Scheduled post.

I got a phone call saying that I had an appointment with my psychiatrist the next day. Now, I shouldn’t have had, because they’d already pulled mine forward when there was a cancellation earlier this month. Anyway, considering the %£&@©]¢ing mixed episode and all its little jobs, I said said fabulous, see you tomorrow. As usual I got there early and hunched into a pile of National Geographics, fidgeted with my phone and drank lots of water. Two schoolkids (sisters) were sitting nearby and a round blonde woman on the other side. And then the blonde asked one of the kids what work she was busy with and the kid said something about the effect of technology on music. The blonde said you’ve got to include John Cage and I muttered yes you do.

Eh, that’s the thing with leaving a post unfinished and then changing mood gears and coming back and… Meh.

Long story short – sweet kids, nice chat about my tats, the ones they want, disapproving grandparents and the tattoo on Jesus’ thigh (whut?). Do not fret, of course I googled it. Herewith, the top result for the search.

In any case, it does not seem that Jesus has an actual tattoo. The best way to confirm the truth of the matter is to be with Jesus when He returns to wage war upon those who have taken the mark of the beast. You can see for yourself. Please read our Got Eternal Life page and see how to be saved and receive eternal life.
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Well I think that’s fair. Is it bad that I instantly pictured a muscular thigh with Lord of Lords, King of Kings on it in gothic script? Nah. Dude was a righteous freedom fighter.

Anyroad up.

Song has fuckall to do with post. I just reminded myself of it while writing, and, well, reach out and touch Dave…

Good psychiatry thereafter, apparently the psychosis, anxiety and mixed ep are all down to the first therapy session. We never do psychotherapy with someone in a major psychotic break, or a schizophrenic who is permanently psychotic. Interesting. The content of the psychosis isn’t significant, but my distress needed addressing and de-stressing.

I got the old meds tweaked a little:
Lamotrigine 400mg
Serdep 200mg
Lamictal 50mg
Espiride prn
Something or other for the reflux, courtesy of lamotrigine.
Bye bye wellbutrin and methylphenidate. Now that the latter two are gone baby gone, other things shall undergo steady titration, but I can’t remember wtf. No new diagnoses though! o/

I left with helium in my heart, managed to leave my keys in the consulting room (I’d got a lift there, I don’t drive when I consider my judgment questionable. Alright, more questionable than usual). Nipped in to deliver a script for lyrica to my bipolar pharmacist friend (who shall henceforth be referred to as my BPF, because I’m lazy) and also my own script for more something or other and something or other for reflex. I have no idea what I did between getting home and this morning, and I don’t care. And ja you’re right, I absolutely am most certainly heading for mania, but I will drug myself into a calm space once I’m done with this verbal s(p)ewage. (My psychiatrist told me that my speech is frequently pressured, but never inappropriate. She’s never seen me after a teaspoonful of alcohol.) I can’t remember what she said about my head rushes.

So today I had my now regular therapy appointment, I got another lift because, as you can tell, I’m all over the fucking place at the moment. I’m like, as bipolar as bipolar weather *snrk*. And so a therapy session ensued, containing the usual ingredients, plus a little detour.

Hmmm, the telescope zoom in/out vision you experienced on the reef is sometimes an epilepsy thing. Well, the wet dishrag that is the NHS kindly gave me an EEG, a sleep deprived EEG and an MRI, in search of that very thing. The result? *NHS nerd voice* weeeeellllll, there are abnormalities, but no more abnormalities than a normal person’s abnormalities, so it might all be normal, orrrr we can look further, but the NHS is a diplodocus and so it could be a loooong process during which you could potentially die of boredom, orrr we could start you on epilepsy meds, but if you stopped taking them, you wouldn’t be allowed to drive for six months aaaaand we will now forget why we were prodding you in search of epilepsy in the first place, give you a few more mental issues absolutely free on the behemoth NHS and so it’s all your choice because frankly we’re tired of being sued… Yup, the NHS talks in proustian length sentences and a doomsayer tone and a naysayer’s promise. I yelped something along the lines of CTRL ALT DELETE any get me the hell back to civilised Africa, like yesterday. And that’s pretty much what happened. The therapist’s eyes went all @@ and she said, so what is their version of normal if nothing is normal? I muttered a few choice, short words about the enn haitch ess.

I’d like you to fill this in *officious rustling of paper* so that we can track your mood. It’ll be a pain, because it’s every two hours or so.
No, that’s just silly, I’ll customise the tracker app I’m using and do it on that.
I’m a technophobe.
I’m not. It’ll work fine, I promise.
Cool, I’ll bring my ipad next week.
*silent thought* ipad? Oh lawl.

Okay, I think I can slow down to a gallop now.

By the time you read this, I’m hoping not to be quite so hopping helium happy hypomanic. Apart from anything else, it’ll nudge my writing back towards the realm of the coherent. Either that, or I’ll be blogging in rhyme.

*disappears in a puff of pills*

PS (if you could actually follow all that babble, please phone your psychiatrist asap)

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