Daily Archives: March 18, 2013

DPchallenge: 2 AM Photo

Sleep is always a challenge for me.  To achieve it, I take five (5) medications: Seroquel, clonazepam, lorazepam, zolpidem, and lithium.  Yes, I know there are six pills in the picture.  That is because of the two Seroquel.  For those who are new to my blog, I take all these poisons due to PTSD incurred courtesy of childhood abuse and a stint on the streets as a teenage runaway, complete with serial rapes.  You can read all about it here.

Nighttime Knockout Pills

Nighttime Knockout Pills

And as if all those pills weren’t enough, I use about half an ounce of some kind of liquor as an adjuvant (enhancer).  My favorite is Ouzo, as it leaves a lovely trace of anise on my palate, as my knockout pills waft me to sleep.  Thats one of the reasons I don’t practice medicine anymore: you just can’t field nighttime medical emergencies while hammered on six kinds of meds (I regard the Ouzo as one of them).



If something manages to wake me at night, an earthquake for instance, or the part of the ceiling directly above my bed falling down, or a painfully full bladder (thank God I do wake up for that), I stumble through whatever is necessary to remove myself from the annoyance.  I imagine I would look, to an innocent observer, rather like a hapless zombie that has feasted upon too many alcoholics, or perhaps upon me: too full of sedatives to even try to escape.

So imagine my annoyance when my Galaxy SIII, only slightly smaller than an iPad, rumbled to life at 2 AM, buzzing and tinkling its bell tone indicating an incoming text.

I must have been in the light part of my sleep cycle (otherwise it could have hit me in the head and I wouldn’t have turned a hair), because I awoke with a start that sent Noga, my Lhasa Apso, scurrying to the foot of the bed, as I sat bolt upright as if on springs.

Noga refuses to get out of bed on a rainy morning!

Noga the Lhasa Apso 

My first thought was it must be some mother who had fed her baby strawberry jello, and now its diaper was shockingly red.  Then I remembered: I am no longer in practice as a pediatrician, due to my mental illness and its Machiavellian treatments.  Then a more chilling thought occurred to me: what if something had happened to some family member, God forbid?  But that would entail a phone call from the appropriate authorities, not a text.

At last I wrenched myself far enough away from drugged stupor to actually look at the phone.  MMS, it said.  I touched the “view” button.

Oh fer cryin’ out loud.  This had to be from Floyd, my pervy neighbor.  Who else would send me a photo of his large and rampant, uh, you know….in the middle of the fricking night?  He must have been pickled.  Deleted the goddam thing and lay back down.

Then I sat up again.  I was thirsty.  All these drugs make my mouth dry.  I felt around for my bottle of Gerolsteiner that I usually keep by the bed.  I love Gerolsteiner:  it has lots of minerals in it, good for your body.  And it tastes good, too.  Shit, it wasn’t anywhere around.  I got out of bed and stumped into the dark kitchen.  Ah, there was the bottle: right next to the sink.  Why the hell did I leave it there?  Must have got distracted while brushing my teeth.  Ah well.  Here it was, anyway.

Gerolsteiner, yum

Gerolsteiner, yum!


I unscrewed the cap and took a deep chug.

Jeezus Christ and all his disciples, what the hell was this!?  Oh fuck, it was the Ouzo!  What was is doing next to the sink?? What am I gonna do now?  I musta just ingested a cup of it.  And on top of all these meds….should I make myself throw up?  That’s what I would tell someone else.  I hate to throw up.  I’ll do anything to avoid it.

Well shit, if I’m gonna die I may as well go back to bed.  But now I really need the Gerolsteiner, to quell the burning in my stomach.  I found a new bottle on the shelf and drank as much of it as I could, hoping to dilute the Ouzo enough so I wouldn’t die immediately of drug interactions.  Maybe gently in my sleep, to be found some days later when I didn’t answer my phone.  Morbid thoughts.  Damn phone.

I stumbled toward the bed, holding onto the furniture to keep from falling down.

Damn.  Now my bladder was grumbling and required immediate attention.  I looked outside.  Raining cats and dogs.  No effing way I was going to make my way to the outhouse in this storm, especially in my present compromised condition.  For you newbies, just to let you know, my plumbing situation is non-standard.  ’Nuff said.

2012-10-25 09.13.51

I got out the pee jar, which I keep under the bed for such emergencies.  (No picture of the pee jar, sorry.  Too personal.)

Squatting over the pee jar, I let the excess water drain out with relief.  Shit, shit, and more shit!  Apparently I had not remembered to empty the pee jar since its last use, and now there was pee all over the floor.  Time to get the mop.  (No picture of this either.)

