A Rant A Day Keeps the Psychiatrist Away

Must. Vent.

Ass. Hurts. From. Sitting. But. Must. Belt. Out. This. Post.

My last post consisted of my complaining about something or other, a career or whatever, abandoning my people, becoming a no-good-foul-traitor, but all of those worries have been eradicated. I will be pursuing another degree in physics while simultaneously keeping my connections to the mental health community by remaining employed as a peer counselor, participating in trainings, and eventually getting involved with NAMI: In Your Own Voice. So, all that complaining I did in the last post? Yeah, ignore that, I figured it out.

This post is a different kind of complaining. This post is more . . . hmm, what’s the word?

Seriously, what’s the word? How about you read the post and then tell me in the comments a word that sums all this shit up.

It’s been . . . five months? Six months off medication? I’m not exactly sure how long it’s been. I haven’t heard any variation of voices since the night I tried to kill myself (a post about that wonderful experience here) and my mood has been relatively–relatively–stable.

I feel like I need to re-customize this blog. The fact that the titles of the post don’t show up on the homepage literally makes me want to kick a bird.

I would never do that, I love animals.

I do this with my cat on the daily, and 99% of the time she fucking hates it

And this is the type of energy I’ve had since I quit those godawful medications. A warning to anyone attempting the Trintellix route: BE CAREFUL. It’s very understudied, still very new in terms of psychiatric medications go, and it fucked me up when I got off of it. My blood would have been on that companies’ hands.

I did have a bit of a breakdown yesterday, the first major one in five months, and that’s what’s prompting me to write this post. Just when you think you’re through the thickest part of the forest, you turn west and an abundance of pine trees cover your path in thicket.

While writing a different post for a different blog, I recounted my childhood in relation to school, specifically math classes. And while writing I got this overwhelming sensation, this bombardment of pain, a deep pain, a subconscious pain, one my conscious mind couldn’t comprehend. I couldn’t type anymore, the words were so muddied it felt like every sentence sounded like jumbled shit.

I couldn’t identify any other emotion besides pain. I couldn’t recount what kind of pain it was. I was sad, hurt, frustrated, confused–it felt like I was one of those Russian dolls that have smaller dolls hidden inside of it, and one of the smaller dolls was screaming in agony while simultaneously being burned alive, raped, and verbally accosted.

I’m sorry for that picture, but that’s the depth of the pain.

School is generally shit for most people. Very rarely have I met a person who said: “I liked everything about every year of my school and I don’t have one embarrassing or bad memory related to it”. If you are one of those people, comment or email me, because I want to hear your story.

But school wasn’t that horrible for me. I didn’t talk, suffered through Selective Mutism for a while, then paralyzing anxiety. I had trouble making friends, I was shit in math, and I was an outcast. No one really bullied me because I was tall, athletic, and hung out with kids who brought tasers and drugs to school. Home life was hard: surrounded by domestic violence, drugs, alcohol, emotional torment. And while I recognize all of that as a sort of systematic trauma, I thought for sure my awareness of it would cut down on the effect it has on me. Apparently I was wrong.

There must be some memory–or memories–of which I’ve either repressed or I just ignore and refuse to explore because there is an inner child, an inner part of me, that is consistently crying, screaming, cowering. It never stops. And sometimes there’s a “trigger” that ignites this part of me, like writing about my childhood.

A therapist I had at the Outpatient group I attended insisted I get in touch with my inner child but the closer I got to speaking with her the more distant and dissociated I became. That was another catalyst for that wonderful get-in-the-tub-and-kill-yourself incident you can read about in the above linked post.

Another trigger for me is when teachers say “Alright, we’re going to do an activity today” or “We’ll do something fun today”. The word “activity” alone sparks my fight and flight response whether it’s at a team meeting at work or a class or a workshop or a training. Or, when people say “you’re so quiet.” Even when they mean it in a good way.

Speaking of training, I have a three hour one on Wednesday of which has been really fucking with my head. I don’t do well around large groups of people and if I’m forced to do a role play in front of even five people I will spontaneously combust. I will.

I’m scared to touch my inner child with a ten foot pole because it seems like a volatile, unstable, nuclear ball of energy. I know I need to do it in order to properly heal, but I haven’t found anyone who can help me through that process yet. The last therapist I had who I paid for not only discounted my job and my skills, but insisted I get a second job even through I was curling on her couch crying my eyes out every session. I could barely hold my head up, and she wanted me to push myself harder.

I’m done with those kind of people in my life. Sometimes it’s not about pushing through the hard stuff, sometimes it’s about holding the hard stuff.

It feels good to post on here again, a real post. Not a whiny, woe-as-me post, but a thoughtful, reflective rant.

The word to sum up this post: Fuck.

Smoke And Mirrors

If my boyfriend wasn’t my boyfriend, food would be my boyfriend.

I scarf it down way too fast, but it’s delicious, I can’t help acting like I’m on an army base with a full plate and three minutes until boot camp starts.

Anyway, whatever. What I am glad of is that my dad finally got a good doctor. When the doctor saw him do his thing where he breathes deep and scratches at his hand really fast and stares with wide eyes at you and only smiles like the Cheshire Cat when you call his name, the doctor said “well that’s a temporal lobe seizure”.

Finally, a doctor got to see what we deal with every other week.

