Had a 20 oz. mocha with a triple shot of espresso on a (mostly) empty stomach this morning and nothing else to eat until my pepperoni rolls come out of the toaster oven in a few minutes. I really shouldn’t be drinking the Diet Pepsi Wild Cherry, but I am.
Archive for bipolar
Well, it’s a bit better now
I went up to the attic with the intention of finding Judi*Kins Diamond Glaze for the aforementioned errant eBayer. What I found was much more valuable. Yeah, I found the glue, but I also found my archival box with The New York Times from September 12, 2001 and the days afterward, the tape I’d recorded of September 11th (not that I’ll ever watch it, but I think it’s important to have. I don’t even have a VHS player anymore, I guess I could get it transferred to DVD…), yummy yarn that I bought at Rhinebeck last year, and some more cute stuff to eBay. I brought up two boxes to put back into the attic (there’s two more waiting downstairs). The reason for wanting the box of newspapers was simple; I bought The Times the day after Hillary Clinton won the New Hampshire primary and I want to preserve that. I also baked the cookies, slicing them whisper-thin. They came out crisp and delicious. They may not make it to tomorrow’s dinner. I’ll think up something else just in case. I remembered to take my midday dose of Geodon (technically not really mid-day but six hours after my first 40 mg dose of the day). I’ve kept the fire fed. I spent the last hour (goodness, time flies!) adding something cool to my blog that my friend Penguin Girl has on hers: for each day where there’s a corresponding post(s), I’ve added a link to my old LiveJournal blog. None for today, but if you look at my post from the 14th, “The Date,” you’ll see way at the bottom a link to the post “Grey Day” from 2006. I’ve only gone as far back as November 1st so far. My writing was pretty wretched back then; I totally blame it on the meds I was on (an Abilify and Wellbutrin cocktail, thankyouverymuch). My writing was never as dull and perfunctory as it was on those drugs, in school I was lauded for my writing abilities and in every honors writing class offered. At the very least, I was writing, bland as it was. I’m slowly getting back there.
I haven’t yet taken a shower, nor eaten lunch (just a few cookies and Diet Pepsi with Cherry), but I think I’ll go bring up the rest of those boxes and get a move on the downstairs. Thanks for the good wishes. 
not a good day
I’m sitting at my desk with tears running down my face. I can’t type with the letters in the right order. I just don’t feel good and it is hard, this. I felt the same way yesterday and G suggested that I get under all the afghans I’d knitted, put my feet up, knit, and watch some MythTV, specifically, Needle Arts Studio with Shay Pendray. It turned out to be really disappointing, even though she had someone on from Lantern Moon, all she did was needle-felt some roving into the center of a sewn-on flower. So I watched three episodes of America’s Test Kitchen. All about chocolate. Chocolate in the Tasting Lab, chocolate cakes, mousse, chocolate everywhere. My goal was to get some “mental chocolate” to bring up my spirits. And it worked, for a time. I even mixed the recipe for Cook’s Illustrated’s chocolate butter cookies, to be finished today. Hopefully.
I know I’m not on the full therapeutic dose of Lamictal yet, but jeez, can’t it give me a break? I’m currently taking 75 mg twice a day, with 40 - 40 - 80 mg of Geodon. I know that you have to go up very slowly in order to avoid the death rash. However, I found no heart in reading psycheducation.org’s thoughts on the rash: “Why risk ‘blowing it’ by going up a little faster on the dose and thereby raising the risk of getting the rash, and having to consider stopping entirely at that point? For most patients considering lamotrigine, they’ve had symptoms for years. Waiting another few weeks because of using a slow dose increase — and thus buying a little more insurance that they might be able to benefit and stay on this medication — just makes more sense.” Um, because I FEEL LIKE SHIT NOW? Having had symptoms for decades doesn’t mean that I want to KEEP HAVING THEM. And whoever said that people in the throes of bipolar disorder had any way of making sense of things? The person who thought up that little nugget obviously has never had any dealings with mental illness from a personal vantage point. And it isn’t just another few weeks, it’s another four weeks at least for every level up. From Wikipedia: “Because the dosage must be slowly increased from a sub-therapeutic level to the therapeutic level of 100-200 mg, its utility in the management of acute manic symptoms is debatable; typically benzodiazepines or another anticonvulsant will be used to manage the acute mania until the lamotrigine reaches therapeutic blood concentration.” So I’m at 150 mg a day, I should be feeling some relief. But I’m not. One of the problems I had with Wellbutrin was that, while it was definitely working, it just couldn’t handle my abyssal depression. Maybe my depression is so strong that the Lamictal doesn’t stand a fighting chance? There’s a horrifying thought.
