……to have a doctor who puts the “care” in healthcare. And to know that this hellish feeling will more than likely be gone soon.
After fighting these damnable mood swings for the past several weeks, I finally put my pride in my back pocket and called Dr. A’s office this afternoon. I knew with his abbreviated schedule that he was probably already at the hospital making rounds, and when I left my message I did say it wasn’t critical, so I didn’t expect to hear anything till Wednesday when he’s back in the clinic.
But even though I wasn’t crying hysterically or shouting into the phone like I normally do when I’m in crisis, he obviously thought it was more critical than I did, for he called me back right after his last session for the day. As always, he was kind and soothing, and it only took my saying “I feel like I’m heading into something like what happened last spring” for him to make the call: Zyprexa 5 mg every night until further notice.
I was a little surprised—I thought he’d increase my other antipsychotic—but he was very certain that I need the Z. And I’m too grateful to second-guess him because regardless of its side effects, Zyprexa is what WORKS. It’s been one hundred percent effective in dealing with my manic and mixed episodes thus far, and while I don’t want to be on it forever, it’s the best stuff on Earth for these occasions.
I take that back: I wish I could be on it forever, because it does work so well and it’s cheap. Trouble is, I get insanely hungry and gain weight, and then my blood sugars go ape shit. But hey, what’s a few (more) extra pounds and diabetes when the alternative is falling down the rabbit-hole?
I’m supposed to call back in two weeks with a progress report, or sooner if I’m not getting better so he can get me in to see him before my next scheduled appointment. I’m not too worried about that. There is a battle plan, we know the Zyprexa works, and that alone takes away some of the stress. In fact……I feel better already. :-)
Earlier this year I swore I was going to average a weight loss of one pound a week. I’m struggling. Much to my dismay it’s time for a weight loss update…or lack thereof. Because many bipolar meds simultaneously reduce metabolism and increase hunger, weight gain can be a serious, unfortunate side effect. I try to … Continue reading
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Posted in Read Along
Scott Walker - It's Raining Today
What a sick fucking day it has been. It started out when I woke up at the same time as the spouse, and he went off to the bathroom. I didn't get up until he was done in there. He asked if he should make his own coffee. I asked him to make some for me too, as I was going in the bathroom. He turned on the water, yelled something to me and couldn't hear what I said. I told him how to make enough coffee for both, and I asked if he could just wait a minute, and then I would make it (for both). He yelled that he couldn't wait and that he was making some for himself. Moments later, I was out of the bathroom.
I asked him why he couldn't wait just one minute. He never answered. Then I told him how fucking rude he was being, and grabbed some workout clothes from the closet. I got dressed and as I went to put my socks on, I said FUCK THIS SHIT to myself. On came the goofy tennis shoes they make these days, plus an oversized fleece-lined hoodie with big pockets. I grabbed as much shit as I could: iPod, keys, phone, coffee card, smokes, lighter, and flew out the door into the rain.
I had not yet gotten to take any medication.
I tried not to focus on the fact that it was daylight, and concentrated on the ground in front of me as I walked over to Starschmucks. For once I didn't care about getting my clothes, hair, or un-made-up face getting wet. All I wanted was to get the fuck away from the spouse (it), because I couldn't stand to look at him, or listen to him, or be in his presence after the way he (it) acted. I could not remember being so fucking angry and disgusted, and, well, "stabby" as a psychiatrist suggested to me during a hospital stay. I felt like I wanted to do him some bodily harm, but in no specific way, and that kept me at the coffee shop longer.
One coffee was my limit, even though I wanted more, but I didn't want to make a bad bad situation any worse. I was so fucking pissed, I tried not to cry as hard as I could, and I managed to talk myself out of it. I was not going to waste a tear on his stupidfuck behavior. I sat, listening to music, and messing with my phone, and mentioning on another site that I was getting away from a psychocunt, etc until my ass hurt from the tall stool I had to sit on. There was nowhere else to sit, and of course I wanted to be as far from others as I could, but that didn't work out, of course., It was Sunday morning, so people started trickling in more and more until the place was half full. That is when I had to get out of there.
As I stood outside, my only thought was that there was nowhere to go. Nowhere but a doorway just down the street to shelter me from the rain as I chainsmoked. The poisons were making me feel better. I could imagine how crappy I looked, as I looked down at my hoodie, and saw that they were dirty. I guess not enough for a passer by to pass me by, instead of asking for money. He had just been in the coffee shop. He said something to me, stuck out his hand, and I just looked at it, without bothering to listen to what he was saying. All I did was shake my head and he moved on.
When I was finally done, again, I focused on the sidewalks and streets as I walked home. I couldn't help noticing someone sleeping under a tarp behind the bushes next to my neighboring building. Never saw them or noticed them before. I did notice that the light kind of hurt my eyes again, and I just wanted away from it, but didn't panic. I didn't panic when I got to my door and the lock on the front door was being shitty to me. I didn't want to go back in, but in I went, and I have never walked more slowly down any hall before. I was dragging a 2 ton sack of fucking dread with me, and more sort of vertigo thing going on as I made it to the door.
The Walking Dead is on, and the spouse made some comment. I guess I was supposed to reply, but I didn't. He got pissy and said after this long, "What? You're not speaking to me?" As if he'd never done a fucking thing wrong in his life. Almost as if he was offended. Just because I answered a couple of questions about the taxes I set out to do when I came home doesn't mean that I was talking to him. I was being as curt as possible, with my answers pertaining to the rules and instructions, and nothing else. I asked that he print hard copies this time He claimed he made enough coffee for me. He could have bothered to tell me that before I went out into the rain.
When I got inside, I'd found the spouse went back to bed. I had to grab that quiet/alone time to make another attempt at the taxes, and get that motherfucking shit over with. I tried as best I could with my cognitive issues, vague instructions, and Swiss cheese brain. It's been folded up, and stuck in an envelope. At this point, I don't even care if all the necessary shit is in there but a check. Motherfucker can whine all he wants about his return, because I'm done, and going to tune it out with earphones, or walk away, or walk out.
I'm off to bed earlyish, so that I can hopefully wake up before the spouse and go outside again, but this time in the dark. Unfortunately, when I get there, I won't be alone.