It wasn't until I was talking to the Queen Bee a couple of weeks ago that I realized I had completely forgotten about National Novel Writing Month.
That's okay. I don't feel the lack of it. In fact, I don't feel much energy toward doing any writing other than what I write at work. And that's not saying much.
I never would have thought that fiction writing could just drop off the table like that and roll away to live with the dust bunnies and other forgotten dreams in some hidden corner.
And again, it's okay. I don't know what I have to say, anyway. Silk encourages to write about my life but to me, that's what I do here. And since I have all of 20 readers on a good day (which is fine by me), I don't think there's much of a market to hear what I've got to say about my life. Honestly, I've paid a lot and I mean a lot of money to tidy up my life, throw away the trash, and neatly package up what's left. As for all of the abuse and neglect I endured as a child, I'm well over that and have forgiven my mother and anyone else who might have had a hand in it. Why do I want to open those boxes when the dessicated memories are to me like tattered garments that shrivel away more with every passing year? I don't. I just want to leave them be and move on.
If I could remember the breakdown of 2009, I could write about that, but I decidedly don't want to. 2002 - 2011 were all very difficult years. I don't want to waste any more time looking at them. I know I went a little crazy then. Maybe even a lot crazy, but I'm still here and the craziness has much abated. As long as I keep up with my meds, the cray-cray stays away.
No, I don't have anything to write about and I'm just as happy that way. Go NaNoWriMo one last day. Tomorrow starts a new month.
Showing posts with label the cray-cray. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the cray-cray. Show all posts
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Thursday, March 14, 2013
I Really Should Call the Fire Department
Oh, I was able to fix the ' key after all. Go, me.
Ever since I went to the Dental Cleaning From Hell, my mouth has been tender. No shoe leather for me, then. No crunchable birdses, either. No crunchy.
But last night as I was trying to go to sleep, I thought I'd gotten myself up to a whole new level of crazy.
There was a conversation going on in my mouth and I was not the one having it. I was the one listening to it. I heard
Crackle, static, Man 1: Yeah, we really need to get the...out...here
Crackle, static, Man 2: ...Waiting on this long enough
And I thought, am I picking up short wave radio transmissions? Is it the fire department? The police department? But I don't see any red and blue lights flashing. No, I did not get out of bed.
I just lay there, listening to the voices in my head. The voices out of my head, actually. They seemed constructive enough and weren't telling me I was a bad person or anything, so I think I can safely say I remain psychotic-break free.
I picked up my phone. Ordinary dial tone. Cell phone wasn't within easy reach.
But man, I am gaslighting myself like um...crazy...
I keep shoving a hand truck against the semi-broken garden shed and the door keeps opening. Trash keeps getting strewn around my back yard. I hear what I think are heavy thumps on the roof but usually turn out to be Blue running up from the basement.
I don't like this but I also don't devote a lot of time thinking about it.
-----------
Vacation Ideas! For! Queen Mediocretia
In the words of Billy Joel, "Vienna waits for you." Come on. Any place with that much pastry mit schlag ought to be calling your name, my little strudel.
Ever since I went to the Dental Cleaning From Hell, my mouth has been tender. No shoe leather for me, then. No crunchable birdses, either. No crunchy.
But last night as I was trying to go to sleep, I thought I'd gotten myself up to a whole new level of crazy.
There was a conversation going on in my mouth and I was not the one having it. I was the one listening to it. I heard
Crackle, static, Man 1: Yeah, we really need to get the...out...here
Crackle, static, Man 2: ...Waiting on this long enough
And I thought, am I picking up short wave radio transmissions? Is it the fire department? The police department? But I don't see any red and blue lights flashing. No, I did not get out of bed.
I just lay there, listening to the voices in my head. The voices out of my head, actually. They seemed constructive enough and weren't telling me I was a bad person or anything, so I think I can safely say I remain psychotic-break free.
I picked up my phone. Ordinary dial tone. Cell phone wasn't within easy reach.
But man, I am gaslighting myself like um...crazy...
I keep shoving a hand truck against the semi-broken garden shed and the door keeps opening. Trash keeps getting strewn around my back yard. I hear what I think are heavy thumps on the roof but usually turn out to be Blue running up from the basement.
I don't like this but I also don't devote a lot of time thinking about it.
