Choices

MAY 24, 2013 :: 7:01 AM

thank you to Bianca at Goodnight Little Spoon for this ephemera

It's been fifteen days of delusion at this point. Frankly, I'm exhausted. My mind trying to keep itself from spinning into terror is tiring. Work is tiring. Being normal at home and behaving normally with the dog and husband is tiring, not to mention being normal in front of people who are not the dog and husband. 

I turn thirty on June 8, which is approximately two weeks from now. Two of my closest friends are flying in from New York to be with me, which is its own kind of miracle. But I worry that when they arrive, I won't really know them. They'll be as unreal as C and Daphne currently are. I won't trust that they are who they say they are, and therefore I won't be able to be affectionate without feeling a deep, aching sense of fraudulence. 

I spent Monday night sobbing on the floor of the dining room, feeling lonely as all get-out because I don't belong where I'm supposed to. 

Dr. M has suggested that I try Clozapine. I remember Clozapine. I first heard about it the first time I was hospitalized, in 2002; it was what the patients with schizophrenia took. However, it is also shown to cause agranulocytosis, which causes a dangerous decrease in the number of white blood cells, and has caused fatalities in some patients. The FDA has only approved Clozapine, also known as Clorazil, for patients willing and able to regularly go in for blood draws and neutrophil counts. It has five black box warnings. And it's usually used as a last resort, which means me -- I've tried every atypical antipsychotic on the block. Dr. M told me to think about it. It is, in most ways, my choice, and I don't know what to do. Do I keep living like this, and potentially let the illness (literally) eat away at my brain? Potentially live for more weeks, or months, without feeling love toward my most loved ones? Exhaust myself over and over again to keep up a front?

What do I do?   

Comments

MAY 22, 2013 :: 6:13 AM

I thought I'd say a little bit about my comments policy. I haven't addressed it before, but with all the kind notes people have been leaving on my virtual doorstep, I feel I need to say something.

Right now, I don't respond to comments. I read every single comment that is left here. I often copy comments into what a friend of mine calls a "Win Book," where I keep compliments and sweet words for those days when I feel like a total waste of flesh and bone. I do notice when people come here and comment repeatedly; I think of you, those repeat commenters, as friendly voices in the crowd. I appreciate your words deeply, and it is partially the comments and emails I receive that keep me going on with this blog.

However, I don't respond to comments for a very simple reason: I don't have time. I know that some bloggers would argue with this reasoning, giving me flak about how one "makes time" and such, but I honestly struggle with the amount of time I'm given in a day. I get into bed at 8. (Not kidding.) I wake up early, but have only three hours before I must start working at my day job, and I get less time if I need to commute to the office, which I do once a week; in that period, I do anything from blogging to working on my next book to going on a long, head-clearing walk. By the time I'm off the clock at the end of the day, I'm completely exhausted, and often in no mood to look at the computer anymore. I take a shower instead, or read magazines. I chat with friends. I talk to C. I make dinner and eat it. So I don't respond to comments.

If the fact that I don't directly respond to a comment bothers you, please don't feel obligated to write one. I really and sincerely appreciate them; I really and sincerely appreciate your time and your energy. If you have a direct question that you'd like me to address, feel free to email me. I'm slow about email sometimes, but I try my best. 

Thank you, all of you, for reading and for visiting. I am deeply grateful.

The Treadmill

MAY 20, 2013 :: 7:55 AM

NOTE: No, mom, I did not get a tattoo. The above picture is of a temporary tattoo, which came with a purchase I made a few months ago. So don't worry.

The last week has been challenging. You might think that living with the same chronic mental illness for nineteen years would make it more understandable. More logical. You'd start to look out for the same signs, the same signals, You'd settle on one medication regimen, and that one set of pills would have you going for life. All of this could not be further from the truth; at least, it hasn't been for me. My illness has changed shapes. It takes off masks and puts on new ones. It alters my metabolism so that the pills I use to fight it become less and less efficacious, until I'm taking ten pills of the same medication to get to the bare minimum of therapeutic levels. I live with hallucinations for years, and then they become quiet and fleeting, leaving me with delusions and louder symptoms of schizophrenias. Maybe it's like running on a treadmill. Some days, it goes fast. Some days, it goes slowly. Some days it doesn't move at all, and I find myself standing, not knowing whether to get off or run in place to keep up my strength. And one day, the darn thing just decides to go backwards. Next it'll turn into a eagle, and fly above our house in search of prey.

So I'm trying to protect myself in the best way that I can. I'm working with people on brainstorming contingency plans, and I'm reading blogs like Sustainably Creative for tips on how to do my job and keep up my work while allowing myself the space to rest. I asked my supervisor if I could start work an hour earlier, working from 9 to 6 so that I can have that built-in hour for walks, naps, or sipping tea on the couch while I stare out the window -- whatever my wise mind tells me it needs at the moment. 

On another note, I bought my first iMac (refurbished from Myservice, a company that I can't recommend highly enough for Mac-related repairs and sales) for my home office, and I'm completely and utterly smitten. Oh my gosh! The HUGE screen! I'm in heaven, folks. 

Am I totally asymptomatic right now? No. Am I functional? Yes. And I'd love to keep being functional, walking slowly on that treadmill, and taking care of myself. 

You take care of you, too. Be well. 

Recovering

MAY 12, 2013 :: 8:09 AM

My ability to communicate is slowly coming back, but the delusions and fears are still there. I still wake up afraid that the dog and the man -- but especially the dog -- are not the ones I know; I am afraid that I have been transformed into someone who is not the real woman, but a figment. The house also is a figment; the streets are filled with figments. I wake up at five, go on walks with my camera. To anchor myself in even the slightest bit I take pictures. I use Polaroids because the images come straightaway in my hands, and I can hold them. I see colorful colanders. I ask the man who owns the restaurant if I can photograph them. He says yes. I snap the photograph and minutes later, the colanders appear. They are evidence. I go home and show the photograph, yes, what a nice shot. I order more film because even though I am over budget for film this month I need to ground myself to keep the fear at bay.

One part of my brain knows how to do things. The lizard brain knows how to make coffee and get dressed. The other brain is smothering the lizard brain, tries to confuse it, says, "What is this room? What are clothes?" It looks at images and cannot make sense of them. Yes, this mishmash of things -- the lizard brain responds. I went to the optometrist yesterday. They asked for my phone number and the lizard brain said the number, but I did not know what a phone number was or what the numbers meant.

I chronicle this so that I will remember later.

A baseball stuck in a fence. A beautiful thing. Today is Mother's Day, but I gave my mother her present yesterday, because in Taiwan everything is a day earlier. I made her cry, but in a good way. A beautiful thing. A beautiful thing.

Unwell

MAY 10 2013 :: 9:41 AM

I am unwell again. Symptoms slowly tricklerd in asy yesterday omrning, and then got orse as noon came. A t noon it hit like w a a wave. Frusrating, to say the least, and tiring. I am vey tired.