There’s a signpost up ahead

So it’s day 3 back on the meds and all the side effects are creeping me out; racing heart, panic attacks, sweats, the whole shebang. Ugh. Not immediately suicidal though. Which is nice. Took a long walk yesterday –one of my patented Death March to Bataan excursions- but didn’t have the energy this morning.

I spoke with a friend on the phone last night. He’s recovering from a broken ankle and worried about how he’ll pay for everything, along with managing the pain as well as his loss of mobility. His ex-girlfriend just moved out of their home this week and he has to figure a way to keep making the mortgage payments on his income. He’s a freelance writer for a local newspaper. You can do the math.

Earlier there had been a phone conversation with another friend. Apparently he’d spent the night in jail and his older son was still locked up. The whole family unit (said friend and his two sons) were handcuffed and hauled away after the elder son went on a rampage through the house. The police showed up and ordered everybody on the ground and things went even more sideways from there. He wasn’t formerly charged but obviously things are not too spiffy over there.

Apparently this is Wreck Week for myself as well as others. Bet it could be a blockbuster series on the Discovery channel. All the tension, scares and anticipation of Shark Week but with Real People of Reno. Damn. I’m already counting the royalties sure to come this way.

Crazy is not taking today off for the holiday. It’s hanging out here at the house with me. Maybe we should have a glass of wine. Get to know each other better.

Trazadone is not your friend

So yeah.

I had a severe dysphoric, psychotic manic episode 3 nights ago and made a lame-ass suicide attempt. Trazadone: the drug of choice for those with suicidal ideations!

This was after what was a total black-out-wig-out-manic episode. I called 911 and two very nice patrolmen came by and gave me a lift to the hospital.

Once there my clothes were taken away, an IV was stuck into me, stomach pumped blah blah blah. And I continued on my manic way. I remember trying to get out of my room on several occasions only to be blocked by a nurse perched on one of those damned mobility scooters. On my last attempt at freedom I was advised if I tried again they’d restrain me.

Go figure. I knocked that shit off right away and tried to bide my time, mind racing. By 4:00 a.m. I’d spoken with a psych nurse and she suggested I go back on my meds. Immediately. Was finally released at 4:30 a.m. and took a cab home.

Have been back on medication for 3 days now. Geodon, Lamactil, and Lexapro. Also alprazalom as needed, 2 BID seems to ward off the panic attacks.

Have not had a manic episode in YEARS. Of course I haven’t been off meds in years either.

My roomie spends a lot of time bitching about everyone he knows being on medication and how none of them really need it. I started  to believe it. Dumbass me.

Speaking of the roomie I’m pretty sure he wants my crazy ass out of the house. I fucked up our friendship with my craziness over the past month or so and cannot imagine ever making things right again. This makes me so sad and angry at myself that it’s a constant drain and burden. Just as I must be on him.

That’s it. Thought I should write about it.

~Manic in Reno

Mother’s Day Makes Me Cry

Mother’s Day is Sunday.

Last year I sent my daughter to live with her father at this time. This year I’m even more alone.

There’s something fucked up about being utterly alone every day and night, especially if you’d previously spent 20 years of your life married and 13 of those with your child in the house as well.

Maybe it’s that Mother’s Day is dovetailing with the move into this house. I’m finally feeling settled here so my mind is no longer as occupied with the thousand tiny problems that a move presents. Now that same neurotic mass of gray matter is back to it’s usual tricks.

A person can escape from a lot of things but unfortunately the cerebellum is continually attached and functioning. Damned brain. Doh.

God knows I’ve tried to placate the bastard. For years I drowned it in alcohol and drugs. Phalanxes of doctors have tried to re-organize the functioning with pharmaceutical cocktails.

Years of analysis and psychotherapy have resulted in new Porsches and second homes… for the doctors.

I’ve tried exercise –with an iPod or Walkman to shut out my thoughts-, reading, watching movies (I have a difficult time sitting still through them), writing, sex, food and playing the piano.

