Head in the Sand

This is the twenty-eighth in a series of episodes, detailing my dawning realization, that I have some mental issues, that I must address, or risk losing those around me, who mean so much to me.  I do not know how many installments this will entail, because I do not have an outline, for this particular avenue, that my Life has chosen to pursue.  Because I have always found writing to be therapeutic, I am going to share my journey with anyone, who cares to read along.   Believe me, I am not having that much fun.

Head in the Sand

JT commented, “Funny.  I keep my head in the sand.  I never pay attention to side effect papers.”  That would describe me also, if I were dealing with medication to lower my blood pressure, or possibly to reduce swelling in my knee.  However, when I consider the term “life-threatening” when describing arbitrary possibilities for side-effects, I lose my objectivity, and devil-may-care attitude real quick like.

Of course, statistically, the odds are even lower than minuscule, but how do you explain that to the sufferer?  “Sorry, old chap, just keep the old chin up, there, what?”  If there are a dozen different mood stabilizers, and the second through twelfth does not include the side-effect that is a life-threatening rash, and all are going to have some sort of side-effects, then why in the world would I go for the first one?  That makes no sense to me.  It makes no sense that medicine that could have that effect is available at all, but hey, who’s talking here?  Anyone with an objective viewpoint?  I don’t think so.

So as always (and I do mean always) Annie was into the research mode, as she found out all of the pertinent details.  The research gives the drug high marks, and Annie found out that “life-threatening” still does not necessarily mean always fatal.  By introducing the medicine incrementally initially, and closely monitoring my body for any unexplained rashes, the assumption is that any difficulties, would be noted and dealt with immediately, as opposed to what may have happened in the test cases, when the patients did not know to be on the lookout for that sort of development.

It just goes to show that catastrophizing, that is, fixating on worst case scenarios, does not pay off.  However, when considering all factors, I do not see as an option, ignoring something of such critical importance, especially when it comes to calming anxiety.  Now I am able to get past the potentially deadly side-effect by recognizing the astronomical odds, plus the fact that there is a plan in effect to contend with the rash, should it materialize.

I mentioned in the most recent episode, that I am now getting much more aware of my moods and the way they shift.  Yesterday marked one of the most benign days in recent memory, with my legs feeling strong enough to go out and weed-eat for an hour (with the rest of me accompanying them), in addition to two walks with Annie.  I mentioned to her how positive I was feeling, a result I was sure of the information she had acquired about the mood-stabilizing drug that Dr. G. would prescribe to me at this juncture in time.  

Then I awoke from a late afternoon nap, a sound sleep of 45 minutes, to an irritable frame of mind that defies explanation.  Annie was preparing a meatless pasta sauce, it had been simmering for hours, dinner was slated for six, we were fifteen minutes away, and my psyche was being rubbed raw by sandpaper, for no apparent reason.  The meal was excellent, and halfway through, I explained what was going on, and that I could not figure out why.  I was trying desperately not to let my fame of mind mar our dinner, but even being quiet, and not trusting myself to speak, did not liven the mood.

Afterwards, I tried to post a piece of writing, but the new blogger format had me in a tizzy.  One “side-effect” of Eric’s tinkering with my technology system, and restoring my email account, is that the rest of my system is royally flubbed up.  I have to enter either my new email address or my old email address to take each and every step now.  I have to include the password, and I mess it up every time.  So I am on the proverbial edge, 24/7.  The scene is enough to drive a normal person to a mood disorder.

So now I feel that the mood chart should be expanded to cover specific characteristics of my illness, such as an AM/PM reading on the irritability level, or my newly assessed issue with nausea.  For the past 18-24 months, these waves of nausea have been gently intruding into my sphere of awareness, first as mere impressions, growing in intensity as time has progressed.  I believe that the fainting spell in the laundry room a few weeks ago is partly attributable to this nausea.  What I did not do is attribute it to mood disorders, which it clearly seems to be.  So now I feel adding this component to the chart is logical.  We are looking for patterns to emerge, which may lead me to be able to link actions with symptoms, or even to be able to predict when difficulties may occur.  

I am good at minutiae. The Virgo in me embraces the intricacies of having to track as many as twenty or more pieces of data, every day.  When it comes to the minuscule details, as trivial as they may appear, I am the Pro from Dover.  Besides, it’s actually entertaining, in a macabre sort of way.  Who is this dude, and where on earth did he come from?  Moreover, what’s it all have to do with me?

I plan to find out, and when I do, I will let you know.

One Last Dash to the Sea

One Last Dash to the Sea

Labor Day was right around the corner, and Jenna had been bugging Max to make one last “dash to the sea,” as she put it, taking the kids, the dogs and the Weber over for the proper send-off to what had been an action-packed summer.  Between the river and the ocean, they had provided some old-fashioned family time, and Jenna wanted to capture the spirit one last weekend, before the girls headed off to school.

