Throw Out a Lifeline

The last I wrote here I'd had a breakdown. A pretty good one. I didn't take my meds for a week. I wasn't eating. I had hit apathy so hard that nothing mattered at all to me. Part of this, Jb and I am sure is that I lost my therapist for about three weeks while she was nursing her son who'd shattered his foot and had to have multiple surgeries. I don't think I understood how very important therapy had become for me. How balanced it helped to keep me.

My dose has changed again. 100MG of Zoloft, 300MG of Lamictal twice a day, and Klonopin 3 times a day. We're winnowing the meds down, which is one of the reasons I like this psych. He had tried me on Lithium, and I couldn't stay hydrated enough to keep up with the shakes and disoriented, vertigo-like sensations. So we dropped as not a good drug for me.

In between, I've been moving along as well as I'm able. I had a week and a half after the major depression where I couldn't sleep. I'd be up until 5 am and running on 4 hours of sleep a day. I was restless in bed, could not fall asleep, thinking and thinking and thinking. I think I might have swung up into a bit of a hypo mode. Anyway, now that's gone, as if hypo episodes burn my body out, and now I'm feeling exhausted and unmotivated and all around... feh.

An amazing thing happened last night, though. Jb came with me to therapy. He actually wanted to. How many guys would do that for you? My therapist thinks he's the best thing on two legs. It was a productive session. I think he got to say a lot of things that were on his mind, and none of them exactly hurt or were negative toward me, but I couldn't help feeling guilty, and ashamed, and humbled by how much he truly cares for me, regardless of my condition. There was so much love and worry there that it really made me tear up.

So. Apparently, I have the best boyfriend in the world.

Last tidbit about what I've been dealing with. Balance issues. I'm still having them. In fact, right after the therapy appoint when we got home, I literally fell on my ass when I got out of the car and rolled down the grassy slope. I'm always tottering. I almost fell on Jb while he was lying on the bed, and when I was cleaning the other week, I feel smack on the metal garbage can we keep in the front room. I've bruises on my arm, bruises on my foot where I dropped a fan on it, and I've fallen into the closet door in the bathroom more times than I can count.

What else. I've a DHHS appointment to review my foodstamps and temporary disability. It's at 8am, and there's really no way we can work the single car situation with Jb working. I've called to see if they'll reschedule, but I had to leave a message. I'll try again later because frankly, I don't trust them to get back to me.

And the SSDI. I got the info about my doctors, though I couldn't get all the dates of tests and visits. I had to fudge and guess years of when I saw some of them. Best I could do. But I can't seem to get further than that. I brought up the online application page and just sat there looking at it for an hour, overwhelmed and unable to start it.

Restless 12pm

Can't sleep. Spent an hour tossing and turning. It's not going to happen. Couldn't sleep last night either. Up until 2am. I haven't been eating much. Lost a few pounds, despite the Lithium, which I hear tends to pack on the pounds. Just not interested in food, shopping, making meals. You'd think this was the beginning of an upward spiral, but I'm still walking--stumbling really--around at about a 3, though to be fair, I have my moments of okayness with Jb.

The Crash

Everything had been so normal, productive. More so than anything I'd experienced since the hospital. It reminds me of my childhood, the abuse. You could go days full of normal, and then out of nowhere, you'd get slapped down. Literally. Even now I have to use "you," second person singular, to distance myself from the memories. Depression feels like that. You find normal, if only for a few days, but there's always that trepidation that you'll have to pay for it -- with a slap out of nowhere, a hand that slaps you down, and there's a sort of a detached surprise when it happens, and then, like someone abused for a long time, resignation.

Mondays are the hardest for me. They're the first day I have to deal without having Jb around. That's strike one against me. But the previous day, we'd been driving in the car, and some country song had come on about weddings, fathers and daughters, the love and hope of a wedding. And it was disturbing how quickly it sent me back to my own wedding. Over ten years ago now, and I still remember it. How perfectly planned. How I never thought I'd end up separated, divorced. How maybe I shouldn't have married him. About how I'd felt myself shout "no!" inside when he'd given me the ring. How I should have listened to myself. It reminded me of how little I do. And it reminded me of failure, of a lifetime ago. And I felt such grief for that person that I was. For the tender moment with my dad. For the grief of leaving home.