Some days the head wins though. The will to even try and avoid those dark alleyways has vanished. You never know do you?

The last year was a bad one. Seems it all started to go sideways last May. Hopefully I’ll start a better twelve months now.

New house, my beautiful piano is on it’s way, and the sun is shining in Reno again. Hell, we even had another earthquake last night. Could be a sign of change.

Could be a sign of the Apocalypse.

Oh wait. The Apocalypse is already here. Bush is still in office and gas is almost $4.00 a gallon.

If I can make it through Mother’s Day without totally losing it there’s hope. I’ll talk on the phone with my mom, my step-mother and of course my own daughter.

I’ll drink a cup of coffee to that.

~The Fairly Morose Miss R

The Book of St. Pat

What the hell.
That’s all I can say about last night.

I learned some things that I so wish were kept buried.
Here’s the intriguing part first:

Dave and Lisa are on their monthly pilgrimage to Reno, so we’ve been hanging out every night. Both nights we’ve stopped into Dilligas (the local Swingers bar/club) to have a few, listen to the jukebox, make fun of the drunks, and revel in the free show put on by the bartender Cat.
I’d gotten Lisa dolled up in one of my low cut tops and out of her mountain woman attire. My own attire was, well, as usual.
Last night there were supposed to be pole dancing lessons, but unfortunately due to it being St Patrick’s Day the event had been cancelled.
Last night involved drinking of epic proportions all over Reno, it being St. Patrick’s Day and all.
We opted to avoid the pub crawls to keep our sanity.
Despite this at one point I got my tit grabbed by friend Dave (I knocked his hand hard and called him a motherfucker. Lisa laughed and the bartender offered to slug him for me), hit on by an obnoxious guy from Sacramento, and trapped in a hotel room with Lisa while we waited for Dave and his friend to get back from the store.

While waiting in the hotel room Lisa bared her soul.
Seems she and Dave have been living a life of seclusion up there in their cabin. The only time they get out is to visit a local swinger’s house/club on weekends.
Uhhhhhh. More information than I wanted.
Our trips to Dilligas were a goof. I had thought.

In Lisa’s words ‘well we want to be swingers but we’re too fucking chickenshit’.

They’re experiences have pretty much been relegated to ‘watching’ thus far.
Dear god. I’m gonna be a bit more on guard here kids.

Dave is an old friend and he and Lisa seem happy. I’ve no inclination to do the horizontal bop with them, or any other couple. Oh sure it’s all well and good and tantalizing in pornos but in reality things are always different.
Add to that… you don’t fuck your friends. On any level. Particularly those that you view as friends and don’t find any more physically attractive than a sibling.

Speaking of fucking your friends we’d run into TK earlier that evening. We were walking about downtown, looking for appealing venues and eventually headed to the Eldorado for some dancing, we hoped.
I look into the window of West Second Street and there’s TK. I rap on the window, smile and wave. What do I get? Flipped off.
Yessiree.
I’d told Dave and Lisa to come back and wave at TK with me, and if I caught his attention was going to introduce them.
After being given the finger we continued on our way.
Jesus. This was from someone I consider a dear friend. It hurt my feelings. What the hell.

On the way back from the Eldorado (there was no band so we split) I saw TK crossing the street and I yelled ‘Night Terr!’ His response was ‘Are you stalking me!?’
“Yes” I said. “We’re stalking you.”

Gotta tell you that this put a damper on my evening. I’d been having fun all day, despite feeling like a third wheel with Dave and Lisa, but having one of my best friends flip me off and make seemingly cavalier and hurtful remarks was kinda tough. I take things far too personally, I know this. Too bad self-realization doesn’t do a fucking thing towards changing a character trait.

Lisa wanted to tackle him then flip him off (she gets feisty when she’s been drinking and she was actually a raving bitch by this point) and I just got a bit quiet.

It was after this that we headed over to Gerard’s and we girls were trapped while the guys went out to get provisions.