Sasha was going into middle school, an event that might have caused a greater stir, except for the fact that she had had numerous opportunities to participate in school-wide events.  There had even been a low-key transition day, the last week of school, in which the sixth graders were invited to join the middle schoolers for an informal mix, which included the middle school band performing.

One of Sasha’s interests was music, and she had been taking clarinet and flute lessons since she was in fourth grade, though it was the drums she had her ear set on.  Now she would get to play in the middle school band.  She had a best friend who was also into music, and the two of them planned to navigate the world of music together.

Sasha’s little sister, Mindy, was going into fifth grade, and wanted nothing to do with music; she wanted to play volleyball, she wanted to play basketball, and in the springtime, she wanted to play softball.  She loved nothing more than going on the family outings, because she was a fish out of water, and got to return to her favorite place to be, not caring a bit, if it was salt or fresh water, so long as there was plenty of it. 

There was only one blemish on the whole family adventure/outdoor excursion thing, and that was Jenna’s fear of the ocean.  She wasn’t afraid for herself, only for her girls.  When they were smaller, she had never allowed them to go near the water unless she was there, but as they got older, and became better swimmers, she had relaxed her mindset, to allow them to go to the water with Max supervising.  She had watched how attentive he was, any time either of the girls was in the water.  He was relentless.

As this final Saturday unfolded, the last thing Jenna wanted to do, was ignore her instincts, when it came to the girls and water.

“You know the rules; listen to your dad and watch out for each other.  Have fun!”  They skipped off together, chatting as they were so capable of doing, despite the two years’ difference.  

“Thanks for taking them down, Baby.  You know I appreciate it.  I would never let them go without you, and now I can take a nap.”  She kissed him lightly, and drifted over to her lounge chair and her latest Elizabeth George.

On the way down to the water, they passed a young man, probably no more than 17 or 18, sitting on the sand.  He looked relaxed, with a cream-colored surfboard casually set off to one side, a sleek seven foot, single-finned beauty, that Sasha would have died to ride, even if she had never done so before.  The cream was offset with a ribbon of brilliant red, giving it a lively sparkle.  She had watched the surfers over time, had watched them perch on what seemed an impossible craft, and she had watched them dance on the glistening surfaces of their boards, like doing ballet on the crest of a wave.  She thought the surfers were awesome.

The young man glanced over at the girls and nodded, but made no other sign that he noticed their presence.  Max followed, as the girls made their way down the beach to their spot, where the tributary emptied out into the ocean, and the girls could dip themselves in fresh water, after coming out of the ocean.  They laid out the big red blanket, that was their trademark sand cover, and set down their books and sunscreen, and dashed down to the water.

When they asked Max if they could go back and talk to the surfer, Max told them he was bad news.  “These surfer guys have nothing better to do, than sit around giving nice girls like you the eye.  You’d be better off talking to that fat guy over there with his dog.”

It was still early, and they usually liked to lie in the sun and bake, before braving the cold NorCal ocean water.  Now, instead of reading, they sat and watched as the surfer walked down in the opposite direction, and nonchalantly paddled out to where the waves began to gather form and speed.  He seemed impervious to the cold, in his wet suit, as he maneuvered easily around, positioning himself for the waves, waiting, waiting, until the right one came along.

Then, having made the commitment to go for it, he paddles with all his might to gain speed, waits until he feels the wave carrying him forward, thrusting him at incredible speed, with all of the power and fury behind the ocean’s strength.  It is up to him to harness this fury, direct the nose of his board parallel to the coast, and feel the wind and spray in his face, as he does a soft-shoe on the waxed surface of his board.

Failure to keep his curled toes perfectly placed, as he continuously shifts and balances himself, accounting for gravity, the wave’s forward momentum, and the slippery surface of the board, will mean a certain plunge into all that tumultuous, frothing, dirty brown water.  There he will be battered about like an egg in a mixing bowl, the ocean’s agitation replacing that of the beaters, with the added attraction of the sand, ready to grind the skin from his nose and face, as he is pounded into the ocean’s floor.

So far, the surfer had managed to stay on his board, having had a couple successful efforts, but mostly finding that the ocean was behaving in quite an arbitrary manner, leaving his arms and shoulders aching with the effort to keep the board directed in the optimum direction.  It was a lot harder than it looked, and no matter how much protection the wet suit provided, it still left parts of the surfer exposed to that frigid water, and chattering teeth lent a rhythm that he would have preferred to do without.

Inevitably, the girls took their own turn in the ocean, as the sun reminded them why it was that they were there.  The standing rule was that they could not venture out beyond where the waves were breaking, because the undertow was unpredictable, and both girls knew better than to test destiny.  Max preferred to stand where the blanket was, rather than at the water’s edge, for better visibility, as he kept his attention on the most precious and fragile of life’s gifts, just as he always did, when they were in the water.  