-----------
Vacation Ideas! For! Queen Mediocretia
In the words of Billy Joel, "Vienna waits for you." Come on. Any place with that much pastry mit schlag ought to be calling your name, my little strudel.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 05, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Taste the Rainbow
Once upon a time, my daily dosage of meds was a handful of very colorful pills. I showed it to Emma once and said, "Time to taste the rainbow" before chugging them down with a glass of water.
These days, the variety of pills I take are all white or pastel. No more dramatic colors.
But they work.
Finally.
I think two things helped kick it over the (good) edge.
Thing 1: Adding Zoloft into the mix. I'm still taking Wellbutrin, but the theory now is that two anti-depressants are better than one.
Thing 2: Sorting things out into those little pill compartments. This has helped tremendously in taking my meds as I should and on time. Regularly.
So this is what it feels like to not be depressed. I remember this. I felt this way - I know I did - in 1995. After that, not so much. In fact, not at all. I know. That's a long time to be hanging on by your fingernails.
I remember this. I would go into work every morning, knowing what had to be done, confident that I could do it. I smiled at people and talked to them, but not for so long that it would interfere with anyone's work. I wasn't filled with self-doubt and self-loathing.
I like that.
Still, I am careful about not over-stressing myself and I know where my tender spots are. I know situations that will make things not-okay and I avoid them. Mostly, anyplace loud and with lots of flashing or very bright lights. No trips to Vegas for me. Sometimes I feel like they built Barnes and Noble just for me. If things get noisy at work - which they can do in a hurry - I always have my cell phone and ear buds to pop in and listen to Pandora.
I'm not delicate but I know my weak spots. And isn't that one place where wisdom is? I mean, besides your teeth.
These days, the variety of pills I take are all white or pastel. No more dramatic colors.
But they work.
Finally.
I think two things helped kick it over the (good) edge.
Thing 1: Adding Zoloft into the mix. I'm still taking Wellbutrin, but the theory now is that two anti-depressants are better than one.
Thing 2: Sorting things out into those little pill compartments. This has helped tremendously in taking my meds as I should and on time. Regularly.
So this is what it feels like to not be depressed. I remember this. I felt this way - I know I did - in 1995. After that, not so much. In fact, not at all. I know. That's a long time to be hanging on by your fingernails.
I remember this. I would go into work every morning, knowing what had to be done, confident that I could do it. I smiled at people and talked to them, but not for so long that it would interfere with anyone's work. I wasn't filled with self-doubt and self-loathing.
I like that.
Still, I am careful about not over-stressing myself and I know where my tender spots are. I know situations that will make things not-okay and I avoid them. Mostly, anyplace loud and with lots of flashing or very bright lights. No trips to Vegas for me. Sometimes I feel like they built Barnes and Noble just for me. If things get noisy at work - which they can do in a hurry - I always have my cell phone and ear buds to pop in and listen to Pandora.
I'm not delicate but I know my weak spots. And isn't that one place where wisdom is? I mean, besides your teeth.
Wednesday, August 01, 2012
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.
------------
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.
-------------
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.
----------------
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.
-------------------
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.
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.
------------
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.
-------------
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.
----------------
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.
-------------------
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.
Friday, July 27, 2012
In Which I Try to Hold Onto My Own Hat
The past week has been stressful at work.
The Perfect One has been editing my documents. And of course you know, my documents spring full grown from the brow of Zeus. Then I learned that TPO and her group have been holding on to previous documentation that they did, without once cluing me in. I started working on Document A in 4/11. They had completed their documentation on Process A in 3/11. Did I think to ask them? I have to admit, I didn't. I suppose I'm not that familiar with what an auditing group does, but I didn't think they did this kind of thing.
Then again, no one ever came to me from TPO's group and said, hey, we have some docs that might help you out.
Document A was incomplete because the manager of that group had a nervous breakdown and asked to be demoted.
All day yesterday, I felt like someone had shackled me, wrist and ankle, to my desk. I couldn't sit still. I was hyper touchy. I was willing to chew through my wrist and ankle (I mean, if I could reach them) just to get the hell out of there. Another thing that stopped me from fleeing was a scheduled meeting with the Big Boss.
He validated my existence by looking at a document I had written, based on comments made by legal eagles, and said with a hint of surprise in his voice, "We're really moving along with this. This is good."
