh heh, good luck, nut job," I would say.

And now I am a nut job. I can't say I like it, although it does feel like the truth is out. In a way, it's a terrible truth because some of the symptoms I've been having turn out to be related to bipolar disorder and they aren't the kind of things that go away.

Automatically in the discard pile. I know I've been lonely lately. That stinking Joe Dubois. But not enough to set myself up for rejection yet again. Yet.

Emma's Way

I like talking to Emma these days. It's like talking to what I imagine a normal person is like. She isn't complaining constantly about how tired she is, about how Sven isn't pulling his weight (no, Sven was pulling his weight and hers), about how someone had slighted her in Little Oslo, the town of 256 people.

She is actually trying to take care of herself.

She knows how hard, if not impossible, it will be to give up smoking, but she's still trying to. Her doctor told Emma that they weren't seeing any good effects at all from the physical therapy. In fact, it made Emma's oxygen saturation levels go down and that is not a good thing. At last, Emma has agreed to use oxygen when she's sleeping and she says she wakes up raring to go. This is nothing short of a miracle, because it usually took Sven threats of electric cattle prods to get her going in the morning.

I told her about the book I'm reading on Bipolar Disorder. How to recognize the manic, or rather, hypomanic (All new! Brought to you by Popeil! The all new hypomanic!) when it arrives. Usually with Edgar Winter on the soundtrack and AC/DC and Aerosmith. I know. Me? Aerosmith? Get the hell outta heyah.

I told her that the last time it hit, I was able to stop the roller coaster before it turned into the subway to Hell.

She said, "I don't have a problem with that anymore. That Lamictal stuff is just great. I don't have those highs and lows anymore. I still get irritable but that's why I've got clonazepam." All God's psychos got clonazepam.

She swore about how wonderful it is and today, I looked it up.

The Lamictal Rash.It is feared more than a full-blown manic episode. And I can sure as hell see why.

It can make your skin fall off.

Oh, yeah, we meant to tell you. And actually, we do if you read the package insert. You see, your epidermis can sometimes just slliiiidde right off the mucosal layer of your skin. Ouch!

They go one to give survival rates for The Rash.

If 10% of your skin falls off, you've got a pretty good chance of making it. Although the treatment for it may disable you. Like, if it falls off your feet, ankles and shins. It might kind of bind up your ankles.

If 30% of your skin falls off, you are in deep doo-doo. Survival rates for this are not good at all. I've seen pictures. You don't want to.

I remember Emma being concerned about it when she first started taking it. She made harsh jokes about it, which meant she was scared. But I think if your skin is going to fall off, it does it in the first couple of weeks.

Me? I'd rather just keep reading the book and working through the exercises. Although prone to wee cancers on my face, I like my skin and intend to keep it around as long as I can.

Oh - total bill for the surgery: $2,312.25. And it hasn't been approved yet.

Life is just a chair of bowlies.

Life's too mysterious. Don't take it serious. But this Lamictal stuff I'm taking very seriously.

Constant Alert

Not like I used to be when I lived with my mother and lived with Xman. I suppose that was walking on eggshells.

It's good to have a diagnosis that fits, even if I don't like it. (Bipolar. Ugh.)

However.

The downside of this is that I have to question every flash of genius that I have. I could try to look at it, judge it, and say either "That's a fantastic idea!" or "Hm. Sounds good." But I shouldn't trust either response. Of course, there are always the "Are you out of your mind?" responses to things like "Hey, let's go to the base camp of Everest!"

I look back over my life and hindsight being 20/20, I see the things that came about due to a fatal moment of mania. One was thinking I could be a good project manager. That came about because I answered one question, ONE question, in a book about project management. From there came a long string of manic moments that got me deeper and deeper into trouble. Is it any wonder that now I'm constantly second-guessing myself?

This will be a subject to take up with Dr. A once the new year and my new health savings account kick in.

What is the litmus test for a manic idea as opposed to a rational one?

Granted, my manic moments involve things like (see the above) buying a bracelet for $70 or saying "I can do that" before someone has even completed the sentence.

The past six months or so have consisted of me turning down things for fear that accepting them will get me up to my neck in things I can't do.