He noted the two fishermen, off to the left, and the black labrador, frolicking about without a leash, paying little to no attention to its owner, a heavyset man, with a leash in one hand, and a beverage of some sort in the other.  He noted the couple with the toddler over by the base of the cliffs, taking pictures of the child as he played in the sand, for what looked like the first time.  Though he may have taken note of these other diversions, he did not lose his focus for even a moment, as he repositioned his sun glasses to minimize the glare of the bright sun.  

Yes, both girls were still right down in front of him, maybe 75 feet out into the water, both still clearly visible, standing in stomach deep water, Sasha facing the oncoming waves, Mindy less inclined to be so attentive.  But Max wasn’t really worried about Mindy, Miss Fish herself, he was more worried about Sasha, when it came to physical agility.

The fact that she was smart enough to face the waves was comforting, but it was not as though he was worried about her safety.  After all, he was standing right there, with both of them clearly in his sights.  And then suddenly, he did not have both of them clearly in his sights, because he found himself upended and then flat on his back, in the space of time that it takes to blink.  He had lost track of the labrador, as it skittered around the area, and the dog had circled around and had come gamboling up behind him, and clipped him from behind at knee level.  

Max went down on his back like a wooden sign post, crying out sharply as he dropped into the sand.  He was taken completely by surprise, and his first impulse was to rise to his feet with a bellow.  Before he could direct his wrath at the man, he saw that the man was pointing out toward the ocean, and with a start, he remembered the girls.  In that instant, as he turned to look, he felt a premonition so forcefully, that it staggered him.

Where was Mindy?  He saw Sasha immediately, her lime green top surfacing as the girl shoved up from the ocean’s floor, foam and suds cascading all around as the water swirled and swept everything before it, crashing tumultuously, and churning up everything in its path.  Everything but Mindy.  Where was his little fish?  Desperate for some glimpse, but afraid to charge down to the water’s edge, for fear of having no visibility, he froze, his legs suddenly turning to a curious mix of jello and cottage cheese, about as substantial as a crate full of cotton candy, and just about as helpful.

The image of Jenna’s ashen face passed in front of his eyes, and he groaned aloud.  What had occurred in the last sixty seconds, would take the rest of his life to explain.  How do you explain about a silly dog?  Or a silly wave?  Or how critical timing is in the greater sphere of things?  Could he just crawl into the ocean himself, and let it take him to a place where this nightmare was no longer possible, and Jenna’s eyes could no longer find him?

He saw a flash of red, and before he could even register surprise, he noted that the surfer dude had appeared out of nowhere, dived into the ocean, and was even now surfacing with Mindy in tow.  He could see her writhing in discomfort, her body trembling as she fought to suck in the fresh air.  The surfer’s board had become separated from him, as he had submerged himself beneath the wave, and now came floating up on the wet sand.  

Fighting to regain some feeling in his legs, he stumbled down toward the water, unable to stop his tears from blending with the ocean water, as he tried to find some meaning to the whole absurd episode.  One thing for sure, he saw surf boards in his future, make no mistake about that.  

Far out, Dude.  Can you show me how to hang ten? 

Pick Your Poison

This is the twenty-seventh in a series of episodes, detailing my dawning realization, that I have some mental issues, that I must address, or risk losing those around me, who mean so much to me.  I do not know how many installments this will entail, because I do not have an outline, for this particular avenue, that my Life has chosen to pursue.  Because I have always found writing to be therapeutic, I am going to share my journey with anyone, who cares to read along.   Believe me, I am not having that much fun.

Pick Your Poison

We arrived home from Mendocino Friday afternoon at about 4:30, earlier than any of the past six sessions.  I reflected idly, that when I had been seeing Dr. Jill in the Summer of 2010, I had made seven visits, before she moved to SoCal, and essentially accomplished that which I had set out to achieve: ridding myself of panic attack syndrome.  Now I had just completed the seventh visit with Dr. Garratt, but we were nowhere near the end.

Friday exemplified what being “mood challenged” is all about.  My perception might have been that a “mood spectrum disorder” sufferer went in cycles, exhibiting manic symptoms for weeks on end, before shifting to the depressive side of things.  Certainly accurate to a certain extent, this description does not encompass the roller-coaster experiences that can comprise one day.

I awoke that morning with a vague sense of unease, which persisted as Annie and I were going over the day’s agenda.  We rehashed the discussion on medication, and I decided to jot down a few questions for Dr. Garratt, in order to pursue the matter more fully at our session.  All of the factors which I have described in the two previous episodes, were playing havoc in my brain, as I struggled to determine the best path to follow in the ensuing weeks.

Though there was no specific order to the questions, in terms of importance, I began by asking Dr. Garratt if during his professional tenure, had he encountered a patient(s) who had similar concerns about side-effects as me, and had had his fears assuaged by the resulting effects of the medication?  (yes)  And conversely, I asked if he had encountered  patient(s) whose fears had not been placated.  (No)

I asked if there was any type of mood spectrum support group functioning in the area, to which I could ask questions.  (Not that he knew of)  I asked him to tell me what type of medication he would prescribe to me at this time, if that was what we determined was to happen, and he gave us the name of a mood-stabilizing drug.  I was mildly surprised to find out that it would not have been the Seroquel, that he had already prescribed for sleep.  

