I get all OCD and and that's that. I'm always fighting for something or other. It can be for my daughter, for our health, wildlife, or just about anything worthy, but it's always there.
Life is always there. If you breathe, you live. But just because you're alive doesn't mean you're living. I feel stuck somewhere in the fog much of the time.
The fog after the movies. The movies started when I was a shy, anxiety ridden teenager with irritable bowel syndrome and PTSD. They were amusing sometimes. They were warped. It was like I was watching myself, only on film. I wasn't participating; the replica was.
When I was 19 I became almost completely agoraphobic and alcohol was my medicine of choice unless I decided to end it. The alcohol made it possible for me to break down my wall and get out amongst others.
I couldn't handle going out unless it was to work as a chambermaid where no one bothered me and I could sit off by myself on my breaks. I had a few friends, but didn't really do anything too social unless there was a few screwdrivers involved.
I think after I got on some heavy meds after I went for psychiatric and psychological help. That's when things became easier or more manageable. I could go to IHOP and have 5 Ativan and feel like I would make it through the meal without panicking. After all, who couldn't be a little bit more calm after taking a prescription written for up to 12 1mg. Ativan a day???? My shrink's name was Chance. I think she was a little bit out there, but the Ativan in the diazepam family is something I have held close whether it be Klonopin or something else in that class. Chance seemed like an appropriate and ironic name. I was finally taking a risk; a chance.
I don't know how I made it through middle school and especially high school. I think middle school was hard; getting my period, being awkward, finding out what social status meant and not having the cool clothes or knowing what to say to anyone. I went through a chunky phase and my mother was in perfect shape. That bitch worked at Gloria Stevens, a workout center, and forced me to go there. Bitch!
I was probably the shyest kid since elementary school and I can even remember having the shits at sleepovers because I was so nervous back then. But high school, wow, that was another story! That was hard! Besides having raw nerves and diarrhea everyday before school and trying to become the skinniest girl in the entire world, where was I? And why did I have to feel this way? How were all the other kids so calm? Why were people calling me a snob? I didn't do anything to them. I was just extremely quiet and kept to myself.
Thank goodness I found some good friends in ALG (alternative Learning group) and was good at art and English. Art was definitely my savior as well as my good friends. There were other people who liked me, but a handful of people "got me." They also had a twisted sense of humor and were victims of sexual abuse or other traumas, but we clicked. They too had some kind of mental disorder even if none of us knew what it was called or how to deal with it besides enjoying the smoking of skunk weed and drinking cheap beer or taking pills. That was the fun part. We partied, were townies, went to the movies, had sleep overs, got drunk at the beach in the summer. It was great!
It was fun to be with my friends. It was great climbing Mt. Lafayette and getting high as the purple haze in the sky sunk below the Green Leaf Hut which was just below the ledge at the top of the mountain. Art was so much fun with Mrs. T. Once I got to Mr. O, I figured that my father's signature would come in handy and I took many trips to Provincetown and Cambridge with my comrades. I finally knew how the system worked after getting busted skipping the first time. The way around it was making sure that Dad was on a business trip and Mom didn't have me and my sis that day. The parents were divorced. That didn't help life anyway since I hated my Mom and Step Dad at that point in my life. Sometimes I still can't stand my Mom. But I still love her.
I was such a good forger, that sometimes I would do a forgery for my friends. I just always made it understood that I was not involved.... they did it if they were busted.
The 20s were difficult. I lived in different places and had to keep tyring different meds to keep me somewhat balanced. I was a hard worker but I wasn't quite right with the anxiety and the depression. It seemed like the PTSD was really hitting me hard. It was especially hard when I was triggered after my boyfriend shot himself in the head. I was a sped teachers aid at the time. That destroyed many friendships and kind of made me lose myself. I wanted to die for a while. I can remember driving my car into sand dunes in Dennis where I lived. I was hospitalized when my brain just did something weird.. maybe it was my blood sugar (hypoglycemia) or shock. I had already shit my pants because my nerves were so shaken by what had happened to my boyfriend and I couldn't believe all of the secrets he had kept from me. I thought we were going to be married and have kids someday. We had so much in common, didn't we? I was in the hospital, climbing the ceiling. I don't remember much more than that except my Mom and Step Dad showed up. I think I was pretty vile. I don't think I went home that night. I think my shrink prescribed Valium or something. Death is very potent stuff.
After the funeral I stayed in bed at my Mom's house and took Valium when it was time and tried to just be numb. It was too much to handle. Too many questions and feelings.... overwhelming. What a waste. I really didn't care anymore. The movie of my life had taken a tragic turn. It was worse than date rapes by past boyfriends. This was an ultimate trespass of trust. This was so fucked up. I was so fucked up. My nerves were like an electrical outlet with no safety cover and someone sticking a fork in me over and over again.
I remember his mother being so angry and blaming my friend for her son's suicide even though it was her son who had pulled the trigger. That woman turned into a monster. I can't blame her as she had lost her child. It must kill a parent to have a child pass before yourself. It must make you crazy. I was angry as well. I was filled with hate for her and him. I would make it a point to spit on his grave and scream obscenities. It made me feel better for a little while. I couldn't believe she had taken the tokens of our love away from that grave. Oh the hate I felt... the rage never quite went away.
Then it was time to try to live again. It was not the same. I was full of tension, but I was also full of invisible balls. It is amazing what an experience can do to a person. The anxiety never left, but I wasn't afraid to be brazen and open my mouth and stand up to anyone now. I didn't give a shit. I didn't give a shit if I died either. I was afraid of that. I needed help. More med changes and therapy.... GAG.
