Note: written on the evening of 28 Dec 2010, prepping to edit...
Random observation: Dave Grohl is a fucking god.
The above observation has been made because I am listening to the Foo Fighter’s Greatest Hits as I prep to write. I should say, as I work through my pre-writing anxiety attack. Because I get anxiety attacks many, many times before I start writing. Not a “GIMME A XANAX!” kind of anxiety attack (usually, although I had one of those last night because I REALLY jacked up Broom Closet a few notches; great stuff, but a bit taxing on the psyche). This is why I need music before and while I write—it works me through whatever is making me nuts, almost a bit like hypnosis. I have a few artists/CDs that I write to—the soundtrack to Queen of the Damned is really excellent for writing Rebecca. It sums her up in so many ways (although, seriously, that bit in the middle of “Down with the Sickness” is just EMBARRASSING; great song otherwise, but… *sigh*). The Foo Fighters are also good. My workout mix is pretty good because there’s a lot of angry, rhythmic stuff on there. I have a habit of getting stuck on a certain song and just playing it over and over again (the Foo’s “Long Road to Ruin”—Gods, I love that song).
I am currently huddled in my dining room, lappie set up at one end of the table under the Xmas tree (don’t ask), and freezing my arse off. According to the Weather Channel, there is approximately 19” of snow outside. Argh. SHOOT ME! After an incredibly healthy dinner (decision to eat healthier is happening: demolished a pile of Sorrento salad mix with just a touch of Raspberry Vinaigrette, half of a single tomato puff pastry pizza, a tangerine—why are they so more-ish? swear I could eat five of ‘em at a sitting if my stomach and common sense would let me—and a cup of chicken soup; I really can’t live anywhere I can’t get to a Trader Joe’s), I’m at the keyboard with a couple of pieces of homemade peppermint bark and a trenta (thank the Gods for Via—no fucking way I am venturing out today). Eddie Ifft sent out a twit today that is making me itch to get back in the gym (bought some toning bands and workout equipment last week, so once I clear out the big space in my room, I have some room to actually EXERCISE REGULARLY. Body is screaming for it—a GOOD thing. I will be really, really happy if I can get another 50 pounds off before April, and another 100 before my b-day).
My writing ensemble is very glamourous—navy blue sweats, thermal undershirt, navy blue fleece shirt, lime green fuzzy socks (thank you, Vicki!), fleece carpet slippers, forest green fleece bathrobe (dotted with cat fur clumps—Piddy likes to sleep on it when I’m at work) wrapped around my back and legs, lime green fleece throw over the gap in the chair back to block the draft, grey Red Sox hoodie zipped up to my chin, and black half gloves with Jack Skellington grinning at me. Oh, and hair shoved up in a pony tail (think the scrunchy is hot pink), glasses (can’t wear contacts if I’m going to be staring at the screen unrelenting for an eight hour stretch), and yellow rubber duckie earbuds stuck in my ears to block out the world and keep the music in.
Shit. Have to go and fetch my bottle of water from my room. Can’t work without hydration—the coffee doesn’t count. Meds & cell phone to the right of the lappie, USB cord for the Zune to the left (on top of the CD case for QOFTD), box of tissues just past that, emergency chocolate for the 1:00 a.m. slump under the tissues, and more tangerines, apples and cheese in the kitchen for the 4:00 a.m. refueling. Right. Now, just to fetch the water and the Carmex (nothing more distracting and annoying than chapped lips), and I can get writing.
After I finish typing this, have a bit of peppermint bark, drink some coffee, and play a couple rounds of Chuzzle.
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
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.
Argh.
And the insomnia. And the headaches. And the mood swings.
Argh.
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!
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.
Argh.
And the insomnia. And the headaches. And the mood swings.
Argh.
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!
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Shooting the Black Dog, Part 5 - WHY WON'T THE BASTARD DIE?!?!
If you are someone like me who has dealt with some form of brain-chemistry based depressive/anxiety disorder for most of their life, you know exactly what I'm talking about.
You take the meds. You go to therapy. You watch yourself CONSTANTLY, you monitor, monitor, monitor... and sneaky bastard STILL manages to get in and dig up your garden. Or piss on your oriental carpet. Or hump the purebred next door. Whatever "naughty dog" metaphor you want to use, the bastard still sneaks back in and fucks up your life.