After cleaning up as much of the mess as I could in my present condition, I fell into bed and drifted into a semi-comatose state resembling sleep.  But not for long.  ”Brrrr, bling!” went my phone.  I picked the damn thing up and threw it across the room.  It smashed into the closet door.  Good thing I bought the insurance.



My appointment is about an hour hence. I’ve not managed to paw through old blog entries (too antsy), but I did review my notes with my husband last night, as well as adding some jots this morning. So hopefully it’ll be of use. I accept the bipolar is a part of my life that isn’t going anywhere, but damned if I want to sit passively by and have not much of a life. So fingers crossed for me that myself and my husband do well advocating for me, and that if I do get put on an antidepressant, that it doesn’t trigger rapid cycling. I’m grateful to not be in those shoes; I see how rough it is on my fellow bloggers, and I don’t envy that situation. I’m pretty sure I was there before in a big way, but the passage of time has added a comforting haze over so much of my suffering.


The post Nerves appeared first on A Blog By Any Other Name....


One of my all time favorite lines from a song “I’m often silent when I’m screaming inside.” (Warrant “The Bitter Pill”)

That’s how I have felt for so long now, it’s becoming maddening. Like a volcano about to erupt. I don’t think it’s a matter of if I blow, I think at this point it’s just when.

Even the people who are supposed to be on  my side…I view them as enemies who just aren’t listening when I do try to express myself.

So I am left with all this festering anxiety and anger and frustration.

Tick tock.

It’s coming.

And I hate that I try so hard to talk but n0 one will hear me.

Tick tock.

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

That is the mantra my brain is repeating right now as my kid keeps up with incessant babble about nothing. I just want it to stop, I want to install a mute button on her. I want to go selectively deaf. Anything to make it stop because goddamn it, my nerves are frying here and I am maxed out on Klonopin for the day but her voice is like nails on a chalkboard.

This is so bizarre. I waited for two years for her to start talking. I usually love listening to her chatter and say funny things.

So why am I suddenly this super irritable bitchy ogre who can’t stand the sound of her own kid’s voice? (And in all fairness, it’s not just her, it’s EVERYONE who speaks to me, I just want them all to shut the hell up.)

What the fuck is wrong with me?

And it’s not just the anxiety and irritability.

Last night, I was hypo manic, so much energy and motivation and my thoughts seemed clearer. Of course, I was a nervous wreck but everything mental illness related is a trade off right?

Today I have been panicky, pissed off, irate, paranoid. Around 4 pm my mood dipped soooo low I put my kid down for a nap and curled up in bed with a blanket over my head.

Now as bedtime lurks I find my nerves screaming out in agony, the anxiety almost bringing me to my knees, and of course, I am maxed on the tic tac o pin. I read another blog post today which does not give me hope that I am going to be able to reach my shrink about the xanax issue. And that makes me more angry than I can even put into words because it’s a legitimate drug and it works wonders for me and I should be treated as an individual, not part of some mass xanax  abuse conspiracy. Yes, I am a broken record and it does make me sound like some druggie but I cant help but resent the fuck out of it all because withdrawal from shit like prozac is ten times worse than xanax, yet they pass prozac and whatnot out like fucking skittles.

And now there’s some sort of neighborhood ruckus going on with lots of yelling and car doors slamming and I am shaking so bad I can barelyt type this and I keep looking out the window and going to the door to make sure no one is messing with my car or in my yard, and it feels like I am slipping away into this paranoid panic paralyzed cocoon of non functionality…which I can’t do because of course, the paranoid little voice in my head is reminding me I can’t crack my lids because then they could take me kid and being a mom is the only fucking thing I get right these days aside from being a grumpy and impatient.

shut up shut up shut up shut up.

Even my own brain is on my last fucking nerve.

Now I get to plaster on the happy face tomorrow and go pretend I am competent to make someone else happy when truth be told, I have barely left the house in two days (unless getting a gallon of milk and taking trash outside the door count) because I am such a fucking trainwreck outside the safety zone of home.

I can’t do this much longer, I am coming unraveled. I seem to be the only one who cares. Everyone else is all about themselves, they see what they want to see, what they want me to be. Only I seem to be concerned with what the reality is.

Which one would think would empower me to be the one to help myself.

Except I am at the mercy of a doctor who has a bias against one drug that could save me and an insurance company that won’t pay for the other med that could stabilize me overnight as far as lucid thought goes (Focalin.)

To feel so powerless over everything in my life…