In case I forget.


Forever and ever, amen.
November 19, 2007, 10:16 pm
Filed under: Dr. Neuro B, Husband, Memory, Mental Health, RX, Seizure

That’s how long it feels! Not that I don’t think about you. I do. But I thoughtfully avoid you. On purpose. So. To catch up.

Yep – went and saw Dr. Neuro B lo so long ago. Husband went with. Dr. Neuro B wasn’t thrilled that I had quit the Topomax even though HE had told me it was OK TO DO IT (hello???). He put me on Zonegran. Said come back in six weeks. This was after we discussed “alternative” therapies. And I was pretty clear that I thought cutting open my brain is pretty much over kill at this point. The three of us agreed. Dr. Neuro A insisted that I do a sleep study because he thinks that lack of good sleep in contributing to the ongoing lack of total seizure control. I agreed to do that. WooHoo! Another drug!! Lucky girl, I am.

Sleep study! WooHoo! Glue a bunch of stuff to my head! I have long hair! Make me sleep in clothes! Now my goodness THAT was weird. Make me sleep on a bed with a plastic cover. Oh yeah this is a realistic study of how I sleep. Oh yeah. Results came back that I do not have apnea but that I have hypopnea. Apparently I don’t take deep breaths when I sleep and my oxygen level drops low. So I go back for another study. He wants me to start using a CPAP machine. Oh, this I can’t wait for. I sleep with my face smashed into a pillow. THIS IS GOING TO BE FUN BOYS AND GIRLS!!

I went back two weeks ago for the Zonegran follow up. Not much has changed. He doubled the dosage to 200mg a day. But this time he pretty much pissed me off. I felt like he put me in a box. I had my left ankle wrapped, I was using my cane, and I had a bunch of sores on my foot below the bandage. As he was walking out of the room he said something like “if you took better care of yourself you wouldn’t have that sort of ankle weakness and those lesions are a symptom that your diabetes is out of control”. Hey doc, why not just put me in a fucking big Box of Assumptions??? I told him, no, that actually my ankle is wrapped because I torn a ligament and that the sores on my foot are not lesions, that they are mosquito bites I got out in the woods with my husband using his telescope looking at a comet. He had nothing to say to that.

I think maybe he’s getting to the point where he isn’t happy with me as a patient. You know how some doctors get unhappy because they feel like a failure because nothing they’re doing is working? I wonder if that’s where this guy is. I’m thinking about looking into the epilepsy center over at Baylor. I’m supposed to go back to see Dr. Neuro B in another five weeks and I’ll take his temperature then.

It’s almost Thanksgiving. I’m going in two days to get my CPAP machine. It would be great if it helps. They say bad sleep makes depression worse, and makes seizures worse, and makes memory worse. Would not it be too cool if this would make all that better?

The Ritalin is pretty cool. I forget to take it most days but I try to remember to take it at least in the mornings. It helps with my energy obviously (hey – speed helps me have more energy – isn’t that amazing?) and I think it actually has helped with my depression. The sex? Hmm. Maybe a little bit.

The Husband and I are working together to make the whole “Dump on one another equally” thing work. We had a huge blow up fight a few weeks ago. We never fight. Turns out maybe we should. We said stuff that apparently we should have been saying for a long time. It comes down to  I don’t want to dump my stuff on him because he has so much crap already and he doesn’t want to dump on me because I have so much crap already. He’s afraid that if he dumps on me that I’m fall apart because I’m so “fragile” and I’m afraid that if I dump on him that he’ll just be pissed off at me at that makes me so scared. So we’re working on it. We had our 6th wedding anniversary a couple of weeks ago and it was awesome.

I had this thing with my back start about a year ago – this sharp horrible pain about 2/3 of the way down on the right. One specific place, doesn’t move, doesn’t hurt except when it hurts. I can be sitting here and it doesn’t hurt at all but then I can move or twist a tiny bit and damned it’s horrible stabbing horrible. When I went to Dr. PCP about it a year ago he gave me Soma and Vicodin and it helped ease it for a while. It’s never gone away but it’s never been that bad again. It’s come back and it’s bad again but not THAT bad. He wants me to do physical therapy and I’m going to go do my evaluation for that next week. Hope that can help some. I’ve been popping a Soma and night and a Vicodin in the morning. The Soma leaves me groggy in the morning. The Vicodin works great during the day but neither are the answer. I got the name and number of a theraputic masseuse from a friend and if the physical therapy doesn’t do the trick I’m just going to go with the massage. Can’t hurt, right? RIGHT?