Jb saw it, or part of it. There are things I can't tell him. There are things he simply can't know, having never gone through a wedding, a marriage. But he saw the part about my father. Knew I was thinking of him, and brought up a picture from my wedding I'd entirely forgot. It's the best picture taken from that wedding. My dad, in the library, holding an open book in his hand, dressed in the only suit or tux I've ever seen him in, with a silver glint of earring in one ear, and a mischievous grin for the camera. The big joke being that my dad's functionally illiterate, and he'd never in his life pick up a book or look like a man of leisure in a library and tux. He's always been blue-collar, down home, Southern through and through. And I love that about him.

It all was enough to trigger me, I think. I slept most of the rest of the evening, getting up for a couple cheese cookies I'd made for my birthday the day before and a drink. Then I crawled back into bed and slept the rest of the night. I'd get up for the bathroom, but I literally slept from 5 the following day until 4 o'clock on Monday when I knew Jb would be home. I had to be up when Jb got home, so I forced myself to take a shower. But the depression of those two days was so dark and deep that I couldn't fathom leaving my bed. And all last night, Lucy Kaplansky lyrics from "The Tide" kept running through my head, over and over and over and over.

Erf.

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.

Grog

I can't stand the groggy morning. Up by ten, and it's 12:15, I've showered, and I still can't say I'm awake. The lids are heavy, the body leaden. I'm still third person twice removed from the world. I couldn't care less about anything, except maybe something to eat. But the idea of going out is a heroic endeavor. I'd like to crawl my ass back into bed and stay there. But Jb's home this weekend, so there's no hope of me getting away with such a thing. I'm just glad he wants to go out for sandwiches so I'm not required to do dishes, look at the kitchen, or bake the cheesy sausage thing I told him I'd make for breakfast. I really can't deal with making anything. Thank god, he likes tuna melts. It was an easy dinner last night. I just ... I'm not pulling my share this week. And I feel guilty about it, but I ... can't. I really can't. Everything is such an effort. The depression is back again. Some of the bad thoughts are back again, as well. At bay for the moment, but there at the edges.

Morning Check-In

Sleep: Up since 8:30ish. Not so bad. Had Jb still been around this morning, I'd have begged him to take a day off. Don't want to be alone today. Slept fairly well last night, though, I think.

Dream: Had a dream about my ex-husband. How we were both dating now, how we'd both changed, seen the changes in each other, and wondered if those changes would have made a difference when we were still together. Sure that they would have. But that all passed us by.

Cigarettes: Still smoking. Probably a good 4-6 yesterday. It's good I bum off Jb so they're not around during the day, though I could use some later when I go to the DHHS.

Weight: Don't want to look. No need to ruin an already stressful day. Besides, we ordered in last night and I had a P'zone, so that can't be good.

Meds: Compliant. Took them last night and this morning.

Food: Protein Boost Special K (the psych says I need protein) with a little milk and an apple.

Mood: Enh. I'm here. Like I said, this morning I was a little grasping, would have wanted Jb to stay home, which he wouldn't have and couldn't have. I'm intensely lonely and isolated right now due to the unemployment. It's made me needy and restless. Think it might be time to find that part-time job when I get my stimulus check and can afford a new blouse to interview in.

To Do: Should call HealthChoice and see if they sent my insurance package yet. Need to reschedule psych appointment. Need to schedule a PCP appointment for blood work. Need to find a therapist, which means making some calls.

The Bad Part of My Day: Have an appointment at 4:30pm at the Department of Health and Human Services to review my need for food stamps and temporary cash assistant/temporary disability assistance. Both rather important things that are helping us get by right now. So, of course, the stress about this started last night.

Relationship: Jb and I are snapping at each other a great deal. I'm ugly and mean a great deal of the time, irritated by everything and hateful. It shows in contempt and so many other ways that I feel like if I can't control this, get even somehow, I'm going to ruin everything. I used to treat my ex this way, and it's little wonder he never wanted much to do with me. He was always happy to go his own way. I'm sure, toward the end, he never felt loved. How could he?

I miss friendship, though. Not the constant caretaking of a relationship, but the ease of a friendship where you're allowed to be who you are without having to worry about stepping on someone's overly sensitive feelings. Everything becomes internalized in relationships, when I'd really rather just have someone to listen and say, "Yeah, that really sucks, you know?" And affection, an arm around the shoulder, a hand at the small of my back, some actual caretaking, the kind you get from a parent if you have good ones: a shoulder rub, a smoothing back of your hair, a body to curl up into and hug, a sense of safety and being loved. I get tired of paying bills, doing dishes, doing the grocery list, cooking, doing this or that, being responsible for this or that. I feel like I'm only good for the things I do in this relationship, and I'm tired of taking all the responsibility for these things. It's too much, and I resent it.

