Category Archives: Anger

Dear Depression, Fuck You

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You are not me.  You are not a part of who I am.  You may have the power to dictate what I can and cannot do, but you are not something I accept, you are not part and parcel of my life and living with mental illness.

You have robbed me of so much joy, you have stolen years of my life.  I won’t take it anymore.  Yes, even as I sit up here sobbing because downstairs my mother and father are celebrating; it’s his birthday and I spent fifteen minutes with him before I was driven upstairs by you, you piece of shit.

I don’t want you.  I didn’t ask for you.  It’s not my fault that there is no medication on this earth that can drive you from my life.

But I want you gone anyway.  You are not part of me, you are not welcome, stop taking and taking and taking all that I love from me.

I’m scared of my friends, I’m scared of my family, of my life, of my thoughts, of my words.

I was happy today.  I was driving, and the windows were down, and I had the music full blast, and I should have just stayed on the highway, I could have been on the coast by Friday morning.

But I came home, and then came you.

So I say fuck you, I say go to hell, I say leave me be.  One week, one day where I can live without being crippled by your death-grasp.

I can’t do this anymore.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Because I Can

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I’m finally letting myself show anger, even rage, call people on the bullshit they hand me, their lies, singular or repeated, all of it.

Because I can.

I purged an old, dead email account of its contents the other day.  What (at the time) I felt was a stupid move was reading a bunch of those emails first.

I was aghast.  I saw myself being emotionally and psychologically abused to a horrifying degree.  Had there been a physical analogue, I would have been the woman in the ED who “fell down the stairs”, “walked into a door”, or was “just the clumsiest woman ever, you won’t believe what I did to myself. . .”  And I would have ended up there daily, until eventually I landed in the ICU, on life support.

Reading those emails was something that needed to happen, though, because it wasn’t just one relationship, and it hadn’t been just with guys I was “involved” with.  I took a long, hard, painful look at the woman I have become, and I’m angry.

I’m angry at myself, but I’m also angry at all of the people who had a big hand in turning me into this woman.  Because I never used to be this way.  You swung at me, I ducked and hit back twice as hard.  You lied to me, I called you on it straight out and gave you the option of being honest henceforth or getting the fuck out of my life.  You treated me badly, or took advantage in any way, I walked and never looked back.

I entered treatment for my bipolar, and slowly, but slowly, I began to wear down, and people took advantage of that.  Even though I knew I was doing everything possible to be well, and that I had never taken my illness out on others — except for a few, a very few, bursts of shouting and tears — I felt like I was a burden just being in people’s lives, and I had to do everything I could to compensate and please others.  This belief was reinforced when friends I’d known for years started backing away; the mother of one of the children I nannied for started distancing herself and telling me how disappointed her child was when I didn’t show up for something because I was curled up in my bed, sobbing, unable to even move (yet I always at least gave her notice that I wouldn’t be there); and finally, my sister, with whom I had always been very close, and my best friend of 20 years both decided to cut off all contact with me, basically telling me that they couldn’t handle “my drama”, and other behavior that was completely beyond my control — even though I was still working my soul to the core trying to prevent them or anyone else from being negatively affected.

Clearly, there was something wrong with me beyond my illness, as a person, and I was lucky to have anyone still in my life at all, so I had to (and did) do anything and everything to keep them.

FUCK THAT.

A sister who walks out on you when you are at your lowest is not a sister.  For a long time I have been compassionate, because she genuinely didn’t get it.  She couldn’t understand why I wasn’t getting well.  But you know what, it doesn’t matter if you understand or not; you love someone, you support them.  You do not call them “a black hole”.

A friend who uses her children to hold you hostage — consciously or not — because you know they are little and they love and need you, and that if you call Mommy on her lies and bullshit and manipulation she will cut off the contact you have with them, I don’t even have a word for that.

Friends who back away because you are as contagious as a leper, and even if they know that statement is true, who don’t want to deal with the fact that you have to fight constantly to keep your head above the swells while they can get up and live their lives every day are not friends at all.

