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I think I've discovered the core issue of my life-long migraines - and it's ridiculously basic.

High blood pressure.

Since the worst of them only happen when I forget to take them (my potassium blocker, for some reason, always ends up the "forget to take it till mid-afternoon" list), and I now know I've had high blood pressure for most of my life, it's easy enough to pinpoint the largest cause.

Just a few pills and for the most part, my skull stays exactly where it is and does not explode into boney-shards waves of pain. I do still GET migraines, but those are now either stress related, (usually when I am having bad or anxiety dreams) or "Oh shit, I forgot my pills. Goddamnit."

The wonders of modern medicine. I'd say I'm surprised no one caught it, but outside of two urgent-care clinics (basically one-time doctor visits which do not have access to full medical equipment or personnel), I hadn't been to a doctor in 20 years. There was no one there TO catch it.

Lack of health insurance, mostly. I saw little reason to go to an ER as they always said "Go to your doctor", of which thanks to having no health insurance, I didn't have a doctor to go to.

One time I went in hoping to get sent to rehab, but SURPRISE, my small town's single rehab center did not take methamphetamine addicts, as they did not believe it was a physical addiction.

(Thank fucking God we know better now.)

Seriously, the 90's sucked so hard for some of this medical/psychiatric shit. Mad props to anyone who had to get help for physical or mental health in earlier decades. I mean, FOR REALS.

And even now, in 2017, we are still waiting on science to catch up on so much stuff. Why do epilepsy drugs work for bipolar disorder? Not a fucking clue. Is lupus family-based genetically passed? Not a fucking clue. What REALLY causes addiction, and why do support groups work only some of the time? Not a fucking clue.

Shit like that. I'm exceedingly grateful that we know so much more now. I'm exceedingly exasperated that we don't know MORE than we do now.

But I guess that's science. EUREKA moments are made-for-tv only and the rest of us have to live in Real Life. I guess, for today, that's okay.
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I was able to cry today in joy and awe, moved by some beautiful videos on youtube.

Coming off Wellbutrin is like the movie Equilibrium, but without the puppy-shooting scene.


Jul. 1st, 2017 05:37 pm
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There are things I am getting tired of saying on Livejournal. Things such as "I tried to kill myself again." Things such as "I spent two days in the ICU and another 5 days in the psych ward. Again."

Things such as "I'm sorry I didn't treat your love as carefully as I should have. I'm sorry that you got woke up by the EMT's again. I'm sorry I don't remember you holding my hand in the ICU. I'm sorry that I didn't listen when you said that I needed a medication check. I'm sorry I lost your coat in the emergency room. I'm sorry that I scared you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Wellbutrin, as you said about your own medication maladies, Franklanguage, flattened me so hard. What was that quote, the one from Peter Pan? The one that kept circling a week ago, the one that goes "Dying...would be an awfully grand adventure." Surely I'd feel something.

I did. )

I had a breakthrough, one that found me sobbing silently through a night group meeting, for hours afterwards, and has split my heart open to the idea that maybe it's okay to be flawed and still be loved. To be okay with being loved.

Out of the last year, all of the blood spilled, the hundreds of pills I've swallowed trying to do myself in, I have surrounded myself in a cocoon of shame. Of low self-worth. Of wondering how anyone could love someone who is so careless with her own skin, her own life, and wondering how long those around me could hold on before having to let go for their own sanity.

And there was shared the story of the Cracked Pot. An old parable in which a cracked pot, filled with shame and apologies about not being able to hold as much water as another, fully functional water pot, finds out he has been inadvertently watering a beautiful line of flowers along the road he traveled. Its flaw had given it a chance to give a gift that none else could without such a crack in its pottery.

I've heard endless stories like these over the years. Heard and dismissed them all, because hey, I am WAY too cool for school. But suddenly, with my heart still limping from too many drugs to keep blood pressure low, it struck me with such force that at first I didn't even realize I was crying.

I had to wonder if it was possible, if it were even just the slightest bit possible, the tiniest molecule of a chance, if that was why my loved ones had kept me around for years, if not decades.

Could it be possible that some of these flaws I spend so much time apologizing for actually foster something beautiful and useful for my loved ones? Was there any way they ever got anything positive from my experiences, no matter how "different" that positive might be?

Could their love be the product of a beautiful thing that I cannot see, instead of pity or mere moral obligation?

Is it?

Is that why you are still here?

Is that why after the last year of endless wailing, countless self-inflicted scars, attempts to die despite knowing how loved I am, people still say that they love me?

Am I not a mistake? Am I more than a collection of sad stories, pottery shards, and pills strewn across counters and floors? Am I useful? Am I more than just a year's worth of endless fuck-ups? Are these words something I can be proud of, even if they scream that I'm not sure if love or trust is enough to live for?

More than anything now, I want to live long enough to find the answer is "Yes". I want to live long enough to find the answer is "Yes, and let me give you as long as you need to know it." I want to live long enough to find new reasons, new goals to be loved for. Hell, I even want to live long enough to make new mistakes and still know the answer is "Yes."

