nuttyasacucumber-blog - Tumblr blog

nuttyasacucumber-blog · 8 years ago

Text

Taking Control of My Mental Health (in progress)

I'm leaving my current psychiatrist. I have written this post three times. Each time, my situation mutates and worsens before I have finished writing, and I leave the partially written posts in the digital scrap pile that is my Google Keep. Let me now present to you my fractured tale of woe, in the hope that I am about to walk away from this nightmare.

ACT ONE: (written in January, 2017) In which I begin to review the state of my relationship with my psychiatrist. I want to take ownership of my mental health. I want to be proactive and informed. I don't honestly think I ever have been. This is partially because I ask too few questions, and partially because I don't fight for answers. I have come to realize that I am a person that needs well organized labels and boxes, at least in regards to myself. I don't want to hear that I'm "on the bipolar spectrum." I want you to tell me that I'm bipolar. Let me feel like I have control by giving me the means to explain who I am, or at least with what I struggle. My psychiatrist is in her eighties. That's an educated guess based on about eight years of context clues. She is the last of a dying breed of doctors that both prescribes medication and offers therapy. I see her every other Friday. She is now semi-retired but continues to see many of her old patients. She is very old school. She has a fax machine, and that's about as high tech as she gets. She hand-writes prescriptions (even for controlled substances), which simply isn't done according to the pharmacists with whom I regularly dance. I am no longer particularly confident in her advice. My doctor has always had an odd way of dancing around diagnosis. Is it out of fashion to assign labels to mood disorders? Does she want to spare me the stigma of being labeled "bipolar." I honestly don't know. When she first started prescribing mood stabilizer for me, she told me that I was on the bipolar spectrum. She explained that "the people who we think of as having bipolar disorder are WAY over here on the spectrum. You're more over here" (at the other end of the invisible arch she pantomimed). Months later, while discussing the break-neck speed at which my brain sometimes works, she told me "that's common in bipolar people! Your brain just moves faster than people can understand sometimes." That was the first time I had been referred to as bipolar. Previously, I was merely suffering from similar symptoms. Similarly, she began prescribing me Adderall for the anxiety I experience when I'm overwhelmed. She explained that Adderall is often prescribed for people with treatment resistant anxiety. Months (years?) later, she casually referred to me as having ADD. How can I begin to take control of my own mental health when I don't truly know the state of it?

ACT TWO: (written in July, 2017) In which I experience the most intense mental health roller coaster of my life, and throughout which I am told that I just need to sit under my S.A.D. lamp more. In the past week, my concerns have grown exponentially more pressing. Yes, I had already begun to doubt her. Yes, I worried that her information was outdated. Yes, I should have gotten a second opinion when these doubts began, and yes, I am embarrassed that I've neglected this for as long as I have. Having said that... I haven't felt "right" since last year. There is no brief version is this story: I was depressed in January. My psychiatrist upped my Wellbutrin before leaving town for several weeks. I began to have what I tought were migraine level stress headaches. They worsened throughout February, and I began to miss work. My physical therapist tried chiropractics, message therapy, and electric stimulation. An urgent care doctor gave me a shot of pain killer, which have me a few days reprieve. I tried everything. When my psychiatrist returned from her trip, she asked if I had had any side effects. I told her about the headaches, and she said I should return to the lower dose immediately. When it was out of my system, we would try something new. I crashed. I didn't just return to the level of depression I felt before. I went so much deeper and darker than that. I was filled with so much anger and confusion that I became delusional. I lashed out at a friend, and it has permanently damaged or . I also continued to have the headaches as the drug was leaving, so you know, best of birth worlds! In April, when I was experiencing the worst depression, anxiety, paranoia, and pure grief that I have ever experienced, she prescribed... I honestly don't remember anymore. There have been so many. Paxil? Zoloft? I began to have sudden high blood pressure, dizziness, and pressure in my head and face. Driving home one night, I thought I was going to die on the highway. In May, I was prescribed Effexor. My first morning on Effexor, I felt like all of the skin on my body was on fire. I called my psychiatrist because I was considering going to the emergency room. She said she believed it was because I took it on an empty stomach. Several hours later she called back and left me a voicemail saying that she was mistaken. It seems she had prescribed Effexor once in the past, and I had had a similar reaction of the time. She also slid an, "I don't think you should try to get pregnant right now. Do not try to get pregnant" into the voicemail without context. She then prescribed me Remeron. My depression and anxiety began to level out somewhat, but I stopped feeling other emotions as well. I watched both Moana and Wonder Woman (which I'm good are both amazing), and I felt nothing. After the previous four months of emotional torture, however, this was a sacrifice I was willing to make. I also began to stutter. On several occasions, every syllable in an entire sentences would come out in the wrong order. My psychiatrist said that this was not a common side effect of the drug, and I shouldn't worry about it. It was most likely a result of anxiety. I began to slowly gain weight, where previously I had successfully been losing it. I never stopped having the depression and anxiety. I stopped feeling crushed under the weight of it, but I never returned to feeling functional and normal. Because of this, she doubled the Remeron in June. I began to gain weight more rapidly. I gained 15 pounds in about 6 weeks. On Thursday, I believed I was having a heart attack. I felt pressure rush to my face and head. My temples felt as though they were pushing the ear pieces of my glasses off. I became light-headed, and my hands and feet became tingly. I drove home terrified.

