Monthly Archives: May 2013
Mental Health Month took me places with the Awkward Indie Girl that I thought I would never go.
I initially started this blog as a fashion blog. My early posts were all about my latest outfits, my stylish friends, and fashion inspiration. It began to progress into something more when I started my Body Talk posts and opened up about my eating disorder. I realized that even though I can be shy in person, I am not afraid to share personal details online. It was easier for me to carefully choose and edit my words behind a computer, and I could write and comment from the comfort and safety of my own home. Through the Awkward Indie Girl, I found courage.
After a prolonged absence from the blogosphere, I reasserted myself as queen of this domain with a post about my mental illness. It was scary, but I found more support than I could have hoped for after that barrier-breaking blog post. I finally felt proud of my content. That’s not to say that beauty and fashion bloggers don’t produce meaningful content. I don’t mean that at all. I think they provide a valid service that is helpful and a fun escape for many men and women. But my true desire was never to be a fashionista. My goal was to become a writer and to find a unique style while doing so.
I noticed that when I transitioned to a mental health/lifestyle blogger instead of a wannabe fashion blogger, my parents and friends began to share my blog with others. They were proud of me and my writing. My readership grew, and I began to have meaningful conversations with my readers. I started to take myself seriously as a writer, and I could imagine myself doing this as a future career.
Mental Health Month accelerated those feelings to the nth degree. I found a new sense of purpose in my blogging. Advocacy strengthened me. I felt like less of a victim of my bipolar, and more like a warrior princess. Yes, it was weird knowing that people at school, my dad’s colleagues, extended family members, and complete strangers knew about the most intimate details of my life. But it was also freeing. The more people that found out, the more supporters I gained. There was less pretending that everything was darn tootin’ fine and dandy. I could relax and hang up the mask that I had been wearing for several years.
Because of all this, I have decided to permanently transition this blog into a mental health and lifestyle blog. Through my words and images, I want to help end stigma and show what life can be like with mental illness. I want to make friends and spread hope. I want to be an advocate for people like me.
There still is a side of me that enjoys scoring a great deal at a thrift store and acting like a complete and utter goof. That part of me will be represented on the Internet, but not on this blog. I will be starting a new YouTube channel next week, with all the thrifty awkwardness you can possibly handle 🙂
So, to everyone who has been with me since the beginning, I am thankful for your support and patience. If this blog no longer fits your needs or interests, I understand your departure, and I respect it. To everyone that would like to be a part of this new journey with me, welcome.
Yes, it’s crude. Yes, the humor is elementary. But, it made me laugh. I must not have seen this commercial when it aired because I’m certain I’d remember it.
As my husband was insisting we got my GP to change my Seroquel to XL/XR last time, I decided I’d book in for an appointment. I guess the fates will it, ’cause we managed to get one today (take that, NHS detractors!). Cross your fingers for me that he was right, and that I won’t have to go chasing up the hospital. If I do… *sigh* I have enough of the 200mg extended release tabs for the next 9 days or so, which gives me time to try to get my head together enough to find out what’s what. Or would if it didn’t rely on telephones. *grumbles* At least I have an annual pre-payment card for my prescriptions, so it’s not like it’s costing me anything extra to get it fixed (and again, take that NHS detractors, hee hee)!
I noticed last night that I was feeling mildly euphoric… I’m not quite sure what to make of it. Of course, I enjoyed the suffusion of tingly warm throughout my soul, but as it’s indicative of moving into a hypomanic episode, I’m understandably wary. I’d like to even out now, yanno? I know there’s still depression in the wings too ’cause I’ve caught moments of ennui trying to crack through — as I’ve said before, me actually hitting a point of boredom is not a normal or healthy thing!
Anyways, I’ve got six pence to find in these accounts, so I’m going to get back to that (and starting in on a jar of lingonberry jam, om nom nom). I hope that everyone is having a pleasant day.
Holy shit, this is what happens when I try to tell my mother how I'm feeling....so I don't even go there anymore, and if anyone asks, the answer is "fine, and you?"