After reading the side-effects of Seroquel, an atypical antipsychotic drug, Annie and I had been frightened silly by its side-effectsd, and had temporarily shelved the medication.  Now he said that he would go with a mood-stabilizing drug, and he gave the name of the medication to Annie.  He discussed the logic behind his decision, telling us that since the depressive side of the disorder, was rearing its ugly head so formidably, he felt that it was necessary to bring that level down, while not kicking the manic side up.

The difference between an atypical antipsychotic drug, designed to bring down a patient from the metaphorical outer limits, to manageable levels, and a mood stabilizer, lies simply in the degree of need.  Because I was not a danger to myself or to those around me, a mood stabilizer is what Dr. G. settled on.  In investigating the side-effects of the recommended mood-stabilizer, there were no reported instances of relevant issues, and I began to feel optimistic.

The next question involved the anxiety I was feeling, over the whole issue of the meds.  As I have written, this one element of my illness, actually causes as much, if not more stress, than the disorder itself.  I told him that I still had my last entire prescription of Lorazapam, the anti-anxiety drug that I had taken for five years, prior to extricating myself from panic attack syndrome.  I asked if it would be appropriate for me to start taking it again, until we had resolved the issue of long-term use of medication, especially since there had been no discernible side-effects of the Lorazapam.

He thought that was a good idea, and when I asked him about dosage, he said to take the same dose as that which I had taken earlier.  When I told him that I had taken 2mg three times daily, he told me that that was not the way the drug was designed to function.  He said the smaller the amount in my body at any given time, the more effective it was.  So by taking six mg daily for so long, all I had done was build up a tolerance for it, that made it much less effective, especially towards the end of the time that I took it.

Up until this point, I had been pleased with his responses to all of my questions.  I now asked him a question to which he could not possibly know the answer, because he had only known me for seven weeks.  I asked it anyway, “Dr. G, based on what you know of me, do you think I have had a mood spectrum disorder all of my life?”

His answer was yes, but the removal of the panic attack syndrome, allowed the characteristics of the mood spectrum disorder, to assert themselves almost immediately.  I find the situation almost inconceivably ironic.  I could have continued on as a reclusive hermit, and not suffered the chaos that is MSD, or I could have gotten out from under what amounted to a rain-shower with umbrella, only to stand beneath this hail storm instead, sans any covering.

So we left the office in Mendocino, and returned home, feeling somewhat buoyed.  Actually, I was feeling pretty jubilant, about the way the session had gone, and I was looking forward to a Friday night at home, instead of the usual 7:30 or later return.  As I was sitting at my lappie at the kitchen table, just playing catch-up for a minute, Annie had made herself a cup of tea, and was researching the mood-stabilizing drug that Dr. G. had mentioned.

I was listening out of the corner of one ear, when the words, “only side-effect of note, is a life-threatening skin rash,” caused a tsunami of emotion, to crash over me.

She had been reading and continued to do so, until I interrupted, asking, “Hey, Annie, can we back the truck up a bit?  Life-threatening rash?  What’s that all about?”  

Annie paused and said, “I don’t know.  Let me check it out.”  She read silently for a minute, as the air continued to stagnate around me, calming my metaphorical sails, until they lay limply about my entire being.  She was still reading, as I drifted silently down to the lower part of the house, and lay down on the bed, drained of any and all sense of elation, at what I had thought was a benign settlement of my dilemma. 

Five minutes later I heard Annie join me, sitting down next to me and putting her hand on my shoulder.  Inside I was pretty drained, but I hated to show that to her, after all of the effort and support she has expended over the recent past.  As I grappled with what to say, I had a sudden inspiration, that galvanized me, and brought me to my feet.  Feeling as though I were leading the charge through the proverbial breach, I hollered “Lorazapam,” and went in search of that little container of anti-anxiety drug.  Dr. G. had said within twenty to thirty minutes, I should feel a lessening of the anxiety, and he was right.  

Not only did the anxiety lessen, but an hour after I had taken the single, 2 mg capsule, I went to bed, and slept seven non-stop hours, about two hours longer than I had slept at any given time in recent memory.

Unfortunately, upon awakening, I still had to face the reality, that I was back to square one:  I had to choose the lesser of two evils between the ramifications of an uncertain and capricious illness, and the medication designed to treat this illness.  Head under the pillow or life-threatening rash?  Pick your poison.  

   

Every Friday Night

Every Friday Night

They had argued angrily, again, just before Todd left for the stadium.  The fight had been a mirrored image of the one the previous week, and the one the week before that.  Todd hated football, and wished he could quit.  His father Daryl (Digger) Crockett hated the fact that Todd wanted to quit.