The dog metaphor is a good one, too, for this, especially for someone like me who has a love/hate relationship with the hairy, crotch-sniffing barking lunatics (the problem of using all-natural, yummy-smelling Lush products--I smell good not only to human males, but also to their canine counterparts). See, on the one hand, I hate dogs in general--y'know, the ones that never stop yapping, the stinky, needy ones, the ones that are so vicious they'll rip your arm off before you can put a bullet through their elephant-thick skull... Y'know, the Cujos and Big Fidos of the world. Because, on the other side of the canine coin, there are the Ebbies, Rock Stars, Rubies, and Sashas (I miss that dog; she was fucking brilliant and the best--nothing like a huskey you can share a coffee and banana bread with)--still a bit needy, still hairy, but really awesome to have around. Still need to be taken for walkies regularly and shit like there's no tomorrow, but still... an enhancement to life.
Bipolar is like that; ditto, PTSD. I was trying to explain this to a dear friend the other night, the friend who has been sort of avoiding my company because she's non-confrontational and I have been a manic pain in the arse of late--needy, moodswinging, stress bunny. There IS a positive side to both of these disorders, the one I was born with and the one inflicted upon me.
See, bipolar provides the manic performing part of me--the insane creative genius who can write 15,000 words in 48 hours while working full-time; throw herself up on a stage in front of a room full of strangers and riff for eleven minutes without batting an eye; emcee an event and have people laughing or weeping, depending upon what's called for; reach out to someone in pain and offer them solace, or at least some empathy.
The positive side of PTSD? Yep, there is one, but you have to let yourself be open to it. Here's the secret: the good stuff flashes back too.
Yeah, you read that right: the good stuff comes back, too. It's why I can feel so much joy in a moment: every other time I've felt that level of happiness triggers the pleasure center of my brain, the same way the bad stuff triggers the fear center. It's why sex is so utterly intense for me--I can have an orgasm that lasts, in little bursts, for hours. Happened the last time I was with someone--sitting on a rock on the beach, smoking up, and suddenly, I was trembling--call it an "aftershock." It's really fucking cool. It's also what powers some of my best writing--I can go to those places, walk the paths of cognitive and sense memory, and evoke the moment.
The problem is the crash afterwards. These chemicals, the brain chemicals involved in the pleasure part of all this, in cases of mania, don't have a shut-off valve, or the meter that triggers the shut-off switch attached to the valve is faulty. (I'm using mechanical terms because that's the only way I can understand how it works.) If I'm "normal," then I feel things pretty much like everyone else does, but a little more intense. Actually, "Riz Normal" is everyone else at +4 intensity. "Riz OK" is more like a +6--that's when I'm at my creative best; "Riz Not OK" +8--that's when I'm shouting and ready to throw things because my brain is moving too fast and everything is distorted--good, bad, indifferent, it's all aimed at me and Out To Get ME; "Riz-Find-a-Fall-Out-Shelter" is +11--that's when I'm on the edge of checking out.
Last weekend I was definitely +8 to 10. I had an hour or three of +11 (yes, that IS a bad Spinal Tap joke there). When a confrontation-hating friend comes out and tells me that I've been manic and then two other confrontation-hating friends confirm it... *sigh* It means it's back.
Bipolar is like that. It's such a vicious bitch of a disorder--it CAN come and go, depending on the state of your body, and because it can't be officially diagnosed/pinpointed, because there's no blood test and there are a myriad of factors--biological as well as environmental--PLUS there are other disorders and diseases that can MIMIC it...
Shit, I wish I was joking. At first, I thought it was thyroid, but my thyroid has (allegedly) stabilized. I still want it retested (yes, I will allow them to stick a needle in me again in less than two months, *shudder*), partly because I am stupid and have hope, partly because I know how sneaky my thyroid can be. Stress is factoring in--I have never, EVER been as stressed out as I am at the moment, not even during the horrible high school years, not even while I was married. Then, I had a partner in madness and was too young, stupid and thick to get what was going on. I was loved and had hope, even though I knew he was going to kill me. Stupid, but true.