But when I got back to my desk, I still wanted to chew my way free.
I knew yesterday by 3 pm that I would not be going to work today, that I would take a personal day off. I have nothing pressing at work. I just knew I could not tolerate another day within 50 feet of The Perfect One.
Plus, I am in the grips of Refi Mania. I'm sorry. Really I am. I'll call Dr. A and Dr. Yeow and see what they advise.
Yesterday, I made a list of what I need to do before The Appraiser Cometh. This morning when I woke up at four, I decided that I would take myself out for breakfast at around 6:30 and then go to Home Depot.
Home Depot. Jeez, I'm sorry to wake you guys up, but the sign says you open at 6. Haven't you had your coffee by now? Are you not yet awake and alert? Can you please stop fucking smirking at the fat white woman who wants to do a little humble home maintenance, like painting her front door and the railings on her porch. (Front door: Brick red. Railings: Dark Walnut. I like the change from black.)
What I didn't realize until I was loading two nice big buckets of white and purple cone flowers in my car was that the switch has been flipped and I'm off to ManicLand. I got home, unloaded the cone flowers onto my front steps and realized the trees in front need pruning. I also realized the humidity is about 115%. And the temperature is going to be well above 90 today. Me? Paint? In this weather? Oh, darlin', it is to dream. The most I'm going to be up for is finding a mason on Angie's list who doesn't mind taking on the small job of repairing my front steps.
One possible course of action for me today is to change into my comfiest clothes, turn the a/c way down low and begin the decluttering process, which I hope will not unhinge me further.
But what if I want to chew my way out of Ma Maisonette?
There was a very, very bad, very private crisis here last Saturday, which is still so painful I don't want to go into it. Suffice it to say for the moment that I was deeply shocked and disturbed by my thoughts and the only way I could think of to deal with the situation was to drug myself into a long sleep. The echoes of it still bother me.
Sometimes I feel...so very, very whack.
The Perfect One has been editing my documents. And of course you know, my documents spring full grown from the brow of Zeus. Then I learned that TPO and her group have been holding on to previous documentation that they did, without once cluing me in. I started working on Document A in 4/11. They had completed their documentation on Process A in 3/11. Did I think to ask them? I have to admit, I didn't. I suppose I'm not that familiar with what an auditing group does, but I didn't think they did this kind of thing.
Then again, no one ever came to me from TPO's group and said, hey, we have some docs that might help you out.
Document A was incomplete because the manager of that group had a nervous breakdown and asked to be demoted.
All day yesterday, I felt like someone had shackled me, wrist and ankle, to my desk. I couldn't sit still. I was hyper touchy. I was willing to chew through my wrist and ankle (I mean, if I could reach them) just to get the hell out of there. Another thing that stopped me from fleeing was a scheduled meeting with the Big Boss.
He validated my existence by looking at a document I had written, based on comments made by legal eagles, and said with a hint of surprise in his voice, "We're really moving along with this. This is good."
But when I got back to my desk, I still wanted to chew my way free.
I knew yesterday by 3 pm that I would not be going to work today, that I would take a personal day off. I have nothing pressing at work. I just knew I could not tolerate another day within 50 feet of The Perfect One.
Plus, I am in the grips of Refi Mania. I'm sorry. Really I am. I'll call Dr. A and Dr. Yeow and see what they advise.
Yesterday, I made a list of what I need to do before The Appraiser Cometh. This morning when I woke up at four, I decided that I would take myself out for breakfast at around 6:30 and then go to Home Depot.
Home Depot. Jeez, I'm sorry to wake you guys up, but the sign says you open at 6. Haven't you had your coffee by now? Are you not yet awake and alert? Can you please stop fucking smirking at the fat white woman who wants to do a little humble home maintenance, like painting her front door and the railings on her porch. (Front door: Brick red. Railings: Dark Walnut. I like the change from black.)
What I didn't realize until I was loading two nice big buckets of white and purple cone flowers in my car was that the switch has been flipped and I'm off to ManicLand. I got home, unloaded the cone flowers onto my front steps and realized the trees in front need pruning. I also realized the humidity is about 115%. And the temperature is going to be well above 90 today. Me? Paint? In this weather? Oh, darlin', it is to dream. The most I'm going to be up for is finding a mason on Angie's list who doesn't mind taking on the small job of repairing my front steps.
