Jumping ship

Okay, I do realize that you're never, ever, ever meant to ditch a medication without first discussing it with your doctor, and I totally understand why, but I just could not keep taking the Lexapro. Two weeks in, and the side effects were debilitating. I couldn't function, so I ditched it. And I'm so glad I did. I'm not nearly so tired anymore, I'm not groggy at work, I've regained both the energy and the inclination to exercise. I'm still not sure why Dr. R. put me on it in the first place, but I'm going to have to break it to him that it didn't work out.

Things are also going better with New Guy. I'm starting to realize that the behaviors that have made me so uncomfortable in the past are simply the behaviors of a guy who sincerely likes me. They're unfamiliar because he's a mature adult who isn't afraid to make his feelings clearly known. And now that I realize that, it's kind of nice. It's nice not to have to wonder how he feels about me. Dating a grownup--what a concept.

And what a pity that, between Hot Mess and so many exes and even my own dad, a mature adult who actually likes me and actually tells me so is such a novelty. I never even realized that I deserved such good treatment until I was already getting it and it was already freaking me out. I guess I'm just going to have to get used to being treated right by a man in my life.

We got the beat

Okay, the side effects have gotten a little bit better. I'm not dizzy or woozy or nauseated anymore, but I'm just plain beat most of the time. I actually got seven hours of sleep last night, albeit on the couch, and I'm just beat like a rug.

What's more, I'm completely unmotivated. Getting up in the morning, going to work, going back to work after lunch, all of it takes effort--almost more effort that I've got in me. That could be the Lexapro, or it could just be that I'm getting really tired of my job. I'm tired of never really knowing who I'm working for or who's in charge or what's expected of me, and I'm tired of getting my work shat upon by clients--and a certain boss--who don't know enough to know.

On the plus side, things seem to be looking up with Dr. R. Now that he's had  couple of sessions to get to know me and better understand my situation, I think he's ready to actually sit down and start therapizing me. And, more importantly, he seems wiling to work with what has already been successful for past therapists instead of trying to reinvent the wheel. Which is not to say that I'm not open to new techniques. If I thought electroshock would get my head straight, I'd wire up myself.

The other thing that's going better is New Guy. It's not perfect, but it's moving in a good direction, for a couple of reasons. One is that I've finally decided to put Hot Mess behind me. Not entirely, because I still do value his friendship. But there came a point when I said to myself, "I'm sitting here pining over an unemployed, unmotivated, emotionally distant guy two time zones away. Why is that?" And I gave myself permission to let it go.

I also talked to Big Brother, which always helps. I mentioned that New Guy keeps pushing forward, and I don't feel ready, so I pull back, and he just pushes forward. And Big Brother said, "Well, stop doing that." And I said, "Well, okay." And once I gave myself permission to like him, I... found that I like him.

It's still not perfect. He's still moving a lot faster than I feel comfortable moving, and he seems to be putting a lot more trust in me than I honestly feel I deserve. And I'm more comfortable with those things when I've been drinking than when I haven't, which is never a good sign (and which I'm not supposed to be doing anyway). But it's baby steps, it's all baby steps, and at least I'm not afraid of where I'm going anymore.

Sufing safari

Side effects fucking suck.

I'm so sick of surfing side effects. I think that's why I was so resistant to Dr. R.'s plan to put me on an antidepressant. Of course I'm wary of polypharmacology; I just don't want to put more chemicals in my body than I have to. But I'm so tired of surfing side effects.

My trip with my family wasn't ruined by the side effects, but it was affected. I was sleepy, easily tired, occasionally woozy and shaky. I'm also cranky and unmotivated of late, although that's just as likely to be work-related as anything else.

I know I'm whining here, but I think it's so unfair that I can't live life like everyone else, more-or-less chemical free. Every time I down a big handful of pills in the morning, it reminds me that I'm 17 milligrams and the grace of God away from the full-on crazazy.

At what point do I get to feel normal?

Okay, apparently not feelin' so good

Dr. R wants me on antidepressants, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. He's given me samples of Lexapro (an SSRI and my dad's "favorite," Dad says), and I'm going to give it the old college try, but I don't know how I feel about polypharmacology.

I know how I feel after the first pill: dizzy. Woozy. Sleepy. Certainly not sharp and aware like you really need to be in a job like mine. I felt like this when I first started the Abilify, too, and it went away, so I'm not worried about being this way forever, but this is just not a convenient time in my personal life or my career to be test-driving new drugs and working through side effects. A little stability would be nice.