I’ll try to be a better blogger. I promise.



Sex, Depression, and Seizures
September 16, 2007, 10:21 pm
Filed under: Counselor A, Dr. Neuro B, Dr. PCP, Fear, Husband, Mental Health, RX, Seizure

Sex? What sex? The drugs they give me for depression destroy my libido. The drugs they give me for seizures mean I can’t take the only drug for depression that is less likely to destroy my libido. The seizures are directly linked to the depression. So it’s all circular.

Then, there is Ritalin. Hmm. Or rather, Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. That’s what my doctor wrote when I sent him an email about considering me using this drug. There is some evidence that it boosts the effectiveness of anti-depressants. There is some evidence that it can kick start a person’s libido that has been made dormant by other drugs. And of course there is a lot of evidence that it can improve energy levels and executive functioning. So I sent this email to my PCP:

Quick question. Is it worth our time for me to make an appointment to come in to talk with you about the possibility of Ritalin to address the total lack of libido in our home (Well, on the left side of the bed, anyway. The right side of the bed is doing just fine, if you don’t count frustration intense enough to cause a man to chew paint.)  thanks to these pretty little “take these so you won’t kill yourself” pills, or would you just tell me to shut up because you’re laughing to hard you’re going to pee your pants and you don’t have a spare pair at the office?

To which he replied:

hmmm.  I’ve never seen anyone use Ritalin for countering the decreased libido issue.  I’ve only heard of changing doses and adding Wellbutrin (which will worsen seizures, which would be a bad thing for you).  I wouldn’t want to cut down the dose because of what we’ve been talking about.  hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.   I dunno.  If you want to start Ritalin, you have to come in because it is a SUPER controlled prescription requiring a SPECIAL prescription paper to fill it.

The hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm cracked me up because I could just hear him doing it. He does it all the time when I’m in his office and he’s thinking. The thing is, when I sent him this email I included an article by a physician who is a Professor of Psychiatry, University of Pittsburgh Medical Center and Chief, Division of Adult Academic Psychiatry, Western Psychiatric Institute and Clinic, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania called “Sex and Antidepressants” where he discusses many possible “remedies” to address the problem and one of them is Ritalin. I did some research on all the drugs he mentioned and this was the one that best fits my problem and would give me the fewest side effects. The point of this whole thing is that I know there are many doctors who would react negatively to a patient doing something like this but my Dr. PCP is open to all sorts of things and, as you can tell from his email, doesn’t out of hand dismiss something just because he hasn’t encountered it before.

In the mean time, I’m due to see Dr. Neuro B in two weeks. At 600mg Lamictal I have returned to a manageable but still every day seizure pattern. I’m both looking forward to this appointment and dreading it. Looking forward because I’m sick of standing still, which is what I feel like I’ve been doing for about a year, and dreading it because my lack of success with Topomax will be my official 4th “failed” drug. Last time I saw him he said “alternatives” are our only next option with a 4th failed drug if I am still having seizure activity. So I’m both happy and nervous about all of that. It’s a good thing and a terrifying thing, too. Fingers crossed for an update in two weeks. All fingers. And toes, too.

At the same time, Counselor A says she thinks I don’t cry enough. I was in her office and she started talking about how she doesn’t think I talk to the people who love me about all the stress and pain I still have from this accident, and how hard it still is for me and always will be. I saw her the day after the 3rd anniversary of the accident and we talked about that. It made me cry so hard. I told her I didn’t want to do that – to sit in her office and cry about the anniversary and all the things it brings up in my head. She asked why I hadn’t talked with my husband about the anniversary and all the feelings it brought out. I told her that it’s just another day for everyone else, that it’s only an important day for me. She doesn’t think that’s true. I don’t go on and on about all this stuff with my family because geez you know they’ve got to be tired of listening to it.

It’s been three years – it shouldn’t be this big gorilla in my life anymore. Other people get hurt and they get on with it. So she thinks I should cry more – by that she means I should talk with my husband and friends about all this and she knows that if I did that I would blubber like a whale, but she thinks that would be a good thing. I have just never been a person to dump on other people. I explained to her that when I was hurt and physically unable to do for myself I had no problem asking for help. If your leg is broken you can’t get up and reach the top shelf of a cabinet or scrub your own feet. But just because I’m sad doesn’t me I’m going to dump on people. Everybody goes through hard stuff and I’ve gone through a lot of it in my life. A few months ago I was in Dr. PCP’s office and he started talking about something close to this and I waved him off. I told him that if he kept talking about it I would cry and I didn’t want to do that. He said he thought maybe I should. So two of the people who know more about what is in my head that anyone else in the world think I should just dump on my husband and my friends and sit around crying my heart out and feeling sorry for myself. I’m just not like that.



