the more things stay the same...

I just spent a week with my parents.

Dad was recently diagnosed with a heart condition.
Mom has some issues, too.

They aren't inclined to question doctors, instead answering my queries over some of their more alarming symptoms with, "Well, my blood work looks good."

Um, okay. But that's not why you made the appointment.
It aggravates the hell out of me. Not that I can do anything about it.

I bought my dad some diabetic socks. He's not a diabetic, but the heart condition is making his ankles swell and regular socks really hurt him. To me it seemed like a small thing, I bought him a dozen pairs from Amazon. But he was very appreciative.

I went over to help them get ready for company. And to see them, of course. We don't see each other often, it's really amazing when I have enough time off all in a row to do so. And Mom really shouldn't be making the long drive to us anymore, she is, um, not as fast at reacting behind the wheel as she used to be.

In their little tiny town, the maximum speed limit is 25.
She doesn't speed.
Sometimes she's going 25 over here, actually. The speed limit may say 40, but she seems to be stuck in the slower mode. Impeding the flow of traffic is a little dangerous, really. Especially because of the frantic pace that people usually move around here. When she gets on the freeway, everyone going 70 in a 55, she gets in the middle lane and pokes along at 50. When she comes up behind someone who is slower than she is, she will stomp on the gas, get up to 70 and whip around them, then get back in the middle lane and slow down again. Years of living in the land of two lane highways, I guess, but it's really sort of frightening.


When they came over for Matt and Amy's wedding almost 3(!!) years ago, Mom and I went out the day before the wedding to get flowers and assorted stuff. Mom started out driving (we took her vehicle because she can't get in and out of ours, it's too low to the ground) but I took over.

Ostensibly because I knew all of our destinations, but mostly because she was making me crazy. We'd be in a long line of traffic, a green light ahead and she'd hit the brakes as we approached intersections. Slow waaaay down, look both ways, then punch it.

Other drivers honked, swerved around her, made gestures. She was oblivious. So after our first stop, I suggested that I drive while she 'relax and look at the scenery'.

But lookie there.. I've digressed. It's really almost a religion with me. And admit it, one of the reasons you read here. :)

This was supposed to be about my visit.

About 9 years ago now, my brother Dick (of Dick and Snatchie fame) decided my parents needed a dog. So instead of getting them an older dog, or one with a reputation for being mellow, he got them a Jack Russell fucking Terrier.

Daisy.
She's mellowed a little with age.
A little. Although it's odd to see, she's now corpulent. Sort of like a furry sausage with legs.
She is most definitely a lap dog.

She gets bored. She's smart and doesn't have anything to do. My parents love her. She loves them, too. But it wasn't a good thing to get them such a high maintenance dog. They are not good dog owners.
If only love was everything you'd need...

So. This dog barks. And barks. And barks.
Yap yap yap yap yap yapyapyapyap.

They put her out in the early morning in a little dog yard they've constructed for her and go back to bed.

It's right under the window of the guest bedroom. Deer and other critters are constantly in the yard, birds fly over, cars go by on the little road down below. Flies fart.

All of those things are an excuse to bark.

I didn't get a lot of sleep over there.
I actually chatted with a friend online, so it's all written down in a short format. I'll try to get it written up for you, it really is kind of funny.
Aggravating.
But humorous.

Another week of LEGO camp is over. I have to admit that I'm glad about it.
Now that I've run the camp a few times, I can see many things I would do differently if given the opportunity.

We'll see.

Reports of my Demise...

I'm fine.
I know I mentioned a few posts ago that I'm really swamped with work. And I am. Or was.

The Christmas Break, that mythical state of Nirvana that I loved even as a child has arrived. I really love it now, as it means an end to days that start at 5 AM and never end.

Leading up to that break, however, was a ton of crazy.

Running here and there, trying to finish the little projects, playing catch up after the school flooded and was closed for three days, finishing making the gifts I've been working on for my own family, trying to do a little more dehoarding of the domicile (I will never be finished with that, but I can say that I *have* made a great deal of progress) and assorted other things that have caught up with me... well, I haven't been blogging.

