Victory is Mine!

Ladies, never underestimate the power of a nice blazer and classic pumps. Seriously. This week, I went to my doctor's appointment not looking like I got run over by a freaking dump trunk. Instead, I was in the one business outfit I own (purchased no less than 2 weeks ago) in preparation for an interview I had after the appointment, and let me tell you, this was the best trip to the doctor's I've had yet.

You ready for this? My doctor actually listened to me! She took what I said into consideration, trusted my judgment, and came to reasonable solution that I was ok with. Here's how this all went down:

Doctor: Wow, Mary. Do you work today or something? You look very nice.
Me: Oh, it's just this interview thing later.
*Nod of approval on her part. Nervous twitching on mine*
Doctor: So, tell me how things have been going.
Me: It's speech time. Just like I practiced in the car. Well, I have been thinking, I mean... Ok, so here's the thing. I have been doing not bad. I mean, I have been, like, good and stuff. And I'm sick, and I mean really sick, of the side effects or whatever of my pills. Low libido. Loss of creativity. Sleepy, like, all the time. Ya know? It's.... hard and shit. I think maybe I want to... stop. Stop taking the pills. Maybe. Good lord, Mary. That was nothing like the car. What is it about these doctors that make me feel so small?
Doctor: *silence*
Me: I mean, I have been preparing with, um, lifestyle changes. Meditating. Journaling. Exercising. Ya know, mind-body stuff that is supposed to help with the bipolar. So maybe... I don't know. I don't like my pills.
Doctor: Normally we like to see the patient well for 6 solid months before weaning down, but you know yourself better than I do.... *blah blah blah, medical jargon, risks, but we can try, blah blah*

And then, victory was mine!!! She gave me a thread of hope, I bucked up like a champ, and my pills got lowered by a quarter. Instead of a full pill at lunch, I get to cut that fucker in half. Boo-yah!!!

This may seem like a small win, but this was 3 days ago, and I can already notice a difference. Boyfriend even noticed a change for the better. Part of the old Mary is back. I felt my creative energy rise up when I was at an art fair. I didn't feel like I was talking through a fog when socializing at a party. The look of an old, tattered barn inspires a yearning to explore again.

But I wasn't just feeding the doctor bullshit. No, I really have been making some serious lifestyle changes in preparation for this request. I am doing three tangible activities. First, I am writing in my journal every day. Even when I don't think I have anything important to write. I am not going to let those damn thoughts pile up in my head until I explode. Nope, they are getting released on the daily.

Second, I have renewed my commitment to meditation. I sit on my pillow for at least 10 minutes per day to repeat a positive mantra, reflect on my inner being, and be at peace with the world. Sure, the word "fuck" may get peppered into my mantras every now and then, but that's just a sign that it's still me. I am not a hippy. I am no Buddha. I am just a girl who is trying to make her mind stronger than her monsters.

Finally, exercise. I am getting off my ass for a minimum of 30 minutes a day to shake off the excess energy. To boost my self-confidence. To shed those hated pounds I put on thanks to those forsaken pills. This one is certainly the hardest, and I have to admit, I'm doing damn good. I have made it to the gym 4 days in a row and worked up a sweat. Not my usual walking on the treadmill while watching Boy Meets World. No, I actually run and lift weights and hardcore shit like that.

Before I end this "Woo hoo, I'm getting off my pills!" post, I need to say something. I need to let it be known that these pills I hate so much, these pills that have killed my creativity, dulled my personality, and made me fat, are honestly the best things that have ever happened to me. Without them, I almost certainly would have killed myself. Even though I have blamed them for taking away parts of life that made it worth living, they are the one thing that gave me a second chance. And for that, I am eternally grateful. I will probably keep a bottle in the back of the medicine cabinet, a safety net in case shit hits the fan again, but for now, I am ready to part ways.

A final fond farewell to Risperdal will hopefully be coming in the next couple of months. Soon to be followed by the Prozac. Off to join my Zoloft and Lithium and Lamictal and Seroquel to the land of discarded meds. Wish me luck.

Mad as a Hatter and Just as Sane

Maybe I cut my wrist one too many times. Maybe I talked about the relief I would get from killing myself a little bit too freely. Maybe I realized that it's not fair to make my friends and family responsible for protecting me from myself.

The truth is, I'm not safe by myself anymore, and I know it. Every time I am left to my own devices for more than 10 minutes, there is a damn good chance that I will be hunting down something sharp or challenging my garden of pill bottles to a staring contest. Even when I am not alone, a breakdown can strike with a snap of the monster's fingers. And it's happening more and more often.

So I need to leave. In less than five hours, I will be going with Dad to admit myself into a residential program at the hospital. For real this time.

This may be one of the first times I have set out to write a blog post and had no words. It's not a case of writer's block or being unmotivated. It's that I feel frozen in this space and time. A numbness beyond the lithium and seroquel and lamictal. A natural, self-protecting numbness against my fear of the unknown and leaving my not-so-safe comfort zone.

I can't picture leaving my home and moving into my room at the mental hospital. I can't picture not using Pinterest, TV, my blankets, and cleaning as distractions against my monsters when I am alone all day. I can't picture not using razors and calories to fight them off when distractions fail. I can't picture having coping mechanisms that are healthy and actually effective. I can't picture having to trust someone with my life besides Boyfriend.

This numbness will disappear in a few hours. I bet I'll start getting nervous after I take a shower and start picking out an outfit that suits the day, the day I admit that I am too crazy to live in the real world. It will really kick in on the car ride over when the reality of the situation sets in. Racing heart, sweaty palms, winking monsters. By the time I am left alone at my new home, my fucked up head will be spinning with a fight or flight reaction that will likely result in some sort of unwanted sedation.

I don't know if I will be there for a few weeks, a month or two. A part of me still feels like this is a bad dream. I am never leaving my home. But I also feel like this is my last day ever to sit on my couch, cuddle with my cat, sleep in my bed, write at my desk, look out my window, cook for Boyfriend. Make my own decisions. When I think about these things, I don't understand how everything I could need in the world isn't right here at my fingertips. Everyone and everything I love is outside those hospital walls. I will be locked inside, separated from them. How will that help? How will that not make things worse?

I guess I just have to let go for a little while. Open myself up to the possibility that this might be what's best. That I just might walk out of there healthier and happier than I have ever felt. Instead of adding some reinforced steel to my guarded walls, I should cut out a window to see the great opportunity that may be in front of me. I don't want to and I don't have to live the rest of my life this fucked up. And maybe, just maybe, I really do want my life to last longer than I think.

Most likely, this hope will disappear when time starts moving again. But at least I will be leaving my written record of the fact that there was hope in admitting myself to the hospital. I won't be able to reread this when I am there, but maybe someone else will. Maybe someone else who is struggling will read my other posts illustrating how horribly fucked I am in the head and think that if someone as crazy as me can take this step, then so can they.

Ok, now let's do this shit. See you in a month.

Drugs! Drugs! Drugs!

My Personal Pill Collection

100 mg x 8 pills = 800 mg Zoloft
50 mg x 44.5 pills = 2,225 mg Zoloft
25 mg x 5 pills = 125 mg Zoloft
TOTAL = 3,150 mg ZOLOFT


300 mg x 142 pills = 42,600 mg Lithium
600 mg x 14 pills = 8,400 mg Lithium
TOTAL = 51,000 mg LITHIUM


0.5 mg x 60 pills = 30 mg Lorazepam
25 mg x 60 pills = 1,500 mg Lamictal
25 mg x 15 pills = 375 Seroquel



After coming home with yet another goody bag of pills, I decided to do a little bit of morbid math. Here were my findings:

• If I took all of the Zoloft I have right now, I could cause some serious, potentially irreversible damage to my internal organs. If I mixed those pills with a decent amount of alcohol, I could probably kill myself.
• I could probably kill myself twice with all the Lithium I have in stock. Again, let's factor in the variable of some alcohol. Then, I could certainly kill myself twice.
• The Lorazepam could possibly kill me if I took it all with a bunch of alcohol. Respiratory depression would be the cause of death if I wasn't found in time.
• Taking all my Lamictal and Seroquel wouldn't kill me, even if I did mix them into a few cocktails, but they would probably require an ambulance, an IV or two, and some serious hospital time.
• If I took all the pills, I would be dead.

How did I acquire such an arsenal of mood stabilizers, anti-depressants, narcotics, and sedatives in the 4 months that I have been seeking help, you ask? Let me show you my secret:

Doctor: Have you ever been on medication?

Me: Yes. I hated it. I don't want to just numb my feelings; I want to figure it out what's wrong and fix it.

Doctor: Have you ever tried (insert drug)?

Me: No, but I don't want more drugs thrown at me yet. 

Doctor: (Drug) has been found to be very helpful in many cases like yours.

Me: How do you know my... Uh... We just met 3 minutes ago... *befuddled head tilt*... You can't...know...

Doctor: You may experience nausea, insomnia, tremors, forgetfulness, skin rash, dizziness, fatigue, etc. But just keep taking them twice a day until I can see you again in a month. ItwasgreatseeingyouMary.TakeCare.Don'thesitatetocallmedirectlyifthereareanyproblems.Bye!*slam*

Me: But... you didn't give me your number...

I have gone into every appointment very clearly voicing my dissatisfaction with the meds I've been put on and my extreme desire to find a more natural route. But when we are allotted 15 minutes for me to explain my struggles in the past and fears for the future with time to spare for the doctor to fill out paperwork, complete their notes, and write prescriptions. That leaves about 5 minutes for me to voice what I really need to keep from freaking the fuck out on a daily basis. 

Four months later, I'm still freaking the fuck out on almost a daily basis.

I am just totally, utterly, and thoroughly appalled, disheartened, and riled that they are handing that many drugs to someone who openly admits that death sometimes seems like a better option. I am still alive because of my own strength and the love I am lucky enough to have in my life. Not because of any help I have received from these governmentally-funded drug pushers.

I want options.

I want someone who listens.

I want more than 15 minutes.