Yes not for the things I do but the things I AM, yes FOR the things I do, yes for an entire goddamn natural lifetime.

Yes. Yes. YES. Yes to the new circle of support I have created by the psych ward (mental health visits that do HOME visits), yes to the first paragraph of that goddamn memoir that I finally fucking started, yes to living, yes to crying, yes to the tears of joy writing this, because I am alive enough to write.


quirkytizzy: (Default)
I do not like Wellbutrin. I don't like....not feeling. Anything. Anything at all. I'm numb.

All of my life I have envied people who have felt numb. I've never been numb. I didn't think it was possible. Not for me. Not for someone whose emotions lived so close to the surface that they spilled over at the slightest tip.

Now I realize that all I had been missing was the right drug - and now I don't care about anything. I don't care about getting help. I don't care about getting sick. I don't care about connecting to the people or pets in my life.

Why should I? What's the point? It's all made of soundproof plastic anyways. I sleep because...why not? What's the point otherwise? This is not depression. This is simply not caring, or feeling a need to care.

I think I'd rather feel suicidal than this. I know I would rather feel suicidal than this.

Reassuringly enough, I am at least still creepy and morbid. I've been craving to watch REPO: THE GENETIC OPERA. Of course, Netflix and Amazon don't have it, but youtube has the music. Call it creepy, but I'm shipping Shilo and Graverobber SO HARD right now.

Going to readjust the Wellbutrin. Gotta get back to me. I mean, hell, do I find this man sexy?

Fuck yes. If I've still got that, then surely I can get back to the rest of it, right?
quirkytizzy: (Default)
See, when one med is causing problems (to which could be the Wellbutrin, as you said Alpha Strike) or another med, the temptation to go off ALL meds becomes great.

Sadly, it wouldn't take but a few weeks for my body to collapse on itself, as kidney and blood pressure medication do important shit - namely they keep me from dying. The psych meds allow me sleep (usually) and that's a luxury I've become accustomed to (when it happens, at least.)

Good news: I feel with-it enough that I don't think a trip to the psych ward will be necessary.

Bad news: that could change at any moment. It's really hard to plan a day around "Not crazy right now, but damn well could be an hour from now."

I've googled Wellbutrin blackouts and while most of it seems to happen while mixing alcohol, many report exactly as you and I, Alpha. No intoxicant needed - just hours of blank time in which we were performing tasks quite awake. I'd thank my lucky stars I gave up drinking decades ago, but it seems even THAT is no guarantee from medicinal fuckery.

While listening to a Lana Del Rey song (a happy song paired with a terribly depressing video), I turned and asked Jesse if creepy people - like myself - were born or if we were made. I don't really think there's an answer, outside of "genetics loads the gun, environment pulls the trigger." (Take THAT, nurture vs nature argument!)

I do know it makes me less afraid of sad things. A mixed bag, as it means I can also charge headfirst into the morbid and leave a mess of uncomfortable people littered in my wake.

Life-long lesson, that one is.

At least I can say that I am fully aware of typing this entry. I am not in a blackout. I will remember writing this. I guess, lately, that's definitely in the WIN column.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
I hadn't mentioned it before, but something of note: I've been on Wellbutrin for three weeks, most noticing its effects over the last week and a half. I haven't written - haven't felt the NEED to write.

All is calm. There are no ups and downs, only a single even line. No need to wake Jesse up every other day and tell him I need to go the psych ward because I feel like hurting myself. No need to write obsessively trying to track the wildly undulating moods.

Just quiet. Quiet outside, quiet inside, quiet...me. I do miss writing, but I do not miss the swings. If this is the "zombie" feeling so many other people report feeling, then being a zombie is pretty fantastic.

I'm sorry I didn't try this earlier. Might have avoided more than one psych stay if I'd had.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
GOOD NEWS: Cutting the Valium to its prescribed dosage has left me with my memory intact (if not waking me up every hour on the hours). But hey, that's preferable to motherfucking blackouts. This is especially relieving, as when Jesse and I tried to compare notes between when he left and when the post window was opened, neither of us could remember if I'd started writing BEFORE or AFTER the Valium.

I would much, much rather it be a product of a simple, overdone chemical cocktail. If it wasn't the meds, than that points to a problem in my brain chemistry.

I don't have many talents in this world. Reading and writing are among the few that can be counted on and lauded for. If I were to lose that to some kind of mental short-circut in the brain itself, it would absolutely decimate me. My intellect is really all I have of myself.

I can't have that taken away. I just can't.

What scared me most about that are things like, what if I'd gotten into the car and drove somewhere in the blackout? As Jesse had the car keys, that was impossible. And there is absolutely NO alcohol in the house for me to chug down in order to facilitate a black out. But it's not unheard of for people to wander outside of their houses in such a state, drunk and medicated or not. I do NOT want to be that person. I'd quickly checked my phone to make sure I hadn't black-out texted someone, to which thankfully I didn't.

With every strange new symptom, it hammers Jesse. He's always had issues with anxiety and panic attacks, but as the months and shoes and anvils just keep dropping on us, it's become a nearly daily problem for him. It'd be arrogant of me to suggest it's ALL because of me and my illness, but I sure as hell know it doesn't help.