It’s 2:23 a.m. I should be exhausted. I got four hours of sleep last night. Not gonna fare any better tonight. But the brain has gone hypomanic and it is racing and so many thoughts and ideas and coping mechanisms and…It’s just a flurry of brain activity right now, so many thoughts bouncing around…
This is not quite full blown mania or productive hypo mania. It’s just…semi-manic thinking processes. Round and round the brain goes, where it stops, no one knows.
I folded some clothes.
I dyed my gray roots.
I finished yet another book.
Started yet another book.
Am bored by said book.
Have this neat new mental coping thing, where I picture a red balloon that is deflated and I take all my swirling negative thoughts of all that stresses me out or pisses me off, and I just jam it all into the balloon and the balloon grows big and round…And I just let it go, watch it sail off into the sky, picturing it getting further and further away until I can no longer see it. Then I picture blue bricks and stack them into a pyramid with happy or calming thoughts. My kid, cats, books, tv shows, warm rain…
And it was going along swimmingly and I was starting to mellow out…And SMACK! The brain revives into scumbag mode and here I am, with all this mental activity and yet I know I need to sleep. Hell, I wanted to take a nap at 5pm but my kid wouldn’t have it. Now I am wide awake and the clock is ticking on her waking up and…
Red balloon. Bad thoughts. Bye Bye.
Enter good thoughts.
Why not enter sandman? I don’t want take a Trazzy D, it takes forever to peel the fucking cobwebs off my brain after taking even a small dose of that horse tranquilizer. Which is hysterical, since I used to have such bad insomnia, I was on 400 mg of Trazadone and 300 mg of Seroquel every night just to get to sleep. I slept, for 12-14 hours. Can’t do that now. Don’t want to do it now.
I also realized another thing. Since I stopped drinking…I have more energy, I am not damn lethargic and sleepy and grumpy. My memory is better. My moods are better. I don’t want to go to bed at 7pm and wallow in feeling low. How could something that brings such happy happy numbness and calm also be such a fucking downer? (That’s a joke, by the way, since ya know, alcohol is a depressant. Bygones!)
Oh, an Ally McBeal reference, I am going retro.
My brain is like an amusement park in full swing, all the rides going simultaneously, all the music and lights and crowds and games and noises and…
I am big on the color trigger thing. I used to think it was bullshit. Like in the chat rooms when they said no red font because it triggered people who SI. I thought it was stupid.
Until I woke up with my house on fire 12 years ago.
Now the color red freaks me out as it is sort of the color of fire.
BUT the color blue makes me feel calm because my 1mg xanax tabs used to be pastel blue and they were wonderful and while my current lower dose is orange or yellow, I still consider blue the ultimate calm color. (Oh, wow, I only took 0.5 mg of xanax today instead of 1.5 mg, yeah, tell me I’m addicted.)
Am I making sense? Probably not. Probably a written cacophony. But this is mania, an accurate depiction. Of the good-ish manic episodes. The real manic periods are usually pretty mind blowingly awesome until you wake up the next day and have to deal with all the impulsive happy happy I-am-ten-feet-tall-and-bulletproof choices you made during your happy happy jag.
Hypomania doesn’t really have a downside except robbing you of sleep and making you kind of antsy. The productive hypo mania is the best, but that’s not happening right now. This is mental hyperactive mania.
No one is ever around for these spells, though. NOOOO, we can’t have anyone see me happy and energetic and in a positive frame of mind. No, scumbag brain has to be stressed or pissed off when around others so they think that’s all I am. But NOOO, I can damn well be happy fun ball sometimes.
On an unrelated to this post note, I ABSOLUTELY APOLOGIZE FOR FLOOD POSTING. Truth is, sometimes, I write these really long rant-y posts for myself, intending to save them to draft. Only then I see something shiny and my hand is clicking but eyes are watching shiny shiny and boom, it’s published instead of saved to draft and wow, I’m real sorry and I did entertain the notion of taking the extraneous ones down but then…Hey, I do this blog thing for me and it’s good to have a record of all the weird mental states I go through constantly. Nothing gives an accurate depiction of bipolar disorder better than a real time depiction of bipolar disorder.
