This is not a snark fest on the latest GOP example demonstrating Neanderthal man still lives. No, this is one of the few times anyone will ever see me without the smoke and mirrors. Goddamn it, I’m being serious here – or as serious as I can get. Humor is about the only weapon I have left since I sold my soul decades ago and my brain is off the rails.
I’d like to say I’ve been enjoying an endless round of Midori Sours on some obscure tropical beach somewhere but no such luck for damaged goods. In reality I’ve spent the last several months searching for the meaning of life by either self-medicating myself in any way possible to take away the depression, anger, rage, racing brain, insomnia, etc. or simply curled up in the fetal position on the couch watching bad TV. I’m sure we’ve all enjoyed the holiday away from my rants but fun time is over – I’m back, if only for a few paragraphs.
Let’s see what’s happened in the last month or so. I destroyed my living room, tried to deck a security guard in an ER after destroying said living room, given legal drugs for my anxious and depressed nature that landed me BACK in the same hospital with blood pressure so low I was passing out, falling down and seeing spots before my eyes. Back in the day I used to get myself that way on purpose. It’s not near as fun when it’s legally prescribed for you. Plus the food and IV’s reeked.
Between episodes of anger, rage, suicidal idealisations, nightmares, impulsive meltdowns and panic attacks, I spent most of my waking hours fighting off the ever-encroaching tide of doom by verbally shredding a few members of my immediate family, watching bad TV, scooping cat shit and endless worry. Oh, and lots of crying. I did manage to teach myself to successfully put on false eyelashes as there was no other purpose for me on this planet and crying destroyed my mascara on too many occasions.
But in the last couple of weeks the pieces of this odd puzzle started to make sense when someone dared bring up the words “Bipolar 2.” No, not the classic Bipolar 1 where you get to play Charlie Sheen – or at least go on wild shopping sprees topped with drunken debauchery for a month or so in Las Vegas. When you are happy, wild and your mind is endlessly tumbling with delusions of grandeur. Many scoff at delusions but I’ll be happy with any grandeur, delusional or not. At least when the inevitable slide back to the darkness begins with a liter of vodka and the last of 200 vicodin goes down your throat, you know you had one hell of a good time before the bottom fell out.
No, Bipolar 2 is not fun. Think of it as going between deep dark depression punctuated by a racing mind full of angry/anxious ideas that are felonies in most states. Throwing furniture one minute in a mad frenzy, balled up in a fetal position the next. Over twenty years of a constant streams of antidepressants and other drugs that either worked, quit working or turn me into a psychotic zombie. Seeing hallucinations were fun on acid in 1975. Not so much fun on Seroquel in 2012.
Add in three suicide attempts (first at 14), a couple of hospitalizations (yes, I was the one that sabotaged the computer in the psych ward at St. Joe’s) and a lifestyle alternating between good citizenship full of suburban ideals and blatant self-medication on anything I could ingest. To most folks that would raise a red flag. To me it was just normal life.
But a couple of weeks ago my newest antidepressant – Pristiq - quit working. Way too many days on the loveseat in the fetal position. Then my newest psych decided to double my dose - and the floor fell out from under me. To the point that even my primary care PA was on the phone to the pysch reading her the riot act. How else do you get a personal phone call from a psych AND an appointment the very next day? I quit believing in miracles in 1973 – but I do believe in blackmail.
Strangely this psych wasn’t nearly as bad as other ones I’ve seen. Normally I pride myself in making medical professionals reconsider their career choices after dealing with me. But both my new psych and my primary care PA actually talked WITH me about brain chemistry and meds. They respected my knowledge of medications and brain chemistry. How all the problems and atypical reactions to all psych meds I’ve had over the years were a red flag for Bipolar 2 – which is often misdiagnosed as plain, old garden-variety depression. I’ve been treated for depression for over 20 years. Maybe the battle was against the wrong demons.
I just got thrust into this brave new world. My new best friends now are klonopin and buspar. Lamictal is coming as soon as the insurance company is beaten into submission to cover it. But the meds still didn’t keep me from going from a deep drugged sleep into a full-blown panic attack at 6:30 yesterday morning in mere seconds. Call to psych, two calls returned and a dose increase that’d normally put most humans away for days. That same dose that keeps me from begging folks to take me out to the backyard to shoot me, crying nonstop or punching drywall.
