blaugra

I'm obsessed with myself.

I'm obsessed with getting better, thereby putting way too much pressure on myself. Then I crack under the pressure.

I worry about everything. Here are examples of things I have worried about in the past 24 hours:

• What will happen to our country when there's nobody left to farm?
• Will we be paying $11 for a quart of half-n-half soon?
• Why is my left foot more calloused than my right?
• Should I give myself a pedicure before going to get a pedicure?
• How fucked up was that scene in Sons of Anarchy where Tig's daughter was burned to death in front of him and does that actually happen in real life?
• Is being dead going to be just like before we were alive?
• Why can't the republican party have a decent candidate who doesn't fuck up?
• What if I get diabetes?
• Who will take care of me when I'm old?
• Is my car running on empty? I forgot to check.
• What if that tree falls on my car?
• What if my front door falls off?
• What if we lose our jobs?
• Why can't I find pants that fit well?
• Are phones really going to be that tiny and transparent in the future, like in Weeds?
• Did the boots I just ordered get lost in the mail? No, I just ordered them, silly.
• Do I have to go to Scranton?
• Did I take my pills?
• Where are my pills?
• Why do my pills make me nauseous?
• Will my pills make my cholesterol go higher?
• Will I ever be fun again?
• When will I stop crying?
• Should I like this indie music today, because I really don't.

That's just a slice. I'm not making room in the brain for enough happy thoughts. Like, oh, this is a nice day. What a great episode. I love that book. I like eggs. I love you.

No. Instead those statements come out like "Today sucks." "That episode disturbed me."  "I can't focus enough to read a book." "Eggs nauseate me now." "How can you possibly love me back?"

I'm trying to train myself to say positive things every day. 

There are some happy things. Zumba. Iced Coffee. Fight Night. Indian food for lunch. Mango salsa with lots of cilantro. A therapist who can see me more often than every 7 weeks.

Change in the weather

In late August, the crickets start making that constant chirpy sound and the nights get really cool and the high school band starts practicing on the football field and the fair is coming to town and although I look forward to wearing boots again, I really don't want to let go of summer.

In my brain, the weather is starting to change. It's very weird to feel psych drugs start to work. Little moments of clarity begin to take place. Like, one day I suddenly snapped out of my fog and was able to have razor-sharp focus on work. Today I woke up feeling completely refreshed and not exhausted. These moments make me think that fall is going to be a good season.

Not that all the horrible thoughts and exhaustion have gone away. And my self-esteem is somewhere at the bottom of that trench in the ocean. But I have some hope I'll swim to the surface.

I'm getting a new counselor because I can't get any further along with my current counselor, as much as I really like her. I still have that phobia to kick. It really needs kicking and it's going to be hard work and I'm scared.  But a celebrity I follow on Twitter, whose hair I love, tweeted "Fear is the absence of faith."

I know. I'm taking advice from a starlet on Twitter. I must be crazy.

Bruised and Confused

The aforementioned reaction to a new drug happened again and got so bad on Sunday that I asked to be taken to the ER. I thought I was having a cardiac coniption or combustion or something.  The hospital gave me nitroglycerin under my tongue and recommended that I stay in for observation and tests. I had a room with a sunset-over-the-mountains view, room service, non-stop Olympic coverage on my own personal TV, a Craftmatic adjustable bed, I was wheeled everywhere, and I got nice no-slip socks as a parting gift.  Hey, not bad.

Except for the feeling totally mental part.

I had to explain 25 times to 25 people that I had a bipolar diagnosis, what this drug was, and of course no one had heard of it because it's kind of new, and that I was not only having a reaction, but also additional pains that weren't listed in the side effects in the pamphlet. That was the bad part.

My night nurse came to me in the morning as she was leaving her shift to say goodbye. She shared with me that her son is bipolar. She then asked me for advice in dealing with him.

Hell if I know, I'm the patient here and obviously I don't know what I'm doing for myself.  Same thing happened with one of the radiology technicians.  Everyone's looking for answers. Is bipolar like a freaking epidemic? Too widely diagnosed? I don't know. Do drugs cause bipolar-like symptoms? How do we know? Brain chemistry is so complex.

Now can I say that I'm feeling better? Now that I know everything is okay, that I'm safe, I hope so.

I lied.

When I said I was doing OK, I lied.

I try to have a positive outlook but it's getting  harder to do that. My new drug that I mentioned, well, caused a reaction that was scary and painful.  So, there's that. 