One possible course of action for me today is to change into my comfiest clothes, turn the a/c way down low and begin the decluttering process, which I hope will not unhinge me further.
But what if I want to chew my way out of Ma Maisonette?
There was a very, very bad, very private crisis here last Saturday, which is still so painful I don't want to go into it. Suffice it to say for the moment that I was deeply shocked and disturbed by my thoughts and the only way I could think of to deal with the situation was to drug myself into a long sleep. The echoes of it still bother me.
Sometimes I feel...so very, very whack.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Working It All Out
There was a wonderful B.Kliban cartoon of some old bald guy leaning up against a woman's naked butt. He peered vaguely into the distance, as if pondering some great universal problem. He was probably thinking, "I hope she doesn't fart", but the title was "Working It All Out."
I've been working some things out.
For example - I'm still working on this bipolar business.
I am trying to be much better about taking my meds. I don't deliberately not take them, it's just by the time I get around to the last dose of the day, I know one of them will make me wired.
Did you know that most people with bipolar disorder usually wind up taking at least three different kinds of meds?
1. The mood stabilizer. This probably began its pharmaceutical life as an anti-seizure medication.
2. The anti-depressant. This is very tricky business, figuring out what to give a bipolar person. I saw both Emma and a now-distant nut job go through absolute hell when they took Prozac. I took Prozac with no problems, but it flips some people into an instant and fierce mania. This wasn't recognized when Prozac first came out. But now those great minds at the APA have figured out to go easy with this.
3. The tranquilizer.
If you understand aeronautics engineering and the concept of 'lift', you probably understand the crucial combination of these three meds. I was missing the mood stabilizer. In fact, I'm still not sure it's the right one for me and must discuss with Dr. Yeow.
Anyway, over the last year, I've realized that I needed to pull myself back, way back from people. And organizations. This is why I quit the Speechifiers and the Library Friends' Board of Directors. I had a couple of other things going on, too, but I can't remember what they were.
During the week, I'm at work by seven. I come home and might stop at the grocery store or pet shop on my way. I'm in and I stay in.
On the weekends, I may wend my way past the library and the grocery store, but especially during the hot weather we've been having, I tend to stay home.
I like home. Despite the mess and chaos, I like it here.
What I'm doing, really, is trying to minimize any blast damage. Little explosions happen without my even being aware of them. I give dirty looks and stink eyes without knowing it. I act weird without knowing it. It all makes perfect sense in my head. Oh, if I don't want to take the chance of going toe-to-toe with Tinkerbell in a meeting, I need to keep my freaking mouth shut. Unfortunately, this comes off as being cold, distant, and disinterested.
There were so many times in the distant past when I walked away from Xman during one of our many arguments. I walked away or I got into the car to go to the mall or I went to a movie. I just needed to get out of the house, out of his presence, or I knew I would explode and to me, it meant we would have the knock-down drag-out of all time. What I eventually learned to say was, "I'm really upset. I can't talk about this now. Can we talk about this tomorrow morning?" I didn't say it often enough, but it worked.
Now that I have deliberately isolated myself - and have been isolated - I need to figure out how to have the most normal relationships with people that I can. This is why I have Dr. A.
By the way, her most reason advice to me:
Oh, for crying out loud, take two week days and go to the Borgata! (Cheapest midweek and I never go for the gambling.) And I think you should spend a week with the nuns at Happy Valley! Do both! Plan on going to Goa in a couple of years. Save for it. (Did I mention I now have a bug about seeing Goa? This despite learning that not one scene of "Guzaarish" was filmed in Goa. And apparently I am the last person on earth to learn about Goa.)
I recognize that I am still limited with some things. I find it difficult to deal with more than one person at a time on a friendly outing. The most I could manage would be the Queen Bee and the Prince Consort.
I have also known for a while that I can only do overtime at work if someone has an axe over my neck. I've been assigned to work on Urgent Project A for "a minimum of two hours every day, going forward". So I put in four to six hours a day on it. Yes, my other work gets down too. That's a little more flexible. The amount of work I do for Urgent Project A depends on when the manager gets me the information I need to do my work.
Today, I left a little before 4 p.m. and before I left, went over to the manager to show her what remained of the day's work.