And new people in your life whom you will put up with, excuse even, all manner of garbage from, all while hiding or making light of how bad things have really gotten, because you’re desperate for someone, anyone, to “support” you and show you kindness. . .  Well, that one is on me, but I never would have gotten there without the concerted efforts of the people above.  Yes, they had every right to make a choice to remove themselves from my life, but they were cruel and weak and cowardly to have blamed me, instead of having the guts to admit that they couldn’t deal with being spectators to the struggle I was living and the constant pain I was in.  Because, had they done so, they would have had to admit to themselves that what I lived every day was an enormous struggle, and so unspeakably painful, and they were cutting and running, abandoning me when I needed them more than I ever had.

For years I have searched for the reason I let my former psychiatrist lie and manipulate and force me into electroconvulsive therapy — I can finally use the word FORCE, for the very first time, and you don’t know what a triumph that is — and at last, I have found it.  It was the result of a long line of abandonments and betrayals and manipulations and lies by those I loved and trusted most.  I had been made to feel like less than nothing for so long that I had come to believe it as gospel truth, and who cared that the old me, the real me, had been firmly and unwaveringly against ECT with all of her being for three-and-a-half years?  She wasn’t standing guard any more, and my opinion didn’t count.  How could it, when I didn’t count as a person myself?

That’s something I get to carry with me always.  The permanent brain damage, and the post-traumatic stress I have from being anesthetized, having electrodes hooked up to my head, having a current, a shock pass through my brain to induce a seizure in me — sixteen times over.  I blamed myself for that, too.  Up until about an hour ago.

And still, I put up with bullshit and manipulation and being treated as less than a person by people I love, because it is all I know anymore.  Almost three years to the day of my first shock and seizure.

Now, three years and fifteen days after that first blast of electricity, arguably the lowest point of my life, it ends.  I’m done.  I’m worth more than that, a hell of a lot more.  I am often a hard person to have in your life, and that has always been so, it has very little to do with mental illness.  But I am the best friend you will ever have, if you are willing to accept me, all of me, and give back.

I am smart.

I am compassionate.

I am intelligent.

I am strong.

I am creative.

I am resilient.

I am supportive.

I am loving.

I am beautiful.

I am selfless.

I have a strong moral compass.

I am patient.

I am understanding.

I am honest.

I am accepting.

I am forgiving.

I am idealistic.

I am open-hearted.

I live my beliefs.

And I once again believe that I am worth it, that I am worth more, much more than I have been given in the past six years of my life.  From friends, from lovers, from family.

So I will live my life accordingly from this day on.

Because I can.

“I ain’t a soldier, but I’m here to take a stand. . .”

~ Jon Bon Jovi/Richie Sambora/Billy Falcon


© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Please Don’t Take A Picture

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Any psychiatrist who says to a patient who is crying frantically to him or her on the telephone, “Well, there isn’t anything left to do,” should be taken out into a field and shot.

Not shot and killed, mind you.  Not even shot where it might do severe damage, maybe just leave a lifetime of arthritis.

Then, they should be rushed immediately to the hospital, and given all the best medical care — but absolutely no anesthesia or pain medication in any form.  They should have to lay on the operating table, wide awake and fully conscious as the doctor probes around for the bullet and patches them up.

And every time they cry out from the agony of it, the doctor should respond with, “There isn’t anything left to do.”

They should be given nothing to treat the pain for the duration of the healing process, either. Not even an aspirin.  And they should be expected to immediately resume all duties of life, never wincing, never groaning when the pain shoots through them, not limiting themselves because they know they are injured and healing.

They should have to keep going through every day of their lives, and I hope that doctor who removed the bullet did a shitty enough job so the old injury does pain them regularly, so that they can have a constant reminder of what it is to be desperate and be told by the only person who can in fact do something, “There isn’t anything left to do,” when they knew the whole goddamned time that there was a great deal left could be done.

* * * * *

In case I haven’t made it vividly apparent, I had a very upsetting encounter with my psychiatrist this evening.  The story is for telling another day (if at all), but I am okay.  I want everyone reading this to know that.  And I am sorry if I worried anyone with my previous post.  Sometimes I need to write to get things out, and sometimes that writing needs to be public, and sometimes that writing needs to be vague.  It was not my intention anyone should be upset.

Sending you love and kisses,
(a very tired)
Ruby

“After all, tomorrow is another day.”

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Premenstrual Dysphoria, Mood Disorder, And All The Joy That Comes Along With It

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It started during the first round of the NHL playoffs, I know that for certain.  Well, that’s the first time I noticed something, anyway.  I remember sitting in my family room, overwrought and having murderous thoughts about my father every time he would flip to another channel during period breaks.  It got me timing them on my phone, 17 minutes to the second, and after that he had better watch out.  I didn’t really think too much on it, after all, hockey is the closest thing I have to an organized religion, and I’ve been pretty intense through playoff seasons in the past.

Except a few days later, it progressed to me watching the games on the television in the basement.  I was very upset and reactive, and not just about hockey.  My father became the target for my anger, and my mother for my not-quite-hysterical crying jags.  I thought it was hypersensitivity and anxiety, and in many ways, it was.  Just not quite the ways that I thought.

Then my head started pounding with migraines.  I became exhausted.  I already knew my emotions were all kinds of erratic.  And I was spacey and generally unfocused.  I would stop in the middle of sentences and just stare off at nothing, losing thoughts – or even the ability to generate them – completely for a minute or so.  I knew by then things were not at all right.

The migraine tied it up into one neat little cluster of symptoms for me.  It was all related to my headaches, a seed my psychiatrist had planted with complete innocence at one of our early visits.  He had discussed my migraines, my mood, and done some very casual speculating about temporal lobe epilepsy.  I brushed it off entirely in the moment.  When I was having psychogenic nonepileptic seizures (PNES) from the post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) that manifested due to the electroconvulsive therapy (ECT), I was sent to see a neurologist specializing in seizure disorders, the Man, every doctor in the land knew of him and how good he was (and I had to wait six months for an appointment).  He cleared me absolutely of epilepsy, or any kind of pathological seizure disorder apart from the one induced by the trauma.  And yes, it was fun to stick all of those unpleasant acronyms into one sentence, thank you.

But with my bipolar disorder stabilized, there was this strange cluster of symptoms that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt were not bipolar-related, and the migraine was seemingly the pivotal item upon which they all rested.  There had to be more to explain it.  Especially because shortly after the migraine episode passed, my symptoms remitted.  After a second episode when I was back home to visit my family in Pittsburgh, I began to poke into information on partial seizures, and even made an appointment with Dr. the Man.  But while, in theory, things were coming together, something about this explanation didn’t feel right to me.  I canceled the appointment and just kind of left things alone to simmer.

Then last month, a light bulb went off.  The light started in my uterus, but quickly made its way to my brain.  I was holed up in my room, I had been for days.  I wanted to smash someone or something, I was gobbling up Xanax and weeping, everything around me was irritating and stupid, I was exhausted and my head hurt. . .  And then I had a cramp.  Just a small one, but it pulled everything together in my mind.  I looked up the symptoms of premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD), and voila!  My mom had it, too, which I knew somewhere in my brain.  They gave her a couple of medications to try back in the day, but apparently the cure was worse than what ailed her, and she just had to ride it out. Cooped up in a house all day.  With two small children.  Good Lord, that woman really is a saint.

So between me, my OB/GYN, and my psychiatrist (except mostly it was me), we’ve got it all set to where I up my mood stabilizers (Carbatrol and gabapentin) at a certain point in my cycle, and I’m a normal (well, my version of normal), mostly functioning human being again.  I’m still a little more anxious, irritable, and weepy, but I have been getting by pretty well on the balance. Especially since I started kickboxing again. Such joy, such release, endorphins, everything that is good.

So since things are going so well, let’s throw something into the mix to fuck things up.  It’s the way things work for me, I think I would be caught more off of my guard if things just went to plan.  And honestly, there is no bitterness in that statement.  I am completely used to it by now.

The IUD.  Oh God, the saga of the IUD!  Everything about it has been great, except the excruciating pain after insertion and the unholy cramping of my last period.  I don’t think I gave quite an exact idea of that, and even if I did, I’m going to again.  Keep in mind, ladies, that this is super-atypical.  There is usually increased cramping during your first couple of periods, but not, not, not anything like this.