Stop it. Just stop it. And oh yeah, don’t call me, OK?
June 29, 2007, 11:39 pm
Filed under: Counselor A, Dr. Neuro B, Dr. PCP, Dr. Psych, Fear, Husband, Mental Health, RX

I remember when I last saw Counselor A. I told her that I just wanted to stop. That I was only willing to do what is absolutely necessary to get by and nothing else. So I go to work. I take a bath. I eat. I try to sleep, often with little success.

Sometime on Wednesday I realized that I’m doing things that I don’t absolutely have to do.

I don’t have to see a psychiatrist. I went to see Dr. Psych  yesterday and I told her that. I told her that I can’t afford to see her since she is out of network and that the only thing she can do is give me pills anyway.

One of the other things I realized is that I don’t have to take all these damned pills. I told her I am quitting the Lexapro. I told her I wanted to know how to get off the Effexor. She didn’t think any of this is a good idea but you know what? She doesn’t live in my head and she doesn’t know what it does to me every time I dump a handful of pills into my palm every  morning and night to swallow. She asked if she could talk with Dr. PCP about this and I told her it was fine, and that I would be seeing him that afternoon anyway. She asked if I would talk with him and tell him and I told her yes, of course, I don’t keep things like this from him. She gave me the names of two psychiatrists she knows who are on my insurance and said that if I can’t see her that I should see one of them. I don’t absolutely have to, and I don’t see the point anyway.

I don’t absolutely have to see a counselor. I’ve talked with Counselor A since November and it sure as hell hasn’t helped. I’m in much worse shape now than I was then. Understand, that isn’t her fault. She was so kind and I felt so safe sitting in that room with her. Our time together was good. But I was going down instead of up.

I don’t want to go down any farther.

I did see Dr. PCP yesterday afternoon. I told him I want to get off all these pills. He didn’t comment but he did tell me how to do it. I don’t know what his thoughts are, which is strange, because usually he tells me. I showed him how my hands have started to tremble over the last month or so. He stuck his finger in the air and had me move mine from my nose to the tip of his finger. He kept moving his finger farther back. He said the tremor got worse the farther back he moved his finger. I told him I’m seeing Dr. Neuro B on Monday and he said I should talk with him about it.

I had actually set the appointment with Dr. PCP because I needed to have blood drawn for Lamictal levels to take with me on Monday. I told him that I know he can’t code me for just a blood draw and asked him to look at some sores in my mouth. They’re small and white, and when I scrape the top off them there is a depression inside. (Depression. Ha. HA!)  Dr. PCP said the thinks it might be thrush. THRUSH???

He wrote me a prescription for Nystatin. I said, “It’s not a pill, right?” He said no, it’s not a pill. He said take a teaspoon or so, swish it in my mouth and then spit it out.  I said, “Swish and spit?” He said yes – that he was even going to write that on the RX. And he did. Made me chuckle when I got the bottle. I did it for the first time this afternoon. It didn’t taste so bad. Until about ten minutes later. A horrible, revolting, sour, metallic after taste. Hours later it is still there. A couple of times I thought it would make me throw up. I have to go do it again soon. I hope I can do this for five days and that it works.

I said to him, THRUSH??? He said that’s what it looks like. And then. THEN. T H E N he said he wanted to take a tube of blood to run an HIV test. I asked him why? It’s like my brain stopped. When he said thrush I immediately thought of a friend who has HIV and who also has had problems with thrush for a long time. I thought thrush=HIV. Of course, that’s not necessarily true. BUT. Dr. PCP said HIV test. I agreed and went about my day. Now, a day later, I’m stunned. I’ve been in a monogamous relationship for fifteen years. I reminded Dr. PCP of that when he said HIV test. He said to do it anyway.

So I’m stunned. I’m thinking of what it’s going to be like to be off all the psychiatric meds, and tonight I am sitting in bed terrified that on Monday he won’t just email me my lab results. If he calls me instead, I am pretty sure I won’t stay here. I’ve seen so many people slowly waste away with HIV. Back in the 1980’s my friends were dying left and right. A couple of them who were infected back then are still alive and their lives, how the disease has changed them and warped them, it’s horrific. When I said in a previous post that I know people with HIV who take fewer pills every day than I do, I was serious. But HIV is something I can’t face.