Yes, I’m talking fast in written form. Mania mania mania.
I should do something to burn the energy.
I don’t want to though, I want to embrace all the ideas and thoughts in my head. I want to shampoo carpets this weekend, I want to rearrange furniture, I want to rewash all my laundry sorted by pants, shirts, socks, etc. I want to go to Salvation Army and Goodwill and some yard sales if it isn’t raining. I want to burn some cds. I want to have a water gun war with my kid and her friend. I want to check out more library books. I want to try writing again.
I want, I want, I want.
Bad brain. Overload. Brain will hurt later.
But sooo good not to be mentally lethargic, so good to have ideas and thoughts and hope and…
Hmm, this could appear like some form of hysteria, I suppose.
But it’s actually helping. My brain is bulimic. It binges on reality and bad stuff and good stuff and stress and calm and the petri dish and other people’s bullshit and more stress…
And then it throws it all up, onto the pages of this blog. Binge. Purge. Rinse lather repeat.
Welcome to bipolar.
It has nothing to do with bipolar, but playing with my kid just now, I got SLAMMED with this bitter epiphany. I’ve just been on auto pilot for so long, forcing myself to get over things I cannot change, rolling with the punches, trying not to be devastated by change…
And I don’t even know why it hit me in the middle of playing with Spook…
But I realized that my true descent into negativity and the dark side of life began in 1997, when my dad left my mom. About the same time, I ended my first marriage, partially in a fit of mania, but mostly because after 7 years, I realized I looked at my husband more as a little brother who needed looking after. He was a sweet guy, but…I married for the wrong reasons, even if my intention was good. (Who decides to get married just have medical and dental insurance? Oh, right, a young girl with a history of being rejected subjected to a litany of adults telling her not to worry about things like love and passion, but focus on a guy who’s a good provider and has benefits.)
My entire world as I knew, totally blown up, in the space of one single month. My family, fractured, never to be the same again.
I felt free on my own account.
I was even okay with my parents splitting up because all they ever did was fight and make each other miserable.
But everything changed, the home I grew up in was sold, my mom and sister hooked up with a rag tag crew of people I can’t even describe except to say “petri dish of suck”, and my sister married into it, spawned with it, and the whole fucked up mess is still in full force 16 years later. My dad went and set up house with his gf and their son. My sister had a kid.
I met who I thought was the love of my life and within a year and a half got thrown under a fast moving bus it took me the better part of a year and nearly losing a job over cos all I could do was run in back and bawl.
All in the space of two years.
Then I had the reaction to Nardil that nearly killed me.
Then my building burned down and I had like two days to find a new place to live and get moved.
And that was when I just descended into the pit of darkness. Like bobbing on an ocean full of nasty waves, every once in awhile my head would poke through the murky water…Only to be dragged back down again when the seasonal hit or the bipolar took a bad turn.
I spent six years alone, nursing my wounds, determined to keep people away and never hurt like I hurt over all of that.
Then I met someone I, in my gut, knew was “off”, but convinced myself- and allowed his hollow promises and oaths of absolute love and devotion, in. Had a child with him.
Only to be discarded two years later with a fucking phone call.
I’d say my life since 1997 has been a certifiable hell, and rather than taking or even having the time, to process any of it and come to terms with all the changes and my illness and becoming a mom, then waking up a single mom…
How can someone go through all of that and NOT come out negative and dark and harboring a lot of negative traits as shields to protect themselves?
The ONLY good to come of it all was finding a doctor who gave me the right diagnosis and right meds, getting to know myself and recognizing my flaws, and having my daughter.
Everything else was a bucket of suck and I just swept it under the rug, where it has festered and metastasized all this time. I preach about others dealing with their baggage…And yet, I’ve not dealt with mine. At least not that particular decade of suck. Life has just kept twisting and turning and I have kept hoping for the best and wanting to feel things I don’t and wanting to be happy for people when their happiness is like a six foot thorn in my paw…
It sounds petty.