I can see where that will lead me if I continue down that path and I'm not keen on the final destination.

Wonders Never Cease

Guess who's bipolar?

Me! Little ol' me.

Dr. Yeow didn't say it. He just accepted it when I said I was cycling pretty high these days and in a way that has nothing to do with a peloton. Or Lance Armstrong. I described my symptoms and my shockingly shameful behavior lately, which I have been too ashamed to blog, on my farewell tour or not.

He changed my medication. Dr. Yeow is always very careful in changing my medication. He also knows that I am not always a compliant patient. If it's a complicated dosing regimen, I usually manage the morning but the rest of the day is lost.

One thing I have realized about this blog is that I use it as an emotional crutch. Personally, I think it's a good thing. Especially since I've come home every day this week and gobbled everything edible in sight (excluding the cats and their food).

Maybe I'm like Cher - taking another farewell tour? Too hard to say goodbye?

Because right now, I'm thinking maybe I don't want to make a whole lot of changes at once.

My head hurts.

Oh - Mark - email me.

The Darkness Comes

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LX3vsw2F_DA&ob=av2e


Yes, yes. Naughty me. The non-compliant patient me. About a month ago, I stopped taking Drug 1 because it's $130 / month. I also stopped taking Drug 2 for high blood pressure because it meant I would have to go back to my doctor ($100+) to be lectured and told I am still fat. Drug 3 has been petering out. I'm supposed to take two a day. Sometimes I take one. Sometimes not.

So yes, it was a whacking great surprise when I sat at my desk this morning and wanted to just Not Be. Wanted the pain to stop. (What pain? How do you describe it? It's like fibromyalgia pain, I imagine. You bloody well know what it feels like, but people roll their eyes at you, yeah, yeah, right.)(Like trying to explain cramps to a man - okay. Imagine someone's reached up into your gut, you say, and at that point, you get whoa, whoa, whoa, stop! And he runs away. And you don't even get to finish saying, "Someone actually pulls your gall bladder out with his bare hands. After squishing it like a tension ball a couple of times.")

Oh, the horrible things I say to myself. The horrible things I want to do. And I hate it. I hate being mental. I hate not being able to live without these drugs. Please don't give me the old saw about it being like diabetes, because I know non-compliant diabetics, too.

Most of all, how on earth do I explain the last couple of days....weeks...month...to my boss at work? I don't, that's how. There is exactly one person in my building who has a visible disability, a guy about my age who has CP and really and truly looks like he's going to fall on me because his balance pitches the top half of him forward. If the wild proliferation of people with physical disabilities is any indication, I can guess how it would go over if I said, "Isadora, by the way, the reason I act kind of strange sometimes is because I have a mental illness." Here's your tin foil hat, what's your hurry?

Oh, and granted the Big Finance campus is huge, but I have only seen one person using a wheelchair and I think he was just here for a conference.

How could I tell my recruiter? Again, I can't. I can just see her laughing at my jokes (she always does) and surreptitiously typing, "Do not send the Crazy One out again, ever!"

Although I can tell when I'm rushing headlong into disaster, it has to get pretty extreme before I put the brakes on it. Usually I do that when it's too late to rescue the situation.

Is it now? I don't know.

I tried four times to call my shrink after he canceled the last appointment a month ago. It was only today (brakes screeching) that I was able to get through and actually make an appointment.

And the crazy thing? Going to the doctor, going to the shrink, and paying for a month's worth of meds is about what one day off from work costs. I don't know how many days the cray-cray would have taken to get straight. Even now, I just know that I've stopped on my Path to Destruction and turned around. I have no idea how long it will take to get back to where I was.

But I do imagine there will be some time spent working on my resume this weekend. I've already started to clean off my desk.

I hate being mental. I hate it. I really, really hate it.

And when you - you know who you are - asked me if I had suicidal ideation, I didn't even answer you. I wanted to say, "No, but I imagine you can get it fairly cheap on eBay" and the answer was yes. But you probably knew that. And you probably know how much I hate being mental. I worry that I might have BPD, as we diagnosed Emma. I just don't know any way of telling the work world about this.

The Drug Report

Other than the Dress Side Effect, all goes swimmingly.