8:24am Aargh

Could not go to bed last night. Tried. Honestly, I did. Sort of. Jb crashed around midnight, and I was still wide awake. Read some of Nora Roberts' Blood Brothers. Still convinced that she is a deceptively good writer. Stupid me, I held out for years thinking such a prolific writer must be a hack. Way to go, jackass. Granted, her novels--the ones I've been reading, the more supernatural ones--have the same structure: 3 women and 3 men brought together to battle some sort of evil, and in the process of the three-book series, they all hook up. But she does a wonderful job of characterization and creating a sense of a non-nuclear family, but a family all the same.

Anyway, off track. Could not sleep last night. Woke up several times. Up at 8:24am. Groggy per usual, but I don't know, my sleep pattern is definitely shifting. I'm finding it harder and harder to not stay up half the night like I used to. The fact that I resist sitting there watching Adult Swim all night helps, I'm sure. But reading with the light on probably doesn't. Still, I can't just lie there and think, and think, and think. Because I start thinking of blogs to write, or scenes to write, and what's happening in the book, or what I'd do or say if X, Y, or Z happened. Feh. Useless, stupid things.

Groggy

Forgot my meds again last night. Waking up groggy as hell. Having problems falling asleep and sleeping through the night. Up a couple times a night, sleeping until 10ish. My whole sleep schedule is screwed. Can't blame it on the Wellbutrin, as this had started before they upped my dose, and from what I understand, Wellbutrin acts as more of stimulant than a depressant.

Also, might have forgotten a psych appointment today, which, to be honest, is fine. I haven't even been on the higher dose of Wellbutrin for a week now. Can't imagine why they'd want me back so soon, except that, yes, they think I'm still unstable. Haven't heard back from the therapist I called. Should call another one. Everything is such a hassle, truly.

Back to sleeping, dreams are vivid, very vivid, but gone almost completely on waking. Struggle to focus on waking, as if I'd rather stay in the dream world.

Depression

The depression is still with me this morning. Coming up from sleep is like coming up from deep water, and I'm confused and off-balance when I wake. I realize I didn't take my meds last night. I am up at 1am, 3am, 4:50am, 8:30am, 9:40am. Something in me is empty, and it registers as hunger, so I eat two South Beach granola bars at odd times during the night. I feel nothing but this plateau of emotion that walks a straight line, never rising above the depression, or dipping below it. It's like the static buzz of white noise in the background, constant, consistent. When I am depressed, the only things I seem able to do are the passive things. I can read. I can watch movies. I can--without effort--fall into someone else's story, someone else's life, and subsume my own. In fact, I want to. I don't want to think about myself, or I how I feel (or how I do not feel, which is more accurate).

I know why everyone prefers mania, in whichever way it manifests itself. Because then, you're active. You may be crawling out of your skin, your brain may never stop, but you're productive. You can pretend normalcy. You can achieve things. Sometimes. When it isn't too bad. Yesterday, I accomplished so much, so much more than I had in days. But that night, I was left feeling depressed and bodily tired, while my mind wouldn't let up. It kept going and going and going, despite my body's inability to keep up, but that never shut my brain down. And so I laid in bed, anxious and restless, and unable to stop thinking, but heavy and leaden feeling, depressed at the core.

This is when I'm unsure of this "bipolar" diagnosis. In the past, yes, I've had full weeks, even months, of depression, or mania-like symptoms. But these days, nothing lasts. I don't have hypo/mania for more than four days. It's usually for a day, even an afternoon, then down into some anxious, irritable mixed mood, and further into depression--all within two days. The downs last longer. I'm almost positive of that. Or maybe I was feeling fine, happy, wanting to get out of the apartment, do things this weekend, and then, like a punishment, several days later, the depression hits. And it is like a punishment--for having too much normalcy. Always, it is: this too shall pass. And it does. The good and the bad. Round and round in an unbreakable cycle.

Ha-ha!

