Saturday, July 26, 2008


So, after the huge energy, anxiety rush yesterday, couldn't get to sleep until 3am. Woke this morning feeling like I had the worst hangover. Sleep schedule this weekend totally screwed.

Friday, July 25, 2008


Started getting twitchy this morning around 11am. The anxiety sits like a knot in my stomach. I've been extremely productive: cake, calls, insurance, resignation, appointments, legal aid. I've been on the phone nearly all day, got up all the trash and even washed out the trash can. Did all the dishes. Baked the cake. Still feel like I could keep going. Something inside me feels like it's galloping, and as soon as Jb gets home, I'm snappy. Things aren't moving fast enough. Chop chop. Send out your IRS payment. Here, let me do that for you. Not getting done quick enough. Gotta move, gotta get things done. Want a smoke, can't wait. Alt-tabbing. Looking at five different sites at once and playing WoW. Tossing off e-mail to mom. Thank you for the birthday gift. Have fun in AZ! Scanning forums, listening to Pandora, twitchy, twitchy. Need to get things done. Need to do things. Everything in order. Right now. No depression in sight. Quite fine. More than fine. Better than anything recently. Slight elation. Can't listen to the music I've been listening to. Too slow. Too about depression and down. Not down. Up. Up up up. Need up music. Something fast and smary. Amy Rigby maybe. The Flogging Mollys. Let's go. Let's go. Vamonos! I got the pistol, so I get the pesos! That seems fair.

On That Note

I feel pretty good today, though I forgot to take my meds last night, and I haven't taken them yet this morning. There's a false sense of not needing them in that, I know. Because I feel fine. But that's probably because they're still in my bloodstream. The half-life of most drugs isn't short enough for one missed dose, or even two, to end in the drug completely leaving your system. But I will take my meds, I will try to make a cake I've been determined to make for weeks, and I'm going to try to mop, and maybe vacuum, while I have the energy and motivation.

N.B. This is when I wonder why I need to go in to see the psychiatrist or the therapist, now that I have one. I'm afraid I'll have nothing to tell them. That it'll be a waste of time. That I'll be fine, and no one will believe me about how I did feel, have felt. It causes me genuine anxiety.

Depression: How Do You Know?

Jb's comment from yesterday made me stop and think: how do you know someone's depressed? And it struck me that it's a bit like applying for college. There's a standardized test -- ACT/SAT -- in which you are compared to other students by a set standard, and how well you do on the test is determined by how aptly you're able to mold yourself to this set standard. But as a potential applicant, what does that really tell a college about you? You fit a standard, the way a depressed person may fit the DSM-IV-TR, but it's a very structured, impersonal assessment. Of course, then there's the personal statement. This is where you tell the school a little more about you, but mostly, you tell them what you think they want to hear so that you're accepted. It's not unlike the way those who are depressed try to move through their days, through their doctors' appointments, through therapy, through the workplace. For the doctor's, the psychiatrists, the psychologists, you try to tell them what they want to hear in order to get help. Because how can you voice what and who you truly are in a 30-50m doctors' visit. Around those you love, around strangers, around co-workers, you go one further: you put on a mask, as much as you can. For those few hours, you try harder -- to be what people expect you to be, to be fine. Because, like that college personal statement, only some statements are acceptable, and you're still hoping to live up to a standard that equates to acceptance -- into college, by your co-workers, by your loved ones. And still, no one ever knows how you feel alone in the dark, or during the day shut in by four walls, or curled up in bed for hours at a time, or when you smile that fake smile to pretend you're still there. You listen, you go through the motions, you try to do one or two things to make it seem like you're okay. But there's only so much anyone, other than you, can ever really know about how you feel.

Of course, sometimes, there's no metaphor for depression. That's when nothing at all matters.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Frustration Personified

I've been med compliant for at least two weeks now. So no weird ups and downs in meds, and the last few days I've been depressed as hell. Spending too much time in bed, not caring about anything, not even enough to make food. Just sort of let the hunger gnaw at my stomach because I can't be buggered to feed it. I have all these good intentions: straighten up in the front room, maybe sweep, do dishes, keep bathroom picked up, mop in the bathroom and kitchen. Doubt any of it will get down. Jb has the cigarettes at work, and I can taste them in my mouth, it's how I know I'm missing them, and I hate that, hate the way the taste comes in to remind me. I'm in such a mood today that I really think it's best for everywhere if I just keep to myself.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008


I have a therapist appointment. It's with a Jewish Social Services agency, which feels vaguely weird for a non-practicing Catholic, but they take Medicaid, and she can see me as soon as next week. It's going to be a bit of a haul, nearly 2 1/2 hours by train and bus, but I need this.

Monday, July 21, 2008


After a three month wait, my medical assistance application was approved, and I've been accepted into Maryland's Medicaid program. It sounds like an amazing program. Free doctors visits, lab work, x-rays, gynecological exams, dental cleanings and fillings, surgery, inpatient and outpatient hospital stays, transportation, emergency room care, cheap prescriptions, mental health providers, including psychiatrists and therapists. Who could complain about that?

Except, there seem to be a few bumps in the road. First, I try to get a prescription filled, and they tell me Medicaid is my secondary insurance. I don't have a primary insurance, so this is, understandably, confusing for me and the pharmacist. Then I'm told, oops, they can't fill it because they're a DC store, not a Maryland store. (They're literally two blocks over the DC border line. But that's what you get in an area where three states converge in some weird Bermuda Triangle of politics.) So, on to getting the prescription transferred to a Maryland pharmacy. Roadblock #2: Medicaid does not allow prescriptions to be transferred. So back to calling my doctor to get another copy of the prescription sent to the new Maryland pharmacy.

