Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Shooting the Black Dog, Part 7: Mother's Little Helper

Well, I may have jumped the gun on the bipolar issue, and I gave myself the clue I may have needed to solve the problem.

I commented earlier in one of the Black Dog posts about medication--the fear of the loss of efficacy of the meds because it has happened before. You want hell... being at war with your own mind and every thing that you try to fix it stops working after a while... it's why the idea of needing the Xanax more has had me freaking. What had me even more upset was the idea that the Effexor's efficacy may be earing off. I've been on Effexor XR since 2003--it's been the best fucking drug I have ever taken for this mess that is my brain.

Well, I had a little brainstorm the other day. My doctor upped my dosage last February after the suicide attempt, from 150 mg to 225 mg., and lucky me, they didn't make a caplet that size, just a horse pill. So, after a bit of an argy-bargy with the doctor, I got him to prescribe three capsules per day to make up the dosage. (Didn't help that the fucking 226 mg horse pills, even though generic, weren't covered by my worthless health plan, so instead of $10/month for the generic 75 mg or 150 mg capsules, it would have been $45. I shit you not. May not sound like a lot of money, but when you add in the money for the inhaler, the Singular, the levoxyl, the other inhalers... the supplements that are no longer covered by the fucking tax-free account... Yeah, the meds cost keep climbing.)

One of the things that can happen with broken switches in the head, because they are chemically activated, is that too much medication is as dangerous as too little. I have gone through this before, usually with the thyroid.

Yeah, the thyroid. That which has fucked up SO MUCH. *slams head on the desk*

So, if the thyroid--which has dicked things around so badly before--has stabilized, perhaps, just perhaps, thought my thinking brain, perhaps it's the OTHER head med that's off now. *BING* Lightbulb appears over the redhead. And because of the way my med is being administered, I can do this without involving the doctor to see if the hypothesis is correct. (And go back to the higher dosage if the lower causes problems.)

And the other part of this is that I may have to vary the dosage at different times of the month. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the living chemistry experiment, and with the exception of the occasional indulgence of marijuana, all of it legal.

Sad. But better than another attempt to check out. I came too close to success last time, and succeeding would mean failing at world domination, and that would utterly fuck things up. ;-)

It's not even that I fear Death; I met him once, back in '95, while I was dealing with the aftermath of the miscarriage. The ex was being his completely utter dickhead of a self, I was going through hell, housesitting for a friend (which was what kept me from checking out--the thought that she'd have to come home to a corpse. Just a complete violation of hospitality, and when having to chose between relieving extreme soul pain by violating the most ancient of courtesies and honoring hospitality, well, I just had to take the course of honor. Because I'm funny that way). Anyway, the episode got so bad, I started hallucinating. Or perhaps I was seeing what was really there, who knows? I know enough about the subconscious and filters and the human need to deny reality to believe that anything that can unhinge the modern mind is screened out, which would make the mad people really the sane people because they had a real grasp of what was there, but then... that's crazy talk. ;-)

ANYWAY... at the lowest moment, when I was right on the edge, Death was there in the doorway, waiting like a lover, arms open, a figure of light, and I knew that if I stepped into his embrace, there would be no more pain. It would all be over--the pain would finally end. And this was the only lover I could ever trust 150% not to hurt me. All I had to do was surrender.

I am not good at surrender. You may have figured that out about me. While I do have a submissive side, I am definitely on the equal footing/dominant side of the sexual spectrum. I wanted to cross the room--I wanted the release he was offering. But I also knew the price of surrender. I have never, ever been so perfectly poised in balance between life and death as I was at that moment. Of course, I chose to fight on. Because I'm like that--I never take the easy way.

I can't say I regret the choice; there will come a day when he returns, and it will be my time to surrender, and I hope I'm at the age where it's been so long since I've had it, I welcome the attention of a young man. ;-)

(Yes, I find my own drama highly amusing. I have to. If I didn't, I'D BE DEAD. So laugh along with me, will ya?)

But I digress...

Since the gastric bypass, I am not supposed to take large tablets because my stomach tissue is a bit delicate: the bottom part, where all the acid lives (the stuff that breaks down everything), is cut off, so it's harder to digest things. It's why reputable gastric bypass programs require you to go to a nutritionist and attend support group meetings--so you learn the proper way to eat after surgery so you can stick to the program and actually have some weight loss success, not just in the short term, but so you can keep the blubber off.

Of course, with my elevated stress level over the past few months, things have fallen by the wayside. Like it or lump it, I'm going to have to cut back my coffee intake. (My internal four-year-old is on the floor, throwing a massive tantrum at the moment, kicking and screaming, and insisting this will not happen. I will spank the little bastard and knock 'im into line. Because it's my INNER four-year-old. :-) I'm also going to have to get back on an eating schedule--I've skipped breakfast too much of late, completely gotten off my Greek yogurt kick, and we won't talk about all the missed supplements.


And the insomnia. And the headaches. And the mood swings.


And it's winter time, so all I am craving is comfort food. Luckily, my idea of comfort food is stuff that I've worked pretty hard to adapt to healthier versions, and I happen to be an amazing fucking cook, if I do say so myself. (Can I just say how flattered I was when one of my baristas, when I was talking about holiday baking, raved about the Guinness mac 'n' cheese--an experiment, the very first attempt. You know you're good when... ;-) *sigh* So it's time to put up a bit pot of beef stew and Guinness mac & cheese (with three cheeses & Greek yogurt mixed in, and don't forget the grilled chicken... now I'm hungry, dammit).

So, my game plan... because I am not going to let the Black Dog win...
1. Cutting back the Effexor dosage to 150 mg a day & taking it ON SCHEDULE.
2. Remembering my multi-vitamin. ON SCHEDULE.
3. Eating a PROPER breakfast. BEFORE 11:00 a.m.
4. Ass BACK in the gym.

Four easily achievable things, the combination of which should get me down to a size 20 by April and a smaller bra band. Provided I can get my brain to function through the fog of anxiety and residual depression and stress. *slams head on the desk* So tired of being told how strong I am, and that if anyone can conquer this, it's me. I'd be good with Prince Charming rescuing me right now, even if it was just for a weekend and a long, hard shagging. Seriously. I'd never be comfortable with a permanent rescue--I really prefer standing on my own two feet, and don't trust anyone trying to solve my problems for me. Life doesn't work that way.

But I'd take a short-term rescue... a little pampering... possibly involving a hot tub, champagne (optional), lots of Lush bath bombs & massage bars, a king size bed and a lot of sex... Yeah, that would work.

*sigh* IF ONLY!

Although... going to the gym means exposure to... muscles. Muscles. On men. Oooooooooo... *swoon* *dreamy smile* Sweaty, hard working muscles... Lickable, kissable, delicious MUSCLES... OK... motivation acquired. Most women, offer 'em chocolate for motivation. Me? SCENERY. Loooooooove muscular arms... forearms and biceps. And thighs... *sigh* Rugby Boy... The thighs on that man... (we won't talk about his other parts and the great ink; there's a reason I kept the pics. And the vid!) *swoon* Yeah, I can forego carbs for the joy of muscles. And the chance of getting a nice set of 'em nekkid!

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