Today, I am uber productive. I have called the unemployment, um, place and been told it's best to wait for my job to dismiss me, which I doubt they'll do. I see myself forever trailing on in this unpaid leave of absence state, arm thrown across my eyes like a melodramatic actress

On a yay note, my medical assistance determination went through, and I'm eligible for Healthchoice, which provides free doctor, dentist, ophthalmologist, psychiatrist and therapist visits, as well as cheap pharmacy costs. Jackpot! Whew. I can waive my right to insurance through JHU now and feel safe in knowing that I can get the help I need.

On an anxiety-producing note, I'm under review for food stamps, and other county programs, no doubt, on the 14th. Jb's making more money than he was, but we're still so strapped for cash. I don't know how this is going to affect their decisions. Also, I'm not sure how getting into Medicaid will affect the money I'm getting for Temporary Disability Assistance.

Both my PCP and my psych is in the managed care organization I enrolled in as well, which makes it easy to continue treatment without having to start over with someone new. I've even left a voice mail with a therapist. Now I just have to wait for her to call me back. As always, the waiting is the hardest part, to quote Tom Petty. But it's also anxiety-producing. I worry about this or that, going through every scenario in my mind, obsessing about worse-case scenarios.

Regardless, I went through all my bills, got all my medical bills sorted and ready to show my case worker. Everything else should already be on file, except for Jb's pay stubs, the new rent, and a bank statement. I'll have to talk Jb into going to get that, which he won't like. And I have to remember to tell the guy that what Jb makes annually includes a 2 1/2 - 3 month lay off period due to seasonal work. Because that makes a huge difference in whether we qualify or not.

Lot of time spent on the phone. Now, it's the waiting. And despite it all, I feel good. I have that stupid assurance that I'm fine, everything's fine, and all this medical stuff is useless. I feel like I'm fine, I don't need my meds, that going to my psych isn't necessary, that I've nothing to talk to a therapist about. Truly, I feel ... good. But put me in a situation where I'm required to do something, put me in a doctor's office, and I'm a blubbering mess of emotions. I still can't sleep at night, and I even woke up several times last night: 1am, 3am, 4:45am. I'm restless. Maybe it's the increase in the Wellbutrin. I have this "do something right now" energy and restlessness, but my eyes are so tired, my brain is tired. It feels very strange. Like part of me is sedated and part of me can't stop thinking, doing, planning, worrying, typing, on and on and on.

Monday

I always go into the week determined to do better, do more, feel better. The past several nights I've had problems getting to sleep, staying up as late as 3am. Not surprisingly, I'm sleeping later in the mornings--until almost 11am. When I wake up, I'm still groggy for several hours. I've read more than one article in the past that directly links insomnia and hypersomnia to episodes of depression and mania, so I think it's important to be noting this change in my sleeping habits. For example, right now, I could really use a nap. I slept until 11am, and at 3pm, I'm already tired.

Having said that, I started off on the right foot for once on a Monday. I spent much of the morning fleshing out characterizations for the series I'd like to write. I think I've done enough characterization to actually start writing. On a side note, one of the reasons I think I'm staying up later is the books. For some reason, at night, once the lights are out and the tv quiet, I start hashing over the plot and characters in my head, imagining scenes, narrating them to myself. It's an important process, though, and I hate the idea of curbing it, as these characters are real to me, and they talk to me and reveal themselves to me during these times.

I have also found the paper for the printer and envelopes. That means I can begin typing up a letter to HR telling them to shove it, as they've given me no further documentation of my unpaid leave of absence, a bill for the amount they overpaid me while on FMLA, information about Cobra, or a copy of my file, all of which I asked for back on May 9th. Cutting all ties makes me nervous, though, as I'm still able to get insurance with them for roughly $100 a month. I'm terrified of not having insurance, of being unable to pay for my prescriptions or the necessary doctor visits. Hopefully, unemployment and Cobra will help with that. I also plan to send in an application to the county for their adult pharmacy care program.

On top of that, management is bringing in inspectors to check out the apartments tomorrow. Ours is really fairly clean. I need to do dishes, pick up some trash. But overall, far more clean than our old apartment. I attribute this to the fact that we've actually tried to keep the place clean and to the fact that we now have hardwood floors. With Jb's dirty, outside work, there was no hope for keeping a carpet clean, add to that a sick cat, and well, good luck. Our new cat, however, is so low-maintenance, we're stunned. She leaves no mess, except right around her litter box. But that's very manageable.

I am, I admit, starting to feel a little overwhelmed by all the things I need to do. And the anxiety and IBS is there in spades. I'm due for another appointment with my PCP for blood work and with my gastro doc for a check-in. I really don't want to do either. And I've an appointment with the county to reassess my need for county assistance on the 14th. And a class on bankruptcy at the end of the month. In the meantime, we get by as best we can, and Kat Eggleston's "One More Step" is my theme song:

So you walk like you've never faltered
So you move like you still had faith
Head down and a turned up collar
Through a string of long, hard days
Walking through the darkest passage
Though you saw no light ahead
And your greatest act of courage
Was in taking one more step.

So you raise your voice in sorrow
'Til you heard no other sound
Saw nothing but your own shadow
With your eyes turned toward the ground
And when at last some kindness found you
Then it was as though you had slept
And the crowd in the dark around you
Were all taking one more step.

Oh, the warmest of standing water
It may some day come to freeze
So you'll tell your sons and your daughters
How to live with times like these
Tell them when their hearts are frozen
To trust their feet instead
When there is nothing left but motion
And taking one more step.

When we find that we are laughing
And we're running in the sun
Then we know that we still are breathing
And the longest night is done
And finally resting from the battle
Wondering where our feet have led
Amazed at how we traveled
By taking one more step.

Lost

There's a Firefly quote that's coming to mind today:

Inara: (to Simon) You're lost in the woods - we all are, even the captain. The difference is he likes it that way.
Mal: No, the difference is the woods are the only place I can see a clear path.

I feel like I'm lost in the woods these days, like I can't see my clear path. I stumble around my days, the apartment, looking for things to do, but unable to focus enough to do them. Jb's on my case again about not doing anything around the apartment other than cooking, bills, and groceries. These days, that's a lot to me. It's difficult enough for me to sit down and write up a list of groceries for 13-14 days worth of meals, but now that our budget's so tight, I have to add in the math, the coupon/circular, the adjusted cost, how many meals I can stretch one pound of meat. I know useless things, like eggs cost $2, milk $3.50, butter $4.50, cheese $5, unless you find a 2 for $6 sale. Sales on meat are deceiving, and unless you get there early, they're gone. It takes me all day to create a list.

I'm also lost as to what to do with myself. I once saw a clear path: Master's in Writing, writer. Then that diverged and I threw a possible PhD in Rhetoric in there, afraid I couldn't write. Then even that branched off to library work, my job at the library downtown, thoughts about a Master's in Library Science. But every time I saw a clear path, it split on me, until I had no path, only the woods closing in around me, and the knowledge that I was scared and unhappy. Now, I've lost everything: all direction, any clear path. And shouldn't that be freeing? But now I'm pigeonholed: "unstable," "bipolar," "irrational," "emotional," "depressed," "anxious," "unemployed." It's a loss of control and power, and I'm floundering. I can't see the tress for the forest.

I re-read those first two paragraphs, and they don't even make sense to me. Everything is disjointed. I'm starting to sleep more, later. Napping. I am swinging back down into a depression. In one of McMann's web pages he talks about going into the doctor to talk about his moderate depression, or his major depression, or the minor depression on top of his major depression, as if depression were a house of blocks that could be built. It's like a Dave Carter song:

One fine morning when my ship comes in
Gonna pack my fortune, take it home again
Stack my sorrows like stones until
I've built me a mansion on a high, high hill.

Depression is so full of metaphor. And sometimes I wonder if that isn't why while depressed and even manic, I've read that so many of us turn to music, poems, lyrics, like magpies, constantly murmuring others words in our heads, over and over, as if they could speak for us when we can't even speak for ourselves. It's like the butterfly in Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn:

You know better than to expect a butterfly to know your name. All they know are songs and poetry, and anything else they hear. They mean well, but they can't seem to keep things straight. And why should they? They die so soon.

And this is where it begins to get tragic for me. This whole post--useless. Rambling. Incoherent. I can't remember my point, I can't remember my metaphors, all I hear in my head are lyrics, poignant quotes, and all I feel is this upwelling need for meaning, somewhere, somehow. Sometimes I think the only thing that mattered to me was the stint I spent teaching. Peter S. Beagle again:

Only reason I've lasted this long is I had this stupid job teaching beautiful, useless stuff to idiots.