On Friday I told my doctor about the weight gain and the "heart attack" episode. She instructed me to decrease the Remeron to the original dosage to aid with the weight, and to buy a blood pressure machine in response to the episode. (I abruptly stopped writing at this point, but I saw her again less than a week later, and continued) My psychiatrist has just informed me that she is leaving on vacation. I won't see her again for five weeks. Because she is leaving and doesn't "want to take any chances," she has decided to take me off the Remeron. She also decide to up my mood-stabilizer (Trileptol) "just to be safe," after having decreased it last week. I also asked her to consider lowering my Seroquel (the anti-anxiety drug that I take for nightmares) since I had been put on it "temporarily" over a year ago. She very quickly flipped through her notes (all hand written on torn out sheets from legal pads) and decided to increase my dosage instead. My concern isn't simply that she disregarded my desire to lower a medication that I was only supposed to take for a brief period of time. I'm more concerned that she no longer fully understands the contents of her notes. Just last week, she referenced her notes and asked me about a migraine I had had the previous week. She was insistent that this took place; it was clearly stated in her notes. I hadn't had a migraine; I had told her about taking care of my friend who had been having one. She keeps the record of my prescriptions in a separate notepad. I asked her if I could have a copy of it. She asked why. I told her that I simply hadn't been keeping track. I just wanted to know for my own records. She told me that her notes wouldn't make any sense to me. She recorded new prescriptions, increases, and decreases with the corresponding dates, but her notes didn't contain any of her reasoning behind those decisions (I knew that already: separate notebooks), nor did they contain any instances where I stopped a medication altogether. "Anyway, it would simply take too long to copy them. We're talking about two years worth of notes here!" (This statement especially bothered me, because I've been seeing her for 8 years.) To the best of My recollection, my medication has been changed at least 14 times in the last 6 months.