I won't pretend I'm not wary of what is now a drug cocktail. I try to keep the number of foreign chemicals that I introduce into my body to a minimum--I hardly take Advil for a headache--and now I'm up to three daily pills, if you count my birth control. Add in my calcium and the glucosamine I'm taking for my hip and I'm a walking pharmacopia.

If it works, though, I'm for it. And Dr. R. seems to think it'll help. I thought the Abilify was supposed to help with the depression, but apparently not. Dr. R. seemed concerned that I cry a lot--a lot--all the time, and while I'm a bit concerned about that myself, I don't know that I'm concerned enough to want to pop a pill.

I guess I just didn't know that I was depressed. I thought I was tired and sad and frustrated and stressed out, which is different, right? It's situational; you change the circumstances and it goes away. And I think that's the rub, for me: I'm entirely willing to do and take whatever is necessary to correct my malfunctioning brain chemistry, but I'm not going to take a pill to make the world go away. I like the world. It just pisses me off sometimes, is all.

But maybe this will be okay. It's an SSRI, and all that does is let the seratonin bounce around in my head a little bit longer, right? That can't be a bad thing. And I gave Dr. R. my speech about not wanting to be numb or flat, and he seemed to understand and maybe even care.

And Dad's okay with it. And Dad is, for all of his faults, a wicked awesome doctor, so if he's okay with it, I'm okay with it. Crazazy Cocktail it is. To my health.

The prayer of the nervous bulimic

Okay, so things are kind of falling apart, and I'm kind of scared. I've purged twice today and once yesterday, the big, heaving, heart-pounding kind that remind you exactly how bulimia can kill you. And I don't want to die, certainly not from that.

I'm just sad and lonely, so I comfort-eat an entire box of lemon-poppyseed scones and then feel guilty about it. Or all of that bread and cheese and wine (and I'm not even supposed to drink on Abilify). I've gained so much weight in the past few months, and I can't even chalk it up to the drugs. I'm just sad and eating.

I haven't actually had a drug-related side effect at all in over a month, but who needs 'em? Loss of appetite? I'll stuff myself anyway; it's not about being hungry. Insomnia? I was up anyway. I come front-loaded with my own set of neuroses that top anything Abilify could throw at me, were it still throwing it.

And it does seem to be working. The stuff I'm dealing with now is harsh, but it isn't crazazy-related. I'm sad, but I'm not depressed--and I've been doing this long enough to know the difference. I've got insomnia, but it's from stress and not mania. I spent too much today, but it was because I needed new work clothes. My thoughts aren't racing, I'm not irritable. The only person I want to have sex with is the man I love, however otherwise inadvisable that might be.

Unfortunately, the stuff that I'm still dealing with is just as harmful as bipolar II. Food issues are the worst because you can't just go cold-turkey. An alcoholic can choose never to set foot in another bar, but I have to eat, and if I feel like bingeing, the opportunity is always there.

The underlying addiction, of course, is Hot Mess, and that's one monkey that I can't and won't kick. I should tell him not to e-mail anymore so I can heal and move on. But I told him that I'd always be there as a friend, and moreover, I don't want to quit him. At this point, and I'm not saying it will never change, I would rather be pining and miserable than with somebody else, and I have a feeling that's going to be interfering with my future relationships until I make the decision to let it go. Which I don't see myself doing any time soon.

Sorry, New Guy.

Lord, please don't let me die in my sleep. Amen.

Two steps back

I have no idea what I'm going to say to Dr. H. tomorrow. There aren't enough minutes in a session. "Well, Dr. H., I feel like I'm back at the beginning. I'm stressed, I'm unhappy, and I'm doing bad things to myself."

"Work is a chaotic mess, and every time I try to do something to make it less so, They come along and jumble things up again. I now have more work for more departments than I can handle. I've tried talking with Boss of Eternal Evil about it, and she seems understanding and willing to help, but I'm not really optimistic because of the big problem, the fact that I've got more work for more departments than I can handle and I'm not getting any additional help or compensation, isn't going to change. To them, it isn't a problem but the solution to a problem. To me, not so much.

"And how am I dealing with it? Shopping, throwing up falafel, and having inadvisable ex sex. So much for my meds working. I bumped up the dosage this morning, but I'm still walking around feeling like I could burst into tears at any moment. I definitely don't feel like my stress reaction is being slowed down at all; on the contrary, I'm constantly ready to pop.