In the last week, I had three nights of a parent picking up a child late. One of those nights the mom didn't arrive until half an hour past closing.

Part of the issue is the continued closure of a main road. I drive that road every day, or at least I did until the flood, and although there's always traffic on it, it never seems that busy. Not that busy until all the cars and trucks that usually take that road are clogging the smaller streets between here and there. It's one of the main routes out into the rural area where you can find my school, and the parents who are heading out there to get their kids are getting stuck in traffic.

I think that this time of year, people are just frazzled and trying to manage grocery store runs and last minute gifts and dinner on the table. They stay a little later at work so that maybe they can have an extra day off during the holidaze, which are upon us. And they end up five or ten minutes late picking up their children. Understandable, but frustrating all the same.

Friday afternoon we had a little party. The original How the Grinch Stole Christmas, a few games of BINGO, popcorn, finishing touches on a couple projects and some extremely wired children made it a very interesting afternoon.

My work party was that evening, too. I am not a party animal. At all. I don't have a great deal in common with the people I work with, either. But I do like most of them. So I went. It was a potluck at someone's house. I made Garlic Bastard Chicken... add some garlic to some of whatever-stuff-of-unknown-origins (hence the bastard part of the name) I have around the house to toss into the Crock Pot and dump in some fettuccine noodles. Turned out great. I brought the still-three-hours-to-cook dish to work and plugged it in to finish cooking. Many people walked in and asked me what the wonderful smell was.

I'm working the break program. Long story (and I don't have time to tell it tonight 'cause it's already bedtime) but we have a new-ish site director who is every bit as abrasive as Brashley was, but without the redeeming qualities. She's a peach.

I asked for next week completely off, Eric is evidently not going to be working and I'd much rather spend the time with him than working with someone who gets on everyone's last nerve and then stomps on it.

Anyway. I won't probably be back to posting regularly until after the break unless I have something terribly important to say. I may pop in, may not. Depends on how much time I have to actually sit and ponder.

I know that Tami wasn't worried since we've communicated recently.
Sorry to everyone else.

I have lots to ponder and write about. I do. But then I get home and it's already almost seven, and I have to manage to consume some food, catch up with my family, make sure everyone has clean socks and underwear for the next day, run the dishwasher...I know. Everyone else is busy too.

I should be back to regular ramblings on January 4th, which is when school starts back up. Before that, I may manage to share some art with you, a family photo or two, and this little joke I posted on Facebook this evening....
When I was young, I decided I wanted to be a doctor so I took the entrance exam to go to medical school.
One of the questions asked to rearrange the letters PNEIS into the name of an important human body part which is most useful when erect.
Those who answered "spine" are doctors today. The rest of us are posting jokes on Facebook .

Still Percolating...

Writing about and thinking about the events of late childhood/early adulthood is best done in small increments.

I start to become a little overwhelmed and tearful.

I have to take frequent breaks from remembering and go toss in a load of laundry or scrub the toilet or eat something to bring me back to the present.

Weekends are usually a time of introspection for me, though. I think about the highs and lows of the last week or so, plan for the week ahead... and evidently this weekend at least, spend some time in the distant past.

I have time to think because I'm not usually rushing somewhere on the weekends... have I mentioned that I get up at 5 on weekday mornings? :)

I do my morning shift, and if I CAN, take a nap between shifts.
When I can, it seems to help me feel a little better.

The days that I don't nap, I still do okay at work and everything, but am super exhausted when it's finally bedtime.

And I have to admit that sleep is an escape for me, too. When I have a ton of little shit on my mind, and a few big things, it turns me into an anxiety-ridden little kid... and I want to get away.

The two hours or so that I can nap is more necessary to my mental health than my physical health.

So weekends, we don't have to get up early. And Eric and I will lie in bed for an hour or so after waking up sometimes. We alternate snuggling up and cuddling with dozing and lazy conversation.

We talk about everything and nothing and all the things in between. Every weekend is a reminder to me of all the things I love about him and all the things I LIKE about him. He's still my favorite person to be with.

Eric pointed out to me several years ago on one of those lazy Saturday mornings that part of my own problems (for lack of a better word) stem from me waiting for an apology or acknowledgement that will never come.

