Don't get me wrong. I love Facebook: it's just the charming inconsistencies that drive me to my meds, and that spot where I used to hide the bottle.
And how are you this morning? I actually slept well last night, I'll tell you why. Vapid is taking us a vacation at the ocean. She is Gone Until Tomorrow.
Then I get up, try to place my blog site as the last 'place of employment' on my updated Facebook timeline, and get bupkus. Don't try to look up that word, if your native tongue is not English. I'm sure it's in some dictionary somewhere, but I'm on a roll this morning and can't be bothered to look it up. I don't even know if I spelled it right. But that's how it was pronounced in my family, and that's how I'm spelling it.
I will define it for you: Nada, zilch, nothing. It is the only double positive in English that means a negative. Used in a sentence, "I looked for Lord Voldemort all day, and didn't get bupkus." From the Latin root: Butt Kiss. I know, I know, it can be confusing. It's on the same level as, "I didn't get squat." Which states that you actually got something, but means that you got bupkus. Nothing.
That's what I didn't get from Facebook this morning. And let me tell you, waking up and "not getting bupkus" is like reading yet another medication bottle that says it may cause lack of sexual desire. Well, of course it might. Drug designers don't want us to have fun, do they?
That is the constant battle for people like me: It can't effect our desire to eat so that we LOSE weight, just the opposite. To be plain, we can be physically attractive and have sex and be spinning tops out in the world, or we can conform and take our meds. Now, Ladies and Gentlemen, which would YOU choose? Let's be honest here. This isn't a test. You wanted to know why so many people are on disability? They choose exactly as you would choose if you had to face that choice.
So the dance is this: we, the mentally disabled, periodically don't take our meds, or play with doses, or are constantly searching for another one, and we get bupkus. Even I, who is a stickler for taking her meds, plays with this option (see yesterday's post.) The hard core medications for psychiatric illness in the 1950's were LSD and Lithium. No kidding. Guess which one the medical establishment chose to endorse?
And they call us paranoid.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
Deep in Clover
I am disrupting my dog, Max's, sleep schedule getting up at this hour but the cats roll with the punches. Today is Black Cat Appreciation Day and I am celebrating it in my heart. Mine was called Fudge and lived to be 23 years old. He was Mom's special cat, and a week after she passed, he curled up on her bed and died.
It looks more and more as if the kindly stepfather and Sunbunny will have to put the house up for sale, if Vapid has anything to do with it. She is nasty enough with alcohol, but without is truly a nightmare. She stayed closed in her room yesterday, but snapped when Married but Single showed up to take her out for the evening. It's amazing how she can stay upright on the back of a motorcycle...In the latter stages of liver disease, the liver, and thus, the stomach, distends. I can't tell how much of that she has because of her diapers; is it diaper or stomach? She also wears enormous coats, even in the hottest weather, and that alters her silhouette as well.
Although I have no room to talk. I am chunkier than before I quit drinking, from eating more. AA tells us not to worry the first year about gaining weight, "First things First." You can always lose that weight after you have some sobriety under your belt, is the reasoning. But eating a pound of fudge at one sitting? Don't know about that.
Which leads me to my medications or meds. I have, once again, taken myself off of Abilify. After a month on it, I am eating like Vin Deisel and I hit deep depression. I only take it in desperation. As a recovering alcoholic, my shrink won't prescribe anything like xanax, ativan, or any other anti-anxiety drug. You know, the good stuff, that works.
No, he and my therapist have come to the conclusion that I can overcome all those nightmares and anxiety with my mind. Meditation, regular exercise, healthy diet; all that shit that any normal person with mental illness tends to avoid.
For my anxiety, they also have me taking 6 mgs. of omega 3 fatty acids, or fish oil pills a day. They do work on the nervous system, quieting the 'fight or flight' response; that is, I'm not so jumpy. They also make my hair shiny. But it's not the instant release from overwhelming worry that I want. I can feel my life shortening with every panic attack, and to not give me something proven to work seems cruel.