My first thought is that if Dr. PCP calls instead of emailing that I will loose my husband and job and home and car because I will have to be put in a rubber room. Or, I will go on and execute (Ha. HA!) that “How bad is it today?” plan because that will be the day I will have to say “Yeah, it’s that fucking bad.” Sitting across that exam table from Dr. PCP an pretending that I can even in my wildest dreams think of any way to deal with that talk, the “This is why I asked you to come in” talk, is so outside the realm of possibilities that I think it would be easier to fly across the sky. So I hope he emails me. If he calls me on Monday I don’t think I’ll answer the phone.



Don’t Pee on the Sofa
June 12, 2007, 9:22 pm
Filed under: Counselor A, Dr. PCP, Dr. Psych, Husband, Mental Health, RX

Counselor A called me back the Monday after I left her the message that I’m taking a break. She was very nice. She said she had gotten my message and then “You’re right of course, I don’t agree that this is the best thing for you”. We talked a bit and I explained that I’m just worn out – physically and emotionally. That I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m not making progress. Instead actually I’m getting worse. She asked if it was OK for her to talk with Dr. PCP and I told her yes. She asked if it is OK if she calls to check on me in a couple of weeks. I told her yes again. Such a nice lady. Not her fault I’m such a mess.

Dr. PCP called me the next day. Such a kind man. Wonder what I ever did to deserve him? Wonder what he ever did to deserve me? Poor guy. We talked for about 15 minutes. We talked about how everything is getting worse. He was very supportive and reinforced Counselor A’s belief that I should consider continue seeing someone, if not her. He told me he wants me to think about seeing a psychiatrist. I told him that all they do is write pills and I didn’t see the difference between them writing them and him. He said that psychiatrists can be more “aggressive” than he can with my kinds of needs. He said he would continue to pray for me. He touches me deeply by just caring for my with such sincerity.

I thought about our talk a few days and I went to see him Friday. His schedule was running behind and I had to wait about half an hour. I don’t mind this – I know that he works hard to be on time. I know that if he is late it is because another patient needed more time with him, and I respect that completely because heaven knows he gives me as much time as I need, often as much time as HE thinks I need which is sometimes more time than I want. I was very stressed about everything that is going on, and that I was going to have to talk with him since I am so embarressed to be what I consider is burden on him. I was rubbing my fingernail back and forth across the back of my hand in a line from the bottom of my index finger to the bottom of my thumb. I started rubbing it harder and then really digging in. I didn’t draw blood but I did dig a big gash in the skin. The next day it was a big dark scab. I’m keeping Neosporin on it and I hope it doesn’t scar badly.

Dr. PCP and I talked about where I am in my head. I told him that I had thought about his psychiatrist suggestion and that I had printed out a list of network providers from my insurance company’s web site. I gave him the list and he circled four names. He said that most first appointments for psychiatrist take about two months. He said that he doesn’t personally talk with the four he circled, but that he knows people who go to them. I asked him to write the name of some that he personally talks to and he did. We talked about how much trouble I’m having staying asleep – that I’m waking up all night an sometimes it’s very hard just to get to sleep. I told him I take a “swig” of NyQuil and that helps. He wanted me to try another drug, Seroquil. I said I had never heard of it. He said it is an anti-psychotic but that I shouldn’t worry – he doesn’t think I’m psychotic (“I don’t treat psychotics.”) but that it is used off-label to help with sleeping and depression. I had a hard time agreeing – one more damned pill for the pill box. Finally I said OK and he gave me some samples. He asked me to email him and let him know how I was doing.

I asked him to look at my thigh and tell me if he thinks anything is infected. He did and said, “No. You’re healing.” I told him it had been two days since I had cut.

None of the doctors he circled were available for at least two months – just like he said. I called the doctor that he knows and got an appointment in late June. He’s out of network but I think I can afford it since you really don’t see a psychiatrist regularly.

I tried the Seroquil that night. This is the email I sent him on Monday:

Hey Dr. PCP-

I took 50mg of Seroqiul about 10pm Friday night.

I slept as if in a coma until 1pm Saturday. Got up, paid homage to the pill box, went back to bed.

Woke up at 4pm sprawled sideways across the bed, on my belly and naked. My panties and t-shirt (which I had been wearing when I went to bed) were at the top of the bed in a big pile, along with my blankets. My head and left arm were hanging off the bed and my dog was stretched out by my side, my right arm wrapped around him in a death grip.