Until he said that, I hadn't realized that I expected my parents to eventually try to reconcile the past with the present... to express regret that things happened the way they did.

I didn't expect them to say they'd made mistakes (what parents don't?) but I wanted to at least discuss the hurt and try to help our relationship heal.

I realize now how irrational that was, and I know it's never gonna happen.

I did bring it up with my dad a couple years ago because it was in my heart to tell him that I was sorry for my part in our difficulties.

And I AM.
Even though it wasn't my fault.

Even though I was a KID and it's supposed to be up to the adults to guide and help and support... even though I did not know how to deal with the situation.

Even though I was almost helpless with fear and anxiety. To the point of going to school in the mornings and alternately crying and puking on some days. Not a good way to live, really, skipping class to cry in the bathroom. Alone.

The anxiety and angst and emotional injury and tearful remembering shows that I won't "get over it."

Past it? Yes. I have gone on. I have grown up.
(Well, mostly... don't think I don't hear a couple of you snickering.)

I have a good life. I am still happy with the man I married, my children grew up into amazing people, full of integrity, humor, and compassion.

But it still hurts that my parents never liked me. They don't like me now. They don't like so many things about me, my husband... well, whatever.

I guess to be fair, I don't like them very much, either. I love them, and I care about them, but if we were not related, I would not have anything to do with them.

It frustrates me that we can never talk about what happened when I was a kid. That it's been swept away because it's 'in the past', which is what my mother says if she even thinks I might say something about it. She reminds me of an ostrich, really. Run away, then bury her head in the sand. (And yes, I know ostriches don't really do that. But my mom sure as hell does!)

And I hate the attitude of her generation and the one before... that uncomfortable topics must never be discussed. That the skeletons must not only remain in the closet, but the closet must be papered over, the doorknob and hinges removed, and those who know the location of it must keep the secret until they die, the truth dying with them.

It's stupid. And doesn't help me now, because although I know there was bipolar disorder, depression, suicide, alcoholism and other substance abuse in the family, some in the generation immediately preceding mine, no one will talk about it. And the people who know about it now are the older generation, and they will go.. and take the stories with them.

I don't know if it would be of help to me to know those things, but I resent the secrecy on behalf of my children and their children. I know things run in families, and I think it's important to be able to recognize certain signs.

I haven't been to a counselor since that long-ago guy who literally saved my life, but if I ever did go... or if my kids needed some help, it might be nice to know about some of the relatives and what their issues were.

Not that my parents would tell me. It's in the past, after all.

What makes a person anxious?

I spend a lot of time chatting with my imaginary friend  Portia about all sorts of things. We have a lot in common. Both of us are on medication for anxiety (I'm not telling her secrets, since her openness in discussing it is partially the reason I'm more or less okay talking about it myself) and we both have some issues stemming from repeated incidents in childhood.

We refer to this commonality as "riding the crazy train," a sort of funny way of talking about a serious issue. Am I embarrassed or ashamed of having to take medication? No, not anymore. I have no control over the chemical balance of my head, I can't just decide to feel better and not worry about stuff. I have spent long periods of time unmedicated, too. It's not debilitating most of the time, but with the amount of stress I've had over the injuries and work comp issues and some other things that are a little more private, I have been taking medication for a little over two years now. There was a short period of time (about six months) that I decided to give it a try without, but for now at least, I need to be on my anti anxiety drugs.

There are those who believe that it's a weakness, being mentally ill. That people should just be able to suck it up and control themselves. It doesn't work that way. I wish it did.

Funny the stigma attached to mental illness. I personally have a difficult time saying I have a mental illness, because I don't feel sick. I have a hard time equating my situation, which is easily controlled with medication, to that of the guy wandering around downtown wrapped in a blanket and a layer of filth and screaming obscenities at passing cars. Degrees, I guess.

And I wonder if that guy had gotten help when he was younger, would his situation be as dire as it is now?