The days he goes to the hospital (including the day I blogged about it), are¬†being misdiagnosed. TIA’s are mini strokes and can precede an actual stroke. He’s been having them for a couple years now. I’m positive they’ve been seizures. It would explain why he was just yanking on the door with it locked (and couldn’t unlock it) and why he was crawling around in circles on the floor. It would explain why yesterday¬†I found him just standing in the middle of the floor leaning over to one side scratching really fast at his hand and smiling like the Cheshire Cat at me when I called his name and why he limped his way outside in a circle while I ran after him saying “what’s going on; what’s going on?” and him replying “I wanted to see what you got me” over and over again. It would also explain why a minute later he was in the house again cooking himself something to eat and having a conversation with me like nothing happened.

So, problem solved . . . sort of it. He doesn’t know why they’re happening (I have my theories) and all my dad had done today were blood tests and urine tests regarding his kidneys and other stuff, along with a new blood pressure medication. My mother told me the doctor is a really chill guy who really cares about helping his patients (he actual had a good conversation with both of them regarding background health) which is good considering the psychotic sons of bitches we’ve had before through the county.

The one pill pusher doctor we had, which I think I’ve blasted in a post when I first started this blog, actually had the BALLS to invite us to his retirement party. I wanted like hell to go just so I could take his invitation and shove it straight up his ass.

Sure, I have social anxiety and sure, I’m extremely nervous around authority figures (particularly professors/teachers or anyone who knows more than me) but when it comes to doctors (or police officers) I could give two shits about their status. Police officers are easy, just tell the truth. I only get nervous socially when I have to give my opinion because people can shoot that down easy and that’s embarrassing. You can shoot down the truth all you want, it’s still the truth. I’m lucky most of them can’t tell my ethnicity from just staring at me so when I get pulled over and they can’t see through my tinted windows and they come around the driver’s side to see a kind of white but kind of black but not exactly Latina woman sitting there, I always get a “Oh . . . how’s it going today?” greeting.

I probably also posted about the time one was four cars behind me, put on his sirens, and instead of pulling over the ones in front of him (all of which pulled to the curb) he came behind me. He was the one who was most surprised when he saw me in the driver’s seat. He gave me a ticket for a brake light that was out. I have three. You only need two. He was a fucktard. Even the sheriff who signed off my ticket was like “what the hell did he give you a ticket for?”

I got pulled over a few months later for expired tags and asked the officer if it was legal to pull me over for only having two of the three lights working. He stumbled over his words and said “there’s a grey area”.

So whatever. I should have fought the ticket. If it ever happens again, I will.

But anyway, back to doctors. I’m not nervous around doctors. I’m nervous going to the doctors because I know I have to deal with the receptionist, sitting around all the people, and having to talk to the nurses (I can feel my heart pounding just thinking about it) and I’m even nervous when I talk to the doctor because they are humans. But I’m not nervous if I feel like they’re trying to fuck me over. I get mildly angry at first, then enraged. And at that point I will tell them straight up.

Like the one doctor who tried telling me Lexapro didn’t cause the giant cystic acne bumps on my face. What she didn’t know is that 1) I’m an expert in acne, I’ve had it since I was 10 years old and I’d never developed that kind, and 2) I’d spent two days researching the correlation between Lexapro and Acne and there is indeed a correlation; 30 thousand other people reported it. That’s not a coincidence. That was also the day I quit that shit before they tried to give me antibiotics for the acne.

And guess what? The bumps disappeared (apart from the bit of acne I still get every once in a while)

But Lexapro pissed me off, not only because of all the nightmares it gave me and the very little relief, but I had just healed my skin from acne’s torturous path and here that shit came causing more scars than I’d originally gotten rid of. I’m still having to rub aloe cactus leaves on my face just to get them to fade a little and it’s been three years since I’ve been on that crap.

Coincidence: also started having panic attacks after I got off Lexapro. I think I’ve said that before.

Well, anyway, we all know science now says anxiety is actually caused by too much serotonin so . . . you know, trust science. Trust in it. It’ll cure all your woes. Even if your woes could be cured without it.

Whatever. The point is, don’t not stand up to your doctor just because they’re a doctor. How do you expect to get full treatment if you’re not involved in it? Then you’re just riding a roller coaster in the dark with some stranger as the driver. One of my friends went to a psychologist to help with her anxiety (she’d had to move out of her parents house because it was just . . . bad; she and I were 15 when she left) and the first thing the psychologist suggested was anti-anxiety and anti-depression medications. I was laughing to the point of tears when she told me she stood up off that couch and started saying “don’t give me that bullshit; I came to you so I could talk, so I could sort out my problems, not so you could shove some bullshit down my throat”.

I laughed because it is so like her. She will speak her mind no matter who you are and she recognizes that her life is hers, not to be dictated by someone with a piece of paper that says, hey; I’m a professional.

Well, you’re a professional in yourself. They’re a professional in their field. That means you have to work as a team to learn about each other. And I’m thankful to the county doctor involved with my family who is like that. Right away he ordered all the proper tests, made Medicare pay for a blood pressure cuff, gave him better blood pressure medications (his was about 190/90; it can easily hit 230/90), and even set him up with a counselor to start working on his alcoholism. We need more like him, especially in the welfare programs.