Got up, got dressed, had something to eat. Read for about an hour, until the words started swimming in circles on the page. Went back to bed about 6pm. While going to sleep my hands kept reaching up to turn the page of the book I had left in the living room. I kept thinking “there is no book here” but also kept trying to turn the page. I could feel the paper and hear the sound of it turning. That was really, truly weird.

Woke up around 8pm. Watched a movie with Husband. Stayed up until 2am, took another round with the pill box and 50mg of Seroquil, and woke up Sunday at 8am.

Fell back asleep at 11am and the day continued with weirdness. Staying up for a couple of hours, falling asleep for a few, and waking up again.

At one point I was sleeping on the sofa and became about half awake. I needed to pee but was so drugged I didn’t think I could move. I had a serious conversation with myself which involved a debate about just peeing on the sofa. The argument on the side of not moving included “There is a blanket under me. It will absorb most of it. The sofa is leather so I can just clean it when I get up because it won’t soak in.” I am proud to say my potty training won out. (As I’m sure Husband is, also.)

All of this plus some of the strangest dreams I have ever had (and that is saying a lot). I can see why this drug is used to control a psychotic. It knocked me on my ass. I didn’t take it Sunday night and don’t think this is the answer for me.

I did call the psychiatrist offices that you circled. As you said, next available appts Aug and Sept. I called Dr. Psych’s office. Next appt. June 27. I booked even though he is out of network and we’ll see how that goes. I have an appt with you before that but I’m going to cancel it since I don’t know that there is much of a point to it until we see that Dr. Psych says. So please let me know when you want to see me next. Very much want to visit Mr. Razor Blade but keep chanting in my head “Dr. PCP would not approve”. See? You help even when you don’t know you’re doing it.

I hope you slept a lot less than I did this weekend and didn’t seriously think about peeing on your sofa. Thanks for your time and help!

We emailed back and forth a few times yesterday and he asked if I want him to call Dr. Psych’s office and see if he can get me in earlier. I told him that I wouldn’t turn it down if he could. We’ll see.

I want to cut. I had planned to tonight when I was driving home. When I got out of my car I brought my blades into the house. I got tied up with email and snail mail and before I could cut my husband got home from work. He’s practicing guitar right now and I think it would be safe to do so. All my other cuts are healing. They’re past the scab stage and have progressed to the pink, itchy stage. We’ll see how it goes tonight.



F. X. Or? Z.
April 21, 2007, 10:36 pm
Filed under: Counselor A, Dr. PCP, Fear, Husband, Memory, RX

Well I can’t tell you how much I hate to say this, but Effexor appears not to be horrible. I have to admit this – it’s helping. I hate that because there is this stubborn stubborn person (me) who, regardless that I know it’s crap, just hates that I can’t will myself not to be depressed. I KNOW depression is a disease and that if my leg were broken (again) I couldn’t will it to get better so it makes no sense for me to expect myself to be able to will  myself to not be depressed but STILL. You know?

So it’s helping. And I’m grateful. But it still pisses me off.

AND. I think that seeing Counselor A. is helping, too. The two things we’re working on are:

1.  Get In and Get Out

2.  Choice: Victim or Working Through

I guess those should actually be in a different order.  A couple of weeks ago we were talking about the choice of going to a therapist to address the crap I’ve got in my head because of this accident and this injury and all the stuff that it has lead to. She talked about two examples of clients she has had who had been raped. She said one had come to therapy and worked through her trauma. The other had chosen to just plow forward and try to deal with it all by not necessarily denying it but by just going on. I don’t remember the exact point in the conversation but at some point I said, “Choosing to not let the rape define her.” I’ve thought a lot and I mean a LOT about that statement. Last week with Counselor A. I asked her – it that what I’m doing? Am I choosing to let this trauma define me and is that why I can’t get past it? Is this something I’m doing to myself? Her reaction was very strong in the negative. She said on the contrary that, by choosing to address what’s in my head and try to work through it that I am choosing NOT to let it define me. She said that she thinks this is a choice of courage. I’m doubtful that that is true, but I’d like to think so. She said that some people, when the trauma is severe, just can’t plow through it. And that if they try, it comes back to bite them on the ass later. We’ll see.