So to help take my mind away, I did some busywork, sweeping the steps to clear away the melting snow, laying and lighting a fire in the hearth with just the hot coals (look Ma, no matches!). I’m still fretting about all the eBay auctions I had that didn’t sell, and the woman with a feedback score of 8 who won two of them but hasn’t yet paid, even after I reported her as a non-paying bidder. She bid on and won two more before I had the presence of mind to block her, let’s see if she pays the total amount. I ticked the wrong radio button on my Unemployment Benefits Claim last week, and now they think I refused work. I sent in the form stating that no, I didn’t refuse work, I made a mistake, but they’re holding benefits until they get the form back. There’s no phone number to call to report my boneheadedness, no email address to write to. At least the claims are somewhat automated on my end, by a weekly web form instead of a phone call. I just have to remember to do it every Monday. And we have friends coming to stay overnight tomorrow; the house is still in post-Christmas mess. I guess that’s what I’m doing today. At the very least, the housecleaners are coming tomorrow before Dave and Shannon get here with the baby.
Small favors: the blower just came on for the woodstove, so now the fireplace will start heating the house, and there’s a log of chocolate butter cookie dough in the fridge that just might make it into the oven. And more busywork to keep me from thinking too hard.
60˚ in January
I saw two high school-age boys wearing shorts and short sleeves on my way back home from the world’s most fantastic dentist. And a convertible with its top down. I know global warming is a bad thing, and I do love my fireplace, but there’s something to be said for warm, sunny days, even when the sun starts to set at about 3:30 pm.
About the dentist: Years ago I was traumatized by a very evil man disguised as a dentist. I’ll tell you who he is if you email me. He used to scream at his hygienist while working on my mouth, broke off a file in a root canal, called me “a big baby,” and is, I suspect, a misogynist (No man I’ve spoken to has anything bad to say about him, but all the women do). He also cut the underside of my tongue with the drill, you know the part that attaches your tongue to the floor of your mouth? Took forever to heal. Add to that nightmare the fact that while deep in the throes of unmedicated bipolar disorder, I wasn’t too good at taking care of myself, teeth included, I ended up with a very sorry state of affairs in my mouth. So for years I was going to this Goebbels with a drill, too afraid to say anything or to speak up for myself, and then I moved to an apartment across the street for Dr. Kenneth Magid’s office. A saint. There used to be a sign on his front door with a picture of Ziggy hiding behind a dentist’s chair with the legend, “We Cater To Cowards.” Seemed to be the guy for me. He, along with all of the people in his office, have a wonderful bedside manner, don’t treat me like an idiot or a leper, and the best part? They give me “sweet air” for every session (I’ve gotten good enough that I don’t need it for cleanings, but there was a time…). He is an absolute superhero in my book. If you live in Westchester County or even one of the surrounding counties and don’t mind driving a bit for a fantabulous dentist, I can send you a card that gets you a discount for the referral.
I am afraid
I am afraid of the dark
it robs me, thieves me of my sanity.
Long shadows become predators
clawing at my skin
tearing at my hair.
The night suffocates me
tangling in my throat
rendering me unable to scream
to shout out
to bring aid to my misery.
I bring the covers up to my ears to keep the night out
keep it from touching my flesh
knowing that only the morning will bring relief.
Morning comes and I hurry
hurry to get everything done
before the night falls once again.
Halfway there
Sock One, for Daddy’s Chanukah gift, 12/24/07 Here is the first of Daddy’s Chanukah socks (Colinette Jitterbug, Blue Parrot, my toe-up recipe). In looking for a larger needle with which to bind off, I checked the size on my needles. I’d unwittingly knitted with one size 3 and one size 3.25! (I knit socks on two circs, the Cat Bordhi way.) What a space cadet! The larger needle knitted the top, the smaller one the back and heel. When I took the sock class with Lucy Neatby, she taught us the coolest bind-off technique. I’ll try to explain it here: Knit the first stitch to bind off. Slip your LEFT needle into the back of the stitch you just knit. Slip your right needle around the left side of the second stitch and through the back, so that the stitches are crossed in an X. Wrap the working yarn around the needle, knitting it, and pull the needle down through the X and off. Repeat. I know it sounds weird, but it creates a more flexible bind-off. I still go up a needle size (or two!) for socks because I tend to bind off tightly.
.) What a space cadet! The larger needle knitted the top, the smaller one the back and heel. When I took G remarked that I spend my life living like I’m in a swarm of bees, swatting them and getting distracted. I said it’s more like a snowglobe, one of the ones with glitter and snow in it. Snowglobe Girl. No wonder I like them so much! It helps him to understand me more, which is a good thing.