She stared up at me. "Where are you going?" (To which I thought, but said nothing, what do you mean, where am I going? It's been at least...well...never...since a boss asked where I was going. This took me aback a little.)
"Home."
"Home! But it's not even four o'clock!"
"I got here at seven." And I did spend four hours working on her project. I have a feeling they're all going to be in there tomorrow, but Homegirl here does not get paid over time and all the clerical types do. If pushed to a wall, I would give whatever was demanded of me in blood, but I have learned that once they get the taste of my blood, they tend to like it and come back for more.
She shrugged eventually and I wished her a good weekend.
------------------
I was really disappointed in an episode of "Medium", to the point where it actually threatens my enjoyment of future episodes. It's really borne of ignorance. Or maybe I'm the ignorant one. It turned out that Joe's boss, the brilliant punk kid, was bipolar and had gone off his meds just as he was supposed to make a big presentation in front of a governmental agency. The president of the company comes in, sighing heavily at Joe and says solemnly, "Keith is bipolar. And, well, sometimes he thinks that his thinking is clearer if he goes off his meds. Luckily, General Smith understands about this incident, but there's no way that they're going to want someone on heavy duty medication like that on a project this sensitive."
So yeah, I'm going to run right to HR with the diagnosis. Not.
I'm trying not to be too crazy. The bad thing about this is distinguishing between a bipolar moment (or two) or a naturally sad or happy mood.
I'd forgotten my mp3 player yesterday so had to go through the day listening to the incessant chatter of the print room and the party in the kitchen (just the general lunch party, nothing in particular). Today, I had the mp3 player with me and plugged it in and there was this succession of one great song after another on Pandora. Sheryl Crow, Bonnie Raitt, Fleetwood Mac ("Silver Spring"), the Dixie Chicks ("Landslide"), Stevie Nicks ("Landslide" again), Fleetwood Mac ("Landslide"), Sheryl Crow and Chrissy Hinde, more Bonnie Raitt, then! Then "Come Go With Me". And "In the Jungle". And "Under the Boardwalk". And James Taylor singing "Up on the Roof". And the killer, my latest fave, the Beach Boys, "That's Why God Made the Radio." Not to mention "Day-O!".
I was so happy. The music was so great. I've mentioned before how much I really wish I could sing and I ached to be able to sing along (not that I would at work, anyway). It was fun and it made the work a little easier and my head ache a little less. I suppose it would be mania or hypomania if I did start to sing along or if I went out and signed up again for piano lessons when I know there's no way my budget could stretch to cover them.
So. Yes. Still working it all out. Because I do not want the cray-cray. I just need to learn the difference between being stable and flat-lining.
I've been working some things out.
For example - I'm still working on this bipolar business.
I am trying to be much better about taking my meds. I don't deliberately not take them, it's just by the time I get around to the last dose of the day, I know one of them will make me wired.
Did you know that most people with bipolar disorder usually wind up taking at least three different kinds of meds?
1. The mood stabilizer. This probably began its pharmaceutical life as an anti-seizure medication.
2. The anti-depressant. This is very tricky business, figuring out what to give a bipolar person. I saw both Emma and a now-distant nut job go through absolute hell when they took Prozac. I took Prozac with no problems, but it flips some people into an instant and fierce mania. This wasn't recognized when Prozac first came out. But now those great minds at the APA have figured out to go easy with this.
3. The tranquilizer.
If you understand aeronautics engineering and the concept of 'lift', you probably understand the crucial combination of these three meds. I was missing the mood stabilizer. In fact, I'm still not sure it's the right one for me and must discuss with Dr. Yeow.
Anyway, over the last year, I've realized that I needed to pull myself back, way back from people. And organizations. This is why I quit the Speechifiers and the Library Friends' Board of Directors. I had a couple of other things going on, too, but I can't remember what they were.
During the week, I'm at work by seven. I come home and might stop at the grocery store or pet shop on my way. I'm in and I stay in.
On the weekends, I may wend my way past the library and the grocery store, but especially during the hot weather we've been having, I tend to stay home.
I like home. Despite the mess and chaos, I like it here.
What I'm doing, really, is trying to minimize any blast damage. Little explosions happen without my even being aware of them. I give dirty looks and stink eyes without knowing it. I act weird without knowing it. It all makes perfect sense in my head. Oh, if I don't want to take the chance of going toe-to-toe with Tinkerbell in a meeting, I need to keep my freaking mouth shut. Unfortunately, this comes off as being cold, distant, and disinterested.