I have an ever increasing empathy of anxiety attacks, now experiencing them for the first time in my life. I've only had ONE panic attack in my life and it was so terrifying that it was immobilizing. (I had this idea that stepping out of my home would crash a plane onto my head. And this was BEFORE the movie Donnie Darko came out.) It took hours of a phone call from another addict to squeeze me out of the house, on the phone for the 30 minute drive to work, and another 10 minutes of the call just to get OUT of my car to walk INTO work. It was horrifying.

For Jesse to go through both daily...my heart aches for him.

For reasons along the lines of "everybody deserves a second chance", the "no homo, bro" dude Jesse and I know have had a few more visits with him. I am finding myself becoming annoyed with every word that drops out of his mouth, to where even the sound of his voice agitates me. I will do my best to stay either away or in bed when he visits.

He had done something silly and pocketed a pack of smokes while out shopping one day. It could have been an honest mistake (I've done that before), but his explanation was that Satan had been whispering in his ear, and that he was worried he'd go to hell for it.

I was like, Uh, dude, Satan had nothing to do with that. That's all on you, Buddy. And why the hell are talking about yourself like that, like you're a sinner and are going to hell? It was just a pack of cigarettes. Just don't make a habit of it."

I'll go to the ends of the earth distracting security guards and cameras to help people steal food and medicine. A pack of smokes (or Magic Cards in the ex's case)? Hell no.

On the religious side, he really comes down too hard on himself. I point that out on occasion, but I guess you can't save 40 years of religious, echo-chamber, circle jerk religious training in just a few conversation.

I mean, seriously. I wish I had the option of blaming every fuck up I've had on demonic whispers tempting me to do stupid shit. But stuff like that, it's all on me. Impulsive as it, my actions are my own.

At least this man is unintennionaly driving home a lesson that I've needed to learn for like, oh, my entire life. He is obbessed about his life before, about the people in his life who have let him go, and about how nothing NOW could ever compare to the life he had behind him.

It plainly makes me see how pathetic **I** sound when I get stuck in that same, broody state. I'm now realizing the benefits of having to unglue my ass that's permanently planted in my past. Okay, so I can't do what I used to.

But what, in the future, CAN I do? Or even in the present? At the very least, I can at least try to accept my life as it is today, instead of being drowned by in the life that WAS.

There's been one other thing on my mind: David. David and our behavioral similarities. For years, I'd felt so vindicated that I never indulged in the behaviors he did, such as cutting and suicide ideation (if not threats themselves.) And yet, over the last four months, I have done exactly those things.

Granted, for entirely different reasons, if nothing else due to the fact that my disease can and has nearly killed me on several occasions - wheras his is a lack of wanting to seek effective treatment. I try to hold onto that as a imperative difference between us.

The most I can come up with is that his self-destructive behaviors come from a deep-seated hatred of himself. All those - and continuing years - filled with texts and conversations about how much he loathed himself for being unable (in his eyes) to function.

I don't hate myself. I hate what I DO sometimes. I hate what my body IS sometimes. And I have plenty of times when my entire self-worth is dragged into the blistering, uncomfortable light to be examined and dissected.

But self-hatred? No. I have a fair-to-middling self-esteem. I understand that self-compassion is often the only way to solving my issues, even if it is damn hard to apply that concept some days.

My life is flawed. My body is flawed. My psyche is flawed.

But me by myself? I'm not flawed. I'm just one messy human being trying to find her way home.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
So I woke up intending to write down what was on my mind last night only to find that I'd already written it.

I have no memory of writing the previous entry. Like, none at all.

I briefly wondered if Jesse had written it (it wouldn't be the first time I've asked him to post for me), but we have wildly different writing styles. The writing style of the last entry is perfectly mine.

The only explanation I have is that I'd taken 30 mgs of my Valium, as I'd been unable to sleep for close to 24 hours previously and have been experiencing insomnia all week. Methinks I will cut that down to the recommended 20 mgs of Valium. Like, stat.

I went back and re-edited for grammar, but yikes, it's freaky to not have the slightest recollection of opening the DW window and writing, let alone POSTING, an entire entry. For an ex-blackout drunk, and for having plenty of things that I don't remember concerning my manic episodes, it's....kinda freaky.

I guess I can be reassured that outside of wildly misspelling a ton of words, the entry itself was coherent. Still....yeeks and shivers.
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"I'd rather be dreaming....it's chances, not choices....noises, not voices...a day's just something to get through...."

I'm depressed. Or cycling through what closely and repeatedly IN/HYPERsomnia will due to a body naturally. Or both.

Admitting this feels weak. Which is how I know it's time to admit it.

It's so hard to tell anymore what is psychological and what is physical, as they've become so entangled. One balances precariously upon the other, and there's only so many doctor or shrink appointments, so many med adjustments, I can make to keep up on it.

My body REELS from changing out my meds every two months and Pat's wallet also does flip-flops, considering every change requires $200 from him.