But it’s also a huge breakthrough. Bittersweet, maybe. It brought a tear to my eye, remembering my family as it once was.Dysfunctional, and my parents could barely stand each other and we were broke and our stuff was crap and we lived in an armpit of redneck-iness…But it was MY family, MY petri dish, MY status quo. And it all crumbled so fast that I had no time to process, mourn, and reach acceptance. I just forced it. And the only person it hurt was me.
I was so worried about hurting others that I suppressed my own feelings and told myself to put on the big girl panties because I was 25 years old when my parents divorced, grow the fuck up. They’re happier without each other, accept it and suck it up.
Be that as it may…I lost a family. I have one faction, and a second faction,but that fucked up four person family that was mine norm for so long…That died and I didn’t give it a funeral or grieve or mourn. Losing my dysfunctional unhappy family affected me worse than having to admit and remedy my own marriage. It wasn’t that I cared less about my marriage because I really did try…But my safe space to run home to was gone. That crappy falling apart house with its sunken floors and crumbling ceiling tiles and bug problems and leaky bath tub buckling the floor…A shithole but my home. Even if I had moved out long ago, it was still my home, my safe place to return and lick my wounds when life beat me down.
I never discussed it with my mom or my dad. My mom was too busy calling him names, he was too busy griping about how she’d spent all his money and put him into bankruptcy…My sister jumped into a teenage marriage and pregnancy…My significant other after I divorced was too busy with his own shit to even think of being there for me during my problems…
So I swallow the bitter pill of reality and there it has been lodged all this time, in my throat, choking me, gagging me, keeping me from moving on. It’s like I can’t ever be the person I used to be, the kooky one who wore bright colors and a Santa hat for Christmas and was bouncy and friendly even when not manic. My reality changed, so I had to, as well.
I was always a little dark, a little twisted. I shrieked with glee at age 12 when I saw Alice Cooper spearing dolls with a sword on stage. I read Fangoria magazine from age 7. I have always been a ghoul. But that ghoul had a shiny side that tarnished under the weight of painful reality, a shine that was rubbed away and buried.
I need to dig it up, I think.
Life isn’t perfect, but I have rolled with the punches. My kid is great. We don’t have much, but we have each other. I just need to figure out where to go from here.
I need to finally mourn the past that I lost.
And maybe if I kiss it goodnight, I can kiss a brand new future hello.
Too bad all this psychological stuff usually gets its ass kicked by the bipolar before I can figure it out. Because I really feel like this is a big deal for me. I now know when all the light in me went out, when I became completely consumed by the negativity.
Now I just have to figure out how to find a balance of who I was, who I have become, and who I could become.
I will call myself cautiously optimistic.
I know what could happen.
But nothing is etched in stone and maybe just maybe I am due for some slack from the cruel hand of fate. And from myself.
You hear something often enough, it must be true, right?
I asked R what about me other than the bipolar bothers him. He said he gets sick of my negativity.
And I said, “You mean the way I get sick of your naive optimism where you stick your head in the sand even though everything is not going well?”
And I could have suggested monkeys were flying out of his butt because he looked absolutely shocked at the notion that he could be annoying.
No concept outside his own wants and needs and disturbances.
I KNOW I am negative and pessimistic. I KNOW I am moody. I KNOW I can be a right bitch sometimes.
It’s why I go through the usually pointless exercise of counseling with the sunshine spewer, trying to confront the harsh truths about myself and figure out how to improve myself.
I pointed out he’s the same wreck he was 13 years ago and he dead seriously said, “I don’t see what’s so wrong with me.”
Hmm. He can tell me all about my faults, but he sees nothing really wrong with himself?
THERE is my problem with the human race. That’s the whole deal that makes me so negative.
Oh, and those pesky mood swings everyone seems to think are an affectation I choose to adopt.
Maybe if people didn’t treat me so shitty, I might have something positive to say. But that never occurs to most people.
“You’re too dark.”