In my family, there are varying degrees, too. My dad, who is a good man, is not a stable person. He has suffered from depression and anxiety and paranoia and anger and HUGE mood swings and a host of other stuff forever. But he can't admit that he's not well, and the people around him have suffered horribly. It makes me sad, because he has spent his entire life unhappy and angry and ill, and blamed everyone else for what's essentially a chemical imbalance.

Many years ago, a doctor prescribed an ssri medication for him, telling him that it would help him feel better and help control the high blood pressure, too.

And wow. What an amazing difference. He really wasn't the same person at all. He felt wonderful. He showered without the urging of my mother! He laughed a lot. He was calm. Rational. Even.

Happy.

And he felt so good that he decided he didn't need to be medicated. And that was the end of that. He went back to his old self. The mercurial and angry man who liked to make people cry, was sure that 'they' were going through his mail, and was a victim of the 'sons of bitches' who were trying to steal his retirement.

Sometimes, I feel sad that he's been this way all his life. It isn't his fault. It's no one's fault, really. I am sometimes a little angry that my mom has enabled him a bit, too, by refusing to listen to anything from anyone that she construes as 'negative.' She doesn't want to believe he's anything but healthy, which is understandable.

But it has kept people at arm's length, and has hurt our family in so many ways.
I don't know that mental illness is catching, but I know that Mom has gotten more and more strange over the years, too.

I no longer bring it up to her, or not much. They're on a vacation right now, and were very nervous about the trip, deciding that 'gang bangers pick on old people' and Mom was making herself sick over it. Despite my best efforts to show her how small the chances of being attacked by gangs (Do your sister and her husband hide behind bushes and dart from place to place in fear for their lives???) she listened to my father, who thinks everyone is trying to either steal from them or murder them all the time. I suggested that she might benefit from taking something like Xanax, and she said, "I'm on entirely too many medications right now." (she takes like 3... has osteoporosis for goodness sake...)

And I told her that I take an occasional Xanax, and that I'm being medicated for anxiety because I do NOT want to end up like Dad, sick and scared and seeing evil lurking around every corner.

So she asked me how the weather was over here.
::sigh::

All of our family crazy would be funny in a movie, I guess.

Especially the scene in about 1976 where the entire family went to see a counselor. When the counselor asked us why we were there,  my dad said, "There's something wrong with everyone in my family. They all seem crazy!" As I sat there, openmouthed, he added, "I'm fine. I just can't understand what's wrong with all of them!"

I left home early because of advice from that same counselor.

I could no longer live there.

I'll have more to say about it later on, but making that decision was one of the best things I've ever done for myself, even though it was a heart and gut and soul wrenching thing that tore things apart for me for a long, long time. I was a wreck for years, but
I had the great good fortune to marry a man who has an amazing ability to really SEE situations and people, and be able to articulate what's wrong in situations and offer insight that most people would miss.

He's helped me heal.

When I left home, I hated my father and greatly disliked my mother.
I no longer feel that way. I love my parents and feel sorry that they have spent so many years hurting.

They are not bad people, and they did they best they could within the limitations they had with my dad's mental illness and a lot of other stresses.

They loved us then and they do now.

I think my anxiety stems less from what happened to me as a child and young adult than from the chemical imbalances that run in families. (I haven't even started on the issues suffered by Sanctimonious, my youngest brother.)

Certainly not blaming myself.. and wow, am I ever grateful for modern pharmaceuticals!

Uh... no. Just NO.

There are many ways to learn.

For example, I learned this week that Effexor is not a good medication for me.
How did I learn that? Well, when the stuff is making your entire intestinal tract bleed, it's probably not a good choice for ya.

Farting out bubbles of blood is not my idea of fun and games, at least. But of course each to his or her own.

So I'm back to the prozac starting tomorrow.

After being on it a year without ill effects, I am thinking I'd rather do that.

Make sense?

Paging Dr. Dirtball again

Saw Dr. Dirtball on Tuesday morning.

But first I had to get past the gorgon at the gate. :)

The office nurse came to the waiting room and escorted me to an examination room. She said, "You can put your purse in here and then come with me so we can get your weight."

I said, "Ahh.. no."

She said, "Pardon?"

"Unless you can provide me a more compelling reason for getting on the scale than I have for staying off the scale? No."