Insurance still hasn't been reinstated. Got the ball rerolling in the psych ward last month, just in case. Still waiting. Tick, tock, America, "When will I be able to buy groceries with my good looks?" (Or life-saving medication?)

I miss Jesse. I sleep all day, or else don't sleep at all and am unable to focus, and he's left alone, even if I'm snoring or staring five feet away.

I use run-on sentences when I'm depressed. Oh well. At least I'm writing at all? I hope to go back to sleep soon. I don't really prefer dreaming. When you're running off exhaustion, the dreams are just different shades of nightmares anyways.

I ain't got nothin' left but time to kill.

So I'll give it more time. Like you said, Matrixx, I don't think Life is the greatest invention ever. But I've got a few more things I'd like to see and do in this life.

So...re-editing this, can anyone give me their happy stories? Or tell me more about a time that they spent on the ledge but were finally able to back down and settle back on their feet? Or how they got through it?

Or just...words of wisdom? I don't know. Just...something?

Sleep meds

Apr. 30th, 2017 07:42 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Ahhh, my old friend, medicinal grogginess. It's better than the fatigue, though, which is (and feels) wildly different. I dislike hypersomnia due to medication, but after so long of INsomnia, even Jesse says it is okay.

I'd left the psych ward with Ambien, only to find that even at its max dose (10 mgs), I only sleep three hours on it. We will try adjusting when to take the drug, but I can't go any higher on it and it's not a drug I want to mix with any other sedative.

So we tried Seroquel again, with Jesse glued to the computer less than 7 feet away, on the watch for anaphylactic shock. (Thanks to the overdose on this med, I was a little worried.) Instead I slept deep and well and long. Really long.

Like time, there is no real "catching up" on sleep. But I sure as hell am not upset by it. Assuming this goes well, the hypersomnia should be a vanishing side-effect soon. "Assuming" being a wild assumption, of course, but for today, I can say I slept and slept well.

Meds, meds, and more meds. The med-go-round. It's like a regular merry-go-round, except you never know if it's going to start going so fast it'll sling you into orbit or if it will just lock down and rust up entirely.

Medication maladies post, preserved for medical reasons: WRITTEN.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
* Think to myself "Hmm. We need more cat litter. I'll go pick some up."

* Come home, shut the door behind me, put my back against it, and slide into an inky unconsciousness.

* "That sucked. I'm going to keep an eye on out on this."

* Refill catboxes. Message Blozor that I'm contemplating a 911 call.

* Check blood pressure. It's dropping. It's dropping fast. Like, really fast.

* "Shiiii-". Pass out on couch halfway between that thought. Come to, grab phone, wander outside and call 911.

* (Yeah yeah, shouldn't have walked anywhere. Should have kept my ass right where I was. I am sick of waking Jesse out of a dead sleep and panicking him. And sick of us desperately trying to round up all 4 cats into the bathroom so the EMT's can work without stepping on them.)

* Blood pressure reads 80/47 when the EMT's arrive.

* Get the ER. I am asleep - or unconscience, it can be hard to tell - for most of it but am able to at least come around when people say my name multiple times. Blood pressure wavers in the ER between the healthy(ish) bare teens when lying prone and then plunging into 60/40 when I try to stand.

* It does take a few hours in the ER, but it all finally stabilizes.

* Final diagnosis? Combo of wrong meds and dehydration. Discard one of the old blood pressure meds, drink more water, and for god's sake, stand up slowly, Teressa.

* Not sure how I feel about all this. Am glad (thank you, Michael, for urging me to call 911) that I caught it early enough to avoid dying this morning. Am annoyed that I have something that REQUIRES catching early enough to avoid dying in the span of an hour, if not minutes.

* Could it have killed me? Could it have killed me inside of an hour? Going by the numbers, yep. Am I counting this as yet another near death experience?

* No. Why? Because I don't care about that word anymore. It's not the "near death" part that counts.

* It's the part where I walk out of that damn hospital and come home to write a Livejournal post about it that counts.
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Self care check:

* Showered? Check.

* Taken meds? Check.

* Eaten? Check.

* Am working my way through a big-ass glass of ice water? Check.

* Looming task of the day? Picking up that damn kidney drug, of which the pharmacist was somehow able to run through my old insurance at 150$ instead of the $400 out of pocket cost.

This looms because it is only 6:43 AM and the pharmacy does not open until 8 AM. One would think this is an easy amount of time to slide through. It is not.

* Price of dignity in asking Pat for another huge chunk of money? Paid with regret, as always, especially as this week is rent week. (He pays his own rent, my rent, and his car payment this week.)

Same goes for my father, of whom I asked to pay my electric and internet bill.

* Household chores, such as setting up coffee, putting up dishes, organizing couch and counters, wiping down bathroom, taking out trash, and scooping litterboxes? Check.

* The likely price to be paid at the end of all this, come 8:30 AM when I return home? A day spent like yesterday, asleep most of the day and bitchy in the hour or two that I was awake.

* Attempting to cheer myself up by listening to pop music? (Keisha's wise-ass, ridiculous love of alteration being the choice of the morning.) Check.