  “I don’t even care if you hate playing,” yelled Digger, “But don’t you dare go making me look like a laughingstock!  Quitter,” he muttered disgustedly.  “Didn’t I teach you anything?”

“Yeah.  You taught me to hate football.  Just because it was your thing, does not make it my thing.  I have other things that I would like to do, such as not get the shit beat out of me every Friday night.”

“Hell, you need some of that-you’re so full of it.  Besides, if you were more aggressive, you wouldn’t always be looking up from the ground.  You’re supposed to be looking down at your opponent.”

  Digger was a former defensive lineman, known as one of the Brighton Bulldogs, even though the official team moniker was the Brighton Bobcats.  The line had toughened up as both the games and the season had come to a close, netting the Bobcats/Bulldogs the state championship, establishing a league record for the stingiest defense.  The title game was a 24-0 gem, and Digger had been All-League.

Todd was a tight end, and that meant that he was in on all of the plays, only not in the way he might have envisioned, catching balls over the middle, and plowing his way forward for however much turf he could capture.  No, the glory went to the wide-outs, who did the crossing patterns down-field, and who were the go-to guys in Brighton’s offense.  Even Todd recognized that he did not have the required speed, so he blocked, and he decoyed in order to be able to block, and then he blocked some more.  He was in on all the plays all right; he in the whirlpool afterwards, though, every single game.  

Tonight the opponent was Westfield, the cross-town rival, and reigning league champion, though they had not advanced in the playoffs the previous year past the first game.  Brighton had felt that the better team had watched the post-season from the bleachers.  This year, the Bobcats had vowed to not allow the insult to be repeated.  There was a tremendous amount of pressure on the team to perform.

As Todd ran out for the opening series, he tried to put the argument out of his head, but it would not quit.

“You lack the tenacity of a real Bulldog,” his father had spat at him, as if he were some kind of worm, or worse, some kind of a loser.  

“Don’t you mean Bobcat?” Todd had asked. 

“That’s the difference between me, and you,” Digger went on.  “You’ll never be a Bulldog!”

“That’s right, Dad, but then again, I don’t want to be a Bulldog.  I never did.  You wanted me to be a Bulldog.  You.  Not me.  So if I don’t measure up, maybe it’s because I don’t want to.  Maybe I don’t want to look down on them, after I have vanquished them.  Maybe I just want to live my life without having opponents, and without having a dad who won’t accept me for what I am, or rather, for what I am not.  I am not a Bulldog.”

But the kid who matched up against Todd was a jerk.  He was loud, he was offensive, and he made it personal.  His red hair projected out from beneath his helmet, and the sweat on his face, gave his army of freckles, a sheen, out from which they peered, as if observing his play.  He had a thing about smash-mouth football; he elevated it to a new art.  

Red lined up from Todd from the very first play, and started in on Todd’s mother.  It was not the first time an opponent had taken this route, and Todd ignored it.  He did not care what some yahoo thought of his mother; it was an old tactic.  Red then started talking about Todd’s girl.

Now Red didn’t know Todd’s girl; he didn’t even know for a fact that Todd had a girl, so he was just fishing.  So when Todd heard the first insult come out of the jerk’s mouth, he was completely prepared.  It didn’t even matter what Red was spewing.  He expected that some clown on an opposing team, would start talking trash about his sweet Ashley, so he dealt with it, just as he had been instructed.

Now as Todd lined up against Red, the insults started flying again.  Red had noted the calm, and so he now redoubled his efforts.  Right out of the blue, he lashed out at Freddie, the team water boy, who fulfilled his responsibilities, unfailingly, having been the team water boy for seventeen seasons.  Freddie was 31 years old, and autistic.  He was the son of the coach, and had been serving the team in his role ever since he had come to Brighton High.  The team loved Freddie, unconditionally, and kept an eye out for him, in all venues.

As the ball was snapped, and Todd prepared to complete his assignment, Red bellowed, “Brighton can’t even find a real water boy.  They need a retard.”

Digger’s words came hurtling back at Todd, “You’ll never be a Bulldog,” and suddenly Red found himself opposite a true mad dog, complete with foaming mouth, as Todd screamed incoherently at him, and charged.  As he lambasted Red squarely, shoulder to chest, Todd dug his toes into the turf, and propelled himself forward, with a prodigious heave, a shove of such Herculean proportions that it accomplished two things: the first was to surprise the snot out of his opponent, who realized he had prodded the Bulldog, once too often. 

The second thing that happened, was that Red still did not realize that the tables had been turned on him, and that when he tried to up his effort, it was already too late.  His left cleat, extended just out behind him him, caught on the turf, leaving him off-balance for the briefest of heartbeats, and that’s when Todd’s second effort hit him.  Red actually screamed as Todd landed on top of him, but it was stifled in the roar of the crowd, as the ball-carrier went right over the top of the sprawled out Red, on his way to an untouched score.  It was right there for the whole stadium to see: brilliant and beautiful, a true Bulldog at last.