The Get In and Get Out part? I’m adjusting to the thought process. The premise is that I push it all down.  Every time I find myself running this accident and all the crap surrounding it through my head, I try to get away from it. I tend to think I’m dwelling on it and fight against it, and the going theory is that this is why it’s become a “white noise” that won’t go away. Counselor A. has suggested a different approach, which is, when it comes to the forefront of my thoughts to let it be there. To pay attention and look at it both ways. And after a period of time, to choose not to think about it for a while, but to make it OK to think about it for a period of time. Get into the thoughts and then get out of them. Sounded like woo woo crap to me, too.

For example. I was in the shower one day last week and I was washing my hair. The recovery period came into my head. I started thinking how horrible it was to just try to do basic things, like get clean. How helpless I was, and how I depended upon The Husband for the simplest things. Like taking a bath. Before I would have run through the horrible thoughts – the pain and shame of not being able to clean myself, of having to ask for help just to wash my hair. But this time, instead, as I went through the process of bathing, I took each step and looked at how it was and how it is now.

Just getting into the shower was terrifying. There is a lip at the shower door that I had to hop over to get in. My husband had to brace my whole body and hold me by my right elbow. I had to hop over the lip onto the slippery tile with my right foot. It was shockingly scary. I was so afraid I would not hop far enough and that I would fall. I never did, but what stayed with me was the fear. So this time when I thought about it, I focused on the fact that I did it every time. I concentrated and I was strong, and I forced myself to have faith in myself and my husband that we could do it. And we did.

As I stood under the hot water spray I remembered how I had to sit on this plastic shower chair with my broken leg sticking out of the door. I remembered how hot and sticky my skin would get under the plastic and tape we had to wrap around my leg and arm so I could bathe. I remember again the total helplessness of my husband having to scrub my skin and wash my hair, how he had to lift my feet to clean them, and how he had to rinse me off like a baby. I was grateful but I felt weak and worthless. At first I could barely sit up in the chair long enough to get through it. I was exhausted by the time it was over and had to sleep for hours afterward.

This time I thought about how I got stronger. I remembered the first time my husband helped me make that hop into the shower without the chair in it. That was the first time I stood and tried to scrub myself. I was only able to scrub my chest and the front of my thighs, the top of my right arm and my face. I was able to sort of wash my hair with my left hand.  By the time we were halfway through I was leaning against the tile wall and my husband was basically holding me up. I was exhausted. But I got stronger. Eventually I was able to stand by myself. Then one day, I was able to be in the shower with the door closed and my husband sitting on the bathroom counter outside just so he would be there to help me in and out or if I got too tired. Finally, I snuck in there and took a shower by myself when he wasn’t home. He was upset when he got home and found out, but I felt very proud. I hadn’t told him or asked him because I just wanted to see if I could do it. It was scary and I was so tired when it was over, but I was very proud.

So as I washed my hair this time, I concentrated on how good it felt to have both of my hands working the shampoo into my scalp. When I washed my feet I thought about how far I have come that I can stand on one leg and lift my foot up to clean it, then do the same with the other. I am strong enough to do it, I have my balance so I don’t have to lean against the shower wall. Hell, I can even shave my legs!

I have come so far. I had incredible help from so many people, but I am the one who chose to make progress. The other night my husband and I were laying in bed talking before going to sleep. He was telling me about a guy who is in a sport club that he participates in. He had been out with the club that morning and the guy had asked about me – I’ve never been out even though a lot of other member’s wives have. My husband told me that he replied “She is the most incredible person I’ve ever known.” He told me that he went on to tell the guy about the accident and how badly I was hurt, how hard I worked to come back from it and how well I’ve done. I was embarrassed by all of this but also very proud that HE is so proud of me. I told him that I didn’t feel like I had done anything that anyone else would do, and that I was able to do what I’ve done because of his support and help. He said no, that he doesn’t think that if it had been him that he would have tried so hard. He remembered how much pain I was in, and how I pushed and pushed and just didn’t give up. How I kept saying “It will never be easier that it is today.” He said that if it had been him that he thinks he would have just stayed in bed feeling sorry for himself. I told him I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself. He said yes, but that I did it sitting up in the wheelchair working for 12 hours a day to bend my hand or in physical therapy making my legs strong so I could walk again.

I told him again that I couldn’t have done it without him. He said that he wouldn’t have done anything he did if I hadn’t asked for it. He said that every time he helped me to the toilet, or helped me into the wheelchair, every time he stood beside me as I used that one hand to wash my hair, it was because I was pushing to get better and asking for help to do so. He said that he told that guy repeatedly, “She is incredibly strong.”

So I’m working on letting that be OK. And the Effexor is helping me feel good about it.