I did manage a half-hour run through Mass Effect 3 yesterday. That's something cool. I'm renegading my way through it and am surprised that it doesn't always make Shepard a bastard.

I'm playing Male Shep, just to engage in the gay romance that was finally introduced in the third game. The Midwest can suck my dick.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
It turns out there's a reason I feel better off the Cellcept (that one kidney drug I keep railing about.) Cellcept is a motherfucking chemomotherapy treatment. It's basically a daily dose of chemo, in pill form. No wonder I get so sick on it.

Also, you know what's more aggravating than hold music? Hold music that breaks in every 15 seconds to let you know you're still on hold. I can hear your hold music. I already know I'm on hold. And that pre-recorded voice always leads to a brief but irritating hope that I've finally gotten ahold of a real person.

Penlessej, that explanation of how the potassium blocker works makes PERFECT sense. So apparently I'd been overworking my kidneys and my body prioritized the focus on my kidneys instead of my heart (leaving it to work harder to cover the slack). I had no idea. It's annoying, but of understandable dire necessity, that our bodies triage themselves. Potassium is one of the most difficult electrolytes for me to not over-consume and it was showing.

Thank you for explaining that.

And Cinema, I've been thinking about your question. About how to define "better." I really haven't figured that one out yet. I know I want a...an acceptance, I guess. A better way of learning how to live with this disease. How to schedule around it, how to be less anxious and frustrated with all the treatments, how to make it simply something that I deal with (like my bipolar) instead of something that DEFINES me.

I know this will take time. Lots of time. Like you said with your own experience, the symptoms are so goddamn prevalent. And right now, it is soooo easy to feel like just a series of symptoms and setbacks. "Better" would be feeling like a person most of the time.

That's as far as I've gotten with the idea. But it was a profound question you asked and made me start thinking about how "the small moments" are brief respites that my mind and body so desperately needs. A kind of "take what you can get and know that as time goes on, you'll get more" sort of attitude.

There are so many other comments to get to. I am making a concerted effort as I can, day by day, to get to them. Ben, you've written so much about your own health issues and I feel you are such a great source of comfort and solace. And yep, Tom, the dude is the most coldest and clueless of anyone I've ever met. I can - and will at some point - go on and on and on.

Fairy, Gonzo, Harvey, Blozor, so many friends. So, so many of you. I am blessed to have so many friends that it can actually take time and effort to catch up on the support I'm being given.

Of all the things in life to be "over-burdened" with, this is the best kind that anyone could ever want.
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It seems my body, at least for the past couple of weeks, is less set at waking up at 5:00 AM and more set on just getting 5 HOURS of sleep, no matter the time I collapse under the blankets.

Or so tells the clock, when I was exhausted and asleep by 10 PM last and woke up at 3 AM. (Whereas otherwise I go to bed at 11:30 PM and wake up closer to 5 AM). It's easy enough to gauge what time it is by where the stars and moon are sitting when I shamble my way outside for my first cigarette.

Curse those stupid stars. And the moon. That's stupid, too.

Insomnia, medication, and telephones are also stupid )

At least after today's talk therapy, I'm appointment free for the week. (Set mid-afternoon, which is my WORST time of the day, but goddamnit, I need that therapy.) Maybe that'll help.

And maybe the stupid wake-up today time will allow me to bathe, of which I haven't done in mumblemumble over a week mumblemumble. Classic sign of depression and fatigue, but there's really only so far a whore's bath will take you. (The kind where you just washrag and soap up the stinkiest areas, twat, tits, ass and underarms.)

Jesse and I will HAVE to move the bed. Aside from the whole PTSD of "I almost died in this bed in this position TWICE now" that affects both Jesse and I, crawling over him has now become a painful obstacle course. It's set in the corner of the room and as he requires a bedside stand to put his CPAP on, he's got the outside edge. I actually prefer the inner side, squished up along the wall. But fighting his legs, arms, and cats three times a night (let alone my legs, arms, and the couple of cats always piled on ME) is just becoming too painful.

Do I have friends that could help out, or at least accompany me through all these calls, visits, and Furniture Tetris? Yes, two. But (1) Pat still can't walk at all and (2) Amanda, my best girlfriend, is attending university and is often very busy. School is important. She is *thisclose* to getting her Bachelor's degree and I don't want to distract her. I'm also not going to ask Pat to ruin over a year's worth of neural neuropathy healing just to switch out the computer desk and the bed.

I found a wonderful small moment yesterday. When the sunlight, either dawn or dusk, crests over the apartment buildings and there's a slight breeze, the tree leaves will begin moving in time with it all. If you dim your focus just the barest of bits, the light hitting the green looks as if a thousand gold coins are tumbling over each other. It's beautiful. I'd not noticed this since I left Arizona and cottonwood trees 14 years ago.

Maybe I'll start learning how to identify the different trees and birds that hang out around here. A nice, utterly non-energy draining hobby, which can be done from my back porch.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
ER TRIP #5 (this week, at least)

Oh, and due to this being the 5th ER visit this week, (along with a 3 hour psych walk in and another 2 hour dr walk in, AND migraines AND nausea, all this week, I'd missed my dr's appt this morning.)

