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.

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.

Fucked up Welcome Back Free Write

Where do I pick up after abandoning my blog for almost 2 weeks? Has it been two weeks? Honestly, I don't know even what day it is. I spent the majority if the day thinking it was Friday and even when I learned it was Tuesday, I continued on as though it were Friday. 

Something is seriously wrong with me at the moment. I can't really say "at the moment" considering this has been going on for the past several weeks, and years, before that. So I am going to free-write my scattered, fucked up, horrible thoughts here until the Lorazopam I popped kicks in and I can finally get a brief moment of peace before I crumble under the weight of myself.

If I had to sum it up in just a few words, those words would be "The monsters are winning." Yup, they are back full force, taking control over every mechanism that makes me me. They decide when I am fast, physically and mentally. Like today, my monsters thought it was fucking hilarious to watch me run around the house gathering up every piece of fabric for the laundry, rearranging the bathroom so it's more pleasant for the cat, and crawling on my hands and knees picking up lint so that the house would look perfect. Because a perfect looking house means that I'm not crazy. Haha, thanks, guys, but everyone knows damn well that fucked up. All this while making a list of things I don't have time to do today but can work on tomorrow. Like scrub the walls and paint the bookshelves and create some wall art for the bedroom with no money.

That was today, but most days the monsters shut me down. I spend way too much time crying under a blanket hating myself so much that it physically hurts. I dwell over the fact that I am ruining Boyfriend's life and he won't admit it. I beat myself up over everyone that I have left in the wake of my destruction. I hate the evil parts of the world that I am too incapicated to fix when I am depressed and only contribute to its downfall when I'm not. But what really makes me break down, really makes the tears flow and the hyperventilating to the point of passing is the fact that the little girls I nanny for, the little girls I love so fucking much it isn't even possible, won't remember who I am. If the monsters kill me, everyone else will mourn for the appropriate time, move on with their lives, and occasionally look back at the sordid part of their past that included me. Those girls won't. I still can't decide whether that is motivating to get better or pushing me further into the depression.

If the depression and the wild weren't enough, I'm also having some pretty fuck-tastic dissociation episodes. I don't know if that is the right way to describe it. The doctor I saw about it won't tell me. In a nutshell, the world around me disappears. I am trapped in a bubble of just me until my head and body start to separate. Then I am left with two options. I can either sit there and bawl like a baby in terror for hours until miraculously the world is in focus again. Or I can speed up the process and cut myself. I know, totally fucked up. Or maybe not. The doctor didn't think it was important enough to talk about.

I suppose it is worth mentioning that I'm off all my meds. They were numbing me. They were making it harder and harder for me to write, the one and only thing that I took any pride in before this whole ordeal. I believe that they were prescribed to me by doctors who really didn't give a shit about my well-being. They just wanted me to talk slower and sit still. So fuck em. Fuck the doctors who wouldn't give me more than 5 minutes to explain what was wrong. And fuck the meds they gave me to shut me up.

I came to this lovely conclusion after spending a bit of time at a temporarily unnamed mental facility. (When I reveal where this care came from, I want to do so in a more level-headed manner.) I admitted myself with great support from Boyfriend and Dad with the hope that I was finally going to get real help. That maybe someone would be able to explain to me what I was saying to them in confusion. Nope. I got in a fight with Dr. Narcissist and was discharged against medical advice. But more on that later.

So here I am. Free from Lithium. Free from Zoloft. Starting the cycle over again. Taking on the monsters that are stronger than ever with my bare fists and losing. Apparently there is never a good time to bow out graciously, or at least that is what I'm told. So I have to keep fighting for something I don't even believe in anymore. Hope is gone. Or I was naive to think it was ever there to begin with.

The Lorazopam has kicked in finally. I'm probably going to regret posting this later, but whatever. For now, maybe I can maybe enjoy a few moments of the day. 

A Scar and A Story

***MAY BE TRIGGERING***

***SELF-INJURY DISCUSSED***

"You had a suicide attempt?!"

After two hours of going into great detail about our mental illnesses and joking about the crazy episodes we have each had, hearing that I had a pretty decent scar on my wrist was what made him abandon the easy-going attitude.

"Umm, not really. I mean, kinda? It could have been. I don't really remember."

As we talked about the stigma that comes along with the labels and media hype, I casually mentioned that it is my wrist that makes me feel the most vulnerable. It's the one piece of my illness that it is tangible. And I'm fuzzy on how it got there. I spent this morning staring at, as though it's going to suddenly take a dignified pose and voice to ask for a glass of wine before beginning our chat. Oh, Silly Scar, you know we can't have alcohol anymore.

It happened sometime after my ER visit and before I was diagnosed with bipolar. They threw some Zoloft at me, like they do to everyone who walks through those doors, and told Boyfriend not to let me kill myself. Thanks, Doc. Hadn't thought of trying that. Lucky for us, the next month was pretty boring. I had nauseating side effects. I felt like a zombie. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

*****

Hell yeah, the depression had lifted! I didn't cry at all anymore. I had an abundance of energy that I hadn't felt in months. Years. EVER! This was amazing for my freelance writing work. I could write one article while mentally planning the next and planning what was for dinner and creating a cleaning schedule so nothing was out of place to distract me from the work that needed to be done.

One day was particularly bad though. I was a squirrel on crack with nothing to put my energy into. Since I didn't have the focus to write, I got frustrated. "Frustrated" doesn't do it justice. I was filled with more raw, uncontrolled emotion than the day I got taken into the ER for my safety.

The pacing began. I thought maybe I could cry it out, exhaust myself so my mind had to follow. I tried, but I started to lose my other senses before I even got winded. I couldn't hear myself crying, and the whole world was blurry. I could only see my hands. I couldn't even feel the ground beneath me.

The next part is what really scares me. Since I am not allowed to have razors for obvious reasons, I decided to drive to get some. Granted, I only had to drive for a total of maybe three minutes, but I couldn't see, feel, or hear what was happening around me. And why would anyone sell razors to someone who was shaking, crying, and confused?!

Next thing I know, I'm home and frantically pulling the blade out of the knock off Bic. I'm slicing the tips of my fingers in the process, but I don't feel it or even see the blood. When it finally pulled free, I didn't hesitate to drag it across my skin. I see a fuzzy haze of red beginning to fill my vision, but my arm is just a tingling, numb thing that I deemed useful for only one purpose. And it was failing. I tried again. Over and over but nothing.

Minutes or an hour later, I am finally exhausted. I clean up the blood, throw away my tank top, and take a nap.

The End.

*****

But not really the end at all. Here I am, months later, trying to figure out what happened that day. I don't think my goal was to kill myself, which is why I couldn't really say that it was a suicide attempt. But I do think that I was willing to do anything to get the crazy fast thoughts to shut up for a goddamn minute. Even if that meant risking death.

Because my whole world was blurry and I couldn't hear well, I felt incredibly disconnected from anything physical and time wasn't really a thing anymore. I couldn't be certain that my material possessions were how I left them. I couldn't see past my arms. I felt like I was losing all control and literally slipping out of existence in a way that allowed me to be with the people and things that kept me safe.

When I couldn't feel the pain that I was inflicting on myself, I got nervous. Like maybe I had gone bat shit insane and I was going to get taken away. I think for a while I was doing it because I thought I needed to check to see if I was capable of killing myself. That's not something you should just check from time to time.

As awful as it is to say, my plan did kind of work in the end. After cutting myself, I was able to finally get the thoughts to calm down enough so I could sleep. It was definitely not worth it. It was incredibly dangerous, and I get sick to my stomach when I picture it even though I didn't flinch when I did it. Cutting myself was a desperate measure that I took during a desperate time before being diagnosed, before understanding that this "crazy" I felt was a chemical imbalance in my brain.

Somehow, cutting myself apart was my effort to make me feel whole again. It was a last ditch effort to bring back all the senses, connect my body and mind, and remind my monsters that I'm still in control. When an initial cut didn't do the trick, I tried again and deeper. For whatever reason, be it defeat or glimpse of sanity, I stopped short of causing any real damage. I just got a scar and a story.