Then there's the issue of my PCP. When I chose my Managed Care Organization -- UnitedHealthCare -- I called my PCP to make sure she was enrolled in it. Her office said she was. I get my insurance card with the name of a completely different PCP on it. I call Medicaid and they say my requested PCP's enrollment has expired. But that most offices with more than once doctor bill a patient's visits under the name of a doctor that is enrolled, and that as long as they do that, I can see any doctor in that office. So I call about this. They transfer me to the business office, which immediately disconnects me.

So. Medicaid should be a lifesaver. If I can every get the damn thing sorted out.

Disintegrating Oral Tablets, Redux

On third try, the disintegrating oral Klonopin tablets don't get any better. There's the issue with the blister pack. The damn peel back corner does not open the whole blister pack. It has this annoying tendency to rip off a tiny strip and only just to the edge of the depression where the tablet sits. Thus, you're forced to find some other damn way to get it open. I found out the hard way that disintegrating tablets are, apparently, more fragile than regular tablets when the tablet disintegrated in its depression while I was trying to get the thing open. It's all fun and games until you have to tilt the stupid blister pack upside down to try to get the crushed bits of tablet onto your tongue.

And then there's the thing about it supposedly disintegrating within a few seconds. Nuh unh. It won't disintegrate at all if I don't sort of rub it against the roof of my mouth. Then it turns mealy and sits there on your tongue. I'm not really sure if you let it sit there. It doesn't seem to disintegrate, unless whatever's needed to be released has been absorbed by your tongue and you're left to swallow the binding agent. Either way, it's oogey. And that's a scientific term.

Joint Venture

Jb and I had a talk yesterday. He doesn't think I should stop blogging; he thinks it's a good outlet for me and useful. I tried to express to him, though, that being laid bare and not being allowed into his thoughts about what's been going on is a little more vulnerable than I want to be. His response was that he didn't think he was supposed to respond to what I said here. I told him, on the contrary, I'd really like his response, especially if he posted it here -- to help me see how my perception of myself or incidents synch up with his perception of them. He agreed to try this.

This all stems from the fight we had over the weekend. Sometimes, in fights, I can't give in. I simply can't let it go. My emotions are too ... overwhelming. I become extremely tenacious or confrontational. Because I need it fixed, or else my emotions and mind go a little crazy, turning toward types of thinking that I really shouldn't: about breaking up, about hurting myself, etc. Anyway, when I finally got Jb to open up enough to tell me what, exactly, was wrong, he came back with this statement that I was always negative these days. I was negative about everything. And I felt, somehow, blind-sided. My knee-jerk reaction was to assert that I hadn't been negative all this time. But then, my belief in that became precarious. Had I been negative? Had it been something I couldn't see because I was so busy dealing inward with my own moods?

Having Jb comment on my posts, or on my emotional and mental state of mind, would help a great deal toward my own awareness, but it would also give me something to tell the psychiatrist. I can say I feel depressed, or I felt high as a kite, or I couldn't control my emotions, or half a dozen other things, but it's one thing to say how you feel or see yourself, and it's another to add, "And my boyfriends says I do this or that or the other." Since, we're assuming, this outside view of the situation is far more objective than my own inner view. Because that's what happens, isn't it? When you're inside the maelstrom, you can't see what's going on outside it. All you know is where you are, and all you can do is try to get through the worst of it.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Klonopin Disintegrating Tablets

For some unknown reason, the last time they filled my Klonopin description, I got orally disintegrating tablets instead of my usual tablets. Let me just say this: (1) they do not disintegrate in a couple seconds and (2) the tastes lingers like no one's business. I would not recommend these. Ever.

Set Back

Status: Med compliant. Tired.

Concern: I'm considering scrapping this blog. When I first started this blog, I gave Jb access to it. I thought it'd be a way for him to understand how I felt and what I was going through. I think, after a fight I'll mention later, that all of this was more than he could handle. And I'm feeling as if I've let him too far in while he's stayed silent and kept everything in. I don't like the vulnerable position this puts me in. I already feel vulnerable, and Jb's feelings come out harsh in arguments.

Argument: It started over going to a freakin' deli for lunch. I had asked if there was anything there I'd like. I had wanted to know if Jb had even thought of me. I don't typically like sandwiches and subs, so I was unsure why we were going. Well, he hadn't thought of me. And apparently, my pointing this out had "ruined" the afternoon. We ended up in a yelling match, trying to out stubborn each other. Me, sitting on the curb by the car. Him smoking on the steps and leaving me there. What came out in the end was his feelings that I'm constantly negative these days. That we can't go out and do anything without my mood swinging, without being negative, and how do I respond to that? Giving him access to this blog was supposed to help him understand what I'm going through. But it's wearing him thin, and it's straining our relationship in ways I don't know how to deal with because I can barely deal with myself. I'm considering looking into a support group recommended by my psych.

The upsetting part of yesterday was that I was so hysterical, got worked up to such a point, that I probably hit manic for at least a few. And this is my problem: I go from depressed to manic to normal to depressed to normal to manic and it can be in hours, or days. It's not the periods of mania and depression that, looking back, I can begin to label and name. There was a point where I was so hysterical I wanted to go to the hospital because I really did want to overdose, slash my wrists. And it was frightening and impulsive, and I didn't really care. I was so tired of fighting, fighting to keep the feelings in boxes, away from the people I love, and being yelled out for not being able to do it. Since hospital over four months ago, I've honestly felt as if I've needed in twice in the last four months, but I've kept it to myself.

On the Good Side: I got my medicaid cards. They cover inpatient and outpatient care, so if I need to go to hospital this time around, I can. They also cover just about everything else without copay or out-of-pocket expenses. It's a life saver right now. I only wish I could find a therapist. They're as elusive to me as unicorns.