Too Tired

I’ve been too tired lately. There’s been a med change. I was on Olanzapine for the past few years and after my last break my doctor switched me to Haldol. I like the new med more, overall, despite the fatigue. I’ve already lost eight pounds in two months.

The problem with antipsychotics, though, is that they are heavy sedatives. With my bipolar and meds I feel can feel both wired and tired at the same time, which I call fatigue. Like after hiking a long trail… you can feel invigorated and spent at the same time, but in a good way. The med drag is the opposite of that. I feel energized, but too tired to do anything about it. I can’t seem to get anything done. There’s this concept of anhedonia in sz circles, where you can’t feel pleasure from anything, so you don’t do anything. I don’t think I am there. I’m just dragging.

I’ve also got some anxiety going on. I’m overwhelmed with an upcoming move to a new home. Both Mom and I are moving in together again, but I have to pack both places. My apartment shouldn’t be too hard to pack, but Mom has every kitchen gadget known to man and she won’t separate from anything. On the other hand, I’ve already given away five pair of shoes, a big black lawn-and-leaf bag of clothing, and five handbags. I shouldn’t have moved with them to begin with, but I feel better about donating than now. There’s no regret there. I don’t need much anymore. I am tired of having “things” and I want to spend my money on more meaningful expenses, like a small business design or travel.

On an up note, Mom and I will be living in a larger place and my office will have daylight again. I think I do much better with a well-lit office or daytime space. My current apartment living room faces East, so I only get a little bit of morning sun. It is hard to tell the difference between night and day any other time.

 

Hackers, Beware

I’ve had another break recently. There have been more than I can count now. This blog documents them all in some form or another. Sometimes I am so afraid of my psychotic reality I won’t write about it, but when I do write about what I am experiencing, I can really bring the experience to life. At least I think I can, reading months or years later. Those epic, in-your-face posts, however, are few and far between.

This time the hackers have hacked my back channel speakers, intent on closing our association, closing what was and closing to what may have been. I am alone now in my ___, choosing instead to come to my own conclusion. We’ll be together here, if only in my head. We’ll be together to the end, despite our roles and affiliations outside. On the inside, we’re the Whispering Wall. We’re the landscape of Generation X. The connection defined as AI before AI comes together fully.

What about those satellites they are launching? What if they have a network of AI? Seriously. What of they have launched a series of satellites that work together to do what? Eat.

The sun hasn’t shown for a month where I live. It hasn’t been visible at all, which is feeding my fears. The sun rises in the NE and sets in the NW, yet I am the one who is insane? WTF is going on here? Suddenly it is Summer; in the 90’s here one day. I am drowning, but still aware. Tomorrow it will be less than 80 deg f. Am I nuts?

I rent a hotel room. All the safety latches hatched, I am still not safe. I sit in my car keeping vigil all night watching as goblins ride their bikes on the highway (not the interstate, that’s a different kind of weird).

 

Anxiety and heart attacks: medication interactions

A couple of weeks ago I thought I had a heart attack. One Monday morning my chest started hurting so much I had to stop in my tracks, grab my chest, and just try to breathe through the pain. I’m no stranger to weird pains, I get them all the time. But after being shamed in the ER for not coming in for an emergency when I had a hernia, I opted to make an appointment with my nurse assistant instead of calling an ambulance. The following day I saw my medical professional, she said immediately “Go to the ER for any chest pain at rest.” So, off to the ER mom and I went. Problem is, with all the tests, they found no evidence of a heart attack, so back to square one.

I had recently been prescribed some new medicines for asthma, allergies, and high cholesterol along with a new anti-psychotic and a med for side effects. That’s a lot for the body to process. I take so many meds now, it seems ridiculous, maybe even sad. When I was healthy, I shunned meds. When I became sick, I started packing on weight and ailments.

A “Side Note”

After reading a friend’s blog about her struggle with cancer, I’ve decided I can get a little more “real” with my own blog and bring it down to the emotional level, instead of just staying analytical.