Maybe I'm a little overwhelmed? That just COULDN'T be possible, could it? No. Certainly not. Sick people are not allowed to be overwhelmed. There's just so much to do!)

So, what with the outcropping of unusual symptoms this week, I did the only other thing I could think of to do.

I went to the goddamn ER.

All labs come back as normal, as they always seem to lately. I tell them about the dangerous game I've been playing with my blood pressure meds, (taking too many, taking some that's not been prescribed to me) due to my BP staying between 175-185 unless I take all those unprescribed meds.

Their faces pucker in disapproval (of which I'd expected), but as my BP in the hospital was normal - I'd told them I had taken all those meds only hours earlier and thus it would read fine...well, I could also see THAT look. The look that says "Here's another one, exaggerating symptoms..."

I tell myself to breathe. That life is nothing more than one grand, cosmic joke and that I should get on and get in on the joke.

I leave with a new blood pressure medication, and after a great deal of begging, five days worth of pain meds.


I no longer have insurance. It was (OOOPS!) accidentally cancelled and will be reinstated within (unknown amount of time). My blood pressure meds are out of whack, I'm experiencing incredible pain, and most worrisome, the one kidney medication I'm on that is THE ONLY THING KEEPING ME ALIVE will now costs hundreds and hundreds of dollars.)

I can, of course, be reimbursed for the damn near thousand dollars I'll be spending on meds in the meantime.

Cuz that's what every sick person has in their back pocket. A whole grand, just taped up and ready for governmental, red-tape, fuck ups.

I decide that life is not a cosmic joke.

Life is an impediment.

But here's the bitch of it all...I fucking CARE if I live or die. I actually fucking CARE. So I can't go on a rampage and kill myself because goddamnit, been there, done that, got the fucking T-shirt.

And I'm supposed to be grateful for that, right? Like it's supposed to give me hope, a branch to hold onto in tough times?

Hell no. All it's doing is pissing me off right now because I couldn't get to suicidal if I tried.

I'm tired. I can't handle all the calls, all the visits, all the paperwork. I can't. I just can't. I don't even know if I have the ability to reach out for help concerning those things anymore. I'm just that fucking tired of it. Bones deep, blood aching, tired.

It's not just this thing this time. It's ALL THE THINGS ALL THE TIME lately. It's been one thing after another fucking thing for month after month after month after LIFETIME. Two, three complications? Bring it, bitch.

This? This never ending life or death game? FUCK IT. FUCK ALL THIS NOISE.

All I ever wanted was a quiet, boring little life and a good job. The Universe has deigned me unworthy of such a thing. Why? What did I ever do the universe? I am not Londo Mollari, goddamnit. But for whatever reason, my life is decades of struggle punctuated by a year or two in between of relative peace.

I want off this roller coaster. NOW. THIS FUCKING INSTANT.

But I won't be getting off this ride anytime soon. If I tried to kill myself, I'd just survive and wind up looking twice the fool.

Of course, if these lapses in insurance keep happening, this disease will kill me on its own. I'll be fucking dead and why? BECAUSE I AM FUCKING POOR.

I won't even get the satisfaction of giving the Universe the middle finger on my out.

And THAT will fucking piss me off.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Gonzo, thank you so much for posting what you did about the Propoxophene. When I read about how the effective and lethal dose were too close, I tossed that shit right away. Of all things, I can't overdo the Tylenol. Even the few of those pills I took shredded my stomach lining, which is a sign of an overdose impending.

They were also causing nightmares. And a class book, textbook definition of a night terror. The kind with awareness while paralyzed and the visual of seeing something pinning you down. It was a hell of a panic attack. I am no stranger to nightmares, but rarely experience night terrors themselves.

So between all that, I'm not using those pills anymore. Thank you for informing me of what the drug was actually composed of. I might have done some real damage to my kidneys without knowing that.

Another new symptom: Pain, or really an ache of the sharpest and heaviest kind, in my right arm. From shoulder to wrist, making the entire arm completely useless. It woke me up at 4:30 this morning. Too early for my tastes, but after some Tylenol, my last Hydro, and a heating pad, I can at least use the arm.

I will bring it up to my GP when I see her tomorrow.

I was bitching to Jesse about my nightmares. It was like, OKAY BRAIN, I get it. We're cracked. We've got lots of new trauma to process along with bits and pieces of old trauma. We've got a lot going on during waking hours, so you're trying to be nice and process it while I'm asleep.

But jesus, it doesn't do any good if it destroys the good sleep I DO get. I said to Jesse "My brain has its very own Guantanamo Bay built inside it." So where do I get it ratified that torture is illegal? How do I get my brain to compose its own Geneva Convention?

I thought the dreams would get less gory as I got older. They haven't. They've stayed the same gory they've always been. They HAVE reduced in frequency, now going months without nightmares instead of just a couple of weeks. But that week of nightmares that I DO experience, as it's always about a week's worth, fucks me up good and crazy every time.

For whatever reason, my mother has been on mind for the last few days. I was watching the movie "Fried Green Tomatoes" yesterday, a favorite of her films. I realized that while I have long since removed from my life, I still like the movies she liked and still like the music she liked. Our ages vs our major life events have also run along the same lines.

