Adventures in Medicating

Skip this post if you're not interested in my ongoing medication/therapy/mental health roller coaster. THERE. You've been warned.

A little over a year ago, I started a new medication. It's one commonly used to treat bipolar disorder, but in my case it was being used for, as my doctor put it, "treatment-resistant depression." At first, this drug seemed to be doing the trick. I don't remember if I updated later, nor do I currently have the energy to look, but in any case the initial high that I seem to get with any new anti-depressant once again didn't last. I stayed on it, and felt like maybe I was just able to cope better than before, and thus it was certainly helpful, right?

At some point, my company switched insurance companies and the doctor who prescribed this medication didn't take the new stuff. Figures. I found a new place where they use nurse practitioners for the medication part of mental health wellness, and once again went through the intake process. She asked me questions about feeling manic, but since my answers were all negative, I didn't think anything of it. I didn't like this nurse much, so when she transferred offices and I was assigned someone new, I was happy. I did sort of a mini-intake with the new nurse, since she had the notes from the previous woman, and when she made mention of bipolar now and then, I simply thought she was being general or thorough about what this medication was for and could do - I didn't realize right away that she inferred by the prescription itself that someone, somewhere, had actually diagnosed me as bipolar.

Several months ago, we tried weaning me off the medication, but I had a bit of a breakdown so that decision was reversed. I went back on, but at a lower dosage, and added in anti-anxiety pills. By now, there's a girl at my pharmacy who knows me by sight. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about that, although I suppose it's kind of nice not to have to spell my last name every time anymore. If any of the other employees now recognize me and remember my name, they at least hide it.

Between these 2 drugs, I once again felt like I was, at least, capable of handling stress. It was better than before. But, sidebar, let's talk about my cat's health for a minute. This last year he was diagnosed with IBD, which is actually kind of a funny thing to say a cat is "diagnosed" with, because the loose translation of IBD in cats is "we don't actually know what's wrong, but it's definitely something with his digestive system." The treatment is quite similar to that of mental health treatment for people: try these drugs... see how it goes... maybe try these drugs with those drugs... how's that? no? okay, let's try these and maybe some of that... It goes on like this until you find the right cocktail. Guess and check.

Crazy Talk: Prologue

I have to preface all of this by saying that I love my parents.  They dedicated the best years of their lives to making sure I would have a chance to enjoy mine.  I do appreciate that.  I don't blame them for when things went awry, and I believe they still do the best they can with the options they're comfortable with.

That said, my mother is crazy.  She wasn't always as crazy as she is now, and it's an uncomfortable topic for the rest of my family.  I have so many stories.  I want you to know that it's okay to laugh when you think it's funny.  I laugh about it sometimes, too.  Sometimes, that's all I can do.  It's a horrible situation, and it might make me a horrible person, but a sense of humor helps keep me grounded in reality.  It helps to remind myself that no, it isn't normal.  I'm actually afraid that if I start to think it's normal, I'll end up the same way.

There were some early signs that things weren't quite right.  But first, if you find yourself thinking that you're the most worthless or unhappiest person you know, please talk to someone about it.  If you read the rest of this or any of my later posts and think it sounds eerily familiar, seek out a trustworthy professional.  You owe it to yourself and to the people you care about.  Just by doing that, you'll be taking a huge step toward helping yourself live the life you deserve to live.

I really wish that my own family had recognized the warning signs before it got worse.

Sometimes I Don't Think... Period

First of all, while I oppose the concept of victim-blaming, I also believe in taking responsibility for being a fucktard. And I was a fucktard.

 ...okay, sometimes I'm still a fucktard. Shut up. In fact, I think the entirety of my 20's can be written off as a long series of frequent stupid decisions, slowing down into less-frequent-but-still-not-bright decisions in my 30's.

A good friend of mine is in Missouri right now, and it made me think of when I lived there. After a bit of a breakdown, I moved in with my folks for a while to recoup. Missouri was not exactly the most fun place I've ever lived, plus I was living with my parents.

This was so long ago, of course, the details are fuzzy in my mind. Right before I left Colorado, that dickhead who moved out while I was at work got back in touch and wanted to try long-distance until I was ... I don't know, better? ... and the plan was that I would then move back to Colorado and we would be together and la la la happiness and flowers and crazy people. I was all about it. I was desperate to be loved and wanted and whole and was basically insane.

Who was surprised when he pulled another disappearing act? Sadly, only me. It didn't take long for him to stop answering or returning my calls, to block me on AIM, to just drop off the face of the earth without a peep. Now I was in Missouri with no friends, no job, nothing to do, and now no hope for this stupid false relationship I'd been clinging to like a blind bloated tick.

EVERYTHING IS RUINED FOREVER.