Ups and Downs and All Arounds
April 2, 2007, 3:19 am
Filed under: Counselor A, Dr. Hypnotist, Dr. PCP, Fear, Husband, Mental Health, RX

Quitting Cymbalta was a good thing. Just two days after I quit my sleep returned to normal. Which was great. I’ll see Dr. PCP in about a month and tell him I quit. Counselor A and my Husband both thought I should go see him when I was quitting but I want to wait. I feel like I’m running to him all the time with every little thing. He tells me I’m not a pest but he’s such a nice guy I doubt he would tell me I am even if he thought so.

I’ve seen Dr. Hypnotist three times now. He’s done the hypnotist thing twice. The first time when he began I just couldn’t help but tell him I felt silly. But it went pretty well. I was very aware of the world while it was going on – the sounds of traffic outside, the air blowing from the vents, his voice, my body and how it felt. But I was also not totally conscious the way I am on a day to day basis. Sort of hard to describe. I remembered everything he said to me afterward. I didn’t know what to expect but he just talked to me, told me a story. It was about Erikson and his daughter. I have to tell you – when he brought me out of it – I can’t remember feeling so languid and comfortable. I took a big big stretch and told him I thought he should change his practice to include a room with a sofa, pillow, and blanket so people could take a little nap after being hypnotized. I felt that relaxed. He asked me how long I thought I had been in trance and I told him 10-15 minutes. He smiled and said I had been down 45 minutes. Unbelievable.

The second time I saw him it was totally different. I remember sitting in the chair and I remember the beginning of the process he used to take me down. I remember a tiny bit of the story he told me – something about someone having had stitches and then that person’s brother needing stitches and there being a competition that the second person wanted MORE stitches that the first had gotten. Sibling rivalry at its best! I also remember at one point he told me that one of my hands would feel like it had fallen asleep – tingle and numb. And I remember that it did feel that way. That’s all I remember and I know I was down about 45 minutes again. I’ll see him again this week and ask him what happened last time. I have no idea if he just kept talking or if I responded or what happened. Also, for the last week I’ve been having very strange dreams. My Mother and Father are both dead. My Mother has been dead for almost 20 years, and my Father for 10 years. I can’t remember the last time I dreamt about either of them. But in the last week or so I’ve had at least one very, very strange, very detailed, very vivid dream about each of them. Just last night I had a bizarre dream that involved Ganny, my mother’s mother. In each of these dreams there has been at least a few moments that took place in the house I grew up in. This house does not have happy memories for me. And in each of these dreams something violent or scary happened that involved me.

I was out of town last week so I didn’t see him. Both times after I have seen him I’ve felt so darned good most of the week after. Very relaxed, a good bit more positive than I have been for a long time. But last week and especially this weekend things have been really bad in my head. The “white noise” has become a lot louder. It is now more of a conscious thing that I think about a lot every day. The accident has been front and center in my brain and I’ve been actively trying to remember the feelings I had in the hospital, how badly the physical therapy hurt, how isolated I felt all those months at home in the wheelchair.

Worse of all, I’ve been thinking a lot about pain. I hate to admit this – really hate to admit this – but I’ve been thinking about causing myself pain of hurting my body. Not in the suicide ideation sort of thinking – nothing like that. But I’ve been thinking about those girls who cut themselves. I’ve been wondering what that feels like and what kind of mental release it gives them. I’ve been picturing taking a razor blade and carving tiny little parallel lines in the top of my thigh. Not deep, just enough to draw a little blood. I’ve never ever had these kind of thoughts before. It worries me, and it fascinates me all at the same time. I think the only thing that has kept me from doing it is that I can’t figure out how to hide the marks from my husband while they heal. I’m thinking I should talk with Counselor A about this but at the same time I am scared to. It is such a self destructive thing to even think about much less do and I don’t know what she will feel like she needs to do. I certainly don’t want her to talk to Dr. PCP about it, or Dr. Hypnotist, or worse of all, my husband. I can ask her not to, but I know that there are exceptions to the rules of confidentiality and that if she feels compelled I probably can’t stop her from trying to reach out to Dr. PCP or my husband to help me. I feel compelled to talk with someone about this because it scares me to be thinking this way, but at the same time I am scared that she won’t keep it between us.