We both are terrible cooks and have always dated men who cook. We both got divorced at the same age. And while for completely different reasons, we both lost our minds at the same age. (35 years old.) It's never been confirmed but Cassie and I have both long suspected she has untreated bipolar disorder. I am now wondering if she had lupus, which can make for all kinds of crazy, and just never got it treated. (Her hatred of therapists is only a few degrees higher than her hatred of doctors.)

Not that it rationalizes or excuses any of what she's done. She made her own choice to refuse therapeutic help, over and over again, for her own abused childhood. She made her own choice to stay addicted to drugs for the last 30 or so years. And she made her own choice to stay married to a man that she knew, she KNEW, was abusing her children.

No amount of crazy, mental or physical, makes up for that one.

But it also makes me wonder what other factors were in play - and how many more we have to share as we both get older. It's hard to break the cycle when you don't know everything about what composes the cycle. I guess the point is that as I see the destructive ones, those are the ones I bend until they snap. That means at least in my little life, those are ones I do not have to repeat.

So here's to breaking cycles, which will hopefully soon include the breaking the cycle of my unending uptick in blood pressure readings. That would be AWESOME.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Not shiny, mind you. Not new. Not full of refreshed energy or a zest for life. I hurt in every way possible right now, physically as well.

I apparently woke up halfway through the incubation, broke the hospital restraints, and ripped out the breathing tube, air bulb beneath it still full. It's left me with a HELL of a bruised wrist and bruised airway. They couldn't give me more anesthesia (I guess that would have been another overdose). There's a weird pride in having been able to do that - and a regret that I did, because fucking hell, it still hurts.

That I can safely say I did not mean to do. The things we do while under the delirium of anesthesia....

But I am back. Call me refurbished. Call me found art. Call me...a nervous little girl who is petrified of herself, the world around her, and what it and I will do to me.

But like Jesse told me last night, just because Mike Tyson takes a right hook to the jaw and falls to the mat, it doesn't mean he's forgotten how to fight. And as scared as I am about the fight ahead, he is right. I still know how to fight. I've done it before. I can do it again.

The Basics: I wasn't actually trying to kill myself. It was the strangest thing I think I've ever experienced. I'd thought to myself a nap would be nice, went to take a quarter of my Seroquel, and stood in the kitchen with the bottle and a glass of milk in my hand.

And then I thought )

I've been off Prednisone for a week now. I am mentally clearer, emotionally a wreck, and sad that anything spicy I might consider eating will tear up my esophagus.

I've received all responses about hope. I've never read responses so closely before. I've never needed people's experiences so much as I do right now. I've never had so much to process between what's going on in my head and what other people have told me has gone on in THEIR heads.

I want to think that I what I did doesn't mean I'd lost hope. But people with hope don't take an entire month's worth of sleeping pills at once. Somewhere along the line, along with everything else, hope had also taken its leave.

One thing I know above anything else: The trees have begun to bloom. The grass is green. It is spring. It has now been a full year of dealing with the wolf, first not all knowing why I was being torn apart by sharp teeth, and then hemorrhaging for months from having my throat ripped out.

I lost last spring, last summer, last fall, and last winter.

quirkytizzy: (Default)
...without the golden blonde hair, or the ability to sing, or an entire kingdom just waiting to be enchanted into a very, very long nap.

I asked what day it was yesterday, as we were running low on smokes. I'd assumed it to be Wednesday or Thursday, as a carton usually lasts us four days. I recalled my last forage for cigarettes to have happened last Sunday, so surely it was mid-week.

Nope. It was Sunday. I had been sleeping SO MUCH that one, ONE single, carton had lasted us over a week. It really goes to show who the heavy smoker in the house is. I'm not sure when I turned into the guy who's a two pack a day smoker, but somewhere along the line, I did.

Also it's a little freaky that I've been sleeping so much that my last clear memory was buying that carton of cigarettes over a week ago. (And then only memorable because I'd gotten to the store hours before they opened and drove away extremely irritated.)

Yesterday, at about 2:30 PM, I crawled out of bed and felt something that I haven't felt in weeks. I felt rested. SO rested, as a matter of fact, that when I saw Jesse had gone to hang with a friend, I almost texted to ask to come along. (Said friend and Jesse came back to our place, though, which was good, as I was in a cheery mood and plenty able to converse.)

The Prednisone step down has plenty do with the extremely heavy sleep schedule, but if five (or six) days of playing Enchanted Sleeping Enchantress is what it takes to get good sleep, then by god, I'm buying a fucking spinning wheel.

Okay, I don't reeallly want to waste away most of my days asleep, even if it means saving major on our cigarette bill. But it helped prove a small point to myself - that I CAN get fully rested, even if it takes days and days of resting to do it. Normally it wouldn't take quite so long, but Prednisone stepdowns are famous for causing hypersomnia.

So I woke up early this morning (4 AM), am going back down here shortly (by 6:30 AM) and will hopefully sleep till about 10 AM, when the cigarette store opens. But if I sleep later, I'm not going to worry about it.