In the stands, Digger stared, thunderstruck, and said to himself, “I am a son of a bitch.  He had it in him all along.  I am a son of a bitch.”

Later, after the lights were out, and the team had scattered to all parts of the county, and beyond, to celebrate a hard-fought victory, Digger waited out in the parking lot for Todd.  

When Todd joined him, Digger waited for his son to say something, anything.  When Todd remained silent, Digger started up the car and headed out, speaking tentatively, “OK, Todd, Son, if you want to quit, then that’s all right with me.  I don’t mind you quitting, now that I see you can fill my shoes, with the best of them. I just hated the thought that you could not do the job, and were quitting because of that.  Now I see that you do not do the job each week, because you don’t want to.  I see a huge difference, and I won’t stand in your way.”

Now it was Todd’s turn to wait.  After a long moment, he said, “That’s all right, Dad.  Now I don’t want to quit.  I only did because you wouldn’t get off my back.  Besides, I got me a rep now, and I have to keep it up.”  And they drove the rest of the way home in companionable silence, each content to let white waters calm, if only for one special Friday night.

Life on the Med(s)iterranean

This is the twenty-sixth in a series of episodes, detailing my dawning realization, that I have some mental issues, that I must address, or risk losing those around me, who mean so much to me.  I do not know how many installments this will entail, because I do not have an outline, for this particular avenue, that my Life has chosen to pursue.  Because I have always found writing to be therapeutic, I am going to share my journey with anyone, who cares to read along.   Believe me, I am not having that much fun.

Life on the Med(s)iterranean

I know what you are thinking:  “If he prattles on again about meds, I am going to have to go into the bathroom, and reach up into the medicine cabinet, and grab a handful of something or other.”  It’s that kind of world.  Except for the time during which I was taking the anxiety drug, Lorazapam, I have never had to take daily medication for illness.  Now, I find myself examining every aspect of the potential medication, that I would be taking every day, in order to try and manage the illness known as “mood spectrum disorder” (MSD).

The goal of Annie and me, is to manage the illness through holistic means, which requires a great deal of self-monitoring, and a strict adherence to routine, especially involving patterns of sleep, eating, exercise, and anything that is deemed necessary to keep everything flowing smoothly.  Generally speaking, an accepted component of holistic healing, when dealing with MSD, is medication, the specifics to be worked out with your psychiatrist.

In having already been prescribed Seroquel, now safely ensconced in  the medicine cabinet, for sleep issues, and having decided to mark time for the present, until we have gathered more information, I now find myself at that worst of places, the proverbial crossroads.  Here Annie and I must examine all the data, including the recently accessed statistics regarding specific instances of relevant side effects, assess all of the characteristics and symptoms of the illness, and then decide if there is a match.  Otherwise, I have a future to face which includes manic episodes, and tangible instances of depression.

In attempting to articulate the one factor that looms the greatest, I still struggle.  I am referring to the concept of losing a part of myself, by the ongoing ingestion of atypical antipsychotic drugs, that I am unaware is gone, and consequently do not miss it.  I am not talking about loss of libido; believe me, I have my finger on the pulse of that one, and will at least know if I lose it.  The assumption is that I will have the switch at my disposal to flick, in the form of stopping the meds, so that all will be good.

I am referring to a more nebulous part of me, that was missing since age ten, when I began my 48-year-long battle with panic attack syndrome, but has returned for the past eighteen months or so.  Having rid myself of many of the anxiety issues which plagued me for so long, I now find that I enjoy the feeling of no fear.  I enjoy going about my business, trying to please me, instead of pleasing all of the others around me.  I do not have any reason to assume that the meds will have any ill effects at all, but I also do not want to assume that they will not.  Medication doesn’t come with a litany of side-effects, if people who took the medication, did not experience them.

So would I first recognize changes within me, and secondly, would I care?  Or would it be a case of, yes, I recognize that there is a difference, and I even know what that difference is, but I no longer care.  That thought scares me, even though I am the champion of not catastrophizing.  I do not like to focus on negative possibilities that lie before me.  But usually one finds out immediately whether or not the catastrophizing materializes or not.  In this case, the what-if question is about me, and the consequences are a lot more extreme.

Otherwise, I would say that the decision would seem to be a thumbs up, or rather, maybe just say a go.  I am not feeling particularly thumbs up at all, but I am feeling that meds afford me a better chance of emerging intact, as opposed to submerging, beneath a blanket and pillow, on the couch.  What I really wish was that I could speak to someone I know and trust, or could learn to trust, who suffers from this illness, so that I could ask my questions, and get information, that was not obtained through a study, or through the word of mouth of someone who is on the administering end of the whole process.

I am a big fan of being able to sit across from someone, so that I can make eye contact, and be able to simply converse.  Not even the phone works for me, because I cannot see the person, to whom I am speaking.  Until then I am operating on the information I have at my disposal, and will decide accordingly.