ACT THREE: (Present day) In which the situation becomes dire. Every month, my psychiatrist handwrites me a prescription for Adderall, which helps with my concentration and nightmares, but is largely intended to assist with my anxiety. Because it is a controlled substance, I have to hand-deliver a new prescription to the pharmacy each time. No refills. My last appointment with my psychiatrist was July 28, and I was scheduled to run out of Adderall on August 8th (while she's was on vacation). My psychiatrist decided to solve this problem by writing me a prescription on July 28th that was dated August 8th. Our next appointment was scheduled for September 1st. When August 8th arrived, the pharmacist informed me that she could not fill the prescription because my psychiatrist did not have a license for controlled substances. "What does that mean?" I honestly didn't know what to say. "It looks like her license expired on July 30th," she told me. "Ok... What do I do about my prescription?" "You just need to call your doctor." She was out of town and not checking messages. I called the phone number of a colleague that she had left on her outgoing voicemail. When I explain the situation he replied, "Yes, no one told her she needed to renew it." I was flabbergasted. Clearly this was something that both he and she already knew about. He told me that he would speak to my Psychiatrist, and that she would be giving me a call herself. Several hours later, she called me and explain to me at length what had taken place without giving me the opportunity to ask many questions: "The state of Illinois is broke. They have no money. Usually, they send letters to doctors informing them that they need to renew their licenses. This year they decided to save money by doing it online instead. I saw the email and assumed it was spam. I only found out what had happened about a week before I left on this trip. There are hundreds of doctors all over the state that don't have licenses right now because the state never told us. They were too cheap to send the letter this year." When I was silent, she asked how I was doing, how I was feeling, how I was sleeping. I was both at work and furious. I told her I wasn't sleeping particularly well, but I had to get off the phone. She told me I should call my internist and ask her to write the prescription instead. I kept imagining that phone call, "Hello! This is Bird. My psychiatrist lost her license. Can you hook me up with some Aderall?" I eventually made that call and tried to explain to the receptionist what had taken place. I didn't hear back from my doctor. I haven't pushed the issue because I've decided I want a second opinion about my medication in general. I have thought a lot about the situation. I am quite often empathetic to a fault. I have forgiven my psychiatrist for so many things because of her age and our history. This, however, was unacceptable. I started thinking about those dates. She had learned about this lapse a week before leaving on vacation, just days after writing that prescription. Why hadn't she called me? Why would she leave on vacation one week later without informing her patients that they were carrying around unfillable prescriptions?

When September first arrived, I had mentally prepared myself to confront her about the situation. I was also going to demand my records. That morning, however, she cancelled our appointment. At 11:07am, she left an almost 2 minute long message saying that she wasn't "doing so well," and that she couldn't get ahold of me because she only had one phone number for me. "I don't have your work number... Only this number... Please, call me." She was speaking extremely slowly, like she wasn't quite awake. At 11:09am, she called again. The voice mail was just a sigh followed by a hang up. At 11:11am, she called again. This time she left a 30-second voicemail that contained essentially the same information as the first. She explained that she was sick, and that she had been trying to get ahold of me but only had one phone number. "I don't seem to have your work number..." She had called three times in four minutes, and she was concerned because she couldn't get through to me. This was the middle of the workday mind you. At 1:00pm, when normally I would leave for her office, I heard these messages and return the call. The phone rang probably 10 times before I hung up. I never heard back from her. That was a week ago today. EPILOGUE I don't intend to call her again. I returned her call. The ball is in her court. I have an appointment with a new psychiatrist in five days. I'm hoping he can retrieve my records. Honestly, I'm just hoping to feel more in control.

#mental illness #mental health #medication #medicine #doctors #psychiatry #psychiartist #depession #anxitey #bipolor #second opinion

0 notes

nuttyasacucumber-blog · 8 years ago

Text

Missing a Dose

Here sit I on the bathroom floor like a real chump, trying to take the chill out of my legs with the hair dryer, waiting in the dark for the Xanex to kick in. This is what happens when I miss my night meds. I suppose I'm relatively lucky that my particular cocktail of night medications has a way of warning me when a dosage has been skipped. That "warning," however, is two hours of nightmares, a jolt of adrenaline that wakes me in a physical panic (hopefully only once before I realize what has happened), and a variety of pains that my now fully-awake brain cannot ignore: chills, numb hands, aching legs, etc. When I realize that this has happened, I do some mental math: How many hours until my alarm goes off? If I take the Seroquel now, will I oversleep? Without it, can I distract myself enough from the pain to fall asleep at all? The Trileptol won't take the pain out of my legs for hours. How will I be the least screwed? The solution to this recurring problem would be to simply never forget to take my night meds in the first place. It's so simple! The problem is one of human error, and I'm fantastic at human error. Tonight, I missed my meds because I got distracted. In picking up the night days-of-the-week pill case, I noticed that the morning case need refilled. I refilled it and went to bed, disregarding the original mission. Thank God for the days-of-the-week pill case! Without it, I would still be staring at my half-full glass of water, trying to remember if I had in fact skipped the dose. I've been there too many times. ...ok, brain. That's 20 minutes. Let's try this whole "normal night sleep" thing again. I can still get four hours if I fall asleep right now.