I am most bitter against my gentle and humorous shrink (psychiatrist). He has battled with me for 17 years, but he takes his own advice and is quite well mentally, and I am sure, sleeps soundly at night. And yet, here I am writing this blog at 3 AM. As I lie down for a nap at 8 AM, I have this cynical picture of him in some deeply carpeted bedroom, which muffles the footsteps of the maid who opens the drapes, and serves him breakfast in bed. He has a bird's eye view of his estate, hip deep in horses and deer, and there is always a sprightly flower on his breakfast tray, which is adorned with china and fine linen.
I don't feel the same about my new therapist because I have his phone number, which he will actually answer anytime of the day or night. Now that's plebeian for you. I only call when I am really going off the deep end with no respite in sight, but I know he doesn't get crumpets and Earl Gray for breakfast. I just have this feeling. He also doesn't like to take vacations, which is one up in my book. After all, I am mentally ill 24/7, why should he get any time off?
Of course, the time off keeps him sane enough to treat me, so I try not to complain. But it's hard to view the unrelenting nature of mental illness and not be bitter. I mean, my gods above, the medical establishment is still using Lithium, designed in the 1950's...don't get me started.
It looks more and more as if the kindly stepfather and Sunbunny will have to put the house up for sale, if Vapid has anything to do with it. She is nasty enough with alcohol, but without is truly a nightmare. She stayed closed in her room yesterday, but snapped when Married but Single showed up to take her out for the evening. It's amazing how she can stay upright on the back of a motorcycle...In the latter stages of liver disease, the liver, and thus, the stomach, distends. I can't tell how much of that she has because of her diapers; is it diaper or stomach? She also wears enormous coats, even in the hottest weather, and that alters her silhouette as well.
Although I have no room to talk. I am chunkier than before I quit drinking, from eating more. AA tells us not to worry the first year about gaining weight, "First things First." You can always lose that weight after you have some sobriety under your belt, is the reasoning. But eating a pound of fudge at one sitting? Don't know about that.
Which leads me to my medications or meds. I have, once again, taken myself off of Abilify. After a month on it, I am eating like Vin Deisel and I hit deep depression. I only take it in desperation. As a recovering alcoholic, my shrink won't prescribe anything like xanax, ativan, or any other anti-anxiety drug. You know, the good stuff, that works.
No, he and my therapist have come to the conclusion that I can overcome all those nightmares and anxiety with my mind. Meditation, regular exercise, healthy diet; all that shit that any normal person with mental illness tends to avoid.
For my anxiety, they also have me taking 6 mgs. of omega 3 fatty acids, or fish oil pills a day. They do work on the nervous system, quieting the 'fight or flight' response; that is, I'm not so jumpy. They also make my hair shiny. But it's not the instant release from overwhelming worry that I want. I can feel my life shortening with every panic attack, and to not give me something proven to work seems cruel.
I am most bitter against my gentle and humorous shrink (psychiatrist). He has battled with me for 17 years, but he takes his own advice and is quite well mentally, and I am sure, sleeps soundly at night. And yet, here I am writing this blog at 3 AM. As I lie down for a nap at 8 AM, I have this cynical picture of him in some deeply carpeted bedroom, which muffles the footsteps of the maid who opens the drapes, and serves him breakfast in bed. He has a bird's eye view of his estate, hip deep in horses and deer, and there is always a sprightly flower on his breakfast tray, which is adorned with china and fine linen.
I don't feel the same about my new therapist because I have his phone number, which he will actually answer anytime of the day or night. Now that's plebeian for you. I only call when I am really going off the deep end with no respite in sight, but I know he doesn't get crumpets and Earl Gray for breakfast. I just have this feeling. He also doesn't like to take vacations, which is one up in my book. After all, I am mentally ill 24/7, why should he get any time off?
Of course, the time off keeps him sane enough to treat me, so I try not to complain. But it's hard to view the unrelenting nature of mental illness and not be bitter. I mean, my gods above, the medical establishment is still using Lithium, designed in the 1950's...don't get me started.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Thursday
It's too early for the unicorn meat eating cats to hunt, and the wrong phase of the moon. Max hasn't had anymore seizures, and I feel ok. That's the start of a very good day. Let's hope it stays that way.