And what writer would depend on every other writer to supply her own words? But I can't use them now, and I fumble. Everything is subject-verb-object with a conjunction thrown into the mix, usually the same conjunctions. So I might as well end this with one last quote from The Little Hours by Dorothy Parker:

I'm never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don't do any thing. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don't even do that any more.

And that's my mind these days. That's me.

10:11 a.m. Check-In

Meds: Did not take them last night. Yeah yeah: bad me. Took my morning dose. Added Protonix to the mix again today. Stomach's bothering me.

Mood: 4. Not feeling well today. Could be allergies. I'm going sans-allergy meds this allergy season since they're all OTC now and expensive. Short of patience. Generally annoyed. Cranky.

Sleep: Woke up at 4:30, then again at 7-something. Had a hard time falling asleep last night. Was 11 p.m. when Jb went to bed, and I laid there for a long time trying to sleep. Yesterday afternoon, I was tired, but also couldn't sleep for thinking too much. Unable to relax. Feel vaguely hung over today: still tired, but unable to sleep restfully.

Misc: Don't feel like writing today. Feel as if blog isn't a substitute for a therapist. Also feel don't need therapist. Contrary as hell today. I don't know that I really have anything of importance to say and feel as if all this blogging has been egotistical navel gazing. Hate the blog. Hate myself.

Hearing Things: Heard humming in the kitchen last night. Melodic. Human. Was odd.

7:43 a.m. Med Check

"Me and my medicine we are
So hard to take
Me and my medicine we are
So hard to take"

Kate MacLeod, "Me and My Medicine"

Meds: Took 'em. Didn't want to, but did.

Jb spent half the morning, I think, slamming every drawer in the file cabinet to find every single freakin' pen because I said I needed one to make a grocery list. I swear it's the stupid, petty things like this that make me want to give it all up. Why bother taking my meds? It's not as if it helps anything. I'm still down. Jb and I still fight. And almost always it ends up being my fault: I've snapped at him, I can't control my moods. It makes a person tired.

Breakfast: I don't feel like eating.

Now back to bed so I can sleep out the day rather than deal with it. I'm too damn tired. And again, that's just another way of saying I'm depressed, down, not up to dealing with the day.

Dreams: Vivid, but I don't remember them.

Everybody's Comin' to Get Me

Last night, paranoia hit me hard. It's been hitting me on and off for a long while, though it gets stronger and weaker at times. But it's only last night that I think I started seeing it for what it is. Half the time it manifests itself in the usual ways: thinking people are always watching me, talking about me behind my back, thinking mean thoughts about me, conspiring about me at work. Now I'm starting to think it manifests itself heavily in my relationships. I start thinking things about my significant other like, "Oh, he doesn't really love me. I just want him to admit what I already know: he doesn't actually love me." And there's paranoia about what they're doing, thinking, mostly in regards to me or how it affects me. Are they cheating? Would they ever? Do they want to? What are they hiding on their computers? What are they hiding in their lives? Why don't they ever want to spend time with me? The computer/tv/object must be more important than I am. Maybe I'm not capable of being loved. Etc., etc.

My thoughts were on the mental downward train last night because Jb was on the computer most of the night, watched a tiny bit of tv with me, then zonked out. I immediately started in with the whole, "He never wants to spend time with me anymore. He must not love me. The computer and tv are more important than me. This is just like my last relationship. I'm losing him. What if he cheats on me? He probably doesn't love me anymore. He probably hates me and thinks I'm crazy." Which he should when I think things like that. Because, you know, he couldn't possibly be tired because he's had a long week at work in 90 degree weather, which would be enough to sap anyone. So this becomes just another symptom to bring up to my psych doctor.

Also, I willfully didn't take my meds last night. I didn't want to. I didn't want to have to be taking meds, and certainly not so damn many. Most of the time, I'm extremely faithful to the idea of being med compliant. But last night, I was so down with the paranoid thinking that I didn't see how it mattered if I took meds or not. I didn't care. I didn't care about me.

On a better note, I did take my meds this morning. Lamictal and Wellbutrin down. As far as my sleep schedule, tried to go to bed around 10:30-ish. Not sure when I actually got to sleep. Slept until about 10:30-ish this morning. 12 hours. A little too long, maybe.

Change

As Jb puts it, "It happens." But then, so does shit if you believe the bumper sticker, and this week has just been a shit kicker for me. Major life changes have always been a trigger for me. This move was no exception. The last few days before the move I was already in a passive-aggressive state. The two days of the move, I was snappy, angry, bitchy, and hard to deal with. Jb and I went 'round several times during those two days, and even more since the move.

