This is the beginning of the 4th week with my new meds, namely the one Big med replacing the other Big med. Both of them address bipolar psychosis and mood swings and generally being wobbly in the brain.

Yes, that would be there professional diagnosis if I were to have one. Wobbly. Wobbly and inconstant as the moon.

So, my gentle readers, my lovely wintertime doldrums, so famously described so often…they’re easing up. This makes sense to me as there’s been no snow, no bitter cold. I feel bright on bright days, and moody on cloudy ones….wanting my mood to change? wait five minutes. It’s been quite a season, nevertheless, and I have felt as if I was going down some dark roads in my mind. I do have chronic suicidality, which means I think about death a lot and my pink hair is but a ruse.

I was thinking about how tired I was, not of the day, not of the season, but of doing this cycle, up and down, always and forever. Understand this, my dear reader, I may have been diagnosed 14 years ago (for the first time) but my brain and my body have known the ebbs and flows of wild Hurricane Jady for as long as I can recall. It’s maddening, and exhausting, and indescribably difficult to maintain sometimes. Even as a child, there were these days; The days when the night takes such a long time to come, and the evening feels like a water break rather than a restful respite.

Tonight, the streets are wet, the rain comes and goes, and I just had a very tearful therapy session about being on probation at work. Yes, they put me on probation for performance issues. The addressing of these issues, mind you, that led to me taking a medical leave. I was informed of these issues in a letter that I was subsequently asked to sign. I have a copy if you’d like to read something truly, devastatingly embarrassing to me. This was last Tuesday.

The subsequent week, I spent working as hard as possible to show my coworkers that I was not, in fact, incompetent. I kept track of every note in a very detailed spreadsheet and entered them all into the EHR with care, and I managed to schedule my upcoming week to be fairly busy. I got a hold of many of the patients I’d missed session with during my medical leave, and was able to reschedule and reconnect with a few.

I still can’t help thinking that everything I’m doing is being scrutinized, judged, and found wanting. My goodness, the feeling is strong. Nevertheless, I’m not sobbing desperately, I’m not suicidal, and I’m actually feeling fairly able to handle my disappointment and discomfort.

So in short: yes, I still feel bad, but also yes, my new meds are working. Hooray, I think?

Hello my dear ones. I’m sorry to say that this is one of those blogs wherein I discuss a challenge rather than a success. This probably does not come as a shock, since I generally blog only the truly awesome and truly awful.

sigh.

The last time I used Zyprexa, I was in the psych wing of Stanford’s hospital in California, for about 5 weeks before transitioning to live-in therapy and finally going into intensive outpatient several months later. Zyprexa is strong as fuck, sedating, and I admit I never thought I’d need to use it again. Things are going poorly.

I’m paranoid. I’m not sleeping well. I wake in the middle of the night because I keep having the same nightmare night after night. I am always feeling as if there in an impending, horrific-beyond-words doom circling my head. I am worrying constantly, about every social interaction–every conversation, every exchange. My body is tense, I cannot sit still, I cannot stop bursting into tears. It’s been a little over a month of feeling this as intensely as I do now, and it’s not lessening.

so, about 6 weeks ago, I seek out an appointment with my doctor in order to address the growing unsettled and uncomfortable feeling all over my body and in my head. My doctor, being good at what he does, and I believe taking off some time, is unavailable until February 23. Well, fuck. So I set an appointment, much earlier, with my PCP (primary care provider, a general practice doctor, not a psychiatrist) in order to see if she is willing to prescribe me something stronger than my current medications, at least until I am able to see my regular psych. In this appointment, she admits she’s never prescribed the med I want, so she instead offers Zyprexa, which she is far more familiar with. I hear that medication and my heart falls. I retake it, because I am desperate, and instantly gain 10 pounds in 2 weeks. I set another appointment with my PCP wherein I tell her, in layman’s terms, “ok, I tried your med, can we try mine now?” She responds by telling me that I can stop taking Zyprexa, and I can wait for my other doctor. she literally says, “It’s just a couple of days, girl! you got this.”