#meds #medication #depession #anxitey #sleep #mental illness #mental health #medicine #seroquel #side effects #withdrawal #coping #personal experience

0 notes

nuttyasacucumber-blog · 8 years ago

Text

An Open Letter to Past Bird

Dear Bird in 1997, This letter won't change anything for you. You're on a set course through time. I just want to let you know, even if you never read this, that I became someone you'd like. You'd be proud of me, and I actually think you might just think I'm kind of cool. High school is going to be completely amazing for you. It's going to create the enthusiastic, optimistic woman you become. You do (unlike most people) become the person you wanted to be. You do get to love those people you said you'd love forever. I wish I could tell you to remember that for a while, because it's going to be rough getting from where you are now to a place where you can appreciate that. That sinking feeling you get sometimes is depression, and it's going to get bad. It's going to take you years to get diagnosed, years to get diagnosed correctly, and years to get medicated correctly. Even then, you're going to learn that, regardless of treatment, you have to live with it everyday. Sometimes, you're going lose hope. You're going to think you're weak. Sometimes, you'll actually regret having never tried to kill yourself. You'll think it was cowardice that kept you from trying. You are stronger than you could possibly understand right now. You survive something that most people couldn't. The person you actually are overpowers the liar with which you share a brain. You persist, and you find reasons to love life in spite of yourself. You claw yourself out of a pit over and over again, and most people don't even see the dirt on your clothes. In the next two years (1997-98), you are going to meet your husband and some of best friends. You're going to join and lead clubs. You're going to start figuring out who you are. Then, a few years further down the line, life is going to get dark. Very dark. The luxuries of finding yourself and being that person are going to be replaced by the necessity of surviving and being a survivor at best. You'll struggle with friendships. You'll feel alone. You'll lack purpose. You'll stop recognizing yourself in the mirror. You'll lose a decade. Then you'll find yourself. You'll find your place, your people, and your purpose. You'll care about something, and you'll care about people, and you'll realize that you care about yourself. You'll start to understand what people mean when the say "you have to like yourself." You'll start to feel the way you feel right now: hopeful and at the start of something great. You'll pick up right where you left off. In twenty years, you'll look around and realize that your life is pretty awesome. Yes, your brain will still lie to you. You'll worry uncontrollably, and you'll truly disparage yourself from time to time. But you'll know that isn't really you thinking those things. You'll know how to see through it as best you can. In twenty years, you'll look around and realize that your married to the man you've loved for twenty years. You're best friends with the people you've loved for twenty years. You have people in your life that you truly trust.

You'll have a job at any amazing, joyful place that is changing people's lives. You'll have a job making people happy. You'll forget that it's a job. You'll look forward to getting up each morning. You'll be ready to climb whatever wall life puts in from of you. You'll know exactly who you are when you look in the mirror. You'll like that person. You'll think about who you were, who you are, and who you want to be. You'll wish you could go back in time and tell yourself so many things, but you know it wouldn't change anything, and (ever if you could) you wouldn't want it to change anything. So you'll look forward instead. See you soon, Bird in 2017

#open letter #medication #depession #mental health #mental illness #hope #love #past self #perseverance #strength

0 notes

nuttyasacucumber-blog · 8 years ago

Text

Showing My Hand

I want to write honestly and openly about my own experiences, but I find myself hesitating over and over again and deleting hundreds of words that I’ve so carefully chosen. Every topic I sit down to tackle takes place at the intersection of multiple facets of my secret life, each of which requires some explanation. Organizing the chaos is exhausting, and it’s easy for me to convince myself that said chaos is my reason for not jumping in. Truthfully though, fear and doubt are what is truly stifling.