Paxil and Zoloft are the worst in the SSRI category. They make one gain weight and I found that I felt more aggressive and still didn't feel that they helped the anxiety and depression enough. Still, there were many more years of therapy. On and on and on. Oh and the cycle of relationships with the loser boyfriends who managed to be "dreamy" one minute, then "scumbags" the next. Or they ended up violating me in some way. Egadz!
I remember violent emotions. Throwing rocks at some idiot's head as he whizzed by me on his motor bike on a very narrow trail in Brewster while I was living in my Mom's neighborhood. I almost got him. I would have knocked him off of his fucking bike if I had aimed better. Oh, so full of rage.... why didn't anyone else see this? What the hell was going on with me??? I had no problem with confronting people, but it was not very positive as it was always in a cruel or snooty manner where I won. I was sick of losing I guess. I had always lost.... fuck that.
Luckily with therapy and med changes things did change after awhile including my job at the time. I found that a special ed. teacher was abusive. She was investigated and the union took up her side even though I paid dues. I was a black sheep again and taken from my place where I taught and put in a place where I would fail. I resigned and made it clear why. I had stood up for human rights. It made me angry, but it was good.
Now If there's something worth fighting for, I'm obsessed and I'm on it. That's just the way I am and I can't stop. It rattles my cage when there are wrongs that I have the power to fix. I know I can do it..... I think.
I'm still working on my own personal wildlife cause, always guiding my daughter as best I can and being honest always at her level, and trying to deal with this hazy world I live in.
The most recent "fight" was for our health in the environment we are living in (me and my daughter). We won. I did all of my research, called in the Dept. of Health (what lazy ass slackers those chicks are), and had a nice sit-down with my landlord and explained all of the problems and my legal rights. He didn't like the idea of us leaving. Now he's working on it all. I was scared of doing this, but I did it. I got something done.
It took me well over a year to get my balls up to confront my landlord and stand up for my rights. It worked out well. He didn't have a leg to stand on and I sat him down and went over my list and my rights. He said that he didnt' want to lose such good tenants as me and my daughter and apologized. I think he has got to action very quickly also because of the threat of withholding rent. Now things are happening. I faced fear and fought.
I have been noticing in my war against anxiety that I have been having more difficulty leaving the house, more stomach aches and more panic attacks. I had been doing my regular medicinal routine with my herbal stuff added. Then I went to see my shrink. I should have called him last Saturday as I had to cut a dose of
Wwellbutrin in half.
I had complained at my last appointment about my anxiety going up and he suggested that I work with a therapist. I just don't feel like it. I feel like I need a mentor or an advocate at this point as I'm finding it harder to concentrate, remember things, and get phone calls and paperwork done without help. I have not asked for help either. I wish things were more clear. Then I told him about the panic attacks and the situational reasons I might be more panicky.
I asked my shrink if I was on a lot of meds and he told me that I was. But, he increased my dose of Welbutrin by double saying that it would help my concentration, energy, memory and anxiety. He said that I should take the regular dose in the morning and an early afternoon dose. This appointment was on March 10th.
On March 19th I went into the drug store and spoke to my kindly pharmacist and told him about my dizziness, electrical-like shocks to my head, tremors in my neck and head, light headedness, lack of concentration, lethargy, etc. I told him to check out the increase and sure enough he told me that I should go back to the regular dose of wellbutrin and he didn't know why my shrink would prescribe so much to me when I was already on another antidepressant. He said that I shouldn't take my afternoon dose and I should be feeling better in a couple days.
This came as a relief. All of this was preventable. My shrink never should have doubled that dose. I could have ended up in seizures or worse with serotonin syndrome. What a pompous asshole. Why would he have done that? I really don't understand. It seems like you just have to pay attention to everything because the doctors don't even do it for you.
That extra medication could have made me even worse very quickly if I added even more caffeine to my day which I had started doing... indicative would have been a seizure or multiple seizures and a quick hitch to the hospital.
Now it's March 26th and I still have not wanted to call my shrinky dink. I'm feeling betrayed. I am still having little dizzy spells and they seem to be calmed by taking a form of diazepam called Klonopin/clonazepam. It is something that relaxes muscles and stuff in the brain. It's some good stuff. I remember another irresponsible doctor letting me take up to 12 mg. of Ativan a day when I first started taking medications for my anxiety and depression. What the Hell was up with that? No wonder people are getting hooked on pain meds and other things. One of the best things I got off was an SSRI called Paxil. When I did that I lost 20 pounds and felt much better in a lot of ways.
I need to get a second opinion and soon. I've got phone calls to make and everything in this household relies on me. That means my daughter needs me. I am the person she looks to and she needs to be able to count on me. I cannot end up in the psyche ward again especially because of idiotic and preventable mistakes by my stupid shrink.
Even doctors should be held accountable. I am angry but once again I'm scared to speak up. This is my life and I'm breathing. I must advocate for myself. We all must step up to the plate if we are to be there for others as well.
I called and left a message for my shrinky dink about what had happened and you know, nothing happened at all. No call back... notta. Pathetic. No response. Just another number.
I don't really know what to do. The anxiety is getting worse and I am even more stuck in my house and getting lonelier. It has been getting even more difficult to do the simplest of things like go to the grocery store alone, or go to the school even. I am too paranoid.
There's a lot of stuff going on now. I have to re-find my de-stressing tool box again. I just can't remember where I left it.