Pick me apart and I will give what I get.
It seems like something I should change but since others aren’t going to change, I can’t be arsed.
In the space of 7 hours, the man managed to undo 5 days worth of my calm stable mood and once again, I am feeling like a criminal needing to flee the scene.
But I can’t. Because that would be weak. The best way to get over something that bothers you is to do it until it no longer bothers you, right? So I am told. I also think unicorns are real and pigs have wings.
I just can’t back down. I’ve never pursued a physical fight in my life. But when it comes to verbal warfare and defending myself and making a point….I’ve never walked away from a fight.
THAT is personality.
And maybe that’s something I can work on.
And okay, maybe I put too much focus on the negative and while the “expect the worst, be surprised if the best happens” approach works for me, perhaps I should stop spreading my healthy toxicity to others. Okay, I can accept that.
But when someone looks at me dead serious and acts clueless as to the fact that they might piss me off as much as I piss them off…
Not really motivating me to change, since obviously they think they have nothing to change. Equal annoyance it is.
THAT is personality.
But mid afternoon when I went from an uppish mood and slid into a low mood…
No trigger, no segue, just bang. Up, then smash down.
As much as it sucks for the people around me when I am down, it sucks more for me, because that’s when all the negative stuff really seeps into my brain and starts telling me I am beyond repair and no one will ever accept and love me, and I should just kill myself. If you live with such thoughts in your mind on a daily basis, it’s almost ludicrous for someone to tell you to find something positive about it and get over it. It’s not positive. It is very negative and it sucks and it is reality.
And I can’t bury my head in the sand like the masses. Can’t and won’t.
I call a spade a spade and considering how content I actually being by myself, I don’t see much reason to alter this facet of my personality. Because part of loving someone is being able to accept shit like being bipolar and pessimistic. And if I can’t find someone with that much character, then yeah, I’d rather be alone.
The only thing I have learned over the years that has never changed despite depressions and mood swings is, when you are with someone you don’t connect with, even with them, you feel lonely and alone.
And that’s worse than being by yourself.
So ok, I am a downer. I have too many cats, too little money, it’s hot, my car runs like shit, my clothes all have holes in them, my carpet is stained beyond redemption with 4 years of stampeding feet, the place smells musty, my stomach hurts when I get stressed out…
There is a LOT of shit in life and painting it to look like a rainbow doesn’t make it not smell like shit.
At the same time…
I love my many cats. I have a beautiful vivacious kid. I enjoy reading and writing and watching favorite TV shows. Every once in awhile I look in the mirror and my brain isn’t telling me I am more hideous than Chewbacca’s butthole. Once in a blue moon I managed to not only shave my legs without missing spots, but also without drawing blood. I may not have much money but the little I have, I manage well. The car at least has a decent stereo. Around midnight the place cools down and all is quiet and peaceful.
Life is a mixed bag. Things are not all good or all bad.
But excuse me if I am too busy enjoying the good to talk about it and save only the sucky stuff to rant about.
That being said, I will make a conscious effort to at least keep my pessimism to myself more.
But if I start making gagging noises when you spew sunshine and blow rainbows up my skirt…
Maybe you need to tone that optimism down.
Wait, that would be fair. No, we can’t have that.
Fuck it. I’m just gonna be and live with the fall out. It’s too easy to go with the grain.
Nothing easy is worth having.
Yesterday I looked at one of my posts from last week, in which I wrote about some of my regrets. I turned some of those regrets around and wrote yesterday’s post about gratitude. I realized that so many things in my life that hurt, or I regret, could easily be turned around and seen as a blessing. But what about bipolar? Is there a way to turn it from being a negative in my life to a positive? After deep thought I think I can give it a resounding yes.
WTF? You may ask. Am I actually grateful that I have bipolar disorder? Well, I’m grateful for who I am, and bipolar is part of me. In addition much of the crazy behavior in my past can easily be explained as part of being bipolar. At least that’s what my doctors tell me. I am who I am. I’m the guy who would walk around his neighborhood naked at 2am. I’m the guy who can’t have a credit card without maxing it out within a couple of days. I’m the guy who can’t concentrate for more than 30 seconds. I’m the guy who was homeless and slept in buses at night. I’m the guy who’s done some wonderful things, some hurtful things and some wildly crazy things. That’s me.