I am absolutely terrified of putting the truth out into the world. Maintaining relative anonymity is part of that fear, but honestly, the root of it is denial. If I lay my cards on the table, will they define me? The answer is no, but it’s hard to believe that and let go.

Fear and doubt are like Jabba the Hutt with Salacious B. Crumb, cackling on his tail. It’s hard not to be Oola (the green woman), dancing for Hutt to cling futilely to safety. Being Leia takes effort. If you want to take off that goddamn gold bikini, you have to kill Hutt yourself.

The world would be so different and exciting if everyone openly laid their shit on the table, hid nothing, and admitted who they are. If we were honest and upfront about the struggles that make three dimensional people, we would probably find others that can relate. Then, all that would be left for us to discover is what makes everyone around us beautiful and exiting.

…But oh my god, My hand has so many shitty cards in it. Will I sound crazy? Melodramatic? Self-important? Why do I care this much? Why don’t just kill Hutt, take off the gold bikini, and be who I am? Ok… This is it. I’m just doing the thing:

I have a crippling, unhealthy fear of disappointing people and being disliked. I also have an incredible memory, so when I let someone down, it never stops hurting.

I’m on the bipolar spectrum. I suffer from (as my semi-retired, 80ish year old therapist calls it) depressive-anxiety about half of my waking hours. I literally can’t stop worrying.

I have a reading disorder. A 200 page paperback is about a thirteen hour commitment, assuming I can find large, uninterrupted chunks of time. I read constantly. I lie about finishing books.

I have synaesthesia. I assign colors to scents, flavors, numbers, and letters. I see time in terms of shapes, and I assign human characteristics to letters.

I’m queer, and I feel like I’ve waited too long to embrace or explore that. I hide it from people because I’m afraid they’ll feel like I’ve been lying to them. I feel guilty for hiding it from people; like I have been lying to them. I’m exploring my own sexuality in a vacuum. I’m trying to allow my brain to think and feel things that I spent over 30 years training it not to. I have a very patient and understanding husband.

I have miscarried twice. I want to have a family, but I’m scared to try again. I worry that I’m not psychologically designed for motherhood; I worry that mental illness will make me a bad mother. I also worry that I’ve waited too long. I’ll be 35 this fall.

I have a love-hate relationship with Christianity. I felt manipulated and ignored by the Catholic church. I felt used and discarded by the Protestant church. I hide my beliefs from my friends, and I hide my doubts from my family.

I am embarrassed of my body. I’ve always been heavier than I’m “supposed to be.” I’ve never felt comfortable or normal, and I feel like I don’t have control over it.

I am embarrassed of my medication: what it means about who I am, what it does to the rest my life. I have to choose between depression and weight problems. I have to chose between anxiety and these new fun speech problems.

I am embarrassed of the words that come out of my mouth.

I hate having secrets, and I verbalize (what feels like) every thought and feeling that comes into my head. I want to trust people. At the same time, I’m constantly terrified that people will find out who I actually am. I spend a tremendous amount of energy hiding (what feels like) every thought and feeling that comes into my head.

But yeah… that’s who I am. That’s my shit. Now I get write honestly and openly about my own experiences. I can talk about these things without worrying that I’ll scare or disappoint you, and hopefully, all that will be left is for us to discover what makes me beautiful and exiting in spite of it all. One can dream, right?

#confession #bipolor #depession #anxitey #bravery #honesty #queer #body image #mental illness #fears #reading #hiding #star wars #sexuality

2 notes · View notes