I feel so pulled apart right now--remember those stupid Stretch Armstrong dolls? I feel like one of those with four people pulling on my limbs in different directions--gotta finish the rewrite, gotta finish the first draft, gotta make stuff for etsy, gotta clean out the house, gotta help Ma, gotta read this, gotta get the job done, gotta get the SRAC stuff done, gotta gotta gotta gotta gotta...
*INSERT LOUD SCREAM HERE*
And honestly, all I want to do right now is go home and curl up with Piddy (whose vet informed me has kidney disease; luckily, just the very, very beginnings, so she may see 20 yet in good health), listen to her purr against my heart and fall asleep in the warm dark under the blankets. I don't even want to watch movies or read or *gasp* watch Alcoholocaust again. I know, I know, don't die of shock. My celebricrushing has not waned, I'm just that fucking worn out that even Jim couldn't rouse more than a giggle and a nipple to half mast right now. Shit, I'm so emotionally exhausted I don't if the real thing, naked, horny and waiting in the bed could get more than a wan grin and a "let's just cuddle zzzzzzzzzzz" right now. I'd even turn down the real life Hal Randall.*
The problem is, when I get home, it will be, "AREN'T YOU GOING TO DROP OFF MY LAUNDRY?!?! I NEED CLEAN CLOTHES!!!!" And then, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" And the Idiot will find a reason to come slamming around downstairs, knocking shit over and swearing at me (or near me--he doesn't dare swear directly at me). Before that, however, I have to get some coffee and get to my writing group. And sometime around 1:00 a.m. , Potential Paramour will send an IM to my phone looking for IM sex, despite the fact he hasn't gotten any of that from me since September. (Evidently, I give awesome IM sex. Who knew that was a talent? Although, considering a male friend's reaction to the sex scene I wrote yesterday... a pity the porn industry has changed so radically. There was a time when you could make money from writing great porn. Damn you, interwebs! Although I shouldn't complain--I like a free, hot wank as much as the next person. More, probably.)
*slams head on the desk* And I wonder why I'm depressed.
And there goes my memory again. Another one of the factors involved that could either be a trigger or a masquerading symptom: I'm pretty well convinced I'm working in a sick building. Four sinus infections in ten months, plus the return of my migraines (and now no longer limited to PMS, but happening all month long)... PLUS the building is full of asbestos (abatement's been here every time there's had to be any construction), an office down the hall keeps flooding, the ductwork is disgustingly filthy, and we won't discuss the strange smells that keep arising. That, and the stress involved in this job at the moment... yeah. Suddenly, being a phone sex operator doesn't sound so awful.
Waiter, may I have a new life, please? This isn't the one I ordered.
Fuck it, I'm getting coffee and going home. I need sleep and a heating pad on my back.
No, I'm not. I'm going to writing group and suffer like everyone else.
G'night, kids. Be kind to each other.
Love,
Your Manic Exhausted Empress
*Rebecca's boyfriend in the Kinsale Chronicles. He's modeled on an ex.
You take the meds. You go to therapy. You watch yourself CONSTANTLY, you monitor, monitor, monitor... and sneaky bastard STILL manages to get in and dig up your garden. Or piss on your oriental carpet. Or hump the purebred next door. Whatever "naughty dog" metaphor you want to use, the bastard still sneaks back in and fucks up your life.
The dog metaphor is a good one, too, for this, especially for someone like me who has a love/hate relationship with the hairy, crotch-sniffing barking lunatics (the problem of using all-natural, yummy-smelling Lush products--I smell good not only to human males, but also to their canine counterparts). See, on the one hand, I hate dogs in general--y'know, the ones that never stop yapping, the stinky, needy ones, the ones that are so vicious they'll rip your arm off before you can put a bullet through their elephant-thick skull... Y'know, the Cujos and Big Fidos of the world. Because, on the other side of the canine coin, there are the Ebbies, Rock Stars, Rubies, and Sashas (I miss that dog; she was fucking brilliant and the best--nothing like a huskey you can share a coffee and banana bread with)--still a bit needy, still hairy, but really awesome to have around. Still need to be taken for walkies regularly and shit like there's no tomorrow, but still... an enhancement to life.
Bipolar is like that; ditto, PTSD. I was trying to explain this to a dear friend the other night, the friend who has been sort of avoiding my company because she's non-confrontational and I have been a manic pain in the arse of late--needy, moodswinging, stress bunny. There IS a positive side to both of these disorders, the one I was born with and the one inflicted upon me.