So she tried the winsome waif thing, although she's like six feet tall and as heavy as I am at least.

"Well, Dr. Tidball wants you to do it?" In a sweet, non-threatening, lightly questioning tone.

"Okay then, she can tell me to."

"Well, you know, for medication and stuff sometimes we need to know your exact weight."

"Okay. If she needs to know my exact weight then she can tell me so after I've talked to her."

"Well, I guess I can just write down that you refuse?"

"You can write down whatever you want. But I'm not getting on the scale."  And I smiled.

Then, we did the BP thing. I commented that I always find it very uncomfortable to have my BP taken.

"First, they pump it up until it hurts. Then they pump it up 10 more times. Once it reaches the level of excruciating, they can finally get my BP. I wonder why that is," I said.

She took it rather personally. I could tell by the look on her face.
She wasn't liking me much, I am a difficult patient, I think.

Then, she said, "Okay, what are you here for today?"

"Med check and some other things."

"What other things?"

And I smiled. Told her that I'd already done this dance with the receptionist a couple weeks ago. And that I'd talk to the doctor when she came in. Mentioned that I knew my appointment had been scheduled for a half hour, so there would be plenty of time for me to talk to the doctor.

She didn't like that. Scowled. Then, "Well, I am just trying to do my job."

I smiled at her again, although my smiler was starting to feel a little strained.

"I totally understand that. I appreciate it. But I have a lot of anxiety. I've been seeing my doctor for 10 years and it's hard for me to tell her everything. I've never met you until 3 minutes ago and don't know you at all. I won't be telling you anything."

She shrugged. I know I pissed her off, but it wasn't my intention to do so, I tried to keep a pleasant tone in my voice, but I won't be badgered, either.

Something that some medical professionals forget?

*I* am the customer. I'm paying them to provide a service, and am willing to take my business elsewhere if I am not happy with what I'm getting for my money.

So she left. Not happily, I don't think. I base that on the fact that when I left, I chatted a few moments with the receptionist, but Nurse* pointedly turned her back and found some paperwork to be busy with.

But of course that's not my problem, she can feel however she wants to.

::Shrug::

So I told my doctor about the anxiety ramping back up and how I've been doing. I know that a huge part of it is the comp claim and the endless worry over getting someone to listen to me who doesn't have an ulterior motive AND can help. I can't seem to find him or her.

The people who care can't do anything for me, and the people who could do something for me don't care. It does have its humorous side, when looked at like that, but really, it's getting a little old.

There are thousands of people right here in my state who have worse pain and more bullshit to contend with than I do, and I recognize that. In the general scheme of things, my pain is small and not very important.

But of course, it's kind of important to me personally, since I am the one feeling it.

The worry over all of it, the constant ache and the rude sharp pains in the middle of the night have taken a toll on me.

So we discussed my current medication. Because I'm not feeling as good as I did when it finally kicked in a year ago, and I'm not willing to just wait and see if I get better. I have finally learned my lesson on that.

So we have switched medication. I'm still going to be taking an SSRI medication, this one has an anti-anxiety component, too. I'm supposed to go back and see her in a month, but to call her if there are any weird changes between now and then.
I talked with her about my knee, too. Got some insight into a few aspects of work comp I hadn't considered or heard about, and we finished the appointment with me knowing that I do have someone else on my side if needed. Nice to know.

And I appreciate my doctor. She listens to me so well.
So that's where I am with the medication right now.

I'm hoping Effexor is going to help me cope.

Is my monster back?

Monster is such a mild word for such a complicated thing as the creature who sometimes controls me.

It will have to do until I come up with a better one. One that feels right.

For about a month I've been starting to feel anxious and have the up and down and up and down and up and down cycle thing again. Even with nightly narcotics (the knee that there is NOTHING WRONG WITH continues to wake me up at least 4 times a night despite said narcotics) and the occasional half xanax, I am waking up with anxiety in between pain flares.

