yuuo: (I'm just a poor boy from a poor family)
Good idea: Psychostimulants when you have medical brain fog problems.

Bad idea: Psychostimulants when you have a psychotic disorder.

Help I am in hell.
yuuo: (You knew the deal- no one gives a damn)
It's been... not quiet, but not busy, either. It's been mood problems. I should've posted on Thursday, when I had my first psychiatrist appointment after ending partial, but I was so upset by what happened in that appointment that I couldn't, and the last few days have been hell.

I got taken off my Seroquel. A drug that was working. A drug that had elevated my mood, had kept the noises at bay, and that wasn't causing a manic burst.

Why was I taken off Seroquel?

Because I reported that it caused leg cramps at night, and asked for a small-dose muscle relaxer to counter it until my body adjusted.

This is, apparently, too much to ask of my body, so the doctor decided to cut me off a drug that was working, and put me on a different one that supposedly did the same things. So far, I am not impressed. In fact, so far, I'm going into Seroquel withdrawal, which has my mood cycling so fast that I'm screaming in one minute, then literally on the verge of tears the next. I can't stay asleep. I feel like banging my head on the wall. I can't focus.

How much of that is the fact that I fucking cold-turkeyed Seroquel, and how much is natural me with no working meds, I have no idea at this point, because it's been so long since I haven't had at least one working med, that I don't remember if this was normal for me or not.

I just know this fucking sucks.

I give this two more days to get better. If I'm no better- or god forbid, worse -by Tuesday, I'm calling them and telling them I need in sooner so they can change my med back. I can't live like this. My wife shouldn't have to, since she's the one getting snapped at the most, simply by virtue of being around me the most. If they won't change my med, I'm switching docs. This is unacceptable. I told them very specifically that Seroquel is working, but apparently, having any side effects- especially a rather inconsequential one -is too much and I shouldn't take that anymore!

Like, fucking really? I told them I was on Flexeril, but my prescription was almost gone and had no refills left, but I knew it worked and I responded favorably to it. But since he can't prescribe non-head drugs (is that really a thing? he's an MD for gods' sakes), he decided to just take me off Seroquel. Instead of giving me a chance to ask my PCP to renew my prescription. I wasn't even given a fucking option. Just nope, cold turkey it.

Some symptoms of Seroquel withdrawal are (ones I have are bolded):

-Nausea and vomiting
-Agitation or anxiety
-Difficulty with concentration
Insomnia despite intense fatigue
-Depression
Dizziness
Racing or slowed heartbeat
-Headaches
-Mood swings
Psychosis
Suicidal thoughts or behaviors

My psychiatrist is really fucking lucky that last one isn't bolded. If it were, I'd be in in-patient right now, and I'd really love to not go back.


In unrelated news, I showered and shaved without going two weeks between showers today. Progress, I guess.
yuuo: (The shape of love)
So Taylor Swift's new song, eh?

(Shut up, no making fun of her in my space. I've disliked a lot about her, but after the way she stood up in that trial over being sexually assaulted, she will forever be badass in my brain.)

Anyway, last day of the second week of partial.

Like I said before, we have two new people, both eighteen and way too young to be there. Why are children there? What kind of fucked up world puts children in the in-patient ward and then to partial?

Helmet Head and her bestie, 13 Funerals (long story I can't go into), were discharged today, and good riddance. Even if Helmet Head hadn't pissed me off by shaming me (which she didn't do again, though I notice she didn't apologize), she had... I don't know what all was going on with her, but damn, her energy levels. She was constantly bouncing in her seat, and it was starting to jack up my anxiety levels. I'll feel more comfortable with her gone.

Babies seem to think that it's okay to say "I'm on Abilify, what is that? An anti-psychotic?! But I ain't crazy!"

BITCH. FUCK YOU.

The guy that threw the cards at me last week has remarkably chilled down and he's actually pretty nice to talk to.

The Seroquel seems... to be working? In that I'm no longer completely suicidally depressed, just partly, and I haven't had a return of the voices or violence.

It is helpful, however, to have someone you can call and cry at when an anxiety attack is impending, especially if you have reason to fear you'll take it out on someone who doesn't deserve it.

Example time!

Last night (Thursday at the time of this writing), Wife wanted to go to Food Net- I've mentioned it before, where Angry Guy scared the shit out of me. Since we were dead last last time, we would automatically be first this week. I didn't want to go. At all. I didn't believe that even being first, we'd get anything good, and another huge reason: crowded rooms like that sound like my audio hallucinations.