(I have not ‘got this’, madam. I do not have THIS at all. )

Keep in mind, I am bugging and bugging my psych’s poor receptionist for any cancellation. She finds one with a different doctor in my psych’s practice. I take it immediately. I ask if since they’re in the same practice, if SHE would be willing to prescribe, I kid you not, a mere 2 weeks of a non-narcotic, non-habit forming, non-in any way fun to imbibe, medication that I would deeply prefer…no, no she will not. She’s “willing to discuss” changing dosages of my current meds…which at this point is pretty much a slap in my face. So I cancel that appointment and wait-list for longer. this entire time, I’m sleeping like shit, paranoid as a tinfoil hat, and crying at every emotional cue in my life.

Finally, my doctor has a cancellation for tomorrow. Of course, It’s been long enough festering in my brain, that I am a mess. I’m a hot, melty mess, loyal readers. Such, a mess, in fact, that I filled out medical leave of absence paperwork today just in case I need time for my new meds to kick in. I am struggling so hard, and I do not want to lose this job.

Just to point out how deeply societal biases are dug into my head: I literally feel guilty that I’m seeking a mental health medical leave AND I’M A DAMN THERAPIST. There’s a really shitty side of my brain telling me that I’m being a big baby and need to toughen up. Get back out there, suck it up buttercup, and do your work! Yet, there’s a much more reasonable side of me saying that I cannot do the good work if I am in a psych ward or dead.

I guess, loyal reader, that we are seeing what happens to a weather witch when seasons no longer happen the way they used to, combined with a hefty dose of interpersonal turmoil. Not only is it winter, in February, (the longest and most terrible of months), but there’s family things going on, too. I’m not comfortable sharing that part because it’s not my story, but suffice to say, I’ve been crying for ever so many reasons. and, of course, for no reason at all. I cannot describe quite how perfectly the inner and the outer world have aligned to create the EPIC storm in my brain, but if it wasn’t so damn miserable…it’d be pretty hilarious.

Well, tragedy plus time equals comedy. You’re welcome for the giggles, Future Jady.

I have such big, big emotions. I’m also assessed as bipolar I, which means full manic episodes. I personally would diagnose myself as schizoaffective, since I have a whole ton of psychosis, and a few other things that are pretty trademark…but you really shouldn’t diagnose yourself. Even though I’m right. It’s fine. Sigh.

However and nevertheless, I’ve got a spicy and interesting brain with a tendency to bully and trick. Oh, and delusions are the flipping worst. Even delusions of grandeur are not fun. Well, no, they’re wildly, blindingly fun, but they ruin your life and damage relationships, burn bridges and make bad decisions happen ever so much.

So I’ve got some delusions going on, and they’re quite insidious, because I’m already a fairly sensitive and worried person. I’ve been paranoid and raw to the proverbial touch. I’ve worried and panicked excessively, much more so than usual, and it’s driving me a bit crazy. Every email, every text and absolutely every call, I am instantly on edge. It’s exhausting.

On the other hand, I raised my meds a bit early this year, and it’s worked out pretty well. It’s not ideal to be groggy and tired so often, but it’s been a lifesaver in terms of my sanity. I cannot describe madness with all the details that are seemingly little but very telling. I know, for example, that I’m headed down the road to trouble when I overhear conversations and assume with surety that they are talking about me and my life. I get extremely worried that everything I do is being judged and measured. Sometimes that’s the first step towards thinking I’m in a Truman Show scenario. It’s so frustrating to be at that point with the allure of total insanity, and yet knowing it’s all a brain trick. I miss full mania the way some people miss heroin. I was in love with that feeling. It is no longer an option in my life, though. I’m not 24 again, and I cannot fully destroy my life without losing a LOT that I love.

I’ll cheer this post with a short story. When I was admitted into the Stanford psych ward, wherein I would reside for the next 5 weeks, apparently my shitty ex did laundry (very rare) and put the basket in the bedroom. Legend has it that Dante the cat pushed all my clothing out of the way, and peed directly on his clothes. I was embarrassed at the time…now I simply say GOOD KITTY.

Alright loyal readers, enjoy the day, worry about me less than you’d think, and send some peace, please.