I actually had a small breakdown over not being able to put my own computer together. This from the girl who's always been capable with her own computer setup, who used to troubleshoot computers for her co-workers, etc., etc. This time, though, the wires were too much, and I sat there throwing things around and having a tantrum, all the time looking at the wires like they were some foreign entity I couldn't wrap my mind around. And that pissed me off. I can't explain the frustration. Somehow the fight escalated to me swearing I'd leave Jb -- and all sorts of irrational nonsense.

That night, in bed, when I was far calmer, Jb told me that I couldn't control my moods anymore, that it was worse now than before I went into the hospital. And I feel so helpless in the face of these moods. They overtake me on a whim. I hadn't realized how mercurial my moods had been until Jb pointed it out to me. And at least, at the time, I was in a rational state where I could really look back on the last few days and see that Jb was right. That hasn't stopped the moods, though. We had another fight yesterday, and I ended up sitting in the bathtub for a while. We've already snapped at each other this morning.

The following are among the things that are setting me off:

• My computer setup: I hate it. It's uncomfortable, too compact, and I have no where to put my feet up, which is crucial to me because of the lymphadema in my legs. But I have no space, and I can't stand that. I can't stand not having personal space.

• The bed: It is on the floor sans frame. I hate this. It's difficult to get up, and frankly, I slept on the floor on a futon the entire time I was in college and at my ex's place, but I was 21. I'm freakin' 32-years-old. I want a proper bed frame. I'm too old for this shit, and I wake up every day feeling like someone pummeled me during the night.

• My knee: The osteo-arthritis is acting up. Maybe due to all the rain we've had, maybe because it tends to be seasonal. Either way, it hurts like hell when I'm trying to get to sleep at night, and the computer setup isn't helping any, neither is the bed.

• Cutting: Jb wants to cut this Ikea bed table we have to give me some sort of setup that gives me more room, but (1) I don't want him cutting up a $200 piece of furniture and (2) it won't solve anything because I need a solid base, like the end of the bed frame, to put my feet up. I've been trying a storage container, but the sucker moves all over the place, my keyboard feels like it's sliding off my lap, and it's uncomfortable as hell.

Also, when Jb brought home the saw and measuring tape to modify the Ikea table, I broke down in a crying fit, trying to explain that it was too much change all at once. That I needed time to test out the new setup, to even see if I liked it. I was so brittle from all the newness. I needed time to get my bearings. I swear to God modifying that table would have been the last straw for me.

So, in summation, the apartment is quite nice with its hardwood floors, its quaint window frames that sometimes need to be propped open, and the wild jungle that is our backyard and which I can see through the kitchen window. It's grown on me, though I spent the first few days walking through the place, touching things, opening and closing things, like some befuddled ghost who's trying to understand her surroundings. The neighborhood is quiet, you can hear birds, but little else. And it smells green and loamy when it rains. The apartment feels homey, mostly because it's one of five apartments in an old house from the 1940s. (This is why it's quaint. I'd swear the cabinets and a few other things hail from the '40s, as does the washer/dryer and the stove.) We've met the upstairs and downstairs neighbors.

All this change makes me feel very Benny and Joon-ish, though, as if I'm Joon: fine as long as I'm in an environment I'm comfortable in, but change anything, take me out of my comfort zone, and I start to flip out emotionally, lashing out at Jb and exhibiting a sort of dysphoric mania: the depression and the anger and irritability of hypomania mixed. It's a little like being in a life raft in a raging sea with a small bucket, trying to keep the water from overwhelming the boat. Unfortunately, Jb's no Sam, and he's not dealing well with my outbursts of late. Not that I blame him, but it does remind me that bipolar people are "three and a half times more likely to [`divorce'] than the rest of the population."

Furthermore, the entire time I was unable to log onto the internet because of Comcast's ineptitude, I didn't write. Even Jb asked if I'd been writing, suggesting I probably should be keeping up with that, that he thought it was a good outlet for me. But I simply didn't want to. I felt like I had nothing to say. When in reality, I had plenty to say, especially to Jb. It just all came out in this destructive, irrational way. And part of me feels guilty about it, and part of me feels like I had the right to vent my spleen. That's the grandiosity: the thinking that I'm entitled to more than other people, that I'm different, better somehow. More and more I hear Jb telling me: "You don't care about my feelings, that I'm hurt. You just don't care." And to a point, he's right. There are certain moments when nothing matters to me but me. As if I'm due more than everyone else. And that's solipistic to say the least.

