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.

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. 

I just got my nails did!

Actually, I got them on clearance at Walgreens. The shaking hands because of the damn lithium have gotten no better. I moped at my inability to paint my nails for a bit, but then decided to make fun of a bad situation. Voila! Fancy fake nails!!!

I have never done this before, and feel kind of like a dinosaur with talons. I now understand why there are nail salons everywhere. I am surprised more people don't make dinosaur noises walking out though.

Bah Humbug! No, that’s too strong, ’cause it is my favorite holiday

Good Riddance, Christmas!!! Bah humbug!!! Other anti-holiday phrases! Ok, just kidding. I love the holidays, but can't there be one that celebrates the circadian rhythm? Or maybe a holiday where everyone turns off their cell phones and no one cooks? Fun!

In all seriousness, it is hard to have a mental illness and carry on with the social conventions that appear to come naturally to the rest of the world during festive times. I understand that everyone has stress involving finances, relatives, and general exhaustion this time of year. But when you throw a mental illness or two into the mix, December is not only stressful, it can be triggering.

I can't speak for every person and all illnesses, but here are a few of the hardships I experienced December 23-25.

• Lots of people were in my house two days in a row. This is a big deal. I spent a long time isolating myself, sneaking out of gatherings early, and "feeling sick." Now all of a sudden, I had people ringing my doorbell, and I had to let them in. Because I invited them. 

• Not only did these people want to come in, they expected me to be dressed and capable of pleasant conversation (neither of which are guarantees on any given day). I broke down in loud, messy tears in the middle of pre-party cleaning, hating myself for not being normal and afraid that I wouldn't be able to handle a Christmas party with family I see on a regular basis and friends I talk to daily. "It's my party and I'll cry if I want to"? Bullshit. That is a bad party. A bad party that would have all the guests backing up to door and talking about the crazy lady who thought she was capable of sanity for a few hours.

• Then there is the opposite of depression to worry about when you're bipolar. "Wild Mary" kicked in on Christmas Eve, and she cooked for at least 9 hours, and cleaned for another two, starting at 6 because she woke up before 5. Dainty little appetizers, color-coded fruit kabobs, individual wonton cups for spinach dip, multi-cultural desserts, and dreidel-shaped ice. With the wildness usually comes anxiety. By the time guests arrived, I was sure they would see I'm crazy. My mania was written all over those mini quiches. 

• At my house, every other house, and most offices, food. Food as far as the eye can see. Chocolate and cheese and sausage and breads and pie and egg nog. Do I really need to explain why that may be scary to someone with anorexia? 

• I am not the most superficial girl, but I do like pretty nails. Any coat of color will do really. But Lithium tremors came full force the day before Christmas Eve. I wanted some festive, fun nails. Lithium just wanted to splash red all over my fingers. I felt like I was preparing for a low budget Christmas-themed horror film. 

• Finally, there is alcohol to worry about. I don't go to bars or clubs for the sole purpose of not drinking, but it creeps its way in during the holidays, oozing down the windows and crawling under the door. Oh, right. I wasn't actually in a Christmas horror movie. Fine, I bought it. But not with the intent to drink. It fucks with the lithium. Like, for real. Christmas Eve, I had to make a choice: drink with my friends and suffer the consequences, or abstain like a good girl and feel bitter that I don't get to relax after all my hard work. I drank. I didn't sleep all night. I was dizzy for hours. Bad choice, and I didn't even get close to drunk.

I love my family and friends. I love the holidays. I had a wonderful time when I wasn't teetering on the edge and was glad I did it. I proved to everyone that I can hold it together and create a wonderful evening and cook lunch on no sleep the next day. But next year, I'm handing over the reins or serving hot dogs. You guys pick.

All I wanted was to sleep...

I took my first Lithium 2 and a half hours ago. For about 2 hours and 20 minutes, I have been in analyzing mode. I keep staring at my hands to check if they’re shaking and stopping dead in my tracks, totally unprompted by any feelings of discomfort, to decide if I am nauseous. So far, no tremors or vomiting that I’m aware of.

When I went for my monthly check-in a few days ago, I was all set to tell my doctor how much better I’m doing. My creativity is back, I enjoy sex A LOT again, and I am no longer isolating myself from the people who love me. The one and only problem I saw was that my sleep schedule was off. I would be so wound up from the excitement of living again after being depressed for so long that it was difficult to relax my mind. That’s nothing a little Ambien can’t fix.

“Nope, you’re not happy; you’re insane!. No Ambien for you. Take TONS of Lithium and calm the f*ck down, crazy lady!”

Ok, that’s not what the doctor said at all, but that’s definitely what I heard. My anti-drug attitude made starting the Zoloft a couple of months ago unnerving enough. But being medicated for the same disorder that killed my mom was terrifying.

On the drive home, I thought of every reason I shouldn’t take it.

• I’m anorexic. It could be mentally damaging to take a drug that might make me gain a little weight. Taking it would be irresponsible.
• The next day is Thanksgiving. They expect me start a nauseating drug during the season of eating?
• I can try natural remedies to cure whatever I may have.
• I never drink enough water during the day. The lithium will kill my kidneys.
• If I take this drug, it will dull the creative side of me that earns my paycheck.
• No one knows that I have been prescribed it. I can just dump the pills and tell them my doctor wants me to stick with the Zoloft regiment. (Since I am not the secret-keeping type, I emailed Boyfriend at work about how upset I was before I even took off my coat.)
• I’m not crazy.
• Seriously, I’m not crazy. I’m fine.

Talking things out with Boyfriend reminded me that I have the best support system in the world. Boyfriend’s dad reassured me that the pills are meant to help but I am in no way committed to them. And one of my best friends promised me that he will keep me active so I don’t get fat. I stopped pacing, but still wasn't ready to accept it.

After all was said and done, it took a long, hot, soul-searching shower alone to get me to accept that this may be for the best. I am still extremely leery of the medicine and terrified that I might have my mother’s disorder, but I felt like not giving the Lithium a shot would be like taking a step backwards in my recovery.