I have decided to ask Dr. Garratt if he can put me in touch with someone who would not mind having the kind of conversation I am describing.  I have come a long way, but would like to make it to one last mile marker, before I capitulate.  That’s a bad word and I know it, because it implies that someone is forcing me to take the meds.  I know that that is not true.  I just have to convince myself.

 

Partners

This is the twenty-fifth in a series of episodes, detailing my dawning realization, that I have some mental issues, that I must address, or risk losing those around me, who mean so much to me.  I do not know how many installments this will entail, because I do not have an outline, for this particular avenue, that my Life has chosen to pursue.  Because I have always found writing to be therapeutic, I am going to share my journey with anyone, who cares to read along.   Believe me, I am not having that much fun.

Partners

For those of you who keep an eye on what appears at this site, I know you must wonder what happened to the guy who used to post all of this prattling, good-if for nothing else-for instilling in the reader a sense that he or she has it better than the poor guy trying to make some sense of it all.  As I have said many times, but find myself compelled to reiterate, writing helps me sort it all out, and has done so long before anyone but my sister JT was checking out what I have written.  There are still posts that have never had even one page-view, according to my stats page, but that doesn’t bother me a bit, because I know JT has read it all.

So my readership has gone from 3,000 page-views in thirty days, to 1,500 in thirty days, telling me that prattling about mental issues, is more interesting, than reading short stories.  Since none of it is assigned reading anymore, I am not too worried about it, and I suspect that neither are you.

I will start with my favorite literary device, irony, and mention that at the conclusion of my last post in this series, I was feeling pretty upbeat about the big picture, while struggling with the day to day depressive features of “mood spectrum disorder,” the term with which I have replaced “bipolar disorder.”  Hell, it’s only words, and if I really cared one way or the other, I sure wouldn’t be talking about it here on my blog.  Obviously, much does not make it here, because of my desire to conform to the wishes of a very private person, who wishes to remain blissfully anonymous, despite my best efforts to the contrary.

Now, I am better able to deal with most day-to-day crises (I said most) in a more upbeat manner, but the big picture has the black cloud over it.  In the beginning, and well past the point that I started to see “The Guy in Comptche,” Dr. Garratt, I felt there was some ridiculous error, or not so ridiculous from Annie’s perspective, and that I was being misdiagnosed.   I felt that the shoe emphatically did not fit, and that a series of experiences, prompting an expenditure of emotional surplus, had occurred to transform me into a passionate voice of the oppressed.  I felt that all of the seeming “manic tendencies” could be explained away by circumstances aligning themselves in such a way, as to distort reality.

Of course, it is the nature of the beast that the distortion is in the eyes of the sufferer.  Others could see this paradox, but until I saw it for myself, it did no good for others to point it out, as diplomatically as they may have been able to do.  Not until April 10th, when I had planned to attend the preliminary hearing for Billy Norbury in Ukiah, did I realize that the lethargy I was suffering from, had a clinical foundation in depression, and that I was able to add several other, far more tangible examples of the depressive side of mood spectrum disorder, to my expanding list.  

Hey, mania I could explain away as being “amped,” or passionate, to use a more positive label.  [Yes, there are lots of labels in my new world, and it still gets me in trouble occasionally, but I cut out the nasty ones (bipolar) and keep the ones that I like, MSD (mood spectrum disorder).]  But the depressive side, one that I denied until about three weeks ago, cannot be explained away.  The inability to stand cannot be “explained away.”  It can be ignored to a certain extent, and it can be explained away in “old people,” but it has no place in me, a person who walks to Blue Rock every morning, and who walks the dogs up and down the road like a yo-yo.  

Add to that a recent instance of a lost weekend, involving me under the blanket/pillow on my sofa, with no one else in the venue, and I have no explanation, except to combine all of the known factors, and possibly a slew of unknown factors, and conclude that I do fit the profile of mood spectrum disorder, I have had the requisite “episodes,” I am experiencing both ends of the spectrum, and that this is not a curable illness.  The best I/we can hope for is to manage it.  Anyone got a leash?

So the irony stems from my recognition that the depression is real, that it is debilitating, and that life was so abysmal on that couch a few weekends ago, that medication has to be a consideration.  Just that realization, was what prompted the worst part of that recent lost weekend’s depression, the thought that I was doomed to the fate that has had me so scared shitless, since the beginning of this nightmare.

However, I have still made huge gains, in terms of knowledge, self-awareness, and personal acceptance.  I have done this with time, Annie’s research, and my own determination to get to the bottom of it all, without feeling as though I have to worry about stigma, or self-recrimination, for past actions, or future ones for that matter.

Another huge piece of information, is that Annie, who balances her quilting business on one side of the scale, and our problem of my illness, on the other, has tirelessly continued to research pertinent information on all phases of the illness.  This includes a book recommended to caregivers, which are not referred to as such, but, rather, as partners, in the process of holistically treating this illness.  