I'm so tired that I don't even wake up to pee unless my hormones have added their cheerful chaos into the mix. But being tired doesn't stop the anxiety. It comes through in my dreams, and lately hounds me into wakefulness, things upsetting me hitting me first thing in the morning and just not leaving me alone all day long. No matter what else I handle during the day, that stuff is once again taking over my equilibrium.

I'm alternately tearful, feel hopeless, feel overwhelmed... up and down and up and down. Back on the crazy train, as it were. I do NOT LIKE the ride!!

Not a good place to be. It was not this bad a year ago when I decided it was time to get help, but I can feel it ramping up, and I'm starting to feel disarmed and helpless and scared again.

I'm now intimately familiar with the symptoms of anxiety/depression as they apply to me, and not willing to let it go and hope that things get better on their own.

I've learned not to do that. Finally.

So I actually tried to make an appointment with Dr. Dirtball when I first noticed it, but by this circumstance and that, wasn't able to get in to see her right away. Best I could do was this coming Tuesday. 1st appointment of the day.

Now the person who makes the appointments is supposed to find out exactly what I want to see the doctor for. I understand that's due to scheduling and time constraints.

But I'm not particularly interested in telling the person who answers the telephone all the details of my life/condition/ailments/monster. I have enough trouble telling those things to my doctor, who I've been seeing for 10 years. It's damned hard to sit down and tell her how I really, really feel.

I'm not accustomed to sharing those things with strangers on the other end of the telephone, ya know? It feels unfair. For example, I don't walk in and, seeing the person behind the desk, refer to a piece of paper and know she has cramps, may be pregnant, has a rash under her arms... those things aren't my business. And while she may have access to my records, my personal stuff isn't hers, either.

So I said,  "Well, I've been on the medication a year and it's time for a med check. How do you do appointments? 15 minute? Half hour?"

She said that for a med check they ordinarily allow 15 minutes.

Then I said, "Well I have some other things to discuss with her. A slight fungal infection in my ear, some skin changes etc... better make it half an hour."

And she said,"Well, so I can tell her what to expect, what should I write down?"

And, knowing you can hear a smile in someone's voice, I smiled GREAT BIG. Said, "You can write down that I was very mysterious and refused to tell you all the gory details, but that I was pretty sure I'd need at least a half hour."

She tried valiantly one more time, "Well, she does like to know what a person is coming in for so she can be prepared with certain supplies or... ?" and she let it trail off on an interrogatory note.

I used the big smiley voice again.

"Oh. Well good then, it's all cool, she won't need anything except her prescription pad and her ears. But thanks for asking!"

So I see her Tuesday morning at 8.
Hope we can derail the train.

Medication is a good thing. Isn't it?

I wrote about my drugs the other day.
How I've been on drugs for a year to help derail my crazy train.

And I'm glad I made that choice. I'm glad I have a doctor who's a lot like me. Near my age, has been through a lot of the same things I have, and always takes excellent care of me.

I was not in a good state of mind a year ago. Someone who hasn't been there wouldn't understand, but it was utterly horrendous. I felt so bad.

And I'm happy that medications exist to help me and people like me.

I will read about side effects, and try to make informed decisions, but after weighing the benefits vs the risks, most times I opt for medicine.
In the age in which we live, there is a medication for almost everything. And some truth to the 'we are over-medicated' refrain I've heard sung for years.

As amazing as it seems to me, though, there are people who not only refuse medication for themselves, but for their children.
And not just medications.
Treatment.
For life threatening conditions.

What the hell? Linked in today's title is an article that seems to explain this cult a bit. It explains it, but as far as I'm concerned, is not an excuse.

Remember the faith healing case currently being tried here in Oregon?

The developments in the case Wednesday included testimony from a pediatric opthamologist. The prosecution is trying to show that the child would have been blind had the authorities not intervened.

And the defense? They're emphasizing ('hammering' was the word used on the news) on the fact that the drug given to this little girl was not approved for pediatric use by the FDA.

SO FUCKING WHAT??????
I repeat.
SO FUCKING WHAT?????

The child had a hemangioma the size of a fucking baseball. Half of it was inside her head. It was pushing her left eye out and down. She would be BLIND by now had the state not intervened, obtained medical treatment for the baby and professionals NOT given her medication and  treatment. As it is, she is permanently damaged and may never have depth perception.