There were so many times in the distant past when I walked away from Xman during one of our many arguments. I walked away or I got into the car to go to the mall or I went to a movie. I just needed to get out of the house, out of his presence, or I knew I would explode and to me, it meant we would have the knock-down drag-out of all time. What I eventually learned to say was, "I'm really upset. I can't talk about this now. Can we talk about this tomorrow morning?" I didn't say it often enough, but it worked.
Now that I have deliberately isolated myself - and have been isolated - I need to figure out how to have the most normal relationships with people that I can. This is why I have Dr. A.
By the way, her most reason advice to me:
Oh, for crying out loud, take two week days and go to the Borgata! (Cheapest midweek and I never go for the gambling.) And I think you should spend a week with the nuns at Happy Valley! Do both! Plan on going to Goa in a couple of years. Save for it. (Did I mention I now have a bug about seeing Goa? This despite learning that not one scene of "Guzaarish" was filmed in Goa. And apparently I am the last person on earth to learn about Goa.)
I recognize that I am still limited with some things. I find it difficult to deal with more than one person at a time on a friendly outing. The most I could manage would be the Queen Bee and the Prince Consort.
I have also known for a while that I can only do overtime at work if someone has an axe over my neck. I've been assigned to work on Urgent Project A for "a minimum of two hours every day, going forward". So I put in four to six hours a day on it. Yes, my other work gets down too. That's a little more flexible. The amount of work I do for Urgent Project A depends on when the manager gets me the information I need to do my work.
Today, I left a little before 4 p.m. and before I left, went over to the manager to show her what remained of the day's work.
She stared up at me. "Where are you going?" (To which I thought, but said nothing, what do you mean, where am I going? It's been at least...well...never...since a boss asked where I was going. This took me aback a little.)
"Home."
"Home! But it's not even four o'clock!"
"I got here at seven." And I did spend four hours working on her project. I have a feeling they're all going to be in there tomorrow, but Homegirl here does not get paid over time and all the clerical types do. If pushed to a wall, I would give whatever was demanded of me in blood, but I have learned that once they get the taste of my blood, they tend to like it and come back for more.
She shrugged eventually and I wished her a good weekend.
------------------
I was really disappointed in an episode of "Medium", to the point where it actually threatens my enjoyment of future episodes. It's really borne of ignorance. Or maybe I'm the ignorant one. It turned out that Joe's boss, the brilliant punk kid, was bipolar and had gone off his meds just as he was supposed to make a big presentation in front of a governmental agency. The president of the company comes in, sighing heavily at Joe and says solemnly, "Keith is bipolar. And, well, sometimes he thinks that his thinking is clearer if he goes off his meds. Luckily, General Smith understands about this incident, but there's no way that they're going to want someone on heavy duty medication like that on a project this sensitive."
So yeah, I'm going to run right to HR with the diagnosis. Not.
I'm trying not to be too crazy. The bad thing about this is distinguishing between a bipolar moment (or two) or a naturally sad or happy mood.
I'd forgotten my mp3 player yesterday so had to go through the day listening to the incessant chatter of the print room and the party in the kitchen (just the general lunch party, nothing in particular). Today, I had the mp3 player with me and plugged it in and there was this succession of one great song after another on Pandora. Sheryl Crow, Bonnie Raitt, Fleetwood Mac ("Silver Spring"), the Dixie Chicks ("Landslide"), Stevie Nicks ("Landslide" again), Fleetwood Mac ("Landslide"), Sheryl Crow and Chrissy Hinde, more Bonnie Raitt, then! Then "Come Go With Me". And "In the Jungle". And "Under the Boardwalk". And James Taylor singing "Up on the Roof". And the killer, my latest fave, the Beach Boys, "That's Why God Made the Radio." Not to mention "Day-O!".
I was so happy. The music was so great. I've mentioned before how much I really wish I could sing and I ached to be able to sing along (not that I would at work, anyway). It was fun and it made the work a little easier and my head ache a little less. I suppose it would be mania or hypomania if I did start to sing along or if I went out and signed up again for piano lessons when I know there's no way my budget could stretch to cover them.
So. Yes. Still working it all out. Because I do not want the cray-cray. I just need to learn the difference between being stable and flat-lining.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Breaking News: Therapy Works
It's only taken me 40 years to find an effective therapist. That and the pharmaceuticals that course through my veins this very minute have me feeling on an even keel. It's a strange feeling, but I like it.
Dr. A is an adherent to the philosophies and methods of Dr. Albert Ellis, aka Dr. Ego, aka the first person to put Cognitive Behavioral Therapy into (barely) understandable terms. Someone developed a worksheet to go along with this which seemed very convoluted and like a word problem out of the SATs when I first tried to do it.
There is a person at work who just rubs me the wrong way. Everybody else, it's great. This person, though? No love lost at all.
I was bugged so much yesterday that I whipped out a blank form and started filling it in. In the end, I came up with, you have to let this person's condescension roll off your back and just do your work. Respond to requests politely and with all due speed. Avoid face-to-face conversations because I have yet to have a conversation with this person that doesn't involve a flat, if not hostile, expression on that person's face.
And I'm not exactly deadpan when it comes to showing my emotions.
So. Yes, for one brief and shining moment, therapy and drugs combined to make for a happier, more contented me.
Dr. A is an adherent to the philosophies and methods of Dr. Albert Ellis, aka Dr. Ego, aka the first person to put Cognitive Behavioral Therapy into (barely) understandable terms. Someone developed a worksheet to go along with this which seemed very convoluted and like a word problem out of the SATs when I first tried to do it.
There is a person at work who just rubs me the wrong way. Everybody else, it's great. This person, though? No love lost at all.
I was bugged so much yesterday that I whipped out a blank form and started filling it in. In the end, I came up with, you have to let this person's condescension roll off your back and just do your work. Respond to requests politely and with all due speed. Avoid face-to-face conversations because I have yet to have a conversation with this person that doesn't involve a flat, if not hostile, expression on that person's face.
And I'm not exactly deadpan when it comes to showing my emotions.
So. Yes, for one brief and shining moment, therapy and drugs combined to make for a happier, more contented me.
Monday, December 05, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, September 20, 2010
In Which The Crazy Makes Me Dizzy
I was nearly home from work today. I had one tricky little hill to go over - I have to make a quick shift to the right lane, otherwise I'm going in the opposite direction of home. Usually, people are civilized about this, but today, I got a moron in a sad little maroon American car who refused to let me over. He had the room. He just decided to be a dick.
And then suddenly, Dick was in front of me. In fact, Dick was turning where I turn. And then he made another turn.
And then (sigh) I lost it.
I'm sorry. Please don't let this scare you. The crazy came out.
I followed him. I went past my street. He turned left. I turned left. He turned right, I turned right. I knew by a certain point that he had made a big square. And I kept following him. At one point, he looked back at me and shook his head.
What would I have done if he had stopped? Pulled up to him, rolled down the window and said, "You, sir, are a dick."
After a point, I thought, okay - he made me go out of my way. I've made him go out of his way. And if this was any kind of competition, I lost, because I let the cray-cray loose. And I'm dizzy. I'm very dizzy. So I'm going home.
I've had dinner and I'm still dizzy. I feel like I'm doing loop-de-loops on a trampoline. Which is not an easy thing to do when holding a bowl of Campbell's tomato soup.
I think I'm going to bed even earlier than usual tonight.
And then suddenly, Dick was in front of me. In fact, Dick was turning where I turn. And then he made another turn.
And then (sigh) I lost it.
I'm sorry. Please don't let this scare you. The crazy came out.
I followed him. I went past my street. He turned left. I turned left. He turned right, I turned right. I knew by a certain point that he had made a big square. And I kept following him. At one point, he looked back at me and shook his head.
What would I have done if he had stopped? Pulled up to him, rolled down the window and said, "You, sir, are a dick."
After a point, I thought, okay - he made me go out of my way. I've made him go out of his way. And if this was any kind of competition, I lost, because I let the cray-cray loose. And I'm dizzy. I'm very dizzy. So I'm going home.
I've had dinner and I'm still dizzy. I feel like I'm doing loop-de-loops on a trampoline. Which is not an easy thing to do when holding a bowl of Campbell's tomato soup.
I think I'm going to bed even earlier than usual tonight.
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