This particular book has a plethora of helpful suggestions, designed to approach the whole illness with love and understanding, rather than as a survival guide, which described many of the works, written on the subject.  Among many helpful suggestions was one that informed us that specific statistics governing specific side-effects, could be found on-line, so that we could see and inspect the incidences of specific concerns.  What we found was immensely comforting to me, which by extension, meant it was comforting to Annie also.

Now I am back to decision time.  If the incidences of depression are so extreme, as to seriously compromise my life as i know it, is it not better to find out what the meds have to offer, especially since I alone exercise complete control over the whole business, including stopping them at any point in time?

That’s where I am.  Torn.  Agonized.  But continuing to consider all factors, including the support of Annie, and my desire to be free of the metaphorical leash which is comprised of “atypical antipsychotic” meds.  

Help! Please! Anybody!

Help!  Please!  Anybody!

Doug suffered from insomnia.  If you have ever had trouble sleeping, then you have probably experienced one of three variations on this theme, from not being able to drift off in the beginning, to waking up sometime during the night and not being able to go back to sleep, to simply not being able to sleep at all.  Many nights he would fall asleep immediately, only to be awakened by the city noise; other nights he would never be able to drift off, period.  

Doug lay tossing and turning fitfully, more than just frustrated, that he could not get to sleep, again.  He had been here in the city for two weeks now, with two still to go, and he was due to present tomorrow, at the civic center.  He had struggled with insomnia the entire two weeks.  Out of sheer desperation for a change of venue, he had arisen from his hotel bed and was gazing down at the street below when he saw a nondescript sedan pull up to the curb, and two individuals get out.  With a shock Doug saw the first don a ski mask, and proceed to the front door of the hotel, as the second man prepared to do the same, gazing first left and then right, and then logically enough, directly up at him, on the second floor.

Without thinking, Doug dropped to the floor, petrified that the thug had looked directly at him, and that it was obvious which room he was in.  Why had he just stood there, staring down at the two hoods?  Probably because he had no inkling they were up to no good, until those masks came out.  It was nowhere near Halloween.  He was torn between reinforcing the door, with the table and whatever else he could drag over, and just getting the hell out of there.  

What if he tried to get out of here, and ran right into the goons?  That  would be worst of all, because he had nothing with which to protect himself outside of the room.  For that matter, what did he have inside to defend himself with?  Not much, that was for sure.  He had an umbrella, which had cost him a walloping twenty bucks the other day, but was not likely to contribute much against a pair of hoodlums.  There was the usual array of furniture you find in any lower price range hotel, which did not amount to anything which could be construed as a weapon.

Maybe he was making a big deal out of nothing.  After all, there could have been six people gazing down on the two toughs, as they drove up to the hotel.  Why assume that they had any interest in him at all?  He was turning this thought over in his sleep-deprived mind, when there came a sharp thud from the hallway outside his room, and a terrified voice whimpering, “Help me, please, anybody, help me.”  

The voice was not yelling, which confused Doug, because it seemed that someone in need of assistance, would be more inclined to scream bloody murder.  Now he was torn for a different reason.  Could he ignore a fellow human being, in need of his help?  Couldn’t there be others who were also willing to help, but only if someone else was willing to jump in?  Yeah, that was probably it.  There would be others if he just opened the door to make sure that they knew he was available.

The instant the door cracked the plane of the door jamb, it was slammed bluntly by 200 pounds of over-stimulated bruiser, and flung viciously inward, to crash resoundingly against the wall.  Doug tried to jump back, but was way too late to avoid the grasping claw that came clutching at him, before he knew what had happened.  The standing lamp thundered to the floor, smashing the lamp cover into a thousand shards of glass, and the desk upon which it shined, was knocked backwards, scattering phone, book and coffee pot against the wall.

In trying to avoid the fiend, Doug had scrambled backwards, only to trip and fall, landing solidly on his back with the hooligan right on top of him, pinning his arms back, and placing his hands around Doug’s throat, in a death-grip that terrified Doug more than any single act against him ever had.  He struggled mightily, arching his back instinctively, and lashing out with his feet.  It accomplished nothing.

Everything had occurred with such blinding speed, that Doug was incapable of talking it all in.  Now with the gangster’s hands clamping down on his throat, squeezing, squeezing, he felt his own sense of panic and hysteria, gradually being choked out of him so that all that remained was an ever-expanding pool of darkness and quiet, into which he gradually sank.

Doug awoke with a start, realizing that light was streaming in through a gap in the curtains, heating up a strip of his bed which included his face.  The room was undisturbed, the lamp and desk exactly as they should be, with the door remaining solidly shut.  For one night, insomnia had released its grip on Doug, and replaced it with a nightmare, one that still left Doug struggling to breathe.  Sitting up and breathing in deeply the fact that he was still alive and well, he reflected that, if given his druthers, he’d druther have the insomnia over the dream.