"And the sex last night? Not that good. I just wanted the physical intimacy, and it started out that way, but it ended... another way. I've always gone to him because he's always accepted me just as I am, but I begin to suspect that's because he just plain doesn't care--one way or the other, or about me. Hello to the false sense of emotional intimacy. Not that it matters, since he's leaving in a month, which I saw coming, but it's like to level me, and I wish he'd just go already so I can start getting over him. I know I won't be able to find someone else as long as he's in the picture, because what we have is the ideal by my standards--if only he loved me.

"So that's where I am, Dr. H. Work's a mess, romantic life's a mess, mental health is a big old mess, and while I trust that one exists, I don't see a future where all or even any of that gets resolved. I don't even know where to start. So, in other words, pretty much where I was the first time you saw me. Yay for progress."

Tears of a clown

You know you've got the crazazy when you're wondering if you need to "up your meds." Heh. I'm on "meds." And I'm wondering if I'm taking enough of them.

It's just that I've been doing this for, what (checks) working on three weeks now, and I'm only getting marginally better. I'm purging again (which might explain things somewhat), I'm not sleeping, I'm physically exhausted, and I'm panicky. Dr. F. said the drugs are supposed to slow down that immediate reaction to let me look at things rationally, but there have been at least three incidences when I've been so frustrated I nearly cried. Cried tears. At work.

Is this a failure on the drug's part, or am I just under such a ridiculous amount of stress right now that even Abilify can't overcome the self-destructive and panicky urges? And if so, what to do? Increase the dosage until stress levels are normal? Or let it ride and try to reduce stress on my own? Or both? Thank God I'm seeing Dr. H. tomorrow. I had to force myself to keep my interview appointment for a story today because I'm so tired and frustrated I just want to go home sick.

Hot Mess had better call todamnnight. I'm making this my bright-line test. I missed him like burning while he was gone, and if he can't be arsed to get in touch with me even to ask that favor he was talking about, our feelings are unequal and I need to pull out. I don't care how few minutes he has left on his phone; if he cares, he cares, and if he doesn't, I'm out.

Too late to apologize

Ugh, my head is so scrambled.  I just can't get anything started today, not cleaning up, not working out. If it weren't for the two interviews I have, I think I'd find some excuse to stay home and remain unbathed.

And I'm just busting with anxiety. What if I can't borrow an audio recorder? What if none of the audio files work? What if I can't get in touch with Elusive Interview Subject? What if I can't write my story? What if everyone at work discovers exactly how much fuck-all I really do every day?

But mostly, it's anxiety that I'm not getting any better. Because I'm still cycling. And I'm still have self-destructive thoughts (I wanted so badly to binge and purge yesterday. If I picked one vice and stuck with it, would the other vices go away?). I'm starting to think the urges crop up every time I get stressed out and need a vacation, like they're my brain's way of trying to get me committed for a few days so I could take a medically sanctioned load off. But aren't the crazy pills supposed to help with that? Do I need to increase my dose, and if so, how? Or will they start to work better as time goes on? I should call Dr. F.

Spoke to Dad last night. Mom talked to him, and he called to straighten things out. Not really satisfying, though. As I expected, it was a whole lot of me misinterpreting things and him having good intentions. That was for the crazazy part. For the "just plain rude" part, his excuse was that he's only rude when I'm sarcastic, and that if I'll just stop sassing he won't ever have to use some self-damn-control to keep from being rude. Thanks, Dad. You're a real team player.

So nothing new. I always hate being suspicious of someone who's trying to apologize, but with Dad, I usually have a right to be. I think this is a sign that I need to figure out how to stop caring. Not about him, but about his crap. He's proud of the way I sing and write; he will, if prompted, say how proud he is of "both his kids" for how we've turned out, and he'll be selfish and emotionally distant up to the point where he's needed to act the hero. And I hate to throw it back in his face after he made the effort to call and not-quite-apologize, but whatevs.

More family ties

So, I'm actually going to get a chance to talk to Mom today before she leaves. She said Dad had asked about me, but she didn't know how I was doing because we were busy yesterday. True, we were, although it's not like she actually asked how I was. But that doesn't matter now, because she's asking now, and I don't really know what to say.

The side effects suck. Not as badly as the illness does, but they suck. I've never slept properly, so the insomnia is nothing new, but I hate being thirsty all the time. And I hate being, simultaneously, ravenously hungry and completely full up.