Everything is ok at this time of the morning; it's the benefit of getting up now. No one else is awake. It's when the sun comes up that my troubles start. And, although that might sound overly cynical, it works out to be true every single morning. Today is a Thursday without a therapy session; Vinnie is on vacation. I'll just have to vent my spleen here.
But at this hour, as I have said, I don't have that much spleen to vent. Which I am very grateful for.
Later: Sorry, folks, even I had to go back to bed at that hour. Instead of chasing unicorns, the cats are SUNNING. I'm not sure the last time the little one, Minkins, got to go outside when there is daylight out there. I hope he doesn't go blind...
The big cat, Rat-faced Bastard, or Rattie for short, is wandering in and out. He gets to go out in the sunlight, so he is unimpressed with this unusual time. He just wants food.
I have a small fear of not having a therapy session today, but even they have to take vacations, I suppose. I have my favorite AA meeting later on this afternoon, so that will be tranquil.
So this is just Thursday. Until tomorrow.
Everything is ok at this time of the morning; it's the benefit of getting up now. No one else is awake. It's when the sun comes up that my troubles start. And, although that might sound overly cynical, it works out to be true every single morning. Today is a Thursday without a therapy session; Vinnie is on vacation. I'll just have to vent my spleen here.
But at this hour, as I have said, I don't have that much spleen to vent. Which I am very grateful for.
Later: Sorry, folks, even I had to go back to bed at that hour. Instead of chasing unicorns, the cats are SUNNING. I'm not sure the last time the little one, Minkins, got to go outside when there is daylight out there. I hope he doesn't go blind...
The big cat, Rat-faced Bastard, or Rattie for short, is wandering in and out. He gets to go out in the sunlight, so he is unimpressed with this unusual time. He just wants food.
I have a small fear of not having a therapy session today, but even they have to take vacations, I suppose. I have my favorite AA meeting later on this afternoon, so that will be tranquil.
So this is just Thursday. Until tomorrow.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
The Leaves
It IS fall. I know the heat beats down and I sweat and swim, but the sounds are different. I have to make plans for the winter, the zinnia won't last forever. And soon, my backyard will be full of unicorns. I won't be able to let the cats out to chase them.
I can't drink myself through the winter like I did last time. Drinking heavily is a time waster, but eventually the heaves make it less worth while. Smoking and drinking coffee are an alternative, but coffee consumption and cabin fever are not a good combo. If I eat my way through the winter, I won't be able to fit through the doorway come spring...and on and on.
I am happier this morning with my mental status. I have gotten enormous amounts of sleep and I no longer feel a bit dead. And yes, feeling a bit dead is worse than feeling all dead. Fall is happening as we speak, in this small corner of the world, and I am unreasonably happy. For me. Today. But who knows what the day will bring?
No therapist Vinnie this week, he's on vacation, so one of my anchors is gone. And, as I have noted before, all my teacher friends have gone back to school. But I believe I can coast on the yoga classes, Facebook, and the difference in the air.
I feel as if Summer has definitely spoken, and I am listening for a quieter voice. It's time to go listen to the cicadas...
I can't drink myself through the winter like I did last time. Drinking heavily is a time waster, but eventually the heaves make it less worth while. Smoking and drinking coffee are an alternative, but coffee consumption and cabin fever are not a good combo. If I eat my way through the winter, I won't be able to fit through the doorway come spring...and on and on.
I am happier this morning with my mental status. I have gotten enormous amounts of sleep and I no longer feel a bit dead. And yes, feeling a bit dead is worse than feeling all dead. Fall is happening as we speak, in this small corner of the world, and I am unreasonably happy. For me. Today. But who knows what the day will bring?
No therapist Vinnie this week, he's on vacation, so one of my anchors is gone. And, as I have noted before, all my teacher friends have gone back to school. But I believe I can coast on the yoga classes, Facebook, and the difference in the air.
I feel as if Summer has definitely spoken, and I am listening for a quieter voice. It's time to go listen to the cicadas...
Monday, August 13, 2012
Another Day in the Life
Even the unicorn meat eating cats are sleeping right now...
I went to an 'Arts Evening' yesterday at a friend's house; we'll call her the Saucy Brit and her husband, Tom Cat. I call her saucy because of her personality, and for her willingness to stand up to the Arts Powers that Be in the area.
