It's like color has left the world.

A break from my trivial ramblings to recognize these two.  It's been a couple months since we lost Bowie, but I thought I would honor him as well.

RIP

T-t-t-t-today junior!

Overnight my symptoms shifted from “exceptionally annoying” to “somewhat concerning”. 

It feels like how you would imagine having your memory erased with the “flashy thingy” from Men in Black.  (If you continue to read my blog you’re going to have to get used to the fact that pop culture references are a thing.) There’s a flash and a jolt and suddenly whatever I had on my mind is wiped clean.  Not permantantly, of course- it's momentary.

The problem is that even if I pick it up, even if what I’m saying makes perfect sense in my head, I can’t get it out cleanly.  There’s something caught in the gears of my mind; all gears are ready to go but get stuck on the beginning of the sentence, and every repeat is an attempt to dislodge the rest.

Yes, this is more concerning than annoying.  I’ll probably text Dr. G about it.  Better another case going in my "neurosis" folder rather than "preventable fatality".

G-g-g-grass.

Happy 4/20.

33 missed calls?

I’d rather think of that as indicator of how in-demand I am rather than my ignoring the outside world.

Today went by so fast and I can hardly remember what I did.  I think dishes, laundry, and writing, which was difficult.  I think it’s because of the chocohol.  I’ve had something like this before, on different medications, but it was diagnosed as psychogenic non-epileptic seizure disorder.

It feels like an icicle is piercing your brain and there’s ice water running through your veins.  You twitch.  You stumble.

It’s hard to read or write, your hands will unceremoniously slam the keyboard.  You sometimes forget words or you’ll start talking and forget where you were going.  You stuttter.  You slur.

Without warning you drop whatever you’re holding, which is fine when you’re holding, say, a, cotton ball, but less okay when you’re holding, say, your cell phone or, maybe, a priceless Faberge egg filled with scalding hot coffee.

You get that feeling you get when you fall in a dream and it’s like an electric shock.

I can’t say it’s the chocohol for sure but I have a feeling it is and that Dr. G is going to want to do something about it.  

I'm not fussed.  This is one of the aspects of being sick that I file in the “exceptionally annoying” folder rather than the “tormenting” folder.  

It's pretty childish but I'm just so sick of complaining to my doctors.  Since I graduated it's been one thing after another.  I know, I probably shouldn't write these symptoms off right away if there's a chance it could end up in the "preventable fatality" folder.  

I’m just glad I can cross PNESD off my list.  I have enough diagnoses to last me a lifetime.

I love you, baby, I just love me so much more

I’ve been so down on myself for so long, I decided that for perhaps the length of one journal entry I’m going to change things up.  You might say I am practicing self-love, but I 'd rather say I've gone so far into the realms of disgustingly self-glorifying that I will propel myself out of this funk. 

Shoot for the stars but resolve to chill on the moon sort of thing,

Anyway, some of my favorite songs of unabashed shamelessness.

Old News, New Opinions

Word in the news (admittedly for several years) is that there is a link between depression and inflammation, that depression may even be an allergic reaction to inflammation. 

The link exists in “sickness behavior”- something that occurs both for people with, say, the flu, and for people with depression.  Sickness behavior is that general low-energy, low-motivation, pain-sensitive, hygiene-resisting malaise that renders you immobile when you’re sick.  It's not sickness itself, but the way the body directs its powers away from everyday tasks and focuses everything on fighting off the disease.

What I love about this theory- whether or not it is true- is that it makes depression relatable.  Anyone who has ever been moderately ill has a measure of insight as to what depression feels like.  It legitimizes that this is an illness and is not something that can be brushed off or sucked up or pulled up by one’s bootstraps.  In fact, believing one is in a funk or just being lazy is a part of the mental distortion of depression.

Just for kicks, I’ve made a list of my sickness behavior

When… 

-You don’t have the strength to lift your toothbrush.

-You resign yourself to the fact that it’s going to be a messy bun week.

-The floor is lava.

-Your apartment looks like an episode of Hoarders.

-Potato chips are an acceptable form of sustenance unless you can manage to make yourself a poptart.

-You’ve been wearing the same clothes for the past 36 hours, and plan to continue to wear them for at least the next 12.

-Getting out of bed is a substantial process requiring a forklift, an elaborate pulley system, and blind faith.

-You thank god that your pet can’t speak, lest it tell tales of your epic journey from the bed to the couch and back to the bed.

It’s best to understand that this is only part of what it feels like to suffer from depression.  For one, it’s a pretty light-hearted account but also it doesn’t include the desperately low mood, brutal anxiety, and negative mental onslaught of depression.

This is how I feel now, but I think it's just a side effect of the Chocohol.  That’s good news and bad news.  It’s good that I’m not sick or depressed, but now I’m stuck with this feeling and have no way of knowing when it will go away.

As I’ve said before, I’m just hoping that it’s a matter of getting used to the meds.