We all wound up at my place about 2:00 am.
Jesus. Sounds familiar. I poured them all more cocktails and we sat around the kitchen table laughing and telling tales.

Still couldn’t shake the aura of wtf at this point so at 2:30 I announced it was bedtime. I went into my bedroom, got into my jammies, took a xanax and turned on the TV. The rest of them were left to finish their drinks and lock the door behind them as they left.

I heard them leave of course and then got out of bed and cleaned up the kitchen.
Did I mention my OCD?

Finally got to sleep around 4:00 I think.
The kitchen was clean, a spilled drink was mopped up, and I was sober.

I feel more alone than ever and wonder what I’m doing in this place called life.

Another St. Patrick’s Day another file of stories.

There are just some books that you wish you’d never picked up.

The Banana Peel of Death

Some night I’ll drink one too many glasses of wine and take one too many sleeping pills.

Just have a feeling.

Is it suicide then? Not sure. The Magic 8 Ball says Conditions Cloudy. Check Later.

The older I get the more it seems plausible; so many whose deaths were ruled as accidental were really not so. Maybe accidental on that particular day, but not in total.

My tentative plans involve going out someplace where family and/or friends will not have to deal with finding me. Well, finding me and cleaning up the aftermath actually. One of the benefits of too many forensic/scientific shows and books is foresight.

I know what will happen after checking out. It will be a goddamned mess. Pills or a bullet it doesn’t matter. It’s a horror show for whoever finds you and has to clean that shit up.

I’m thinking hotel. Big hotel with lots of staff and a good reputation. They’ve a familiarity with these things. They have experience AND those big-ass commercial steam-cleaners.

In the last nine months my face has aged almost 10 years. It’s been the hardest year.

Looking in the mirror makes me cringe. The lines of worry, dry crêpe spots from stress and creases from sleeplessness create a relief map. It’s hideous and sad.

So when does that desire to escape the reality which is slowly killing you turn the dial to Broil?

When does your subconscious slide into the Oops position?

That would be just fucking perfect.

No matter what, I’d go out smiling

The banana peel of death.

I like that.

~Miss R

The Sharpest Knife

Sharp serrated insidious
Foolish mind and heart
Believed the pain was gone for good
Again I feel it start

The daily choices made by me
Keening call of quiet dark
No one who can listen
Or thinks it’s but a lark

I watched my father leave here
My mind shaded even before
This horror show just added
A new act to the floor

I watched a dearest old love
Giddy with new glee
Buy champagne and roses
For a girl who once was me

I’ve dreamed of choosing darkness
It seems most of my life
The longer I live the harder I work
To glance past that sharp knife

There is no answer to my cries
The tears and damaged soul
If not for my beloved child
I’d say Fuck Getting Old.

Tomorrow brings more silence
Aloneness and that grief
People dead on every plane
My soul dead sans relief

I’m really very tired
Of keeping up the face
To keep a smile in the voice
When others call my place

But deep inside it’s grinding
The blade upon the stone
Sharpening myriad reasons
I’m broken and alone

bi-polar in a straight world

So today I spent two hours at the Social Security offices followed by four hours at Washoe County Mental Health.
Decided to try and accomplish two odious tasks in one day.

This is to make up for a serious crash and burn that occurred during the prior 48 hours.
Naturally neither venue provided a satisfactory answer to any of my questions. I do feel the need to bathe in Lysol however. Am I the only person on SSD who fucking bathes and wears neat clothing?!

Social Security: Yes Virginia I’m due the back benefits. No, no one knows when this will be fiscally determined or paid. My caseworker is not in on Fridays.
Doogie Howser (the eerily pre-pubescent looking employee with whom I dealt) said it has something to do with my applying for SSI almost two years ago. Which I did after Social Security insisted I do so. It was the same day and appointment as the application for SSD. I was never granted SSI benefits nor did I ever hear anything back about it. I asked Doogie what the hell SSI actually was. I still don’t know.

Doogie suggested to just keep ‘trying’ to contact my caseworker.
Exact quote: “it’s her job”.