Know your limits

Last time, I talked about my decision to be "forever alone" when I was 11.  Everything seemed so clear when I was a kid.  "No" was my very first word, and it served me well all throughout my childhood.  No, I didn't want to wear a dress!  No, I didn't want to go to church!  No, I didn't need help with my homework; I could do it myself!  No, I didn't want to try smoking!

So really, the decision I made to suddenly stop seeing John was typical for me at that age.  I knew what he wanted.  I knew what I wanted.  Those two didn't match up, so I removed myself from what I considered a no-win situation.  I didn't look back, and I had no regrets.  It was easy to see those things as a kid, and the solution was wonderfully obvious back then.

As I got older, situations became more muddied.  I gradually lost sight of the little girl who had made seemingly tough decisions with no regrets.  I became less confident.  Relationships got... complicated.  And, occasionally, terrifying.

The good old days

I'm not Peanut, obviously, but Peanut has kindly given me permission to write things that you probably shouldn't read.  Yay!

Let's start with a story for people who idealize "simpler" times, before the hustle and bustle of cell phones, when neighbors helped each other out and families worked the land to provide for themselves.  Want to know what it's like to live off-the-grid and have a family in a quiet country area?  I can help!  As a bonus that surely isn't at all related, I can also tell you about grade-schooler pregnancies!

For some back story (bear with me), I grew up just outside of a rural town with a population of 450 people.  We didn't have cable, or the internet, or even 911 service (because they needed fancy city luxuries, like street names).  The public school, however, was amazing.  It raked in obscene amounts of money from oil, meaning we took a lot of field trips and had so many books.  (Teachers were still a bit of a crapshoot.  While I was there, three teachers and one principal were accused of being a little too friendly with students.)

We had pretty normal school crushes, despite our options being naturally limited by math.  But once you had a "boyfriend," you were permanently attached to that guy.  Sure, you could fight and break up like people did on TV, but you always got back together.  Always.  These matches were locked in by the 3rd grade at the latest and could only be shaken by drastic events, like a new kid moving into town.

I paired off with a boy who had the same hair color as me, which seems like as good of a reason as any when you're in first grade.  We'll call him John.  John was "the rebel" of my class.  His parents were divorced, which was unheard of there.  He lived with his dad, wore torn jeans and a black leather coat, and liked skulls.

John was the perfect boyfriend for a tomboy.  We had lots of fun exploring abandoned houses and catching lizards.  I had two best friends (who were also appropriately matched off), and we all played together like normal kids.

Years passed like that.  We entered the 5th grade.  One of the girls in my class was mysteriously absent for a while, and when she came back, she had a baby with her.  How cute!  She was seeing a guy who went to college in a city about 30 minutes away.

Guest Posts!

I'm sure I still have stories, and things in my head that want to get out, but other people have amazing stories as well. I'm opening this blog up for guest authoring!

There are two options... one, if you have a few stories and would like to contribute a bit more often, just let me know and I will send you an invitation to be an author on this blog. Two, if you just have one or two really good stories, you can email them to me and I will post them, with a note that the story is from [whatever name you choose].

I'm trying to convince a friend who has some amazing stories to guest blog a few times, so if you want some interesting stuff about real stalkers, middle school pregnancies, and more - please leave some comments encouraging her to write!

PS - your stories don't have to be about dating or relationships; this is, after all, The Blog of All Topics! And I of course have written about everything from dating to depression to standing up for slut rights, plus a bunch in between (muffins are NOT frosting-free cupcakes, people!!).

When I Try To Sleep

Going to a therapist to try to redeem your self-esteem means having someone ask you when it all started. When did you start disliking yourself? When did you start hating yourself? What happened to you? What was your childhood like, your parents like, your whole fucking life like?

But I don't remember. I don't remember most of it. I'm not blocking traumatic events; I have an older brother and I feel like we were close growing up and he remembers loads more than I do. If something traumatic happened, he'd tell me. I just... have very few memories. There's one here, one there... my brain seems to have a knack for remembering the negative portions really well, the awkward moments, the punishments for being bad, the actual being bad. The good stuff seems to have gotten lost in that haze somehow. Is that genetic? Chemical? To have a brain that clings only to what makes me feel like shit, and discard freely anything that might remind me that things were okay? That I'm okay?

It's all too easy to blame having a military father. "My dad wasn't around when I was growing up," I can say flippantly, and people make their assumptions. Well, of course I'm messed up! Of course I've always sought affection from male figures in my life! My dad wasn't there! But you know, he wrote me letters. Lots of them. I remember that when I stop to think. He called me by cute nicknames (which I remember), he hugged me a lot when he was home, he told me he loved me all the time - I'm sure he did, even if my brain isn't letting me remember it specifically. I remember counting down with Mom until Dad would come home. I remember waiting at the dock (the pier?) with the other families and being excited. I remember wanting him to be the one who brushed my ridiculously long hair because he was more gentle than Mom. I remember having a night shirt that said "Daddy's Little Girl."