Chocohol

So because I’m lazy and stubborn and don’t like to admit that I need medication to be a functioning human person, I let my medications run out.  I’m not talking about the anxiety medications that I’m not sure are exactly doing shit.  I’m talking about the heavy medication that stops me from, for example, thinking there’s a three-piece string quartet living in my walls playing the same four bars of Amazing Grace over and over again in order to torment me. 

Luckily there weren’t any consequences for my perilous game except that my mood slipped a bit.  Well I guess the main consequence was that when I got them filled and had my first dose I slept until 7pm. 

Last time I was on the heaviest of my current medications, I remember it being especially hard to get out of bed, but I don’t remember pulling 19 hours. 

I also remember gaining weight but I don’t remember having the mother of all sweet teeth (tooths?).  

Oh, but it’s not just a sweet tooth.  

I need chocolate.  I need chocolate now.

I realize that this blog is pretty much an open book into my private goings-on but even I have enough pride not to divulge the number of times I made the walk of shame over to my building’s vending machine and walked away $1.25 poorer.  Alright alright, sometimes $2.50 poorer. 

The shame.

I’m hoping I’m just adapting to it and that this problem with subside with time.  Otherwise, I may gain back all the weight I lost.

It’s not looking good.  No energy and a sweet tooth do not a healthy BMI make.

On the plus side, Dr. G spoke with the powers-at-be over at Chocohol (which is henceforth the name of the heavy medication) headquarters, and I don’t have to have weekly blood tests usually required when starting up this medication.  I was only awarded this courtesy because I’ve been on it before and because Dr. G is a hellcat from Brooklyn.

Pdoc love.

Refresh

Yes, I’m trying this again.  I’ve been writing journal entries to myself lately and decided to bring my writing to the web.  At the moment this blog is private, but if I manage to keep up with updates, I’ll open it up to the public.

In terms of what’s new, I’ve deleted a good portion of my writing on this blog and changed the look and name.  What’s especially refreshing, however, is that I’m now on the other side of a nasty depression. 

Let’s back up.  

My last entry was written one month into a hypomanic episode.  (Anyone who has ever been any degree of manic should chuckle knowingly at this- mania tends to inspire a person into taking up old- or new- hobbies and committing to them greatly for a brief period of time.)  A combination of dropping a strong medication and graduating from college sent my mental system haywire.  I liken the second aspect to Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer: one moment of pure joy makes me cuckoo bananas. 

I was between psychiatrists at the time.  Dr. Win, my trusty psychiatrist through my college years, had to close her practice for a more lucrative and stable position due to family issues.  At the time she decided to do this, things couldn’t seem any better for me.  I had been doing so well, in fact, that Dr. Marc and I were throwing out words like “remission” and wondering if we might be able to close up shop.

God, that seems like a lifetime away.

It was hardly a week after graduation that I stopped sleeping.  (Sleep is your most sensitive barometer of mental wellness, especially for but not exclusively to those who are mentally ill.)  I’ve had problems with insomnia since the fourth grade, but I always found that I severely missed the sleep I wasn’t having- I wasn’t missing sleep now.  I was feeling no pain. 

Seeing as I’m relentlessly neurotic, it was hardly a heartbeat before I hopped on over to my bestie, WebMD.  A couple days into my sleeplessness I emailed Dr. Win- “I’m having all the symptoms of mania except that I’m not being reckless.”

“Sounds like you’re hypomanic.”

She prescribed me a new medication and told me to hang tight until I saw my new psychiatrist, Dr. G, who she recommended as her replacement and is my current psychiatrist.

My first appointment with Dr. G was colorful.  I was able to give an amusingly thorough and comprehensive account of my mental health history.  I walked away from that appointment with three diagnoses: bipolar II (which would later be changed to bipolar I), obsessive-compulsive disorder, and generalized anxiety disorder. 

I’d had diagnoses thrown around for most of my life, but never had I had anything securely in place.  I never had anything I could identify with or come to understand as the reasons behind my quirkiness. 

I soon became acquainted with words like “rapid-cycling” and “ultra rapid-cycling” and “ultra-ultra rapid-cycling” (better known as “ultradian rapid-cycling”) and the terror that is “mixed moods”.  If you were ever under the impression that mania merely consists of being super stoked all the time, you should come to learn these definitions, as well as the kind of damage a person in an excessively good mood can do.  You should be aware of unbearable anxiety and uncalled-for irritability.  You should know that a person will do and say things they can't take back.  You should be aware of the fact that what goes up must come down. 

Like. A. Bitch.

Dr. G wouldn’t even say the word.  She called it “the big D”.  We did everything to prevent it, but to no avail.

I spent two seasons under the thumb of the big D.  We tried countless medications to manage it, only to end up back on the medication I initially dropped before graduation, the one that was supposedly unnecessarily strong.

Such is life.

10 months later, I’m not sure what I’m going to do with myself.  Initially I had to put off getting a job because of the mania, then it was the depression, now it’s the side effects.  Yes, I realize that I'm running out of excuses- I don’t know what I would do even if I was 100%.  I feel like I’m not good for anything except my story, which may be what inspired this writing.  

I believe I have a story to tell.

So, let’s see if I can stop being a lazy-ass and write.