And I hate the thought that it might not be working. I hate being down--although right now, it's likely that I'm lonely and bored and not depressed. And sad, and maybe a little bit betrayed. I hate the highs, too, the racing mind and mouth and tapping foot and clumsy fingers. That's what lets me know that I don't just have depression, I have the crazazy, and that's a lot more complicated to deal with.

I also hate that the self-destructive urges are back. I purged last night, and then this morning, I wanted a cigarette more than anything in the world. I'm lucky that Hot Mess is out of town right now (and that he seems to want to just be friends), because if he were here, I'd most likely make a self-destructive booty call. I really want to call Dr. H., but I'm afraid of being weak or dependent, and I think I can make it another week and a half. Probably.

Maybe I really should just lay it all out on Mom and let her know what I need. I could DEAR MAN it and come back to Dr. H. with something positive to discuss.

D - Describe the current situation. "We know that I've been deeply unhappy for a couple of months now, although we don't exactly know why. And there is some disagreement on how to make it better. We know, though, that I'm in a great place for psychiatric treatment, that they do know their stuff. And we know that I, even at my most messed up, tend to be a Responsible Person who makes good, mature decisions."

E - Express your feelings and opinions. "I feel like I'm not getting a lot of support from you and Dad because you don't really agree with how this is all being handled. I feel like you're second-guessing the experiences I've been having and the feelings I've been feeling, even though I'm the only person who can tell what I'm experiencing or feeling. And I feel like you're second-guessing my doctor, whom I've put my faith in, which feels a lot like you're questioning my judgment."

A - Assert yourself. "I want your support. I want you to look beyond yourselves as principles in this and focus on me. I'm aware of the emotional turmoil that you and Dad are probably going through right now, and I'm sympathetic, but you have to put that aside and focus on me when we're dealing with this. I want you to accept my experiences and feelings as I interpret them and not just make your own assumptions. And I want you to treat me as a capable adult--capable of interpreting my own feelings, capable of making my own health-care choices, capable of making my own life choices--and not just some emotional child to be worked around. I want you to trust the doctors I've picked, because I picked them. And when I make a decision that you disagree with, I want you to say your piece--once--and then I want you to take comfort in the fact that you've raised me well and that I'm equipped to make my own decisions."

R - Reinforce the positive effects of getting what you want. "If you can do that, it'll help us preserve our relationship through this whole mess, which is definitely preferable. It also will help empower me in my own treatment, which is necessary for healing. It will help me learn to trust myself again, which I haven't t been able to do lately. And it may even help you and Dad worry less through this very worrisome process."

Throughout, of course, I'll remain Mindful of my objectives, I'll Appear confident (even if I just want to cry), and I'll try to Negotiate so we all get what we want.

Will it work? God, I hope so, although Mom isn't always the best person to talk to at times like this. Better than Dad, though; when I get emotional-but-serious, half the time, he starts laughing. The other half, though he's really great, better than Mom. So I guess we'll see.

Further updates as events warrant.

And so it begins.

I haven't kept a journal in God knows how long, but I figure that while I'm getting my head back together from its royally fucked-up state, it could be beneficial. At the very least, it should offer some entertainment value later on, assuming I ever get myself sane enough to enjoy it.

This "crazy" thing is tough to deal with. On the one hand, it's kind of comforting to know that what's wrong with me isn't just an issue of me being weak or emotional or dramatic or not trying hard enough (thanks for the complex, Dad). On the other hand, though, it's hard to accept that being emotionally content might involve being medicated for the rest of my life (I mean, that possibility is left open in "indefinitely," right?). And, just like bulimia wasn't as cool or acceptable or relatable as anorexia, a cycling mood disorder isn't as socially acceptable as, say, flat-out depression. Being on mood elevators is almost trendy; atypical antipsychotics are just crazy pills, and I don't see myself dropping that in casual conversation with Bossman any time soon.

The thing is, I want so badly to talk to someone about it. I bring it up almost constantly with Big Brother, gagging for some kind of input, but he tends to be more of a listener than a talker (not a bad thing, really) and I think I'm starting to annoy him. I bring it up casually with Mom almost, I think, as punishment for the unsatisfactory was that she and Dad have failed to handle this whole thing, but she (wisely) doesn't take the bait.

And I'm not going to pretend I'm not a little bit resentful of Mom for flying up here to take care of Big Bro after his surgery when I was self-destructive verging on suicidal and I barely got two phone calls (yeah, Mom, I get that you'd rather I just be depressed. I'd rather a lot of things. Wishing hasn't gotten me married to Wentworth Miller; sometimes we're stuck dealing with reality as it actually exists). I know I didn't ask her to come up for me, but then, Big Bro didn't ask either. If my daughter just revealed to me that she had been, that very day, prepared to drink her way into a coma, I would be up there in half a minute, just to touch her and be glad she's still there.