Most of the day, yesterday, was difficult. I was dealing with depression. Once again, the blinds were shut, I didn’t shower and I had to force myself not to eat everything in the house. It was a struggle. But…or should I say…BUT, I used a technique that works when I force myself to, and that would be staying in the here and now. When I would catch myself stewing in the dark place I stop myself for at least a moment and think about that second only. For that brief second, life was good. There were no dark cloud over me, and I didn’t hate myself. In fact, I would think a moment and realize that I like me. It’s not easy, and it does take some practice, but for me staying in the moment works.
Yes, I have regrets in my life, but does that always mean they’re bad? Had I done things differently, my life would be completely different today. I wouldn’t have my beautiful daughter, I wouldn’t have married Maurice, I wouldn’t have moved to Southern California (which I love). To say I wish I hadn’t done some things would negate the wonderful things in my life right now and I feel too blessed to do that. So yes, as crazy as it must sound, I am grateful for being bipolar. Without it I wouldn’t be who I am today and there’s too many wonderful things in my life to fill it full of regrets.
I am sitting in the kitchen of my beloved friend R_, who was on the same flight with me when we made Aliyah (emigrated) to Israel in 2007. We didn’t meet on the plane because he was in such ecstasy at moving to our real home country that he didn’t notice anything around him. He was in a haze of love and joy. I met him about four months after our arrival. He was hanging out laundry on his mirpesset (balcony), and I recognized him from the flight. His place turned out to be exactly one block from mine, and my seat-mate on that flight happened to live exactly one block from him! The three of us became the best of friends. R_ has become my support system and champion in my struggle to free myself from the toxic, strangulating tentacles that have torn me from my real home country and dragged me back to America, which otherwise holds no attraction to me.
I had to take a break from my parents and America, because I found myself consumed with rage, which is a very unhealthy emotion. I developed high blood pressure and heart palpitations, and was having terrible heart pains that woke me out of sleep. They were so intense that I could not even move to call an ambulance, even had I wanted to, which I didn’t. I would have been just as happy if a heart attack carried me off, out of the misery of my life there.
So I suddenly announced that I was going to Israel for three weeks, for a break, causing immense consternation on the maternal side of things, and resignation from the Dad side. I needed a breathing spell, and specifically to breathe the air of the Holy Land, just to be here, even if all I did was to hang out with my friend R_ and walk around the shuk, inhaling and imbibing the sights, sounds, smells, and spirit of the place.
Practically as soon as I got off the plane my Israeli cell phone started ringing: ”We’re so glad you’re back: now everything feels normal again.” I have a place, and my place is here. My family of choice lives here. I feel surrounded by love here.
R_ and I went yesterday to visit the tomb of the Baba Sali, a holy man who was said to have brought about many miracles in his time. Here it is customary to visit the tombs of great and wise people (like Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Rachel, Leah, Samuel, etc.) to bathe in their energy and pray for whatever needs prayed for. We don’t pray to the person, for that is idol worship, but instead we pray for the spirit of that holy person to intercede for us in Heaven so that our prayers will be heard. I had, and still have, a lot to pray for, so we went to the Baba Sali, because I have a special connection with him.
Baba Sali lived in our times, and came from Damascus to Morocco to Israel, where he settled in a tiny village called Netivot, which is located in the Negev desert right on the border with Gaza, just south of Sderot, which is a town that has been rained on with so many thousands of missiles from Gaza that every bus stop has its own bomb shelter.