Ah, the ’80s
To be fifteen again, is something I both wish I could do, and am glad I will never have to repeat. Fifteen was a nightmare of an age for me, the bipolar disorder had really taken hold of my physiology, with all the classic attached symptoms; the drug abuse, hypersexuality, the not sleeping thing. If I could go back armed with my present-day knowledge, I’d fight for a proper diagnosis, instead of the misdiagnosis of schizophrenia and the attendant drugs that I was given. But there was some fun in that completely fucked-up part of my life, if only while I was manic. I went dancing nearly every weekend in the city. Mostly at the four-story-high Danceteria. I turned around my high school ring and wore it on my left hand, like a wedding band. Although I wasn’t fooling anyone about being married, I never owned a fake ID and never ever got carded. I was a crazy girl back then, with a penchant for vodka and 7Up. I didn’t drink much, didn’t need to, the mania was fueling my drive to dance, alone, or with anyone who sidled up to me. And dance I did, both with my girlfriends, when they dared to accompany me, with our purses in the middle between us, shoes off, sweating like rock stars, and alone, defying my parents’ wishes for my to not go by myself. The music was loud and electronic, and it was a blast, being out there. I watched the clock like a hawk. The derelict train left Grand Central at 1:30 am on the dot, and I only missed it once. I’d been with Steve something-with-a-J back at his place for some risky behavior. He’d promised to get me back to the station on time, but he didn’t. Ass. I called my father, crying, telling him that I’d had a fight with my girlfriend, Sarah, and she’d left the club before me, and I’d lost track of time. Dear old Daddy came and picked me up in his Porsche, me looking like a total whore, makeup running from the sweat, and freezing. The cops pitch you out of Grand Central after the last train has left, so I waited patiently out in front, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in neon yellow fishnet tights, four-inch stiletto heels, a micro miniskirt, a torn tshirt, and my grandfather’s army jacket. Trying not to attract attention. I garnered some inquisitive stares, but no offers. He pulled up, unlocked the door, and did not scream at me, but instead, asked if I’d had fun. How clueless my parents were. If I could go back, I’d rage until they finally listened to me instead of shutting me out. They saw all sides of my illness, but not many people knew anything about it back then. Instead of doing that, I went out to dance. And hoped for help which never came.
If you have any doubt about your sanity
go read this. It’s a very brave, open, and honest statement about mental illness and the need for getting help. There is never a time when this is not useful information. Please, especially with the silly season upon us, go read, and take heart. Thanks again, Heather.
I need a watch with an alarm or something, not that I’d wear one
I forgot AGAIN to take my second dose of Geodon today. At 7:59 pm, I wrote, “I have no smiles left” on a business card and tucked it into my pocket. At 8:45 pm, I took out the card and wrote, “Some days I feel more like one of the ‘little people’ than others. Today is one of those days.” I just didn’t care anymore, about helping the customers, those elitist, pampered, black-metal-Amex-wielding contemptuous snobs. Didn’t care about your “little pile” of goodies tucked away for you at the counter, nor your penchant for putting wooden utensils in the dishwasher so you have to rebuy them every stinking year, nor your need for me to wrap your things in extra tissue because you’re traveling. I. Just. Don’t. Care. About. You.
What I do care about was the sympathetic voice at the other end of the telephone when I called home. The voice that told me that a delicious dinner would be ready when I got there. The voice that told me I was silly for not taking my meds, not stupid, but silly. It occurs to me that I should have known that such a global shift in attitude was a drug-related thing, but I’m such a rapid cycler that it could have been totally normal for me. Which is really fucking unacceptable. I need to get into a new routine with these meds. They are not to be missed. I can’t fucking function. The candy cane I found as if it were left just for me perked me up a bit, but only while I ate it. I wasn’t able to draw on it, make it last.
—–
On this day: Thanksgiving was fun 2005
Happy Thanksgiving!
First, let’s get the adorable kin pictures out of the way. Here’s Léa, manhandling her apple pie á la mode:
And little Zeke, slurping on his daddy’s head:
Both youngsters were delightedly well-behaved. Léa even had some of G’s delicious Cheddar Soup (almost everyone else had seconds). We got home around 7 pm to re-watch the parade, since I missed seeing Hello Kitty Supercute and my sister informed me that she was definitely there. Meredith Viera even commented on her appearance, wrongly pointing out “her signature right-side bow.” If you’re looking at her it’s on the right, but it’s on Kitty’s left. Idiot wasn’t even paying attention. Oh well, she’s in the parade, that’s all that counts. I got all stupid and choked up watching the Rockettes and the marching bands. Why do I do that? A good day, all in all.
A few things to be thankful for:
My snoring husband, because this means that he is at home with me, lying next to me in our king-size bed with kitties akimbo, and is slumbering sweetly and peacefully.
The internet, for bringing friends to my virtual door.
My family, without whom I wouldn’t be as fucked up as I am, making life much more interesting.
Blogs, which a lot of the time, feel like group therapy, which in real life, I CANNOT STAND, but online, feel much less creepy.
My expensive medication, which is a lot less expensive than it used to be thanks to my new job and a fabulous pdoc who gifts me with samples, and allows me to live something like a semi-normal life. I’m striving for normal. I’ll get there someday.
My new job, which aggravates the shit out of me because they want me to be manic. But I have a job to aggravate me, and therefore, a steady paycheck with benefits.
Espresso. ‘Nuff said.
Tigger, who wakes me up at 5:30 am to pee by smacking my face, without whom I would not be here.
Pye and Harry, who have the awesome power to simply be and that is enough to make me smile.
Life is hard. Wear comfortable shoes.
—–
On this day: Thanksgiving morning 2005