Well hell at least there IS a mysterious caseworker’s name now.
Bottom Line: Two hours to obtain the following information; Mrs. Reyna is my close personal caseworker and by the way she doesn’t work on Fridays.
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

Washoe County Mental Health: Stopped by to pick up a scrip and decided it was imperative to see somebody to help deal with
1. The overwhelming grief and guilt over my dad’s death last week
2. The horrendous gag reflex brought on when I was taken off the anti-depressants and started instead on the lithium last month. After all if I ever begin dating again this would present quite a problem.

I see a nurse and my blood pressure is quite high. No shit. Dad’s having a slight problem calling in my prescription for that medication.
Been off of it for two or three days.

I see a doc: he is grumpy and harried. He reviews my meds and takes me completely off the lithium. He is not my regular doc because guess what?
My doctor doesn’t work on Fridays.
Hmmm this is starting to sound suspiciously familiar.

New doc ups the xanax (hell, already did that on my own. like ‘duh’ dude) and prescribes another anti-depressant.
No counseling, no referral to any resources. Another in the line of pointless medications.
I’m told by a nurse and a doctor to wait at least 90 days, maybe six months, before seeking grief counseling.
What. The. Fuck? This sounds like bullshit to me but hell I’m the neophyte here not the ordained expert.

Bottom Line: Four hours to obtain the following information; today’s doc hates his job, writes me a scrip for another pointless med and prays that I don’t stroke out on the carpet after reviewing the nurses notes.
Oh and by the way Dr. Yasur (that’s my baby) doesn’t work on Fridays.
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

On the bright side I did avoid Lizzie Borden’s entreaties to play poker for six hours and picked up some yummy bread and sausages at Trader Joes.
This is seriously wrong. I’m reduced to living life vicariously through Lizzie Borden.
My cat.

Bi-Polar Part Deux!

Fucking meds. Ai.

It’s a feeling of agitation/restlessness combined with an inability to concentrate.
The medication is called Abilify but nowhere does it say Abili-not.

Titrating off the 150mg of Effexor and have one more week at 37.5 before I’m done with it for good. Been on the Effexor (and a plethora of other psychotropics) regimen for over 15 years.
Turns out that some anti-depressants (i.e. all of the ‘new’ non MAOIs) make Bi-Polar II worse.
Who knew?

Why tell me though? What’s a 72 hour observation in a locked unit good for if not experimentation. Nothing I tell you.
Besides utter boredom, borderline criminals, completely sideways schizophrenics and other folk of high intelligence and cultural values.

To think that I checked myself in.
Whadda maroon.

I said to the doc after my first 24 hours in that snake pit “So, what am I supposed to do? Discuss Offenbach with drooly over there? Or maybe the condescending idiot nurse wants to organize a round-table on quantum physics and the real reason Tycho Brahe should be given first dibs?”

The doc didn’t laugh but the Intern with him cracked a serious grin. At least I was kept in a private room for the 72 hours. Seems that my intelligence, wit, hygene and education placed me in a somewhat different sphere.  Does this mean that all the ‘in’ crazies can afford insurance? I’m that much of an outsider? Whoa. Cool.

Something about suicidal ideations combined with a plan and the means to carry it off would not allow them to release me early, even though i checked myself in.

Made the mistake of telling my plans to a doc at Nevada Mental Health; was only there to fill out paperwork to qualify for low-cost therapy and free meds.
Grrrrr.

Well my concentration is up. Have not written a regular blog for 2 days. The new cocktail is fucking me up.
Abilify, Lamictal, Lithium, Xanax, Levothyroxine, and Dyazide (for the blood pressure).

Do I still have the gift of amusing thoughts? Sure.

Am I less suicidal than a week ago? Yes.

Do I want my Old Life Back? Oh FSM Please!

Party on Garth.

we’re number two

It seems impossible to turn things around and I’m am incapable of seeing even fleeting future happiness.
I find myself drawn to destructive behaviors and fantasies. These momentarily keep the demons away but are never enough.
They’re all short term answers; band-aids on the pain and despair of depression.