There’s at least a million sites/blogs on the web that deal with mental illness and bipolar. I’ve read many of them at 2 am. Most are either written by quacks in need of more meds themselves, pharmaceutical companies promoting their newest potions or boring medical professionals. Some sites are all touchy/feeling about taking care of yourself and your emotions. Not my style at all. If someone wants to be touchy/feeling with me, they damn well better buy me dinner and jewelry.
If you ever find yourself wanting a good education from those in the trenches go to www.crazymeds.com. It’s the closest I’ll ever have to a bible. They are also on Facebook now but their page is temperamental at times. Like many of us folks that are wired a bit differently.
Anyway, my morning doses of Buspar and Klonopin are hitting me. I can function well on doses that topple over most other large mammals. But it’s time to let them peak before I can type at my usual 65+ wpm and not get aggravated about typos.
But I’ll be back kids. Did you know it’s a fact that bipolar folks are normally more creative than the general population? Did you also know I now have the power to scare the shit out of people by threatening to tweak my meds to enable me to put on my purple cape and turn into maniacal super bitch complete with slings, arrows and cocktails? Follow me for snarky political/social commentary. Stay to see me fall through the ice (if they had any here in California) and damn near drown. Nothing is more entertaining – and profitable – than watching others’ misery. Reality TV has proven that.
Speaking of reality TV – these shows on addiction, strange obsessions, hoarders, etc. are frankly getting boring. Watching high society bitches whine over a broken fingernail has no relevance to my impoverish existence. But how about a wild bitch fighting demons on both ends of the scale and very prone to impulsive behavior and dramatic mood swings. Not to mention possessing the power to go sideways on medication – legal or otherwise. Think of the merchandising! No one will know what degree of rage, depression or self-destructive behavior will greet them every week. People threw flour on Kim Kardashian. My fans/haters will probably throw either Peruvian marching powder or some sort of disfiguring acid on me. Far better entertainment. The phone lines are open Hollywood. Salary must include an unlimited shoe wardrobe of my choice each week. Especially stiletto heels so I can inflict bloody injury on others – especially in the groin and throat. Pain and bleeding – that’s entertainment!
PS. Gotta love any medical professionals that urge me to smoke pot. But then this is California…
I’d like to say I’ve been enjoying an endless round of Midori Sours on some obscure tropical beach somewhere but no such luck for damaged goods. In reality I’ve spent the last several months searching for the meaning of life by either self-medicating myself in any way possible to take away the depression, anger, rage, racing brain, insomnia, etc. or simply curled up in the fetal position on the couch watching bad TV. I’m sure we’ve all enjoyed the holiday away from my rants but fun time is over – I’m back, if only for a few paragraphs.
Let’s see what’s happened in the last month or so. I destroyed my living room, tried to deck a security guard in an ER after destroying said living room, given legal drugs for my anxious and depressed nature that landed me BACK in the same hospital with blood pressure so low I was passing out, falling down and seeing spots before my eyes. Back in the day I used to get myself that way on purpose. It’s not near as fun when it’s legally prescribed for you. Plus the food and IV’s reeked.
Between episodes of anger, rage, suicidal idealisations, nightmares, impulsive meltdowns and panic attacks, I spent most of my waking hours fighting off the ever-encroaching tide of doom by verbally shredding a few members of my immediate family, watching bad TV, scooping cat shit and endless worry. Oh, and lots of crying. I did manage to teach myself to successfully put on false eyelashes as there was no other purpose for me on this planet and crying destroyed my mascara on too many occasions.
But in the last couple of weeks the pieces of this odd puzzle started to make sense when someone dared bring up the words “Bipolar 2.” No, not the classic Bipolar 1 where you get to play Charlie Sheen – or at least go on wild shopping sprees topped with drunken debauchery for a month or so in Las Vegas. When you are happy, wild and your mind is endlessly tumbling with delusions of grandeur. Many scoff at delusions but I’ll be happy with any grandeur, delusional or not. At least when the inevitable slide back to the darkness begins with a liter of vodka and the last of 200 vicodin goes down your throat, you know you had one hell of a good time before the bottom fell out.