See, bipolar provides the manic performing part of me--the insane creative genius who can write 15,000 words in 48 hours while working full-time; throw herself up on a stage in front of a room full of strangers and riff for eleven minutes without batting an eye; emcee an event and have people laughing or weeping, depending upon what's called for; reach out to someone in pain and offer them solace, or at least some empathy.
The positive side of PTSD? Yep, there is one, but you have to let yourself be open to it. Here's the secret: the good stuff flashes back too.
Yeah, you read that right: the good stuff comes back, too. It's why I can feel so much joy in a moment: every other time I've felt that level of happiness triggers the pleasure center of my brain, the same way the bad stuff triggers the fear center. It's why sex is so utterly intense for me--I can have an orgasm that lasts, in little bursts, for hours. Happened the last time I was with someone--sitting on a rock on the beach, smoking up, and suddenly, I was trembling--call it an "aftershock." It's really fucking cool. It's also what powers some of my best writing--I can go to those places, walk the paths of cognitive and sense memory, and evoke the moment.
The problem is the crash afterwards. These chemicals, the brain chemicals involved in the pleasure part of all this, in cases of mania, don't have a shut-off valve, or the meter that triggers the shut-off switch attached to the valve is faulty. (I'm using mechanical terms because that's the only way I can understand how it works.) If I'm "normal," then I feel things pretty much like everyone else does, but a little more intense. Actually, "Riz Normal" is everyone else at +4 intensity. "Riz OK" is more like a +6--that's when I'm at my creative best; "Riz Not OK" +8--that's when I'm shouting and ready to throw things because my brain is moving too fast and everything is distorted--good, bad, indifferent, it's all aimed at me and Out To Get ME; "Riz-Find-a-Fall-Out-Shelter" is +11--that's when I'm on the edge of checking out.
Last weekend I was definitely +8 to 10. I had an hour or three of +11 (yes, that IS a bad Spinal Tap joke there). When a confrontation-hating friend comes out and tells me that I've been manic and then two other confrontation-hating friends confirm it... *sigh* It means it's back.
Bipolar is like that. It's such a vicious bitch of a disorder--it CAN come and go, depending on the state of your body, and because it can't be officially diagnosed/pinpointed, because there's no blood test and there are a myriad of factors--biological as well as environmental--PLUS there are other disorders and diseases that can MIMIC it...
Shit, I wish I was joking. At first, I thought it was thyroid, but my thyroid has (allegedly) stabilized. I still want it retested (yes, I will allow them to stick a needle in me again in less than two months, *shudder*), partly because I am stupid and have hope, partly because I know how sneaky my thyroid can be. Stress is factoring in--I have never, EVER been as stressed out as I am at the moment, not even during the horrible high school years, not even while I was married. Then, I had a partner in madness and was too young, stupid and thick to get what was going on. I was loved and had hope, even though I knew he was going to kill me. Stupid, but true.
I feel so pulled apart right now--remember those stupid Stretch Armstrong dolls? I feel like one of those with four people pulling on my limbs in different directions--gotta finish the rewrite, gotta finish the first draft, gotta make stuff for etsy, gotta clean out the house, gotta help Ma, gotta read this, gotta get the job done, gotta get the SRAC stuff done, gotta gotta gotta gotta gotta...
*INSERT LOUD SCREAM HERE*
And honestly, all I want to do right now is go home and curl up with Piddy (whose vet informed me has kidney disease; luckily, just the very, very beginnings, so she may see 20 yet in good health), listen to her purr against my heart and fall asleep in the warm dark under the blankets. I don't even want to watch movies or read or *gasp* watch Alcoholocaust again. I know, I know, don't die of shock. My celebricrushing has not waned, I'm just that fucking worn out that even Jim couldn't rouse more than a giggle and a nipple to half mast right now. Shit, I'm so emotionally exhausted I don't if the real thing, naked, horny and waiting in the bed could get more than a wan grin and a "let's just cuddle zzzzzzzzzzz" right now. I'd even turn down the real life Hal Randall.*
The problem is, when I get home, it will be, "AREN'T YOU GOING TO DROP OFF MY LAUNDRY?!?! I NEED CLEAN CLOTHES!!!!" And then, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" And the Idiot will find a reason to come slamming around downstairs, knocking shit over and swearing at me (or near me--he doesn't dare swear directly at me). Before that, however, I have to get some coffee and get to my writing group. And sometime around 1:00 a.m. , Potential Paramour will send an IM to my phone looking for IM sex, despite the fact he hasn't gotten any of that from me since September. (Evidently, I give awesome IM sex. Who knew that was a talent? Although, considering a male friend's reaction to the sex scene I wrote yesterday... a pity the porn industry has changed so radically. There was a time when you could make money from writing great porn. Damn you, interwebs! Although I shouldn't complain--I like a free, hot wank as much as the next person. More, probably.)
*slams head on the desk* And I wonder why I'm depressed.
And there goes my memory again. Another one of the factors involved that could either be a trigger or a masquerading symptom: I'm pretty well convinced I'm working in a sick building. Four sinus infections in ten months, plus the return of my migraines (and now no longer limited to PMS, but happening all month long)... PLUS the building is full of asbestos (abatement's been here every time there's had to be any construction), an office down the hall keeps flooding, the ductwork is disgustingly filthy, and we won't discuss the strange smells that keep arising. That, and the stress involved in this job at the moment... yeah. Suddenly, being a phone sex operator doesn't sound so awful.
Waiter, may I have a new life, please? This isn't the one I ordered.
Fuck it, I'm getting coffee and going home. I need sleep and a heating pad on my back.
No, I'm not. I'm going to writing group and suffer like everyone else.
G'night, kids. Be kind to each other.
Love,
Your Manic Exhausted Empress
*Rebecca's boyfriend in the Kinsale Chronicles. He's modeled on an ex.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Shooting the Black Dog, Part 4: A respite
Nahant Beach, 6 p.m.-ish, 25 November 2010
There are times in this life when you build, and times when you tear down.
A time for everything, as the passage says.
And, like it or not, I’m in the time of tearing down—ripping down the walls and structures I’ve built to survive the past twenty years and finding a new way of living, and maybe even thriving.
I’m calmer now. I’m typing in the car, in the parking lot that parallels the causeway to Nahant. I’ve had a walk in the cold, over the hard-packed sand. The tide is out right now, and the first stars in the blue black of the November sky. November is the anvil of the year, I’ve come to believe, the hard cold forge of the soul leading into the long dark before the Winter Solstice. December is full of brightness… like something in the human soul realizes how bleak November has been and if we want to survive those last 21 days before the days start to lengthen, we’d better add some brightness.
The voice of The All Mother is in the background… the sweet sussuruss of the Atlantic… the incessant lullaby of the waves. No sound on earth eases my soul like that, no guitar, piano, drum or voice reaches me in the Soul Dark like Her whisper, the Great Mother, the Womb of Creation, the Ocean… There is no sound on earth that can silence and soothe the Death Need like the voice of the All Mother.
If you’ve never walked on a beach in the Anvil of the Year, never let the November wind sear through your body like a frozen flame… it scours my soul, rips away the pain inside, strips it out as the voice of the Mother whispers comfort… let it go. Let go of the Soul Dark here in the quiet dark of night on a windswept beach where there is nothing between myself and the water but a long walk on cold sand and at the end… the soft kiss of the water on my feet, plashing over my outstretched fingers, trailing in the swirl of the sand at the edge of the world while the frosted stars wink into light overhead, the only diamonds I ever needed.
This is the closest I get to mysticism, to serenity. I know when I reach the end of the beach, when I pull the car back onto the tarmac of the highway, when I have to face the reality of other people, I will lose this overwhelming sense of calm, the untwisting of the pain in my lower back, the gentle relaxed rhythm of breath that is the only sound beside the tapping of the keys. But I will try to hold on to it because no one can live in this space, no one like me, at least, and function. I wish I could. I wish I could be zen, but I’m not. I am of the Water, born with a spirit of Fire, and forever they contend within me.
In the time of tearing down, I have to accept this. I have to embrace the conflict and harness it. No matter what I call myself—writer, actor, standup philosopher—I am really just a storyteller, and the only story I have is me. I can fictionalize, spin, twist, weave… but in the end, the only thing I have to offer is myself. I feel that part of me—the Storyteller, the Witness—standing outside, watching everything that happens, trying to hold on to the thread of the story, trying to make sure my thread is not lost or cut untimely.
I am trying to define how I’ve survived. I’m trying to figure out how I keep surviving. How to endure the pain that keeps rocking my soul. I know that there is nothing and no one who can save me from this. No one but me.
I will correct one thing I said earlier—there is one thing I am profoundly thankful for: my friends. As I typed the earlier post, I was sitting in my Sbux, and the tears came. My beloved Andrew, bless him, just put his arms around me as he was sweeping, reminding me that there are such things as angels—he’s one of mine. And no matter how awful I feel, I have no right to be so self-centered and not acknowledge the blessings I do have.
To whoever’s reading this, I wish you angels—the real, tangible ones that are friends, living, breathing fellow humans who have the grace and strength to reach out when you are falling into the abyss.
Will post this later; getting cold in here, and the battery is getting low.
A time for everything, as the passage says.
And, like it or not, I’m in the time of tearing down—ripping down the walls and structures I’ve built to survive the past twenty years and finding a new way of living, and maybe even thriving.
I’m calmer now. I’m typing in the car, in the parking lot that parallels the causeway to Nahant. I’ve had a walk in the cold, over the hard-packed sand. The tide is out right now, and the first stars in the blue black of the November sky. November is the anvil of the year, I’ve come to believe, the hard cold forge of the soul leading into the long dark before the Winter Solstice. December is full of brightness… like something in the human soul realizes how bleak November has been and if we want to survive those last 21 days before the days start to lengthen, we’d better add some brightness.
The voice of The All Mother is in the background… the sweet sussuruss of the Atlantic… the incessant lullaby of the waves. No sound on earth eases my soul like that, no guitar, piano, drum or voice reaches me in the Soul Dark like Her whisper, the Great Mother, the Womb of Creation, the Ocean… There is no sound on earth that can silence and soothe the Death Need like the voice of the All Mother.
If you’ve never walked on a beach in the Anvil of the Year, never let the November wind sear through your body like a frozen flame… it scours my soul, rips away the pain inside, strips it out as the voice of the Mother whispers comfort… let it go. Let go of the Soul Dark here in the quiet dark of night on a windswept beach where there is nothing between myself and the water but a long walk on cold sand and at the end… the soft kiss of the water on my feet, plashing over my outstretched fingers, trailing in the swirl of the sand at the edge of the world while the frosted stars wink into light overhead, the only diamonds I ever needed.
This is the closest I get to mysticism, to serenity. I know when I reach the end of the beach, when I pull the car back onto the tarmac of the highway, when I have to face the reality of other people, I will lose this overwhelming sense of calm, the untwisting of the pain in my lower back, the gentle relaxed rhythm of breath that is the only sound beside the tapping of the keys. But I will try to hold on to it because no one can live in this space, no one like me, at least, and function. I wish I could. I wish I could be zen, but I’m not. I am of the Water, born with a spirit of Fire, and forever they contend within me.
In the time of tearing down, I have to accept this. I have to embrace the conflict and harness it. No matter what I call myself—writer, actor, standup philosopher—I am really just a storyteller, and the only story I have is me. I can fictionalize, spin, twist, weave… but in the end, the only thing I have to offer is myself. I feel that part of me—the Storyteller, the Witness—standing outside, watching everything that happens, trying to hold on to the thread of the story, trying to make sure my thread is not lost or cut untimely.
I am trying to define how I’ve survived. I’m trying to figure out how I keep surviving. How to endure the pain that keeps rocking my soul. I know that there is nothing and no one who can save me from this. No one but me.
I will correct one thing I said earlier—there is one thing I am profoundly thankful for: my friends. As I typed the earlier post, I was sitting in my Sbux, and the tears came. My beloved Andrew, bless him, just put his arms around me as he was sweeping, reminding me that there are such things as angels—he’s one of mine. And no matter how awful I feel, I have no right to be so self-centered and not acknowledge the blessings I do have.
To whoever’s reading this, I wish you angels—the real, tangible ones that are friends, living, breathing fellow humans who have the grace and strength to reach out when you are falling into the abyss.
Will post this later; getting cold in here, and the battery is getting low.
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