I don't really hear distinct individual voices. Sometimes I do- I got one guy that likes to tell me proudly that he's got a bag of shit, and a little girl who just says 'hello' over and over, but I'm really sick if I'm hearing them. Usually, what I hear, is human white noise. It's like being at a party, with a lot of people talking all at once with each other, and you're in the next room. You know those are human voices you're hearing, you just can't really make out anything being said.

So crowded, small spaces like Food Net are basically my personal hell. And Wife wanted to go.

I wanted to scream at her and tear her down until she changed her mind, but I knew that if we could snag some good food, we really did need it, and if we were first, we'd be in and out much faster than last time. But mostly that we needed the food.

So instead of freaking out at her, I called her sister and cried at her. She had no words of wisdom, but just having her hear me out and not get mad and say "it's okay, I understand" was enough. That's all I needed. And it kept me from starting a fight with my wife that could've easily escalated to violence again.

This is why a support system is so important. Make sure you have one. If you don't know anyone in your life you can talk to, PM me. I can't promise anything, but I can say "I understand it hurts." Because I do. No matter how irrational our pain is, it is real, and I understand.

Like I've said before, we're in this together.
yuuo: (Sunny came home with a vengeance)
I can't give names, I can't give details. Those are the rules of partial.

But since it's known as a general mental health recovery group, some subjects are going to inevitably come up, and I don't have to explain how to write my perspectives on these subjects.

Nor do I have to say how they came up to express my rage and humiliation and pain at being publicly shamed for the illness I have. In a fucking psychiatric partial hospitalization program.

Domestic violence came up. It's not an uncommon subject in groups like these, though I don't recall it coming up the last time I was in. But it did today. Everyone was giving their perspectives, and I apparently made the 'mistake' of piping up with my own experience- as the abuser.

Yes, I am abusive. I am controlling. I tear people down.

There are a variety of reasons, and they don't change the damage I do, but they at least give it a reason, a rhyme, a name of the madness.

My psychosis manifests a rage syndrome. I black out and become violent. Anti-psychotics control it. That's why I'm in partial, because I changed my meds and needed a close vigil on them becaue they were changed for this very reason.

I am an abuse victim. When I was seven, my mother spanked me with the buckle end of the belt out of anger because I wasn't a good enough babysitter for my two year old brother. She raised welts on him- a two year old -for leaving the yard when I wasn't looking. That was my whole life growing up, and even into adulthood.

There's a few things to remember here.

1) When my rage syndrome hits, I black out. I have very fuzzy awareness of what's going on and it takes forever to pull me back down enough to understand my surroundings.

2) Abuse victims often learn to express their pain through lashing out, in the way they were taught- with violence.

3) I am an abuse victim that was taught to react to things that angered me with violence. This teaching goes back before this wretched illness.

These things add up so that when the rage hits, my brain reacts the way it was conditioned from an early age- physically lash out.

And I explained all this, very carefully, while suggesting that sometimes, it's not a case of someone who should be dumped by the street corner (it often is, and I said as much), but that sometimes, as long as we are seeking treatment and cooperating with it, we just need someone to have enough compassion and love and patience for us to pull us out of this dark place that we do not like living in.

This was enough to make one woman snap very loudly that there's 'no excuse for beating the crap out of someone'.

Then she left the room in a huff with her cigarettes, fifteen minutes before break even started.

I don't know what baggage she's lugging around with her, but it is never okay to shame a mentally ill person for how their illness manifests, especially when they're getting help for it..

She publicly humiliated me, shamed me, and caused me to want to hide under the table and cry.

Fortunately, this woman only goes MWF now, which means I won't see her tomorrow.

But what she did, folks? Is not fucking okay. No, what I have done in my black outs isn't either, but I have no more control over those than a diabetic has over going into a diabetic coma because of no or inadequate treatment. (Yes, this is a perfect analogy.) It's no more right to condemn me and my behavior than it is to condone it.

Why?

BECAUSE IT IS NOT MY MOTHER FUCKING FAULT.

The social worker who was running the group at the time pulled me out immediately afterwards to head off the problem at the pass, reminded me that Helmet Head (my not nice name for this other woman) doesn't understand psychosis and schizophrenia illnesses, and that she would not let it happen again. Then she helped me talk through the worst of the storm so that I didn't go back in there loaded for bear and ready to pick a fight.

I will, however, being finishing that fight if it doesn't get dropped goddamn fast. I will not tolerate being shamed and attacked in a place that's supposed to be safe for me to heal in.

Folks, stand up for yourselves. And don't let people who don't 'get it' shame you for your illness. Work to get better, work towards treatment, but don't- and I mean this -don't let someone tell you you're a terrible person because you're ill, or that there's no 'excuse' for your behavior when they do not fucking understand.

It is not your fault.

Let me repeat that, louder for those of you in the back:

It is not your fault.

Now, to bed, as I plan to be pretty tomorrow.
yuuo: (Happy hurts sometimes)
I spent most of last night crying and trying to figure out what I did to deserve hurting like this.

In my now slightly more rational moment, I need to tell everyone- all of us -who suffers from a mental illness.


It's not our fault.


It's not. We didn't do anything to deserve this, this isn't divine punishment for some wrong we did as children. This isn't part of some great 'plan' that includes human suffering for no good reason. It simply is something that happened, just like some people get cancer, or have diabetes, or are born with a brain degenerative disorder.

But lord, does it hurt. And it's okay to hurt. And it's okay to cry. (Yes, I stole that line.)

Please, if you are suffering, find a doctor. If you are suffering and need help to stay safe, call a suicide hotline- I'll list some below -or go to your local mental health ER. They're not always the best, but you might get lucky and get one like mine.

It's not your fault.

And you shouldn't have to suffer. Certainly not alone.

We're in this together.




Suicide Hotlines

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Call 1-800-273-8255
(Also has chat feature; hit up google to find it.)


http://www.suicide.org/suicide-hotlines.html
(A list of hotlines by state)


Suicide.org
1-800-SUICIDE
(1-800-784-2433)


Military Veterans Suicide Hotline:
1-800-273-TALK
(Press 1)


Suicide Hotline in Spanish:
1-800-273-TALK
(Press 2)


LGBT Youth Suicide Hotline:
1-866-4-U-TREVOR


http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html
List of lines for outside the US


Or, call 911, or go to your nearest Mental Health ER


Please, get help. We don't have to feel like this.
yuuo: (If I'm alone I cannot hate)
The self-destructive depression has settled in. My thought journal is a mess of pleadings for someone to kill me or lock me up where I can't hurt anyone anymore. I... am oddly disassociated from the pain, and at the same time, am not. I feel it, oh how I feel it. It hurts, it burns, it aches, it makes my stomach seize up and my brain misfire and I feel like I'm about to erupt into flames and burn away into ashes.

But at the same time, I'm watching from a distance, oddly...calm. Curious. Wondering what this creature that's writing these things in the thought journal is and what it's doing. Detached and cool. It doesn't meany anything, these words. They're just spewing from the pen of a madwoman and it's so fascinating to watch.

And I'm ripping down the people I love the most in the process.

This is depression, folks. This is psychosis. This is mania. This is a mixed state. This is mental illness.
yuuo: (In the eyes of a wounded child)
That joke is not nearly so funny to me these days.

Last night at Food Net, there was a 'gentleman' who was on the outside of our row- thereby haveing Wife and I trapped between what amounted to a wall and him -who was getting... shall we say... 'agitated' every time our row wasn't called. (For those who don't know, Food Net is a community-based food bank, basically. Good food, fresh donated from local grocery stores, no minimum income caps to meet.)

By 'agitated', I mean, standing up fast enough to kick his chair out from under him, and slamming the chair between him and I around, and generally acting like he was ready to attack someone.

I was trapped between him and what amounted to a wall.

Last night, I spent all night dreaming that I had gotten a call at Partial and was told I'd lost my mother to a heart problem without having had a chance to tell her I loved her, or say goodbye, or even find out if she got our birthday present to her.

Today at partial, I had playing cards thrown at me by someone who lost his temper at having to play a game he didn't want to and was pissed about his medicines.

This afternoon, I napped and dreamt the whole time of people being angry and yelling and me doing everything I could to keep them quiet and happy and appeased, because I was scared that if I didn't, it'd get taken out on me, even though some of what I was promising to do, I was physically incapable of doing.

This evening, my wife spent a few hours at a hotel because my sister worked there and was getting stalked by a guy who was a guest there that night, and my wife was buddy systeming her.

My hands keep shaking from whatever medicine problem I'm having, and I couldn't talk to the doctor post-lunch about it, because he had an emergency he had to go to and left by noon, and I hadn't noticed the shaking until after lunch. And it's now the weekend, so I can't even get to my regular doctor until Monday. So if something really goes south, it's off to the ER with me.

If the eclipse weren't Monday, and I didn't have people coming in from out of state to see us and it, I'd just give up now and go to in-patient so I could get some medication that didnt' leave me a shaky twitchy mess, and hopefully be in a less scary environment.

Of course, the other patients there would probably be scarier than I've already faced, so I wouldn't be any safer than if I hide in bed here and hope the kitchen cleans itself.
yuuo: (I don't need to be the king of the world)
Ugh, that song's stuck in my head now.

Partial continues to go well. There was... not quite a spat, but something that angered me deeply that I can't get too far into, due to privacy reasons, but it came down to one person's opinions on suicide and 'choice' and I was ready to go off my nut at that person. I don't think this person is actually mentally ill, they're in for a near nervous breakdown due to extreme grief (lots of losses very rapidly in the last few years, one in the last month, I think), so I don't think this person fully understands what it's like to battle your own brain day in, day out, day in, day out, all your goddamn life, with little to no hope of recovering.

'Choice' my ass.

Speaking of, we watched an old video called Dark Glasses and Kaleidoscopes, which I saw last time I was in, about bipolar disorder. It's quite a bit dated, they were still calling it manic depressive, and it was hosted by the guy that played Mister Cleaver in Leave It To Beaver, although he was significantly older in this video than he had been in the show. But that dates it a bit, I think.

It's not a bad one, and it explains a lot why some people can't take anti-depressants, if they have manic tendencies, or even full blown mania. Anti-depressants can trigger a 'high' like that, which I think is what my doctor decided was going on with my Fetzima. Which makes me question my diagnosis of schizoaffective (yeah, that was officially changed from schizophrenia to that, but since it's so closely related, I maintain my advocacy for schizophrenia) as the depressive type. I can't help but wonder if it's not bipolar type.

Which would very much suck, as that makes anti-depressants a tricky game. I can't function without them, but I apparently can't function with them. "I hear there's a fine line between crazy and sad, but I can't tell the difference up close."

But this video talking about mania, and especially hypomania, and how it can seem like a 'natural personality' to someone, particularly the person with the disorder, and some people were asking that inevitable question that we all ask and get asked (frequently) - "When you take the sick away, who am I supposed to be?"

And it's not an easy question to answer. If you've spent so much time swinging between two extremes, who's that person in the middle? Does that person exist? How can you tell what's 'normal' and what's the illness? I think that might be harder for some disorders than others to answer, but we all ask it. And it's not one we can easily answer, and it's one that haunts us and chews on us.

But it is infuriating when an outsider asks it. When someone who's not there, who's not in our heads, who's not in these same places we are, asks "how do you know that's who you really are on the drugs?" or makes some stupid comment about how the drugs make you someone you're not.

NO.

Just like with suicide and choices, until you are down here, drowning in this mud and blood and these tears, you do not get to tell us that we have to stay off of medicines because of our 'natural personality'. You don't understand, we may not know who entirely we are when we're healthy, but that person is far better off than we are now! I don't care if it does 'change me' to go from a depressed and spazzy mess to a normal and happy person. I would rather be a stranger to myself and learn to know myself and who I am without the sick than to stay sick.

So don't you dare come into our spaces and make those remarks. Don't you dare.

Onto more personal news in this.

The Latuda made me sick after lunch again. Thankfully, the doctor listened to me when I said "I want something to make me stop being sick all the time," and prescribed me a short term prescription of Zofram. I'm to use it until the nausea goes away, or until I run out, whichever happens first, and if the nausea continues after a week of mild treatment, I'm to go back to my regular doctor and let him know that one of those drugs - pretty sure the Latuda, since the nausea coincides with me taking it, but the doctor reminded me that I'm also going through Fetzima withdrawal and that could be adding to the problem - and tell him that I either need this medicine long-term, or I need something else done to eliminate this problem. Because he agreed that I shouldn't have to go through this every day of my life.

Hopefully, I'll get sleep tonight so I'm properly rested tomorrow. That'd be faboo.

.partial.

Aug. 15th, 2017 07:51 am
yuuo: (Theory about the bitter one)
Okay, so, I spent yesterday off of Facebook. I also spent a great deal of time asleep, because of depression. Fall out from the day before, plus I keep getting reviews to one of my stories on AO3 where people are like "omg not okay!" One was using tumblr speak for "this hurt ;_; good hurt but ouch. ;_;" I initially reacted to it badly, because I was afraid I had approached a subject inappropriately (it does feature alcoholism, so....) but was quickly reassured that it was a good review.

Then I got one yesterday where the person was... complimenting the style and prose, but was 'so shaken' by the ending that they had to get up to walk around twice just to compose their rather short review.

Like, I'm... I'm sorry? That's kind of the reaction I'm going for, in that I write angst, I write the sucker punch endings, at least the ones I write in the Fullmetal Alchemist fandom, have since I started writing there in 2004.

It just made me feel like a terrible person and like I couldn't do anything right, so I ended up going to the hospital. Not for in-patient, but to get into the out-patient 'partial' hospitalization program, which is basically glorified group therapy. I was in it about this time last year, and it helped enormously. I realize that some of it was because I was on an anti-depressant for the first time that was helping, but thinking back, I really think a lot of it was this program. Because while the medicine remained working for several months after that just fine, one-on-one therapy didn't make me ... shine, quite as much as partial group had.

So I went in to triage at the ER (the only way to get in, apparently), and spent 3+ hours waiting through a long line of fellow mentally ill people going in for check-in. I actually got approval from the psychiatrist for admittance to the partial program before the ER doctor came in to evaluate my physical health before I could be released. Usually, it's the other way around, but they were just that busy. Good grief.

So here I am, awake at 8am, about to leave to go do my Day One check in stuff and sit through what basically amounts to a school day's-worth of group therapy. If the staff is roughly the same, I should do well, even without my anti-depressant, of which I took my last this morning. The only staff I recall hating was one man, the chaplain, and he was a temporary one because their normal one was out on vacation, I think? I don't remember, but I know I hated this guy.

I will have words if he is there. Or at least if he tries to make me participate in his Jesus Loves You shit. He may not remember me, but last time, he found out I was a pagan and started really singling me out to Talk To Him in class about this 'universal laws of forgiveness'. (Dude, I'm a daughter of Loki- the guy was so forgiving that he eventually snapped and started Ragnarok in revenge. There's something to be said for saying "no, I don't forgive you" and walking away.)

But the guy they normally have is supposed to be good, so we'll see.

I hope the Carrie Fisher look-alike is there. I recall adoring her, and it'll be nice to see her.
yuuo: (Lay my head under the water)
It's storming. It's five in the morning. I haven't been to bed yet. I've been screaming and yelling on Facebook against people who still insist on non-violence against actual literal Nazis who are actually literally killing us, and getting told to be nice all night. I am almost done with my anti-depressant. Today's the first day I'm not going to therapy on a Monday for good. I just took my night meds, including a bit more hydroxyzine than I'm prescribed (shh) i the vague hopes that it'll knock me out and let me sleep so I don't have to exist for just a few hours.

Just a few hours. Please. That's all I ask.

I'm done. Just a few hours.

You know that saying about how courage doesn't always roar, that sometimes it's the quite voice at the end of the day that says 'I will try again tomorrow'? Yeah, running out of that. I don't want to keep trying. I'm screaming into a void and nobody fucking cares.

Gonna try to sleep now. Maybe I'll work on writing in the ... well probably afternoon, at this point.
yuuo: (Default)


I love this group so much, but this song continues to bug me. I get what they're going for, but... it bothers me on a deep level. Especially this part-

"We throw tantrums like parties
We're not happy 'til everyone knows we're sick
And that's just how we like it
We've hurt bad enough, right, we've earned it

Don't tell the others but it's all getting old
I mean how many more times must our stories be told?"

I'll tell you how many more times our stories must be told. Again and again and again and always just one more time, even when/if we finally get the world to understand that WHAT WE HAVE FOR TREATMENT RIGHT NOW IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH. That the social stigma is NOT OKAY. Keep doing it, lest they forget and things get bad again.

Always just one more time. Always.
yuuo: (You knew the deal- no one gives a damn)
Said to an in-law on Facebook. Cousin-in-law said he hated dealing with crazy people- crazy people turned out to be unmedicated mentally ill person. Cousin-in-law's mother replied with 'there's a world of them out there.'

Excuse you.

"About 18% of the American population is affected by anxiety- that's over 40 million, many of them my generation- the millennials -and the ones after us. Depression affects 6.7% of the population- that's over 15 million of us. 2.6% for bipolar- over 5.7 million. 1% affected by schizophrenia - 3.2 million. Worldwide, 1.5 million more will be diagnosed with that this year. My disorder is schizoaffective- we're about the same as schizophrenia, a little less, actually.

Yes, there is a whole world of us out there. And we're suffering. We're suffering and too many of us aren't getting any help, or the help we're getting is insufficient. I just had a medicine change because I was suffering from violent psychosis again. We had to up my anti-psychotic and take me off my anti-depressant because it's the only thing that had changed to possibly have caused the manic-like psychosis. I will soon have nothing treating my depression.

Over 41 thousand people will kill themselves this year. Most of them are people with mental illnesses.

There's a whole world of us and we're _dying_.

Please be careful how cavalierly you say 'there's a whole world of them out there'. We're not a 'them'. We're people, and we're suffering, and we're DYING."
yuuo: (Happy hurts sometimes)
Ended up not going to the hospital! Yay!

Ended up with medicine changes that wasn't what I was wanting, but at least we're attempting something to keep me out of the hospital, so yay!

Money.... not so yay.

Copay on prescriptions suddenly non-existent...? Uh.

I mean, not that my copays were high to begin with, $3.60 on my name brands, but this time, it was zero. Including on the name brand. I mean, if something's changed in my favor, cool, but I'd better call tomorrow to find out what, just so I don't get hit with back owed later down the line and not be able to pay then.

My wife's gift for me came in- I have a beautiful Captain America shrug with sleeves for my tank tops. ♥ And I now have a Slytherin notebook.

(Note: These things were ordered back when we had the money to spare, they're just now coming in the mail.)
yuuo: (I've been up all night drinking)
Anxiety levels are coming down. I think. But irritability and mood swinging is at an all time high. I am a lazy, fat piece of shit and I have to keep trying to remind myself that I'm not, I'm sick, and of course exercise is difficult for me mentally, for a variety of reasons, but among them because I'm so depressed that the idea of getting up just to go downstairs for a drink sounds so exhausting and painful, what am I to do with an hour of exercise? And even if I didn't have that, with my concentration problems, I need something to mentally do while exercising, and you can't read a book while doing the elliptical.

I don't think.

If you can, someone please tell me, because I will be skipping my way down to the gym in about five minutes.

It looks like, instead of getting the paint I want next month, I'll be investing in a cheap mp3 player for the gym. Gods forbid I get to get something I want.

(I used to have one, but I used it so rarely that it kinda died and wouldn't resurrect on me. I guess if I go to the gym again...)

It would've been nice to get proper sleep last night. That would've helped.

.psa.

Jul. 22nd, 2017 02:28 pm
yuuo: (So I'm breaking the habit tonight)
My anti-depressant is supposed to be working, but the last two days, I've been so depressed that I'm forming suicidal ideation again.

For anyone going through this but doesn't like to talk on phones, text 741741. It's a Crisis Line, same as the phone ones, but you'll get talked through with text messages, instead of talking out loud. Good for a lot of reasons. Some of us have phone anxiety, and not everyone's in a position to be able to use an out loud voice at the moment they need the help.
yuuo: (Here's to us here's to love)
Wife's double-mastectomy went well. Surgeon said he got everything that looked abnormal out of her breast and lymph nodes. (I'd hope he got it all out of her breasts, he took those completely off.) What he took out looked like scar tissue to him, so it's possible she's 100% NED. (Note: NED, not cured. There is no cure for Stage IV breast cancer.) NED meants she's got a decent chance at being one of those tiny outliers who live decades beyond diagnosis. She's already made it past the average three years, and is running strong.

The surgery to remove her ovaries was also successful- they did those at the same time.

She is home, and kinda fading in and out regularly from pain and painkillers. (Hydrocodone/Ibuprofen is a magical thing, and also, if you have issues with Acetaminophen for whatever reason, like my wife, whose cancer had metastasized to her liver, demand this stuff. It's one of the only opiates that's stronger than Tramadol that doesn't come only with Tylenol in it.) But at this exact second, she's up and coherent and on her laptop.

Photographer friend, is who is the first father I became friends with and therefore is very important to us, is leaving today, and it saddens me. Wife's parents leave in a few more days, and Wife's best friend/heart sister is showing up right after that, so I have help with Wife's drains and general care at least until she's at a point where I can do it by myself without having a meltdown. I love my wife, will do anything for her, but uh. I'm not a natural caretaker. I'm not a white mage. I'm the defender. I will fight to the death for her, but medical care is a bit beyond me, at least for long term. So family and friends are all in town to help and I'm so grateful for it.

I'm getting excited to be roleplaying on IJ again. I've been getting some with Wife, but that's on hold until she's fully coherent on a regular basis and can tag without feeling wonky. But, my own heart-sister is joining in, and I'll be playing with her in the meantime. ^_^ Happy me is happy.

I've been kinda plugging away at Hephaestus in the meantime, and Prometheus will be picked back up once I know what's going on in the parts those two overlap at the end. I have a chapter in there to finish now, but it's smushy fluff, and while I love smushy fluff, I have trouble writing it. I'm that writer who likes to rip up your heart and use it for lawn mulch with little reprieve. Suffer my pen. Mwaha.

Cats are doing fine, all told. Loki got his annual and his three year rabies on Wednesday, and Wife went in for surgery on Thursday, so he is more riled than the others. Lots of new people, constantly invading their space (we had some other friends over last night for weekly gaming session), one of them ended up taking a dump on the floor out of stress protest, and we think it might've been Loki, but we're not sure. Thankfully, it was Carolyn who was here to clean it up, and I was at the hospital, so I didn't have to deal with that. :p I'm such a nice person (I would've done it if it'd been me to discover it. I'm not terrible to my cats.)

Although, speaking of taking care of the cats, I need to clean their box. Will do that when I'm done here.

On the mental health front, my doctor put me on clonazapam for my anxiety, since the Ativan had just stopped working and the hydroxyzine was only good for low grade treatment. It puts me to sleep, but it calms my mind in the process. The Ativan put me to sleep, but I was still wound up tighter than a spring when I'd wake up.

I also got my Fetzima upped, because not only is it an anti-depressant, being an SNRI instead of an SSRI, it helps with anxiety... and energy levels. So in about a week, I should start seeing an end to my hypersomnia, at least the level it's been at. It's caffeine pills in the meantime so I can be up when Wife needs me.

And now, I run to do that cat box. Have a good day, friends.
yuuo: (Can somebody help me?)
So I got a call from United Health Care, who are partnered with Nebraska state Medicaid, to follow up on their services, make sure I'm getting what I'm needing from them, and help them figure out where the gaps are and how to fix them, which, I think, is fucking fantastic.

What's odd is that she was confirming my diagnoses, and mentioned that she had bipolar on her record. Which... was news to me. I asked her what my psychiatrist had on record, and she confirmed schizoaffective and anxiety, which... is also odd. My formal evaluation testing came up with those diagnoses, but the doctor went in and did some futzing with the diagnoses so that while the anxiety/panic disorder was correct, I had schizophrenia and possible depression.

I have no idea where the bipolar came in.

And, of course, I can't get into my patient portal for that provider without calling the office for a new link to register with (weird set up, but at least it's with the same portal system as my PCP, so I can switch between the two providers with one login) to see what the fresh hell is up with that.

It is also just now occurring to me that my therapist might've submitted the bipolar diagnosis, since she is licensed to make such calls. Which means I'm super happy that she's volunteering to come with me to my next appointment with my doctor.

My wife wanted to go with me originally to help me remember all the complaints I've had, because not only do I have such a shitty memory that I lose track, I get a bit anxious just seeing the doctor and get afraid that I'm not 'perfect enough' if I'm not responding to his treatments well.

But. Well. We got a letter in the mail on Saturday.

My wife's bilateral mastectomy is the sixth.

Which.

Is when my appointment is.

And I can't reschedule, because I'll run out of my meds before I can get in again, and they won't refill without an office visit anymore. Thankfully, when this came to light at therapy on Monday, my therapist was wonderful and volunteered to come with me, since she has been taking notes on my various concerns and I haven't been, and again, the anxiety and shitty memory. I used to have a decent one, then my disorder got out of control, and the meds I was put on for it fried what was left of my memory neurons.
yuuo: (You knew the deal- no one gives a damn)
Today is one of those days.

Lately, I've been happily existing on about six hours or so of sleep a day, all in the afternoon, which is the nastiest part of the day weather-wise anyway, so why the fuck would I want to be awake and active then anyway, right?

Then I made the mistake of sleeping in my own bed, and yesterday, my sleep was such shit that I slept almost 20 hours. This isn't a crash from the slight hypomania I was riding, because after I napped a few hours on the couch, I felt so much better than I had after longer-than-healthy 'rest' in my bed.

I'm going to be trapped on the couch forever.

But, as usual, my wife got tired overnight, because she is a normal person with normal circadian rhythms. So I'm alone right now.

We were folding laundry a little bit ago, and she was boggling that she's now a size eight.

I am a size twenty-four.

I was fine with it coming up, because I'm super happy for her and proud of her that she lost all that weight- she was a sixteen this time last year. But, she made the mistake of acting guilty and trying to assure me that she loved me despite my size, and how she wishes I could be that little, too.

I wish she'd just left that alone. Because now all I can hear is my doctor's disapproving voice, telling me to stop drinking soda, stop eating dairy (to be fair, I suppose, I'm mildly lactose intolerant), start eating healthy, I need to start exercising, this weight isn't good for me.

Well no fucking shit.

The last time I lost weight, it was because I'd simply stopped taking in any calories that weren't a few sodas a day. That's all I existed on. My depression had manifested over those two months as a lack of desire for food, and a lack of energy to cook on the rare occasion that I was hungry.

Then I saw that I'd lost about thirty pounds in a month and was super happy, so I decided to continue that the healthy way. I started eating health, as much as I could on our budget, which made me miserable because I hate healthy food and I always feel hungry after a 'normal' meal of it. I exercised for a minimum of an hour every day, first thing in the morning. I thought that'd make me more alert, lose more weight, make me happier. After all, that's all the things that good diet and exercise are supposed to do, right?

Whoever tells you that exercise wakes you up, that it's fun, that it helps you lose weight, that good food is like medicine? They're fucking liars.

I gained every pound I'd lost back and then some. I felt more miserable because exercise actually brings my mood down. I was tired more often.

So now I'm worked up because my choices are apparently A) be doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing, but miserable because I'm gaining weight and hate what I'm eating, or B) stop eating entirely and lose weight and still feel hungry, but at least it's not because food is making me miserable.

Fantastic options.

Then my wife informs me that she's tired and wants to go to bed.

I slept twenty hours. I am not tired. I will not be going to bed any time soon.

So now I'm alone, with nothing to do that doesn't just make me more depressed. I can't work up the energy to write, I don't like the book I'm reading, I don't have access to my art program on this laptop, and I cant go to the desktop to work on something there, because my desktop's power source is dying. The fan is whining in pain. I risk setting my computer on fire if I go on it. And this laptop is so ancient and slow and dying, that I am writing about three lines ahead of what shows on my screen, because it's lagging, and that's in all browsers, so don't anyone fucking tell me to switch to Chrome. My Firefox works no worse than Chrome on this piece of shit, and Firefox has all my logins and my extensions that I need to switch between roleplay accounts easily.

And that's another thing.

The only thing my brain is willing to hide behind is roleplay, because it's both creative and interactive, but lately, I have had to beg, fight, and cry for every minute of it I've gotten, and I'm starting to think that nobody fucking cares about me anymore. People don't talk to me, nobody's missed me on Facebook, where I haven't been in a few days. I don't think anyone's even noticed I'm not interacting there.

I'm alone, bored, and miserable. And fat.

I should just go take my medicine and an Ambien and sleep for the next twenty-four hours again.

But I can't do that, because I have therapy at two today, and there's stuff to do around the house, since we found out at the last damn minute that my wife's surgeons scheduled her surgery for next fucking Thursday. When we were expecting not until four to six weeks. I have my next psychiatric appointment... next fucking Thursday. And I can't get out of that, because I will run out of my medicines if I do, and my psychiatrist's office won't do refills without an appointment.

Which means I have to get up early to take my wife to the hospital, wait around for a few hours until they get off their asses and actually take her into the OR, sit around for several more hours, hoping and praying that she doesn't die on the table while they remove half her chest, then wait with her in recovery, then make sure she's sleeping well enough that I can skip off to my pdoc's appointment, all while dealing with my mother-in-law (who has been a right pain in the ass and doing nothing but hurting my wife), my heart-father, and a few days later, my heart-sister-in-law crashing on my couches.

Which is the only place I can go with my laptop, and again, desktop is dying, so now I won't have anywhere to go at all.

I can't help but think I would be better off just committing myself and asking to stay a month until all this goes away. It's either that, or I may be tempted to drive my car off a goddamn bridge.

This is the way my brain works. This is what depression looks like. This is what anxiety looks like. This is what mental illness looks like.

My advice? Avoid it if you can.
yuuo: (Happy hurts sometimes)
Happy to report that I'm almost off the Zoloft. I got a partial prescription of 50 mg pills, with instructions to take them for one week, then cut them in half and take those another week, then I'm done. Huzzah!

Risperdal dosage has been cut in half. I suspect we might stop it entirely next time.

Still on only 40 mg of Fetzima. Would be happier with more, and we discussed waiting until next time to mess with my anxiety medicines. My anxiety has been through the roof lately. I'm scared to leave the house sometimes. But the doctor didn't want to fuck around with too many medicines all at once, so I'm to just hold on and hope for the best in the meantime.

Mental health medicine roulette sucks, but what is, is. At least I'm getting off the Zoloft and the Risperdal. One thing at a time.

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