I just keep smiling, answering the phone, laughing with people and putting on the face of happiness and normality.

This morning I went to the bank to cover a slew of fees that have been accumulating for almost two weeks.
This nightmare began when I used my debit card –without checking the exact balance in my account- and the purchase amount was around $5.00 more than I had at the time.
Of course the charge went through, along with a $30.00 NSF fee. After that it was $5.00 a day, unbeknownst to me.
When I found out I went to the bank with $40.00 to cover what I though the overdraft was… 5+30=40 right?
Nope, by that time the overdraft was up to $85.00

This morning I was at the bank at 9:00 am with a check for $150.00 to finally end this mess.
I thought.
No, now the bank says I am overdrawn $190.00, so with the $150.00 deposit I’m still overdrawn $40.00 and they are going to close my account.
Apparently at 5:00 am my car insurance debit went through for $110.00. The amount is supposed to be $77.00

This leaves me with zero money, a pile of laundry I cannot afford to wash, no gas in the truck, and a past due phone/internet bill.
This may be my last post for a while.
Jesus.

I’m so tired of fighting.

Hell this current mess is my own fault. I believed there was enough money in my account when I used that debit card, but I did not actually check.
I am the cause of my problems and no one else.

It’s my fault there’s no money
It’s my fault that my daughter is gone
It’s my fault that TK is gone
It’s not my fault that this fucking disease twists my mind but that is small solace.

I honestly can think of no reason to keep on living.
Not fucking one.

Here are some intriguing stats I found this week:

1. Nevada Is Tied For Second In The Nation In Suicide Rates. Nevada was First until 2002. Alaska kicked our ass though. We’re Number Two!
2. The Suicide Rate in Nevada is almost double the National Average Rate
3. 480 people took their lives in 2004, up 9.7 percent from the previous year. That’s more than the 398 individuals who died in traffic accidents in Nevada that year.
4. In Nevada it’s not Las Vegas, the state’s gambling mecca, that drives the highest suicide rate in the nation. It’s the rural counties.
5. Nevadans die younger and at higher rates of suicide, substance abuse and certain chronic illnesses compared with the rates nationally and in other large counties (per a CDC report)

Seems I’m not the only person ‘round these parts possessed of suicidal thoughts.
Somehow this doesn’t make me feel any better or offer solace.

Please pass the rubber duckie will you?

my life as andrew largeman

 

Gah mornings are the worst.

My favorite shrink Ellis once told me this was typical of depression; your average wing-nut doesn’t begin to ‘feel’ any better until late in the day or evening.
Hell, if I knew that I would have kept drinking and at least had a physical reason to feel suicidal, hopeless and worthless after getting out of bed.

My current cocktail consists of Effexor, Cymbalta, Neurontin, and Lamactil. The anxiety and panic attacks are far worse since losing my insurance and therefore doctor. To wit: I no longer have a prescription for xanax.

How am I obtaining the other meds I hear you ask?
Well, um, dad is a shrink.
Yeah. Being a whack-job is definitely hereditary. I dare you to find a kid raised by a mental health professional who isn’t in therapy or analysis.
Go ahead. Double dare ‘ya.

Wanna see a portion of my life? Go rent Garden State.
The protagonist is the son of a psychiatrist whose father has been prescribing him handfuls of medication for his entire life. Heh.
If nothing else you’ll love the soundtrack and if you’re anything like me the movie will grab you as well.
When I say ‘anything like me’ it indicates chronic depression, bi-polar disorder, major-league neurosis and a history of playing the classic family parlor game: anti-depressant roulette.

So it’s morning now and I’ve had my coffee, cried for awhile, and chatted with a friend on IM. At some point I have to get a few things done around the house.
Wait. Better idea. Run away from home.
I’ll pack the sandwiches and a change of clothes. You bring the change you find under the sofa cushions and a transistor radio.
Our parents will never miss us.
Neither will our kids.

~BR