As I have said before, I love hanging with worldly, or educated people. I'll take either. They relax me enough so that I don't usually commit the social faux pas to which my disabilities make me prone. I have actually gone into shock meeting people before, and the results can be disastrous. That's why I tell people I am a writer as soon as I meet them. They can chalk up that twitch to riotous living. I am particularly adept at funerals. More than once I have made a total ass of myself over a coffin, and now avoid them like the plague...as it were.
But last evening was dedicated to studying a few of Leonardo da Vinci's works. It was a great presentation by the moderator and the evening 'went well.' What is left of my social being sucked it up as hard as I could. I would spend all day, every day like that if I could.
The inner me: It was an evening watching the light filter through the curtains onto the face of a friend, Storm. We sent the cats, Emma and Portia, back and forth between us like we were playing a game of badminton. Tasty foods and wine (you know I drank the water) and every once in a while the entire crowd would drift out into the garden. At the end, people left like smoke dispersing, and what was left was a hard core group of chatty people enjoying the evening and being in each others company.
Every where I turned I felt nothing but acceptance. It is a rare enough experience in this chaotic world we all share. It's a world where even our proponents in the health professions call people like me 'a consumer.' It is Freedom.
And so my mouth moved, but I was struck speechless by this atmosphere maintained by the Saucy Brit and Tom Cat. I haven't felt so talented and special since my mother died...
And they are back to the zinnia, and the lavender. Now the cats are awake, and want to hunt. Max is all for more sleep, hiding his eyes under the blanket. And my world contracts like a dying star, which has swollen to absorb all matter within it's reach, and now shrinks again, but sending out starlight all the same.
I went to an 'Arts Evening' yesterday at a friend's house; we'll call her the Saucy Brit and her husband, Tom Cat. I call her saucy because of her personality, and for her willingness to stand up to the Arts Powers that Be in the area.
As I have said before, I love hanging with worldly, or educated people. I'll take either. They relax me enough so that I don't usually commit the social faux pas to which my disabilities make me prone. I have actually gone into shock meeting people before, and the results can be disastrous. That's why I tell people I am a writer as soon as I meet them. They can chalk up that twitch to riotous living. I am particularly adept at funerals. More than once I have made a total ass of myself over a coffin, and now avoid them like the plague...as it were.
But last evening was dedicated to studying a few of Leonardo da Vinci's works. It was a great presentation by the moderator and the evening 'went well.' What is left of my social being sucked it up as hard as I could. I would spend all day, every day like that if I could.
The inner me: It was an evening watching the light filter through the curtains onto the face of a friend, Storm. We sent the cats, Emma and Portia, back and forth between us like we were playing a game of badminton. Tasty foods and wine (you know I drank the water) and every once in a while the entire crowd would drift out into the garden. At the end, people left like smoke dispersing, and what was left was a hard core group of chatty people enjoying the evening and being in each others company.
Every where I turned I felt nothing but acceptance. It is a rare enough experience in this chaotic world we all share. It's a world where even our proponents in the health professions call people like me 'a consumer.' It is Freedom.
And so my mouth moved, but I was struck speechless by this atmosphere maintained by the Saucy Brit and Tom Cat. I haven't felt so talented and special since my mother died...
And they are back to the zinnia, and the lavender. Now the cats are awake, and want to hunt. Max is all for more sleep, hiding his eyes under the blanket. And my world contracts like a dying star, which has swollen to absorb all matter within it's reach, and now shrinks again, but sending out starlight all the same.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Contentment
It's a quiet morning in this small corner of the world. I had my PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) triggered on Wednesday, and yesterday was a day it took to get over it. A visit with a favorite professor friend, and a visit with a writer friend, and all my worries melted away.
Sometimes the zinnia and water can't do it all...I have to have reassuring contact. And my friends are all interesting. It's a very humbling experience having that many. Just as it's a humbling experience talking to you every morning.
