The most extreme treatment for any bipolar must be ECT. It’s that last-ditch effort to get someone back on track. The brain reboot. How they ever came up with the idea of shocking the shit out of someone’s head to fix them is beyond me, and how it works is even more mysterious. Well I am just about to that point. Dr. Drugs is trying one more drug on me, Latuda (Got an attituda? Try Latuda.). This is my last chance to pull my head out of my ass and stop obsessing about ending it all in the garage. I have this terrible aversion to hurting my family like that so I’m willing to try pretty much anything to keep from killing myself. But, what if pressing Ctrl-Alt-Delete on my skull doesn’t work? This is what really scares me. Plus, the treatment is three times per week under general anesthesia. I don’t think I could work while having these treatments, which brings its own set of anxieties. On the plus side, I think it might really do wonders for my hairstyle, which has been flat and boring for a long time. A straight-up-pointing frizz a la Billy Idol might be quite flattering. Also, I think it might really accentuate my eyes to have them bulge out like golf balls. Ah well, a day in the life of a bipolar….stop by and throw me a comment if you’ve had ect, will ya? Peaches.
Another day, another sobfest in Dr. Drugs’ office. “I’m flat.” WAHHHH! “I’m depressed.” WAHHHH WAHHHHH!! “I wish something would happen to make me die because I can’t kill myself, it would hurt my family too much.” WAHHHHH WAHHHHH WAHHHHH!!! Dr. Drugs calmly wrote it all down. He asks, “What’s your mood level, on a scale of 1 to 10?” then “What’s your energy level?” (same scale), then “How are you sleeping?” and finally “How is your appetite?” He peppers me with these questions like a shotgun, and I spurt out “I’m a THREE, ok? Threes across the BOARD! These drugs aren’t WORKING!” Dr. Drugs sits, serenely sipping his tea. “I think the antidepressants are causing you to cycle.” he says. “But I’m not cycling I’ve been steadily down for MONTHS!” I cry back. The good doctor is unruffled. ‘I’d like you to increase the Trileptal to 1200 mg at night, stop the Lexapro and I’ll see you in a week.” I am skeptical of this plan, but, not having a better one, I agree.
So I came home, went through the pill box, took out some, added some. The plan is in place. I know sooner or later this chemistry experiment called My Brain will respond to something. That, or we’ll go to Plan B. Dr. Drugs 2.0.
I’ve started to pack. Where did the last two years go? There’s been some good times here. A lot of tough times. This has been a wonderful, nurturing home for me though. So full of light and beauty. I’ve never stopped being grateful for it. Now I’m wondering, where will I go? Will it be as good? Will it be good to me? I’m not too handy with the unknown. I have my whole list of what I want and need in a place. Number one is quiet. This place is at the crossroads of two busy streets – its only minus. Oh how I wish it was all over and done already! Or I wish I owned a place, so I didn’t have to think about moving, although I know home ownership comes with its own set of problems. It’s a time of just putting one foot in front of the other. I have about six weeks. I’m not leaving it all to the end. I have a finite number of weekends to pack. I’m going to be kind to myself and do this at a measured pace so I don’t have to kill myself at the end. It sure is tough though. It’s tough to pack up so many things that I have such attachment to, that have such meaning to me. It’s tough to take down the artwork that the nieces and nephews made. Their little love-bombs, all over my house. They embrace me, all day, every day. I’m beginning to miss them already. I really didn’t foresee having to leave this place before I was ready, or without a choice. I need to be relentless in my belief that everything will be ok. Just not consider any other option. That’s going to be my strategy. Just trust. Ok. Back to packing.
A change is coming
Whether you’re ready or not
Better look alive!
Sameness of each day
Makes me want to shoot myself
Don’t worry, I won’t
Cool August morning
Out with my blanket to breathe
End of summer air
Raeyn at http://www.digitalglitch.org/ was kind enough to nominate me for the Versatile Blogger Award. Thank you! I think I am more deserving of the Depressing Blogger Award, Monotonous Blogger Award, Debbie Downer Blogger Award, or the What The Fuck Is Wrong With You Blogger Award, but what the hell? I’ll take it.
I’m supposed to list seven interesting things about me, but I don’t have seven interesting things to say. I’ll just say seven things.
1. I know how to cuss in four languages
2. I fantasize about going back to the 70’s and playing a part in The Rockford Files
3. I also fantasize about doing all kinds of illegal things to make money. One time I started one of those chain letters where you send the person on the top of the list twenty dollars. I was the first six people on the list. I think I got twenty dollars out of it.
4. The name of my wireless network at home is VIRUS-INFECTED. Who’s gonna fuck with that?
5. I once took my washing machine apart because it stunk like dirty socks. When I put it back together I had lots of spare parts, but it still worked. I take this to mean that I am some sort of efficiency genius.
6. I wear one of those bluetooth headsets so that people don’t think I’m talking to myself.
7. I once got fired from a job for grabbing the boss’ butt. Was that so wrong?
Now get out there people and buy your Powerball ticket!!!
This place that I live has been a blessing. It’s the first place in years, since I lost my house in foreclosure as a matter of fact, the first place that has really fed and nurtured me. It is full of light. It is high off the ground which affords me privacy. It’s curvy and stylish. It has gorgeous mountain views. It’s a detached house so it’s private. Aside from being on a busy street, it was more than I could have wanted for myself. And now I have to move out of it. I am beyond sad. And every time something like this comes to an end, I feel so much fear. Where will I go? Will I find another place? Will it be nice? How will I wrangle my way around my credit score, especially in this uber-competitive housing market? I want to be determined to be positive and fearless about it, but I just don’t know if I’m there! I’ve been in such a funk for the past couple of months. How will I do this?
My inner Buddha says that the universe doesn’t run out of blessings. There are more perfect houses and perfect situations. And the next one will be a double-blessing, because it will be on a quiet street. I never got used to the noise here. I thought I would. There are more light-filled, lovely homes that I can afford, where they will accept my positive rental history and overlook my sketchy credit score. Lots of people have sketchy credit scores these days. And really, it’s not sketchy, it’s nonexistent, except for a gargantuan student loan monster. I have a good job and make a good income.
I just have to stay in the light. Help me stay in the light dear Universe.
Well it’s been all this time since I last wrote and I’m still Flat Stanley. Wayyy flat affect, low interest level. Maybe a teensy bit less flat – at least I have ventured out a bit socially. That is progress.
I am keeping up the damn exercise, even though I’d rather eat turds than do it. I just call it my “medicine” and I lace up my tennies and I get out there for a half hour or an hour and walk my ass off. I try to chant “Thank you” and look for things to be grateful for on the walk. I’ve been seeing a lot of deer, mommies and babies, still with their spots. That warms my flat heart. I try to walk in beautiful and serene places, places where I’d like to be. I can’t imagine how I’d ever end up in one of these beautiful (read rich) neighborhoods, but somehow those people got there, right? So I dream…
The job is still an immense challenge. I’m not going to say too much about it because it’s so overwhelmingly “poopy”. I am not any closer to knowing what I’d really like to do. I know all the things I’d really like NOT to do. From a metaphysical perspective this is not very evolved, I’m afraid. Flat Stanley is holding me back from finding my interests. Flat Stanley is a fucker! I’ve got to take this chemistry experiment back to Dr. Drugs to have my cocktail tweaked some more. It makes me weary. Will I ever feel like myself?