I don't know what's next, I guess try another drug. Or maybe try life without one of the drugs. I'd be open to that. Don't worry, I'm seeing the doctor.

I'm so looking forward to going to BlogHer, for some fun and new experiences so I don't sit around thinking about myself so much. Today I feel pretty good - not a lie - so I'm thinking I can do it. But who knows how I'll feel tomorrow or the next day. That's so frustrating. 

Meanwhile, a good chat with Band Back Together the other night helped. I'm having a hard time getting an appointment with a counselor so that was like a support group session. I slept for 24 hours then woke up and wrote this.

Meanwhile, back in the psychiatrist's office...

Not to blaspheme, but, I guess I will. JFC, this rigamarole  wears me down. 

If there's one place where you should be able to lose your shit, it's in the psych office, right?

Well, after I left the doctor's inner sanctum, post-meltdown, people still kind of looked at me as if I were an oddball. 

Driving home from the psych office is always a time of interesting reflection. I resisted the urge to pull over in the inner city and run into a random church to ask for some spiritual guidance, like in the movies. I don't know what I would have asked. But that's what extreme anxiety makes me feel like doing.

Instead I drove to the pharmacy and filled the prescription for the new drugs that I'm going to try. I'm nervous about changing them again and dear God the side effect list scares the bejesus out of me. But I have to have faith that this doctor can put together the right cocktail. Fingers crossed, prayers said, (says the blasphemer.)

Full Disclosure

To recap:

For the past 7 years I have had the diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder 2.

Sometimes I think the diagnosis is wrong; sometimes family members question it. Even though I've had those wacked ups and downs, I mostly experience the down along with some raging anxiety. Anxiety that is more than just the sweaty-palm, nervous tension -- it's painful and rips me apart.

"It," meaning the illness, has affected every part of my life, my family, my friendships, my community work and my day job just like many other chronic illnesses would. 

I've been suicidal but never hospitalized. I believe that mental illness runs in my family. I've been under medical supervision at every step of the way. I've been told that it's good that I never reproduced. I've become insular as a means of coping. I've talked about myself way too much.

I believe that mental and physical health issues are all intertwined and are written all over the face.

Although it sucks just like any other chronic condition, I'm glad that Bipolar 2 is what I've been given to bear, so far, and not something else. When I'm not feeling like I'm living in the pit of despair it's not such a bad diagnosis to deal with, right?

Every time I feel good, though, I cautiously evaluate whether it's hypomania or healthy. Then I think, who cares? I'm feeling good.

I'm starting to get back to that feeling good state and I'm trying not to think about it too hard.

Isn't that a pretty picture? I borrowed it from here.

Numb and Dumber

I'm pretty sure my meds are making me numb.

Not numb to emotions like some people may think drugs cause, because I have a lot of emotions. Lots.

Just kind of oblivious. Not uninformed, but unfazed by my surroundings.  Not really paying attention to the way I'm interacting with my surroundings, moreso than usual.  I almost picked my nose in public the other day. It's come to this. A whole big basket of DUH.

That leads to feeling dumber. I have not felt so stupid in a long time as when I played Draw Something on my iPhone and someone drew an "X" on a box and then wrote "X+____" and I couldn't fucking comprehend that the answer was xbox and I had to end my winning streak with that player.

I don't even want to recount some of the dumbass conversations I've had lately, where I sound like a complete moron. It's not as bad as asking someone at a restaurant "Is your tuna like tunaFISH or tuna?" -- what does that even mean?   That wasn't me.

But I actually said aloud, about hot yoga, "What is hot yoga?"  Did I think it was a new breed of casserole? I mean, it's just hot. Yoga.

How about I keep pronouncing Steve Jobs as in biblical-Job. Imagine using that pronunciation for every "job".

At a party, people asked me "What's new?" and I said, "Nothing." What a great conversationalist I have become.  Who invited the boring chick?

I got excited because Ted Nugent is coming to play my town. That's so weird, because, I've never before been excited about Ted Nugent except when the Flying Bobs ride would play "Free for All" at the local amusement park. Isn't this a sign of some stupification?

So that's what I get to tell my doctor when I see him again, that I'm a blockhead.

Yeaaaaaaah buddy!

I'm not in love.

The radio played "I'm Not in Love" by 10cc. That song is AWESOME.

But I had just left the psychiatrist's office, where I had been for 90 minutes waiting and then sitting in my appointment with the doctor. Who apparently is very in demand, so, if you are looking for a new career you'll probably make a great go of it as a psychiatrist today.  Maybe push your kids in that direction. Because a 17 year old really sees herself as a psychiatrist.