I know. Can you believe I actually said "swimmingly"? But I mean it. All kinds of minor miracles have been taking place in the past few days. If it's the placebo effect, please to keep giving me some of the sweet, sweet placebo.

Examples of said miracles:

• In the early hours, I find myself singing. There's almost always a sound track rattling through my mind. Yesterday's choice was "I Could Have Danced All Night". A sure sign of depression for me is a lack of interest in music. Right now, I am starved for music. Pandora Radio can't feed me enough.
• I applied for two jobs yesterday. Including a cover letter and a brief review of my resume.
• From the library, I checked out two books on job hunting and I actually read a chapter in each. In the past, they would have languished on the bookshelf nearest the TV until the library sent me threatening emails.
• I finally manned up and extended my job search to include New York City. Hey! I just found out there are a lot of jobs there! Who knew?
  
• I looked up words in the dictionary. This may not seem significant to you, but it is to me.
• Last evening when I went to the library, I was there for two hours and spent them (with the exception of my brief blogging) engrossed in looking for jobs.
• I left a message with Ari the Therapist, asking for an appointment.
• When I started watching a PBS series on Netflix, I was not compelled to watch all six episodes at once.
• This morning before I left for Mass, I put together my gym bag so I can go to the acqua-cise class at 10.

I know! I can't believe it, either. And this is only a week on the new medication regimen. I suppose it helps a lot to have the right diagnosis, scary as it sounds, and the right doctor to prescribe the right drugs.

In Layman's Terms, "Seriously F*cked in the Head"

I saw Dr. Yeeooow yesterday. He's a nice man. He's a nice man who went to Ivy League 1, Ivy League 2, and Ivy League 3, topped off with a stint at Extremely Well-Known NYC Hospital.

And I'm sure at this point in life, has a very fat portfolio, a choice vacation home and probably a condo someplace tropical. Good for him.

He asked how I was referred to him and here it got a wee bit tricky, as I anticipated it would. There are a few people in my life who know I have Condition A. that I've had this since I was a mere tot of four or five. Condition A is unusual and only coming to be known in psychiatric circles. There is a research doctor who's conducting a study on Condition A and it was he who got me the referral to Dr. Yeeeooow.

Of course, Dr. Y wanted to know more about it. I told him the basics of what I knew, then worked hard to shift the conversation / history-taking back to the fact that I'm depressed.

I told him a couple of deep dark secrets that I'd only recently been able to admit to myself and he nodded.

I was expecting that he would tear all my meds away from me, wanting to go for the whole tabula rasa thing, but no, he didn't. What he did say was, "Okay, we'll up the dosage on this and this, keep you on this, and by the way, we need to rev up everything by starting you on this. And start going back to Ari the Therapist. You have a history and I think he's been more helpful to you than you realize."

We talked about money and he's willing to work with me. I'll see how it shakes out with my insurance company.

So. Diagnosis?

Major depression
General Anxiety Disorder
and... (drum roll!)
OCD!

OCD? OCD! Who knew? No, srsly. I knew I had bits of things here and there and I was willing to say, okay, I'm extra-finicky about a few things, what's the big deal?

But no, the OCD is a deal. Not a big deal, except that it was a contributing factor in getting laid off three times.

OCD. Ha. Well. Who knew? At least it isn't the kind that has me scrubbing the kitchen floor with a toothbrush at three o'clock in the morning. Although I wouldn't mind a little touch of it, given the present state of Ma Maisonette.

This seems like a lot to be crammed into one person's poor head, but that's okay. At least there are names for it and while it may not be curable, it's definitely treatable and of that, I am very glad.

DIY Therapy

Overnight, my brain settled back to where it's supposed to be.

I thought about all that had transpired during the week. And this morning, however odd it may seem, I feel just peachy again.

Of course, this may have to do with the arrival of a box of French chocolates for Valentine's Day. Don't hate me because I have good candy. Who needs clonazepam when you've got some of the best stuff in the world waiting in your kitchen cabinet? It really is the kind of chocolate that releases all kinds of good self-produced hormones and drugs into your system. This, I'm using very judiciously. It is precious and rare and not easy to come by.

Anyway. Back in the day when I lived with Xman in Florida, he was busy taking classes to get his BA at night. I was left to my own devices at night and more often than not, spent them in Xman's recliner, with a glass of orange juice and gin in hand. My drinking got to the point where I had blacked out at home one night. The next day, I called the local AA and talked to one of the old-timers there. He said, "If you think you might have a problem, you probably do. Come to the meeting tonight -" And I stopped listening. Because all I could imagine was a squalid meeting room in the VFW with old linoleum, reeking of cigarette smoke and gagging on the stench of burned coffee, with a couple dozen men like my worthless alcoholic Uncle Jerry.

So I decided to stop drinking. I went home and poured the gin down the drain and since then, have had no gin in the house. Yes, I have gotten drunk maybe eight times in the intervening years. (Yes, Wolfey, the triple-tequila margaritas were a bit much, even considering the circumstances.)

I realize I should make every effort to find a shrink to help wean me away from the clonazepam, so will continue to look for one. In the meantime, I'm going to begin my own DIY therapy. It's worked before. It can work again.

Honestly, I'm sick of all my moaning and whining. Whatever's making me miserable in my life doesn't compare with the misery of so many all over the world. I have my home, my job, my cats, even the crumpled Bullet, and a box of chocolates. How bad can this be? I am up to date on my bills. I have fed myself and my cats. I actually have money left over from this pay period.

If I could yank myself back to the point where I gain perspective, I can see it ain't all that bad at all, really. And the stuff that is bad, can be dealt with.

But I'm telling you now - the next time I get the urge to go flying off to a pricey therapist, I'm making an appointment for a massage instead.

2 Mental 2 B Treated

As Ari advised last night, I spent some time today trying to track down the information about my insurer's "behavioral" (ie, loonies) section. I also called the Employee Assistance Program.

The EAP hooked me up with a guy who sounds completely unthrilled about treating me. In fact, just talking to him creeped me out. I am seriously considering asking E to come along with me for my appointment. It's at 8 on a weeknight. This is not that unusual. I've seen Ari that late, but this guy is an unknown to me.

I called a couple of therapists. One who sounded really nice isn't taking any new patients. The other, hm we'll call her the Snotty Bitch Hobbyist, talked to me for maybe five minutes. She asked me some questions, I answered them honestly. I told her Ari thought that for awhile, I should be seen on a weekly basis.

Her tone throughout was haughty and distant.

"I'm afraid I just don't have the time to dedicate to someone with a condition as serious as yours. It just wouldn't work out."

Are you saying I'm too mental to give counseling to? Because that's why I'm hearing.

I turned around and called my insurance company. The guy didn't sound surprised. "Yeah, we've heard that before with some providers. But better to know now that to get two sessions into it and find out she's really not dedicated in helping you."

I called a psychiatrist who needs to partake of his own medicine. Whatever they prescribe for OCD would be good. Here's his voicemail greeting:

"Thank you for calling Dr. OCD. I am currently with a patient. Ongoing patients are advised to call me between 1 and 2 pm on Thursdays and Mondays. New patients are advised to call me between 10:15 and 10:20 on alternate Wednesdays. Please be sure to leave your name, telephone number, astrological sign, a list of the last times you washed your hands, and your clothing sizes so I can outfit you in 'clean room' gear before you come into my office."

Okay. Maybe it wasn't quite that bad. But I don't want to see this guy.

I found out that after a $500 deductible, the health insurance company will pay for 75% of my visits with Ari.

But as I was driving home tonight, I thought, I don't ever want to see him again. I don't. I don't like the way he treated me last night. I don't like some of the assumptions he made. I walked out of there feeling ten times worse than I felt walking in and that is not what I'm paying for. Actually, I could have spent $80 with my massage therapist for an infinitely better result. I'm sorry I didn't think of it yesterday afternoon.

It used to be that the hardest part of getting a mental person to a doctor was convincing said whacko to go to a doctor. Now the hardest part is finding a doctor to go to.

Honestly, I wish I could just spend the bucks for a massage every week and a gym membership. I can't help but think the end result has got to be better than this.

Yeah, yeah, I'll keep looking, but I have to tell you, I am not optimistic. At. All.