No, Bipolar 2 is not fun. Think of it as going between deep dark depression punctuated by a racing mind full of angry/anxious ideas that are felonies in most states. Throwing furniture one minute in a mad frenzy, balled up in a fetal position the next. Over twenty years of a constant streams of antidepressants and other drugs that either worked, quit working or turn me into a psychotic zombie. Seeing hallucinations were fun on acid in 1975. Not so much fun on Seroquel in 2012.
Add in three suicide attempts (first at 14), a couple of hospitalizations (yes, I was the one that sabotaged the computer in the psych ward at St. Joe’s) and a lifestyle alternating between good citizenship full of suburban ideals and blatant self-medication on anything I could ingest. To most folks that would raise a red flag. To me it was just normal life.
But a couple of weeks ago my newest antidepressant – Pristiq - quit working. Way too many days on the loveseat in the fetal position. Then my newest psych decided to double my dose - and the floor fell out from under me. To the point that even my primary care PA was on the phone to the pysch reading her the riot act. How else do you get a personal phone call from a psych AND an appointment the very next day? I quit believing in miracles in 1973 – but I do believe in blackmail.
Strangely this psych wasn’t nearly as bad as other ones I’ve seen. Normally I pride myself in making medical professionals reconsider their career choices after dealing with me. But both my new psych and my primary care PA actually talked WITH me about brain chemistry and meds. They respected my knowledge of medications and brain chemistry. How all the problems and atypical reactions to all psych meds I’ve had over the years were a red flag for Bipolar 2 – which is often misdiagnosed as plain, old garden-variety depression. I’ve been treated for depression for over 20 years. Maybe the battle was against the wrong demons.
I just got thrust into this brave new world. My new best friends now are klonopin and buspar. Lamictal is coming as soon as the insurance company is beaten into submission to cover it. But the meds still didn’t keep me from going from a deep drugged sleep into a full-blown panic attack at 6:30 yesterday morning in mere seconds. Call to psych, two calls returned and a dose increase that’d normally put most humans away for days. That same dose that keeps me from begging folks to take me out to the backyard to shoot me, crying nonstop or punching drywall.
There’s at least a million sites/blogs on the web that deal with mental illness and bipolar. I’ve read many of them at 2 am. Most are either written by quacks in need of more meds themselves, pharmaceutical companies promoting their newest potions or boring medical professionals. Some sites are all touchy/feeling about taking care of yourself and your emotions. Not my style at all. If someone wants to be touchy/feeling with me, they damn well better buy me dinner and jewelry.
If you ever find yourself wanting a good education from those in the trenches go to www.crazymeds.com. It’s the closest I’ll ever have to a bible. They are also on Facebook now but their page is temperamental at times. Like many of us folks that are wired a bit differently.
Anyway, my morning doses of Buspar and Klonopin are hitting me. I can function well on doses that topple over most other large mammals. But it’s time to let them peak before I can type at my usual 65+ wpm and not get aggravated about typos.
But I’ll be back kids. Did you know it’s a fact that bipolar folks are normally more creative than the general population? Did you also know I now have the power to scare the shit out of people by threatening to tweak my meds to enable me to put on my purple cape and turn into maniacal super bitch complete with slings, arrows and cocktails? Follow me for snarky political/social commentary. Stay to see me fall through the ice (if they had any here in California) and damn near drown. Nothing is more entertaining – and profitable – than watching others’ misery. Reality TV has proven that.
Speaking of reality TV – these shows on addiction, strange obsessions, hoarders, etc. are frankly getting boring. Watching high society bitches whine over a broken fingernail has no relevance to my impoverish existence. But how about a wild bitch fighting demons on both ends of the scale and very prone to impulsive behavior and dramatic mood swings. Not to mention possessing the power to go sideways on medication – legal or otherwise. Think of the merchandising! No one will know what degree of rage, depression or self-destructive behavior will greet them every week. People threw flour on Kim Kardashian. My fans/haters will probably throw either Peruvian marching powder or some sort of disfiguring acid on me. Far better entertainment. The phone lines are open Hollywood. Salary must include an unlimited shoe wardrobe of my choice each week. Especially stiletto heels so I can inflict bloody injury on others – especially in the groin and throat. Pain and bleeding – that’s entertainment!
PS. Gotta love any medical professionals that urge me to smoke pot. But then this is California…