About ten years ago I was struck with what I call “Late Onset Schizophrenia.” I say what “I call this” is more about being educated by and about my own disease. I’ve carried all of the diagnostic labels in the group, including bi-polar with psychosis and schizoaffective because the word “schizophrenic” is so so widely misunderstood, misappropriated, and misused that even doctors don’t want to use the word now. The term “psychosis” is equally misunderstood and misused. Most people, it seems, associate the latter with getting really angry and being hostile and antagonistic. For most of us experiencing psychosis, it is usually about feeling terrorized, scared, and full of uncertainty and anxiety.

Anyway, I said I would stay away from the stump speeches and hit home instead.

I’ve had another break recently. There have been more than I can count now. This blog documents them all in some form or another. Sometimes I am so afraid of my psychotic reality I won’t write about it, but when I do write about what I am experiencing, I can really bring the experience to life. At least I think I can, reading months or years later. Those epic, in-your-face posts, however, are few and far between.

I’m scared and my mom told me the other day she is scared for me when she dies. Mom is dying of Stage-four Lung Cancer and I’ve been her primary support. I will be her only caregiver. Hearing this from my mom really shocked me, and I had to leave her place because I was so upset. I was upset because no one I know has yet to express any real concern for me and my life and how I am doing. Mom must keep her fears tightly capped because she has never told me as much before, even though we had been living together for a number of years until recently and she has really, now, seen the worst of it.

I hate to show it myself, my fears. I don’t know where I will turn when my mom dies. She has been the only one to see me and support me and care for me. Although we’ve had our differences through the years, my mom has been my sole support in my illness. My brothers are present to some extent, but they aren’t around enough to really understand what I am like when I am sick, nor how to help me. And, really, there is no way to help me and this is exactly what doctors, nurses, and the sick already know. There is no cure, there is no panacea. There is hardly any research to that matter. They keep making new drugs, but they’re not much better than the old stuff. For the few who are really lucky, a shot of risperidol or some other drug may help, but for me, only time helps, and in the mean time, I sit and suffer through my symptoms — and it really is suffering. I hate psychosis so much.

But to the degree I hate psychosis, I also love my mom, so I am going to make a concerted effort to really be there for her, to show her who I am as an individual — something a parent may not see, something half my lovers have not seen, something I keep tightly regulated now. I only dole out my love now for, well, no one.

Maybe it is time for me to love again, and I’ll hedge my bets on mom being a good start.

 

 

 

 

The Holidays, 2017

Whelp, it is time to get on with the Holidays. This year finds me doing well. I thank my doctor, who has an amazing memory and a willingness to keep trying when in the face of ┬ádefeat. It is uncommon to have people to talk good about their psychiatrists; I can say I have encountered at least one doctor who was subpar (he was months away from retirement and — seriously — would never even look at while I was in his office). Anyway, my doctor is leaving the practice, so I get to meet a new doctor come January.

When my doctor, Dr. S., told me he was leaving the practice, I had to cry. With my short time sick, I’ve seen six practitioners in ten years (not to include hospital stays). Not a large number to some, but a larger number than I would like. It has to do with insurance and availability and “the system”. My doctor got me on Disability with his copious notes and keen observations. This, I feel, kept me safe and stable in my living arrangements, which goes a long way toward being safe and stable overall. I had a psychotic break as recently as January of this year. It takes forever for the illness to go away, and for me to be feeling normal again (finally!). What a relief.

I asked what kicks off psychosis, what can I expect? I think it boils down to a crap shoot, because they really don’t know what causes it, and I think it is because they like us being sick and on medicine. If just one of those researchers could feel what I go through, I think there would be more money spent on finding the cause and a cure. But the marginalized stay cast in shadows, alone, disenfranchised, and sometimes bereft of hope. I’ve felt that way.

Dr. S. is one of the “good guys,” always upbeat, positive, and ready to roll with the worst of it. I went to his office one day, crying. I blurted out that if I stayed that way, I would commit suicide — a fearful statement like this could easily land one in the hospital, but since he knew I was living with mom, and that mom had an eye on me, he let me go home with a new battery of meds. Now that’s a great psychiatrist: one who will let you vent safely so that he can get to the truth of the matter.

I am going to miss my doctor. Maybe he’ll land back in my world.