"I'm Not in Love" was feeling kind of trippy, 1970s hazy, as I drove through the decrepit urban center city. So many layers of sound in that song. And it's kind of gut wrenching.

Then I realized I'm not in love with anything now. I know that's not what the song is about.

I hope it's just a silly phase I'm going through. I'm all business. WERK. Let's get better. Most important and sometimes the most scary, is, let's stay better. I'm accustomed now to what-goes-up-must-come-down and I can't imagine what it feels like to sustain the "up." But, let's do this shit.

Here's the video that the DJ recommended we all watch, the making of 10cc's "I'm Not in Love." Now I'll never listen to that song the same way again.

 

Carry me home

Ohmigod you guys, has this been a shitty winter. Everything is fine, just fine, except for my insides. But, I think I'm rising out of the trough which means I can express this more clearly. 

Depression and anxiety suck so hard.

Meanwhile, back at the psychotherapist's office...

I learned that my suddenly developed phobia is not unusual at all. This made me feel less freakish. The therapist gave me a few tools to quell the anxiety that is causing the intense fear. If I treat it like an illness, which it is, I think it will get all better. See that? Positive thinking already. Oh, my stars.

One of the things I have to practice, said Emily the therapist, is mindfulness.

I'm not living in the now, at all. I've been in a very dark bleak future place for a while. A gray path lined with thorny brambles and ugly twisted sculptures of scorched metal. Not at all like I once pictured the future (see: the Jetsons.)  I mean, I'm still there. I now feel like there's a light coming up on the path.

Here's one of the mindfulness tools Emily gave me to bring me to the now. I am providing this bought-and-paid-for advice to you. (which you can get anywhere on the internets.)

Hold an ice cube in your hand. Watch it melt. Concentrate on it melting.

Observe everything about the cube and how it's melting in your hand.

There's your mindfulness.

Have I tried it? No, not yet. I have to give it a shot. I also need to breathe.

Meanwhile, back at the personal trainer's office...

After some absence from Amanda the perky trainer, I decided that she was worth it. I set up an appointment.

My anxiety ramped up in anticipation of reuniting with her and her hellacious workouts. I haven't pushed myself in a while, and I've had really low energy.  My evenings have mostly been spent looking forward to going back to sleep. I popped a Lorazepam and went to Amanda. We had some time off the gym floor when I could tell her how crappy I thought I have been. She asked, "What do you need from me? Besides a Kleenex right now?"

I said, "I need a pep talk and a good workout." And that's what she did. But not before she assigned a non-exercise related activity as homework during Lent (which I don't observe but it's a good timeframe in which to make a change.)

"Get a jar, and every time you think a negative thought, put a quarter in it."  I nodded my head like an 8-year-old. OK, I'll do that.

I'll put a quarter in the jar and then grab an ice cube.

Anyway, I'll leave you with this song from the current playlist. Yeah, a part of it is in that car commercial, but the song in its entirety is stunning.

Super fun!

A friend asked me, "What do you do for fun?"

I had to think about it.

Uh-oh.

Am I not having fun in life?

In college I wore a tie-dyed tshirt that had the word FUN printed on the front. That was a time when drunken Twinkie-lifting at convenience stores or stoned laser tag was our fun.

Later on, I was called the girl-with-the-fun-office.  I had an attitude that if sounds fun, do it. Karaoke from Jesus Christ Superstar in a sushi bar? Do it. Dance party when we're the only people dancing? Do it. Decorate cookies with obnoxious words? Do it.

Where has my fun gone?

I think my fun has been leeched from my body. Sometimes I laugh with Salty D. at something silly on the Big Bang Theory or when he makes one of his good jokes. I do laugh with friends. I laugh at tweets. And hey, kids are fun, right?

But I think my depression stole my fun. I'm not hating life, but I'm not going out of my way to make life amusing and intriguing. I'm even turning down fun opportunities because of the depression. I recently slept through an evening when I was invited to a disco party.

Yes. I HAD AN OPPORTUNITY TO WEAR BODY GLITTER AND A SPARKLY COWGIRL HAT AND DANCE TO ABBA WITH FUN PEOPLE AND I SLEPT THROUGH IT and felt really good when I woke up.

Another friend once remarked that I "could even make depression fun!" I wish that felt true.

Coincidentally, as I'm writing, this song just came up on my Pandora: