Confessions 3: to hell with the pills

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This was not the piece I had written for Confessions 3 – that was on body image. No, this is one on the silent wall of mental health professionals. And the lovely Catch 22 she put me in. I told her the increase in Ability seems to have created an ataxia problem. So, cut back. No, you don’t get it – ataxia breaks bones, ataxia leaves me up able to get up, ataxia is liking walking constantly drunk and stoned on drugs. Well, here’s a prescription for a new drug but your health insurance probably won’t allow it. So, what then – stay on the abilifiy – but I just told you . . . Same with the antidepressants – I cry at least 6 hours a day – the kind that is so deep it hurts your head and solar plexus. Can I try Wellbutrin and Zoloft. Only one change at a time, but you just prescribed a drug I won’t be able to get, so where is the change. Maybe Wellbutrin. But Wellbutrin and Zoloft work well together. Silence. Then I explain mania too – I’m breaking down again, I know that I’m loosing it. What is the mania like – so tell the story – not manic enough though I would consider self-damage, rage, over-spending, and not sleeping for 48 hours manic myself. Well, it takes awhile for drugs to work. Yes, I know by in 6 weeks on this crap you have me on, I’ll be institutionalized as a nutcase or dead. She’s making notes so she goes, “okay,” It’s okay for a client to be committed as insane or to kill herself because you are the authority.

I am nuts, I am manic, I am depressed. But I am intelligent and educated, I explained I had to self-help for 3 years, I do research, I keep up on drugs, I talk to other people with my issues, so don’t pull the “you’re a crazy idiot who knows nothing on me.” Back in two weeks with my husband, I’ll be a blithering rocking, crying idiot by then, and he’ll have to do all the talking anyway.

Another hope dashed – we decided that morning, I was going to get to go on a vacation, stay in a b & b, or inn all by myself for a couple of weeks in Nova Scotia. Visit with a friend, chuck stuff out of the storage locker (get my mother out of my life forever then — her crap still haunts me) even though the whole vacation is more than we can afford. But this unstable, it’s taken away from me. If she had listened – lexapro and abilifiy aren’t good for me. There go two hopes in one day. This hope crap isn’t anything like it’s hyped up to be.

morning/night therapy #15 & 16: to sleep perchance not to dream

Last night, I was too tired to write. Which I am thankful for as I slept for several hours straight without dreaming. Funny, for years, when I rarely reached REM stage, I missed dreaming – dreaming came with medication withdrawal – still remember one so clearly, or a fever. Now, psych drugs mean I have my dreams back – but all my dreams are borderline nightmares. Always were.

I also remember one beautiful dream – in my mid to late 30s. I was walking by a hill covered in wildflowers. As I passed by, all the flowers changed into butterflies. No, I wasn’t on anything – that time.

I made it to therapy – hot and humid so the weaker, tired me struggled but did it. Said something to cheer up my therapist. I do that when I think she is despairing of my as a client. And, who knows, part of it might be true.

Today, I finally took my giant bubble maker wand outside to make dancing bubble circles. Then I tried making a video and take pictures of said bubbles. Making was easier than capturing.

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My therapist pointed out that my surviving to date sound be considered as a self-like (she likes the term). Rootless childhood. Nothing to wrap the vines of growing up around. Not much nurture. Very little sun; lots of rain. Winds of loneliness, rot of bipolar 2 and insidious depression, hail of peer abuse, erosion of pain and loss. Guess that makes me a survivor. A Warrior Princess. One of many survivors; warrior princesses. All unique and all tied by the same ribbon.