Apr. 11th, 2017

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"Just let the Tylenol do its work,"I admonish myself. I try to use regular Tylenol these days instead of immediately diving into the Excedrin Migraine. The Excedrin works better for headaches but the caffeine wreaks havoc on my stomach. You'd think as often as I have headaches/migraines (daily) and as present a theme as they've been my entire life, I'd be more patient with the treatments.

Nope. I take them and then ten minutes later, risk collapsing into a wailing heap of frustration. (Or a quiet heap on Livejournal, if it's 3:45 in the morning, as it is now.) And twice as annoying these days, the headaches are always accompanied with the ever tightening round of the blood pressure cuff, just in case my BP has jumped 30 points in the night.

(131/101. I might take half a Carvedilol. Or a Clonodine. Maybe. You'd think I'd be a pro at this shit by now. I am not.) At least I've gotten to the point where I can tell which pills are which simply by color and shape. Rarely a need to compare with what the bottle label says to confirm what I'm taking.

I try to reassure myself that it is, at least sometimes, okay to wake up so stupidly early. I've no appointments, no major errands to run today. I can go back to sleep at any time I'm able. It's not like I'm employed right now.

And yep, Franklanguage, that's pretty much it. At an income of zero, and food stamps needing re-applied to every three months (at least until I get on Disability), food is acquired at the rate of what food pantries and friends will give us. Maslow's Heirachy weeps in my life.

I tire of writing being my first refuge of the morning. There's always more to write than I manage to get down, but it's just words and it's just endless, often unproductive and useless.

But I don't know what else to do. So I write.

I took half a Carvedilol. It's a slow acting drug and usually doesn't drop either number more than 15 points. Safer than the Clonodine, which works fast and plunges numbers down 20 points or more inside an hour.

Let's not fuck with dangerously low blood pressure again, thank you.

I had my first therapy appointment in nearly a year yesterday. The basics of every first therapeutic introduction - a run down of old abuse issues, new traumas, areas I'd like to improve on.

I realized I have a strange habit upon walking into any new therapist's office. I tell them to hold on for just a few moments while I look at their office. I slowly look at every picture on their wall. I note any toys (usually fidget toys) on display. If there are family pictures on the walls, I study those as well. (Never those or papers on the desk. That might cross other patient/confidentially rules.) I comb over every title of every book on their shelves.

It's to get an idea of the kind of person I'll be working with. This lady had a picture of Einstein on her wall and several books that I recognized and respect. She also had a copy of "The Secret", but I told her right away that I was uninterested in any concepts that book introduces. She seemed to understand.

I think her and I will get along. She also has fibromyalgia, and while they are, again, two different diseases (mine could easily kill me, hers will not), it was something to bond over.

I was also diagnosed with depression due to chronic illness. While I'm no stranger to depression, it has only ever come as part of my bi-polar. Unchecked, my bipolar runs straight through classic, textbook lines. Hypomania, mania, mixed episode, depression. Depression as a result of illness makes perfect sense, but it still shocked me.

So we'll see where this will go. I will try what she suggests. I will do my best to complete whatever work we decide to do. It's how I've gotten better in my past. I have to hope that this is how I will get better in the present.

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