I do care, though. I just don't know how to show it anymore. I feel like an emotional retard, unable to access certain emotions, while others are making hay while the sun shines.

8:10 a.m. Meds Check

Saw the psych doctor on Monday, the day after the move. Told the psych nurse practitioner that I had been feeling depressed, wishing I were back in the hospital, thinking bad thoughts, but not to the point of having a plan. Just the beginnings of them. I was crying more, acting out and difficult to handle, and not interested in much, despite the obvious need to pack and move. I told her that I know change is a trigger for me, and that I usually go depressed afterward. I'm still sleeping a ton. So she tweaked my meds and actually put me on an antidepressant along with the sleep aid and mood stabilizer. Why I wasn't on one before this, I've no idea. There was also talk of raising my Lamictal because of the anger and irritability, but we never settled on a dosage.

Here's my new list of psych meds:
Wellbutrin XL 150 MG 1x a day (antidepressant)
Lamictal 100 MG 2x a day (mood stabilizer)
Remeron 30 MG 1x a day (sleep aid/sort of an antidepressant; up from 15 MG)
Klonopin 1 MG 2x a day (anti-anxiety)

Other meds:
Benicar HCT 40/25 MG 1x a day (blood pressure)
Protonix 40 MG 1x a day, as needed (gastro-intestinal pain)
Levsinex .375 TIMECP 2x a day (abdominal pain/IBS symptoms)

Add to that the 2 Tylenol or Ibuprofen I've been taking for my left knee (osteo-arthritis is acting up with all the rain and change of seasons), and I'm starting to feel like I need a day-of-the week pill box with separate day and night chambers. Not to mention that you'd think someone with Bipolar, IBS, GERDS, lymphadema, and osteo-arthritis could get a response on her medical assistance application from the county. It does hurt the morale.

10:46 Meh.

Meds check: Took them.

Sleep: Too Much. Woke at 1 a.m., 5 a.m., 7:30 a.m. 9:30 a.m. and got up at 10:30 a.m.

Feeling: Depressed, unmotivated, dreading the move, procrastinating.

Writing: Nothing to say.

Blog: Will most likely be on hiatus until Comcast decides there's an apartment to transfer our internet to. Probably a couple weeks without tv or internet. We're so pleased with the internet/cable monopoly.

Dreams: Vivid again, and remembering some on waking.

6:10 p,m, It's Been a Bad Day

Didn't get as much done as I wanted to. I'm upset about that. I'm upset about breaking a cup while cleaning. No, that's not the end of the world, but my mind has this way of convincing me that I'm a fuck up when I don't get things perfectly right, when I don't live up to my expectations. I'm an overachiever in work and school, and sometimes in stupid things like breaking cups. For some reason, that sent me into a downward spiral. Maybe because of the stress that's building. Ended up with a horrible headache on top of it, which might be because I missed my Lamictal this morning. It's known for headaches, and since I get so few headaches, when I do get one, they lay me out. I don't know how people walk around functioning when their head, one of the most used parts of their body, is throbbing like an aching tooth. I can't deal with it. And for some reason, I got so tired that I crawled back into bed until about 5:30 p.m. I was glad I got up, at least, before Jb got home because I would have been ashamed to still be in bed after he worked all day. Besides that, we can't get the keys for the new apartment until tomorrow, and I know how upset he is about that. He was hoping to move things over today. I, being subversive and just... tired, am sort of glad, but I can't seem like I need a break, not when he's pushing so hard. So it's just... a bad day. And I'll be getting through the next few days on sheer strength of will and fumes. Because I don't feel up to it at all, but I have to do it. And when I say I'm tired, I know that's a euphemism I use when I'm depressed, or heading there.

Med Check. 0 for 1.

Yeah, so, the problem about waking up at 4 a.m. is that meds are the last thing on your mind. Then you wake up around 5ish, again with the back to sleep. Next thing you know, it's 11:30, you're vaguely conscious, and by noon, it suddenly hits you that, no, you haven't taken your meds. And now it's probably too late to anyway, and so what hell, you call it a wash. That was today. Go me.