I'm definitely not Sleeping Beauty. I've got more nicotine in my blood than I do any royal lineage. I'm no princess (or if I am, I am in an extremely unknown exile). But maybe she had a few good ideas after all.

Sleep, any long chunk of it, is so, so appreciated these days.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
* Does anyone remember when businesses used to open up at 8 AM? Now it seems they all open at 9 AM. This is fine and dandy if you wake up at 8 AM. For someone like me, who is often awake hours before? It just means more aimless waiting around for the clock to tick forward.

* We've (as in my psych and me) have discussed adjustments to my psych meds, Matrix, except we are all out of medications to try. I can't have anti-depressants, I've reacted EXTREMELY poorly to every anti-psychotic we've tried, and too many benzo's is a bad idea in general.

There's simply no other class of drug to try. The most we are able to do right now is to make a regular schedule of taking my Xanax daily, instead of just waiting for the next anxiety attack to hit me first.

So we'll try that. It seems to be helping, as I have managed to sleep over the last couple of days.

* Cats + loose stacks of paper = a veritable hailstorm on my carpet. Cats, WWHHHYYYY?

* There are food pantries to go to, it's just that being as it's all donations, there's rarely things there that I can eat (at least in full.) You never know what's going to be in the pantry when you get there. But today, being as we were literally out of everything but a can of expired black beans and two eggs, I hit three food pantries.

I got exceedingly lucky. There were plenty of foods I could eat, even more foods that would make an acceptable, small side dish with, along with even MORE food that Jesse could eat.

* Spoons all spent for the day, but now we have food for the next two weeks. WORTH IT.

* Also managed a stop at a grocery store for milk, a dollar store for cold medication for Jesse, and scooped out kitty boxes and did dishes, including clearing out the fridge and washing all the tupperware in it.

* Good day. Productive day. Damn good, productive day. Now for a good, productive nap.


Feb. 24th, 2017 04:57 am
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Sooo yeah, the whole "tapering off Prednisone" turned out to be nothing but a giant cocktease. In getting a hold of my nephrologist, he not only wants me to stay on the steroids, but to UP the dosage. So, faithfully, I'm back on 15 mgs (as opposed to 10) for three days now.

And a surprise to everyone but me, I've woken up at 2 AM for the last three days. Also a surprise to everyone but me, I feel the mania kicking in again. Not like it ever went AWAY. God, no. But I was at least getting SOME sleep in at the lower dose.

I'm getting so used to the mania that it's like a dull needle. I feel the pressure of it sliding in, but the sharp pinch that warns the body of impending, possible pain just isn't there. Somewhere along the line, the alarms, the warning bells wore out, because while I can see there's trouble on the horizon, I can't tell how bad it'll be. I'm fast losing interest in trying to treat it, because the only way out of this is to get off a medication everyone wants me on.

After all, the mania doesn't seem to be worrying anyone else, does it? Why the hell should I care?

If it weren't for the fact that without my sedatives I wouldn't sleep at all, I'd just stop taking my psych meds altogether. Why the fuck should I bother to spend time, energy, and money in getting those medications when (1) they aren't what's going to stop the mania and (2) no one else gives a flying fuck if I'm on the breaking point of sanity, so long as I follow the doctor's orders like a faithful patient.

Take your pills. Fall in line. March in time with everyone else. Be a good little girl and listen to Daddy Doctor. Better to be alive and in the psych ward than dead and sane, right?

No one around me - not even Jesse - is grasping the severity of this situation. I'm tired of trying to tell people, because all I get in return is a mouthful of "Well, the doctor said..."

So I'm just giving up on it. I'll take all my meds, medical and psychiatric. I'll keep up on my appointments. Let's pay lip service to the Almighty-Who-Gives-A-Fuck-If-You're-Crazy-So-Long-As-You-Aren't-In-The-Hospital Gods.

But as far as talking to people about what's on my mind, how the crazy is going, or how close I am or am not to doing self-destructive behaviors? As far as caring what I do to myself in the end, when this hits the breaking point, so long as it doesn't land me in the morgue?

Fuck all that noise. It's too much work and I ain't got anyone in my corner face-to-face willing to believe me when I say how bad it's getting.

So fuck it. They don't care? Okay, fine, then I won't either. Why bother getting worked up over something that isn't going to get looked at, treated, or even fair air-play?

After all, I've only been manic for 8 months. I haven't killed myself and have landed in the psych ward only once. And cut myself only twice.

That's enough to prove how sane I am, riiiight? That's how sane people live - psych wards and cutting. Obviously, so I better get with the program and stop worrying that what I'm experiencing is dangerous.

It's obviously not dangerous enough to worry anyone else. And even if I know how this is going to end (with my ass buried three feet and two weeks deep in the psych ward because I did something awful to myself), and I tell them (like I've been saying FOR MONTHS), they'll all still be surprised when it happens. They'll be surprised and I'll be too drugged up to even say "I told you so."

Because telling people isn't doing any damn bit of good right now anyways.


quirkytizzy: (Default)

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