I realized, when I was talking with Canuck yesterday, exactly where that "drink myself into a coma" urge came from: I wanted to be hospitalized. I wanted to spend a couple of days somewhere that people would be taking care of me and looking after me and nobody could ask me to do any favors or work on anything. It seemed like the ideal vacation because it came with the added bonus of everyone in my life finally knowing how unhappy I am. I mean, my excellent poker face has kept everyone in the dark for months; even Canuck didn't know until I told her. Didn't suspect. Maybe (wild hope, I know) someone would even feel guilty about their own contribution to my unhappiness, "driving me to drink."

While we're dreaming, I'd like a pony.

Bipolar, though, isn't as socially acceptable as alcoholism, either. Alcoholism is Lindsay Lohan; bipolar is Britney Spears. I guess I should be happy I'm not schizophrenic; they don't even have a spokesmodel. Still, bipolar is hardly something I can just mention blithely to my friends.

Except for Hot Mess. He was surprised to hear about it, and he had questions, but so far he's taken it better than anyone (better for me, anyway). I guess it's because his own past isn't terribly socially acceptable, so he's not going to judge me for my unfashionable mental illness. He also seemed to be giving off signs that he was concerned about a possible similar diagnosis for himself, and he seemed to take comfort in the fact that I seem to be holding it together, with treatment, despite my disorder. I'm happy to offer comfort to anyone who can take it from me, although the God's honest truth is that under the surface, I'm a wreck.

It's scary how dependent (co-dependent?) I've become on Hot Mess. I only really appreciated that after he left to visit his family. I wonder if I should text him to let him know that I now understand where his head was before I left on my trip. I really miss having him around, not even to talk to, just his calming presence. I hadn't realized how calm I get just from being around him.

I wasn't lying to Dr. H. when I told her I wasn't attracted to H.M. anymore; at the time, I really did feel that way. Now, though, I better understand that attraction and logic and everything else be damned, I'm still in love with him, and that's not going to change any time soon. I also need him, which is a truly scary prospect. I don't like needing anyone, and H.M. in particular seems to be pulling away the needier I get. Increasingly, he seems to be pointedly interested in being friends--no more kissing; "you're a true friend," he tells me--just as I begin to accept the fact that I really want more.

And I don't know what to do with that fact. Nothing that would result in his removal from my life, that's for certain.

Things are just getting really hard again, which I thought the drugs were meant to prevent. I purged tonight for the first time since H.M. dumped me the first time; I had a big gut full of barbecue, and I wanted it out, and I got it out. This time, the Devil On Shoulder won. As usual, I knew that purging (or following that up with half a box of Thin Mints) wasn't going to fix anything. And it isn't even that I couldn't stop myself, didn't have the willpower; I just didn't want to. Maybe I should give that bipolar support group a go.

I wonder if I'll ever be sane.

I wonder how much of my current turmoil is related to Mom's visit. Isn't that funny, since moms are supposed to make everything better? And while we were together, I had as fantastic a time as I always do. But part of me just can't get over the way she and Dad have acted since Dr. H. brought up the dreaded "b" word and Dr. F. brought up the dreaded "A" drug. I guess they just don't know how to handle it (understandable, since I certainly don't), or maybe they don't approve of the way I've been handling it, but whatever the reason, their heart or their shoes, they need to get the hell over it. I really need support right now, and the fact that the most supportive people in my life right now are Hot Mess and Canuck (someone else's mother) is shameful. I wonder if that's something that I should tell my parents in so many words. Dr. H. would know.

Dr. H. and I talked about my daddy issues, and she raised the thought that since a quarter of a century of effort hasn't gained me Dad's approval, changes are good that I'll never get it and should just learn to go without. She's right, of course, but it's hard to think about just writing my dad off like that. I mean, yes, I definitely need to become more independent and start to have more confidence in the decisions I make (like the one to take the Abilify or the one to take the new apartment), and I talked with Canuck about that fact yesterday. But I've spent most of my life with him trying to gain his approval, so to cut out that part of our relationship leaves a big, gaping hole.

And now this whole thing with Mom. I'm starting to wonder if things will ever get back to the way they used to be if/when I get sane. Although it's becoming increasingly apparent that "the way they used to be" wasn't good. Do I know how to live in a world without that?