I understand that everyone is entitled to a defense. And that attorneys in a case like this one have to come up with SOMETHING to defend their clients.

Thing is, why do I care so much?

I am outraged. I am sad, too.

How could someone look at that THING growing on their baby's face and just... pray?  Nothing at all wrong with praying. But I think maybe adding a little medical treatment with the prayer might have been a better decision.

Coming up on a year...

It was the 28th of May last year when I finally decided to go talk to my doctor.

I went to her for help in derailing the crazy train I was riding. In endless circles. I hadn't slept through a full night in nearly a year. I was crying over nothing. In private. Didn't share my tears and fears with anyone. Just let them rule me, keeping me awake at night and stressing me out all day.

I recently read back over the journal I was keeping at the very beginning. I was having such a hard time.

Here's an excerpt:


After 13 years off medication, I have decided I can't cope on my own right now. I hate admitting that, but spending the past ten months unable to sleep through a full night without waking up at least four times and obsessing, sometimes for hours, spending my days with my brain spinning in maddening circles without any end... well, I can't do it anymore.

I cry.
I'm angry.
I'm frustrated.
I'm lonely even though I'm surrounded by family and friends.
I hate myself.
I find myself hating life in general.
I slog through every day as if I'm serving a sentence.

I don't like feeling this way. But I can't stop.

It's... killing me. For the past year or so I've been in a series of giddy highs and abysmal lows and reached the point where I feel one more swing in either direction is just going to drive me bugshit.

I need some peace.

I am not suicidal and I don't have a deathwish, but if someone killed me right now, I wouldn't mind. It would be... easier. It would be peaceful and I'd feel better.

As I write this, it's day 3. June 1st.

Started the medication on Saturday May 29th.
I have taken at least one Xanax, usually two, every day, though. I'm still obsessing and stressing.

I feel... better. I don't feel wonderful, but as I recall from my previous experience with this medicine, I will start to feel a lot better within a week... and by the end of a month, will be feeling like a different person completely.

I won't be able to cry.
But I won't care.
I will still be able to laugh, but won't find things so funny.

I'll be missing that... edge that makes me so quick.

I won't be so angry.
I won't feel so... deeply.

I'll lose the peaks and valleys and level off.

I also won't have a brain that spins in crazy circles and keeps me awake at night.

I won't be... me.

The last time I took this medication, I... changed. I changed forever. It's really hard to explain, but I know I am different.

Will this make me different even more?
Or, will it be like a movie?

Woman gets hit on head, suffers personality change. Is struck by lightning a few years later and suddenly returns to 'normal'. Will the medication 'fix' everything?
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I can say that I haven't lost my ability to feel this time. I can still cry. And laugh. And feel good. But when I wake up in the middle of the night to pee, I can go back to bed and immediately back to sleep. I have been... even. I am not sad and angry and scared or any of the other negative things on the list.

Have I lost my edge? I think maybe I have, a little. But that edge was often angry. My wit was often acerbic. Bitter. And although I didn't usually show it, hateful. Not healthy and not okay.

What finally got me to my doctor was a phone call with bad news about a friend. I got that call on my way to work in the afternoon, and was so... stricken I had to pull my car off the road because I was hyperventilating. Crying, shaking, and just completely knocked off balance.

And I finally said this is no way to live.
This is fucking ridiculous.

When I pulled into the parking lot of the school and shut off the engine, I called my doctor's office and made an appointment. No more putting it off, no more waiting to see if I felt better. I finally admitted that I really needed help.

In retrospect, I think I was right.

The thing that's so hard to explain to someone who hasn't been there is that it's not something I could control. I couldn't just tell myself to buck up. To get a grip.

It's not a thing related to happiness, or how life in general is going.

I was angry with myself for having a great marriage, family, amazing friends, a job I loved and everything a rational person could want and having it not be enough for me to be 'okay'.

So I have one more month of refills before I have to go see my doctor again for a medication/follow up appointment.

And I'm thinking I'm going to keep doing exactly what I'm doing now.

It feels so damn good to be where I am.