Why do I feel safe here? Right now, at this very moment, Russia is funneling terrible weapons into Syria, which in turn is passing them on to Hezbollah (the terrorist arm in Lebanon), Iran is arming Hamas in Gaza, the West Bank, and Lebanon, and all of them are fighting among themselves. It’s a virtual certainty that they will attack Israel at some point. On Monday and Tuesday this week the air raid sirens went off in every town in the Land, and everyone was supposed to drill taking shelter. Nobody did, because Israelis are used to being the objects of the aggression of our neighbors, and we realize that only G-d can save us, since we are a country the size of Delaware, so we go on with our lives and our prayers, and of course we hope that rockets won’t fall on our houses or our children, but we rely on G-d to be our shelter. No Westerner can understand that.
But that’s not what this blog entry is about.
It’s about the terrible conflict that tears me apart, and keeps me from living the life I love, the life the holds out the possibility of real spiritual redemption. It’s about the conflict between kibud av v’aim, respect for father and mother, which is one of the Ten Commandments. The letter of halacha, Jewish Law, interprets this to mean that one is obligated at minimum to provide shelter, food, and clothing sufficient for one’s parents’ needs, but I have a hard time with leaving it at that.
Although my mother severely abused me emotionally, psychologically, verbally, and at times physically, and my father was a codependent facilitator, I still have difficulty separating from them completely, because I continually hope that they will magically become the parents I have always desperately wanted and needed: loving, caring, nurturing, and deserving of my love and respect.
In fact, in my adolescent confrontational phase, before I picked up and left home at age 16, my mother would scream at me, “You have to love and respect me because I am your parent.” And I would scream back, “If you want me to love and respect you, you have to earn it,” to which the dear mother would generally reply with a stream of obscenities and a smack across the face, if she could reach me.
So why, after four years of blissful content in Israel, did I rush to their side when their time of need arrived in their old age? And what has kept me there, in total isolation and spiritual desolation, for two and a half years? Unconditional love, blind even to ongoing abuse? Kibud av v’aim? Or that desperate primal hope that one day I would awaken to find them magically transformed into my real parents, the ones who dropped me off here on this alien planet 59 years ago?
I just don’t know.
Okay, so — this is sort of a grump, sort of a request for opinions!
I went to pick up my prescriptions yesterday, and found out something displeasing — my Seroquel prescription was suddenly for normal rather than extended release. My pharmacist made very sure I was aware of this, and just in case she was wrong, I checked my online prescriptions and the letter from my psychiatrist to my doctor. She wasn’t wrong — the XL/XR (extended release) got left off. Or did it? The orders on the updated prescription say take one twice daily, which would indicate that (perhaps) it was an intentional switch rather than an oversight.
I guess I could try to call the hospital, but it would probably take me until my next appointment to find the spoons to handle the phone. Seriously, me and the phone are absolutely not friends anymore; we divorced after high school and have preferred to keep our distance. It’s worse here ’cause I speak British (words and intonation) with an American accent — people get confused and make me repeat myself. As I was in speech therapy when I was a kid due to a (probable but not confirmed) soft palette defect I reputedly inherited from my maternal grandmother, and have worked really hard all my life to speak well and understandably, this is incredibly stressful.
So at this point I’m wondering if I could still get away with taking it all at night. I’m not adverse to non-extended release, mind — the normal is fantastic for putting a gal to sleep. But I don’t want to run out of sanity-maintaining drugs partway through the day. But I don’t want to spend part of the day as a zombie either. My husband says that we’ve gotten my general practicioner (GP) to change it from normal to XL/XR in the past, but I can’t remember. My brain balks at asking him anyways, ’cause that requires either making a phone call or booking an appointment, and I’m still smarting from being treated dismissively over my endometriosis-related concerns a couple of months back.
What I’m thinking of doing for now is when I run out of XRs, I’ll take one 200mg around the normal time I dose myself, and try to see if I can handle the next the following morning. That’s the recommended dosing anyways, so it’s worth trying. Having said that, I already suspect it’ll punch me in the face and keep me asleep, so I’ll probably end up taking them both at night and hoping for the best.
Anyways, pennies left for my thoughts are welcome, as are your two cents (har har har). I mean, I guess I sort of know what I’m going to do, but maybe I’m missing something in my analysis.