Today, I have the riches of yet another visit and fruit and tea to look forward to. My tiny apartment will reflect the sunlight, and is bursting with a clean glow and the scent of candles. The walnut furniture has been waxed, and the pillows are plumped. A favorite picture, of my mother at 16, hangs in its mahogany frame which gleams with lemon oil. Other photos, of my brother and I in the wilds of Scotland, hang less grandly, but familiar. A sketch and a painting are nearby. The ironwood dolphin and the basket of marble eggs are older still and sit on the end tables, along with a wood carving of hands Beth gave me one year. And then there are the animal accessories...Max will leap around and one cat will hide and one will not; all is as it should be.
I wish you were here with me.
Sometimes the zinnia and water can't do it all...I have to have reassuring contact. And my friends are all interesting. It's a very humbling experience having that many. Just as it's a humbling experience talking to you every morning.
Today, I have the riches of yet another visit and fruit and tea to look forward to. My tiny apartment will reflect the sunlight, and is bursting with a clean glow and the scent of candles. The walnut furniture has been waxed, and the pillows are plumped. A favorite picture, of my mother at 16, hangs in its mahogany frame which gleams with lemon oil. Other photos, of my brother and I in the wilds of Scotland, hang less grandly, but familiar. A sketch and a painting are nearby. The ironwood dolphin and the basket of marble eggs are older still and sit on the end tables, along with a wood carving of hands Beth gave me one year. And then there are the animal accessories...Max will leap around and one cat will hide and one will not; all is as it should be.
I wish you were here with me.
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Quo Vadis?
The next four days are packed full of excitement for me...therapy, haircut, AA meetings; my life is a whirlwind. And so last night, when I told him of my plans, the kindly stepfather pouted. All that means to him is boredom...no one there to listen or care or know if he decides to go outside or clean or eat. This is a very active man stuck in a chair for most of the hours of the day. I can only keep up with him when I am manic. And he doesn't understand all the other parts of bipolar: sleep.
I mean, going to a discussion of the Arts on Sunday, I don't know how I got into this dissolute life, but really!
I missed the Olympics last night, but got to bed at 9 AM and woke at 3 AM. I am still living my manic schedule in the hopes that the mania will be tempted, and come back. Tempting the Muse, as it were...
The blood work for Maxipad came back, and he is perfect, except that he has seizures. My vibrant, vigorous rescue has epilepsy. Which matters not a bit to me. He can accidentally pee on anything he wants and I will still love him wildly. I am turning into a human being after all...
The Fall of the year is coming quickly. I am sucking up all the summer I can to get me through a winter with no booze to make things interesting. The banana peppers did well this year, and the zinnia and the lavender and tomatoes. Fall used to remind me of the start of the school year. Now, it reminds me of a day in a special coffee shop, with the lemony light falling in through the windows, and the scent of cake and coffee surrounding me...
I have visits with friends to look forward to. All of my best friends are teachers and I am visiting with them all in turn before our life changes with the arrival of students. I always think there is something freudian about my choice of friends. In what part of my childhood did I pick up an attraction for those who teach? Not that I am complaining, but my life becomes very circumspect at this time of year. I need to branch out...
Until tomorrow.
I mean, going to a discussion of the Arts on Sunday, I don't know how I got into this dissolute life, but really!
I missed the Olympics last night, but got to bed at 9 AM and woke at 3 AM. I am still living my manic schedule in the hopes that the mania will be tempted, and come back. Tempting the Muse, as it were...
The blood work for Maxipad came back, and he is perfect, except that he has seizures. My vibrant, vigorous rescue has epilepsy. Which matters not a bit to me. He can accidentally pee on anything he wants and I will still love him wildly. I am turning into a human being after all...
The Fall of the year is coming quickly. I am sucking up all the summer I can to get me through a winter with no booze to make things interesting. The banana peppers did well this year, and the zinnia and the lavender and tomatoes. Fall used to remind me of the start of the school year. Now, it reminds me of a day in a special coffee shop, with the lemony light falling in through the windows, and the scent of cake and coffee surrounding me...
I have visits with friends to look forward to. All of my best friends are teachers and I am visiting with them all in turn before our life changes with the arrival of students. I always think there is something freudian about my choice of friends. In what part of my childhood did I pick up an attraction for those who teach? Not that I am complaining, but my life becomes very circumspect at this time of year. I need to branch out...
Until tomorrow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)