Crossroads

 I feel like I’m at a crossroads, down one street is a life of fear and anxiety; down the other is serenity and peace. I want certainly to be firmly headed down the peaceful path, I just wonder if that will always elude me? I researched on Google if this Risperdone I’m on causes all this anxiety and some article says it can—yet when I asked Dr. Levy, he quickly dismissed that, said it was false, so I guess what I’m left with is I have a co-occurring anxiety disorder, and damn, that just makes me angry.

I must admit though my anxiety hasn’t been too bad over the past week or so. I’m back to meeting with Shawn and Fetter, we are approaching September and my favorite season of all, Fall. My moods are stable, I’m firmly grounded in reality, the farther away I get from the mild psychosis last winter, the more I feel safe and comfortable. Michael kinda irritated me yesterday, but that was because I’ve been plowing through these romance novels and wondering why he couldn’t be like some 30-something wooing me; I’m laughing now because we did have that when we were that age, and maybe I might want to expand my reading selections to include something more intellectual. 

All in good time. All in good time.

I’m truly amazed I’m reading again, and what’s this, actually writing! People take these things for granted, not understanding the sheer agony of having it ripped away. As I think I’ve mentioned before, I’m furious at the psychiatrists that kept me on 2,500 mg/day Depakote for so long. Why did it take two decades to get me down to 750 mg? Why did I have to suffer through years of cognitive impairment, why didn’t anyone seem to know or understand how to adjust my med dosage cocktail to give me some semblance of a life? I have to try very hard not to be bitter, bite back all the frustration I feel. But I guess I be grateful I’m down to the 750 mg Depakote now, at least I made it here. Now I can read. Now I can write. Finally.

***

Talked to mom on the phone and was just bitching about the meds and how mad I was at the psychiatrists and she said no more, she’s had enough hearing me vent about all this. I realize it’s getting old, I need to adapt, move on, no more grudge matches. Acceptance is the key to all my difficulties, I must remember that! Things played out the way they were meant to, treatment of my illness is complicated, things happened but at least I finally made it to Dr. Levy six years ago and I’m on the right track.

I guess it’s forward I go, cautiously but with certainty. Maybe I’m just on the road I’m meant to be on, and it’s headed towards serenity and has been all along. Deep breaths, Melissa, one day at a time. 

Writing Prompt: Lessons Learned

 Prompt: Go back in time and meet your younger self.

Lessons Learned

If I could go back in time and meet a younger me, I know exactly where I’d go. I’d go straight to where I was at age 35, newly diagnosed with bipolar with psychotic features, sitting on my back patio in the depths of serious kickback from psychotic mania and trapped in deep, dark tarry depression, the likes of which I’d never experienced. I’d sit with that crumpled me and just hold her, for as long as she wanted before the call of the bed became too much for her.

A place to hide. A place to try and quell the suicidal ideations, which were relentless, with sleep.

The psychiatrist in the nut hut, where that me had received the bipolar diagnosis a few weeks previously, was a real asshole, delivering the news of my diagnosis without a trace of compassion or understanding, to someone in the throes of her first psychotic episode, in her first hospitalization (of many to follow). It’s no wonder I found myself post-hospitalization confused, deeply ashamed, concocting scenarios for offing myself but lacking the guts for the follow-through.

I choose to sit with this 35-year old me not only because she was suicidal and scared. It’s because I know this mood would eventually shift, the depression would lift, and I want to be with her when that important transition happens. Because then, right there, is when the bad decision-making started. Decisions that damn near cost me 15 years of my life, spent in and out of hospitals, failing at employment attempts, almost losing my marriage. 

“The medication brought you to this stability,” I’d say, after the suicidal thoughts drifted away. “Stay on it and you will most likely never have suicidal ideation again. Now let’s head to CVS for something indispensable for you: A pill tray. Trust me, without one, things are going to get royally fucked up.”

Yes, I’d interject myself right back into this 35-year old’s life, and give her what she needed most: knowledge and wisdom about medication management. We’d have much to cover, particularly circumventing Bad Decision Number One: thinking it’s ok to “tinker” with the meds when you’re feeling better. Skip a dose for a few days. Cut a pill in half. Stop one med on your own all together. Um, I’d tell her, that’s a hard NO! Together, we would fill up the pill tray, carefully making sure to thoroughly read the prescription bottle labels to ensure morning meds were in the AM chamber and evening meds were in the PM one. You’d think simple organization like this would be intuitive, but unfortunately for 35-year old me, flirting with denial of my condition, it wasn’t.

Next, it would be time for discussion about Bad Decision Number Two: thinking it’s OK to completely ignore the warning on the pill bottle, “Do not mix this medication with alcohol.” For me, mixing meds with alcohol means the pills can’t work, which leads to episodes and ultimately, you guessed it, the nut hut. I’d explain slowly but seriously that the dance with booze was over. For good. I’m not sure how active alcoholic me would receive that, or if she’d immediately start grasping at Bad Decision Number Three: if you can’t have liquor, reach for the weed. If so, I’d have to emphatically state that any mood-altering substance was now off the table, and there would be no going back.

I don’t think anyone but my 50-something self could deliver this information to the 35-year old me and have her accept it. I was just too ill-equipped back then to understand the seriousness of my illness, how it was wrapped up in my dual diagnosis of alcoholism and weed addiction, and how the two situations needed to be addressed with religious med compliance and a 12-Step program. The situation demanded an older, wiser me leading the confused, overwhelmed youngster through the land mines of a debilitating scenario I was not equipped to handle. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, and chaos reigned supreme for the next 15 years.

I sigh deeply now, closing my eyes and reflecting upon all the mess I endured. I hurt for that 35-year old without a pill tray, wrapped up in dirty bedsheets, crying over her uncertain future. Maybe that’s why I want to write a memoir so badly, maybe save someone from the sheer hell I’ve been through. Ah, to go back in time and correct mistakes. Mis-steps. If only. If only. 

Writing Prompt: Rusting In Peace

 Prompt: Write an obituary to a car.

Rusting In Peace

Michael’s beloved, red 2002 “pocket rocket” GTI Volkswagen passed away peacefully in front of the house one hot summer day about 6 years ago. Cause of death was most likely the battery coupled with the engine, which hadn’t been right ever since the car got stolen once and some joyriders inflicted damage before abandoning the car near Scioto Audubon Metropark where wife Melissa chanced to stumble upon it and quickly notified the authorities.

Obtained by Melissa for her husband during her first manic spending spree in the winter of 2001, Michael came home from work one night to find the red VW roadster in front of the house with a big red bow on it, courtesy of Byers Volkswagen on Hamilton Road. He fell in love with the car at first sight, sliding into the black leather driver’s seat, firing it up, and blaring the stereo. As they cruised around the beltway that night, laughing wildly like teenagers, everything felt so right. 

Unfortunately with the souped up car came the monthly car payment, which frugal Michael groused about but dutifully paid every month. Off he would go to his job up on Busch Boulevard, driving like a speed demon to and from work, his favorite part of the day. Michael would often get comments on his car wherever he went, the pocket rocket’s fire engine red exterior drew lots of attention. He kept the car spotless, it was his baby, and he only allowed Melissa to drive it on the rarest of occasions.

After the car theft in 2012 or so, and a sketchy mechanic in Whitehall brought the car’s engine back to life, the car’s AC eventually went out and Michael decided not to get it fixed. By that time, his office had relocated to space downtown, very close to home, and he only had a 5-minute commute to and from his work. By 2017, Michael had inherited his mother’s Honda CRV, and firmly in middle age, he parked his GTI in its current resting spot in front of the house and it hasn’t moved since.

Who’s to say when the red car finally gave up the ghost, but battered by the seasonal elements, not driven, now two tires are flat, and the exterior looks dirty and faded. Melissa started protesting in earnest earlier this year that the car should be donated to the local Classical music station for a tax write-off, but Michael insists he can sell the dead car to some obsessed vintage VW collector.

Meanwhile the pocket rocket sits, silently gathering dirt and now some rust, but gratefully never ticketed by the authorities for reasons unknown. Perhaps the neighbors have taken pity on Michael and Melissa and not reported the car, or perhaps Michael promised a passing cruiser that he would get the car running again and didn’t tell Melissa. 

Does Michael want to get rid of his little, red GTI? Most likely not. Melissa has temporarily stopped protesting, trying to let go and let a Higher Power orchestrate outcomes. So for now, it’s dear pocket rocket, rust in peace— at least until some lucky new owner tries to bring you back to life.

Fear Itself

 I’ve been struggling with a lot of fear lately, fear of the unknown, fear of the future, fear of my surroundings, fear of being alone. I’m meeting with sponsor Shawn today, and I’m glad I have him to discuss this with, maybe get some direction on how to get a grip again and not be so debilitated by everything. I’m wondering if this is just a phase I’m going through as part of my recovery process from the hospitalization last November? Or maybe the fact that I haven’t seen my talk therapist for three sessions now? A lot of factors are in play, I need to remember that.

I’m angry at Fetter for being unavailable to meet in session, he has never in our 6 1/2 year history left me for three sessions in a row, unavailable for zoom and basically unresponsive to texts. It makes me wonder seriously if at 77 years old he is in a position anymore to provide me with the level of care I need and expect from my treatment team. I realize he has me on a sliding scale, I’m not a top-paying client, so maybe my expectations need to be readjusted accordingly. But I’ve been a mess without my consistent weekly therapy, that’s a fact, and I’m left wondering what to do about it.

Mom has been helpful in our morning phone calls, I know she wants me to be independent, but I’m growing tired with the explaining that I’m far too anxious and fearful to stand on my own two feet. Why don’t the people around me understand this, why can’t they see clearly my limitations, my disabilities that are so glaringly apparent to me? 

Lord knows I’m sick of being afraid all the time, I’m wondering if I’m in a constant state of PTSD, brought on by the repeated manic psychotic episodes? I keep trying to find information on this but there’s nothing out there, and that makes me frustrated and angry and sad all at the same time. Maybe if I was able to be employed I wouldn’t have all this time to think about trauma and fear; but I can’t work and this makes me feel trapped. Oh well, pass another mindless romance novel, anything to distract me from my miserable situation.

I think before I meet Shawn I’m going to go to the library, get some more books to read. I could go to the Zoom with the Y swim group, but I need to escape into my reading. I’m gonna try to turn things around, get reoriented into some positive thinking. OK that’s it for now, time to get moving. Fear, I can’t stand you!

Debilitating Panic Attack

Yesterday morning I had one of the worst panic attacks I have ever had. I want to record this here so I have something to look back upon if it ever happens again. I awoke with this crippling fear that Michael was dead; which led to what in the world would I do if my husband was gone. I saw myself becoming destitute, going insane, and ending up on some bench downtown, alone and lost. I felt absolutely debilitated, trapped, I couldn’t see a way out. 

I took extra Gabapentin to try and calm myself, but I felt severely impacted by this attack all day. Even after talking with mom, who assured me the family will always take care of me. Michael tried to soothe me when he woke up, assuring me he was alive and well and he would always take care of me. I texted with my social worker friend Katie, who explained morning anxiety happens, it has something to do with the sleep/wake cycle, and I probably had a bad nightmare that carried over.

I spoke to sponsor Shawn on the phone in the afternoon and he helped to calm me and to discern the fear from the facts. I basically realized I have a fear of being abandoned, and an even greater fear of getting sick again, even though the facts are none of this is going on. When I finally got to the kitchen around 4:00 pm and started in on my cooking project for dinner, I completely forgot about the attack, my body relaxed, I felt so much better. I read some of a romance novel after dinner and that further helped to distract me from my troubled day. I also went to a meditation AA Zoom, and the fellowship was extremely helpful.

Today has been basically good, I cut back on my morning coffee amount and had a massage at 11:00 am. I had a twinge of feeling out of sorts after dinner, thinking back on the panic attack, and I wonder if that’s because I’m drinking decaf coffee at night. I have plans to stop that habit soon, and also to give up the nicotine gum. I’m going to take some extra Gabapentin before bed, see if that helps me sleep through the night. I had trouble with waking up in the middle of the night last night.

I guess these panic attacks happen, what helps is:

1. Talking to someone and getting reassurance I am OK

2. Gabapentin 

3. Distracting myself with an activity

4. Cutting back caffeine/nicotine 

5. AA Fellowship

***

I’m relieved the attack is over, it was a doozy to be sure. I wasn’t really able to complete the assignment for this week’s writing group, but that’s OK. I’ll go and provide support to the others. I love the fellowship and sharing. OK, I’m going to go up to bed soon. Sleep tight, all.

August Psych Appointment

 So today is my monthly appointment with my psychiatrist, 9 months since my last hospitalization, 4 months since those last vestiges of psychosis. For this particular appointment, I am meeting Dr. Levy in person and I have also forwarded to him a bulleted list of notes outlining what’s going on with me right now. Honestly, it’s just a rehash of where I was 4-5 years ago, when I was on 4 mg Risperdone and contending with the side effects of this particular medication. They are as follows:

Great difficulty speaking when in group

Excessive fatigue and sedation

Breakthrough anxiety

Weight gain

Sleeping 10-11 hours a night

Problems with motivation

***

But there are some good things I’m doing and I noted that on my list as well:

Rejoining Y this month

Reading entire books

Cautiously driving highway again

Involved in creative writing group

Started walking in the morning

***

So I’m going to tell Dr. Levy I don’t want to sound like a broken record, and honestly I’m torn about this Risperdone, on the one hand I want relief from the side effects and to have the dosage reduced but on the other hand, I’m frightened of having another psychotic episode so I’m willing to stay with the 4 mg. I’m sure he hears this stuff from plenty of other patients, I’m not alone. I’ll bet he already knows how this session is going to go today, I think deep down I know too, we need to just stay the course, I need to put up with the side effects, such is my lot in life.

What I maybe want to say is the side effects disable me, and I don’t think that’s fair. Of course I know if I don’t take the meds I’ll end up nuts, so I won’t go down that path, but I’m left feeling despondent and not such a fighter sometimes. One thing I’m maybe not considering is I don’t like the summer heat and perhaps that’s been why I’ve been struggling more lately? Something to consider.

So I guess I’m going to this psych appointment not expecting too much, just grateful that I have an excellent psychiatrist who I trust. We all have our crosses to bear, mine are the med side effects. But let’s stick with what I’m grateful for, certainly I’m pleased and relieved that the psychosis is gone, I’m sane, back firmly in reality. Lord, I don’t want to get manic psychosis again, if that means I have to stay at 4 mg Risperdone then so be it. Maybe I just keep it short and sweet with Dr. Levy, say yeah, I sure hate these side effects but the medicine is exactly where it needs to be.

Back to acceptance again, Melissa? Aren’t we always? Oh sigh and sigh some more. 

Postscript: So the session went well, yes, we are staying at the same dosages of my meds. Time to hunker down and accept the 4 mg Risperdone, at least the Depakote was lowered last year to 750 mg and I have experienced great cognitive improvements. One foot in front of the other, I can do this. I will adapt. And accept.

New Beginnings

 OK, so I’m thinking I need to implement some changes to my routine, particularly in the morning, to start cutting through this worry that I want so much to bring under control. I’m not going to reach for more Gabapentin, because that leaves me sedate and further trapped in my recliner. My plan is to get dressed in the morning and go for a walk in the neighborhood; building up to joining with my husband in his morning walk and run with Lily in the park. Yesterday clearly showed me that if I can get more movement, my anxiety disappears completely. I’ve been mostly sedate ever since the pandemic in March 2020–that’s over 3 years! Something needs to change, and I have to have the courage to change the things I can.

I dream of the time when I’m feeling relaxed, good and optimistic again. I know the key is to break this rumination cycle I’ve been trapped in for so long. I’m the fourth side of the square of bipolar stability—Me, meds, therapy, and family and friends support. I’ve been dealing with this rodeo for so damn long, I know what to do. To add in some fun, I scheduled a massage and hopefully a hair cut next week. I know what I need to feel good. OK, I’m gonna check my weight and take a shower before lunch and the movie. Today should be fun. Catch ya later. Onward!

Evening Reflections and Update

 Good evening, dear reader(s), I come to you later in a day filled with a lot of fear—what’s been happening for a stretch of days is I wake up extremely fearful that I am not OK in my present situation here in my cluttered home, and I spend the morning and afternoon not doing anything to bring more order to my environment, rather spending hours ruminating about how awful things are. Now this couldn’t be further from the truth, I have a loving husband, family and friends; I am mentally stable (besides the breakthrough anxiety); I have Dr. Levy and therapist Dick Fetter, AA sponsor Shawn and many AA friends. I am not homeless living under a bridge. 

Maybe the problem is Fetter has been on vacation for two weeks, so we haven’t had the last two therapy sessions. Plus Shawn has been on vacation in Thailand during the exact same stretch of time. So two key components of my support network haven’t been in place. I’m pretty sure that’s the issue here, so I just have to keep telling myself everything is gonna be OK and these people will be back seeing me regularly next week.

I’m sitting here shaking my head because 6 months ago I wasn’t contending with anxiety, I was out in manic La La Land, it’s so confusing and maddening to me how everything can completely flip and change course. I’m not saying I want to be back in manic psychosis, absolutely not, I just think I’d be handling things better right now if I didn’t have to contend with this fear issue every day. But there was a bright spot today, I had water aerobics this afternoon and the exercise completely eliminated the anxiety I was feeling. So I think I need to be doing a lot more of this!

My sleep has been very good, knock on wood, and that’s a great relief. My eating is good and very healthy. Basically my overall health is very, very good, nothing to worry about there. I’m trying to bathe more and Michael always reminds me to brush my teeth. My clothes are clean, so when it comes to hygiene I’m in good shape. Things are definitely not dire, I just need to tackle my living space, which has been an issue for years. I asked Michael to help me, he said he would, so soon I will start on the guest bedroom. Small steps, I can do it.

I completed my writing assignment for this week’s group, on travel, so I’m looking forward to a discussion on that on Saturday. Tomorrow we are going to see the movie “Oppenheimer” with mom then out to dinner afterwards. Should be fun. I guess I need to treasure these times when the anxiety is at bay, right now I’m feeling relaxed, actually. I don’t know if this is because I took my bipolar meds 2 hours ago, they are fresh in my system, or maybe it’s night time and I’m winding down? It’s just fingers crossed that tomorrow morning I’m not fearful again, I wonder if I can somehow train myself to stay focused on the good things going right for me?

It may be time for a Gratitude List again, perhaps I log one here tomorrow. OK, that’s it for now, I’m gonna browse through some old entries to get some insight into my “manic mind” with hopes that I can become less afraid of what might happen should I get sick again. Sleep tight tonight, Melissa, take it easy on yourself. Stay in today, dammit.

Writing Prompt: Starry, Starry Night

 Prompt: Write about travel.

Starry, Starry Night

I believe it was 2008 when my husband and I took off on our first road trip together out West. I had frantically run all over Columbus buying camping supplies, including a cheap Coleman tent for $50 bucks, an inflatable queen size mattress and a small, portable cook stove. We had quite an impressive itinerary, drive through the Midwest out to South Dakota, into Montana then down through Wyoming and Colorado then back home. Ah, to be younger with wanderlust again.

After packing our Volkswagen station wagon to the seams, we set off with me at the wheel. I did all the driving back then, I was fearless, and I had also made the somewhat reckless decision to stop taking my antipsychotic medication, which made me feel fatigued and unmotivated. So I was plenty jacked up, and my husband was excited too. That first day we did twelve hours straight of driving and made it all the way into the far eastern side of South Dakota. I remember pulling into a gas station and buying a six pack of beer and trying to drink one in the car before we got to our motel. My husband lectured me though, so I screwed the lid back on the bottle.

Now, South Dakota is a very looooong state to drive, if you didn’t know. And it’s mostly barren and flat, the only thing you see along the interstate is the repetitive billboards advertising the Wall Drug Store located out near the Badlands National Park where we were spending a few days camping. We must have spent seven or eight hours traversing through South Dakota, with me uttering in frustration, “When will we get there?!” and “Wall Drug Store better have something for me to buy, dammit!” But I remember squealing with joy when we finally approached the utterly majestic Badlands mountains. Striped rust and tan formations almost too difficult to describe, that absolutely gleamed in the setting sun. 

I had made us a reservation at a quirky little place called Badlands Ranch and Resort, located just outside the park in a town called Interior with spectacular views of the area. It was a little run down, but there was space for RVs, tents, and there were small cabins you could rent. It wasn’t too crowded so we set up our tent next to an electric outlet typically designated for an RV so we could plug in a small CD player we had brought with us. I remember my husband setting up our flimsy, cheap Coleman tent and inflating the mattress, then he fired up his “Best of Ray Charles” CD and we toasted each other sitting on a picnic bench. I probably cooked us up some awful canned chili or something like that—I hadn’t mastered gourmet camping cooking yet (that would come later).

The two things we hadn’t planned for was the heat in the region in August, and that the owner of Badlands Ranch and Resort kept horses on the property for trail rides, which attracted huge, biting horseflies. Our poor little Coleman tent filled up with the flies so we had to make a run to a small neighboring town to get a fogger to clear out the tent. We cracked another beer and just laughed about it, with Ray singing “Georgia” and “Stella By Starlight” and other memorable classics. We had hoped to perhaps hike around Badlands National Park, but with temps hitting 105 degrees we had to suffice with driving around the park in an air conditioned VW, snapping photos out the window. 

We had an absolutely magical experience late one night when we crept out from the “resort,” walking down a dirt road for a bit until we found a dimly lit light post and a grassy knoll to sit down upon. We stretched out on our backs and stared up at the sky, taking in awe the vast black sky filled with countless stars, some of which were shooting towards the ground below. I wove my husband’s fingers through my own and told him it was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, and he softly kissed me. We lied there for awhile, just taking in the starry splendor, enjoying the moment.

Yes, we did make it to the Wall Drug Store, where we stopped before leaving the Badlands and heading to Mt. Rushmore. I bought a way too overpriced Western leather purse, which I still have and occasionally use. We continued on into Montana and then Yellowstone National Park and Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, which I loved, but our experience at the quirky Badlands Ranch and Resort remains a treasured memory. I Googled whether that place is still around, but I think it may be closed now. What a shame. Who knows, maybe my husband and I may go out West again but I think this time we will fly there. I’m feeling too old for 12-hour driving shifts. I just fired up Pandora and started playing some Ray Charles tunes. Ah, memories.