I am scared that this might be some sort of side effect manifesting from the Lamictal. I’m at 600mg a day now and that’s a relatively high dosage. Also, for the last few weeks I am having the experience of the tip of my index fingers going numb. I also worry that this might be connected to the increased Lamictal dosage. I know these are not side effects that are listed on the Lamictal information sheet, but I also know that Lamictal is a very quirky drug that is known to have strange side effects on different people. I’m afraid to even ask Dr. Neuro B about any of this because I am afraid that if he thinks these things are connected to the drug that he will take me off of it. I am having so much success with this drug I don’t want to give it up no matter what. At this 600mg dosage I am down to 10-15% days, and I have even had a couple of days where, when I do burp, it surprises me because I actually had forgotten about burping all day. That is a heaven sent blessing.

So basically right now I am afraid of a lot of things. I am afraid I might have this drug taken away. I am afraid that maybe I could hurt myself. I am afraid that it is an attractive idea. I am afraid that maybe this hypnotism is somehow manifesting these feelings in my, and allowing the “white noise” to become so much stronger. I am worried that maybe this hypnotism has something to do with these weird dreams. I am just plain scared right now and that’s a hard place to be.



Satin Pillow To Cry On
November 12, 2006, 8:00 am
Filed under: Dr. PCP, Fear, Husband, Mental Health, RX

I’m a sucker for those smarmy old Tammy Wynette songs. And even though I don’t use satin sheets or pillows (100% Egyptian cotton for me, baby!) I did wake up in tears this morning. It was from a dream – which I won’t torture you with – where I was incompetent and frustrated and getting yelled at for doing a bad job.

I got out of bed and left my husband to snore in peace. I came into the living room, got a diet coke, and swallowed all my morning pills. I am 42 years old. Every morning I swallow five pills, all of them prescribed to treat medical conditions which, if I wasn’t lucky enough to have diagnosed and treated, would probably eventually kill me in a slow, painful, unnecessary way. Every night I swallow yet another pill. These days I am also working my way through a Medrol dose pack, a big bottle of muscle relaxers, and a bigger bottle of narcotic pain relievers. When I go to bed at night I set my alarm for some cold, dark hour so I can swallow more of those last two. This makes it possible for me to not wake up literally screaming in pain six hours after the last time I swallowed that set of pills.

There is something wrong with my back. Something hideously painful that was so bad Thursday night that my husband called in sick to work Friday morning and hauled my creaking ass to Dr. PCP’s office without an appointment because he said I had screamed on and off all night, whenever I tried to move in my sleep. I only remembered the horrible pain just before I woke up. I was too exhausted to remember the rest of it from three nights of the same pain low in my thoracic spine. So Dr. PCP loaded me up with drugs that will hopefully settle everything down back there. I have my fingers crossed double.

Because of the narcotics and the muscle relaxers I’m not in pain right now. It’s six am and I had set my alarm to wake me at three am to swallow more pharmaceutical magic.

So anyway I woke up and came in here in tears from a bad dream. I sat down, ran my email, swallowed my regular morning drugs. Even though I have to wait an hour after taking all those drugs before I can have breakfast I am very hungry. I opened the electronic version of my local newspaper and after just a couple of minutes of headlines, my mind went to my Ruger, which this morning is sitting on the kitchen counter. I had this urge to go get it and blow my brains out.

I am not suicidal. I have a very low opinion of “Well I’m just going to KILL MYSELF!” people. But this morning, it sure went through my brain as a good way to deal with all this. I am so tired. Tired of being sick. Tired of being needy, pathetic, in pain, scared. I feel like I have become my mother, something I worked hard all my life not to be. I am in pain, I have a whole colony of plastic amber Walgreens bottles with child safety caps on my bedside. I wake early in the morning and watch the sunrise alone, worried about what will go wrong with me next. Because it has gotten to the point where it seems like there will always be a next. I feel very old, and I feel like a burden to my wonderful husband who only 15 years ago fell in love with a vibrant, happy, creative, funny, afraid-of-nothing auburn haired firecracker. I am no longer that woman. I feel so much like less than I was.

I tell myself that this will pass, that this abject sadness is all the drugs. Narcotics and steroids can make you think crazy things. I tell myself that maybe not tomorrow or the next day, but that maybe the day after that I will feel different. I used to have faith that I am a good judge of myself and that I am smart enough and honest enough to usually be right. I tell myself a lot of things in my head. But I am also a woman of extremes these days. This morning, with soft pink light in the sky, I am a woman of extremes. In just the last 30 minutes I have gone from Tammy Wynette to the Butthole Surfers as I sit here wiping my tears and drippy nose on my sweater. I’ve never been one of those women who is beautiful when they cry.

They were all in love with dyin’
They were doing it in Texas