Last period, I spent the majority of time basically bed-bound.  I had a heating pad cranked up to very high, I was taking Vicodin, alternating every three hours with mega-doses of ibuprofen, and I added in some old, expired muscle relaxers that belonged to my dad (he was happy to contribute what was left in the bottle as long as I shut up after I said the word “cramps” – and by the way, don’t be stupid and ever try this at home), and I had worked out a technique to keep myself immobile from the chest down by the end of the first day.  It was a simple thing, I moved, I wanted to die.  Pain really is a fantastic learning tool.

And still, and still, all of these measures only made my pain just bearable.  I swear to you that I am not playing up the intensity of this.  It started in my back, wrapped around my abdomen, and actually went shooting all the way down through every nerve in my left leg, out through my foot.  My OB/GYN said that it sounded as bad as labor pain to her.  I have no frame of reference, but I did feel totally legitimized and not like I was being a whiny bitch about things.  So that was nice.

And now I’m counting down to go time again.  I’ve got my shiny new bottles of (doctor prescribed) medication in my nightstand.  I’ve got my heating pad next to my bed.  I am all prepared.  Only I’m stressed as fuck about it, of course.  And ladies, you should know what stress can do.  It can delay your period!  Which for me means a longer time on an increased dose of mood stabilizers.  Which at this point is honestly making me a little dopey.  Time is passing oh-so-incredibly slowly, I’m walking around in a bit of a fog, and I just feel like there is something like a medication buildup clogging my brain.  But I can’t knock my doses down, because even now I’m still edgy.

Of course, there is somewhat of a light.  The good doctor and I agreed that we’ll (we’ll? what, is she going to go through the pain, too?) try two more cycles, and if the pain doesn’t get any better, the IUD comes out.  Which is a bridge I shall cross if and when I can see it in front of me.  Right now it’s a pretty long way off.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

The ECT Post

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So you want to talk ECT?  Let’s, then.  Let’s, then.  I can’t tell the truth about it when I am sober, it’s still too scary.  It’s even a little scary while I am drunker than I have ever in my life been.  Does that give you a preview?

You ask me if I would tell you to have ECT, “If I wanted only your best interest. . .”  We’ve been over the best interest part.  I have, anyway.

Do you know how simple the conversation about ECT would be, if I had only you to think about, someone I love and know intimately?  Were it only you, I would say outright that ECT is evil, it is the most fucked-up thing I have ever, and will ever encounter in my life, I do not doubt that; and if it were you and me only in this world, that it should be banned, outright? Made illegal, a form of torture, a war crime, a crime against humanity, whatever the very worst thing in this world that would bring forth the worst retribution could be?

Yes.  It’s that bad. Honestly.  So bad that I think I may have to have another blast or two, then take my vodka into the bathroom and write this there, because I am feeling sure anything else will make me throw up.

But I need to get the truth, my honest truth, out to you.

Fuck.  It’s a fine line, because once I start puking there will be no more typing.  But I need to maintain a certain degree of inebriation to be able to let this out.  More than two years in the making.

ECT is the Devil, Em.  Capital D, Devil.  It is the worst thing I have ever experienced in my very intense life.  (And wow am I wishing I had never eaten those potato chips right now.  The fear of vomiting is less to me if I don’t taste first what will come up).  Fuck don’t close your eyes or you’ll get the spins.

I have said before that I cannot explicitly say that I am 100% for banning ECT, because some people claim it has helped them.  And perhaps so they feel it has.  But it would help you exactly the way it did me.

Which it didn’t.

Would you find some temporary relief?  Perhaps.  Because it would numb and destroy the pain.  It would numb and destroy your brain.  And the pain would come back, but your brain wouldn’t.  And you are so incredibly intelligent, Em, that at some point in your life you would notice.  Lots of people don’t, and so hooray for them, because they never ever know what they have lost.  They live forever in mindless oblivion, and so hooray for them, because of their ignorance, they are happy.

But you wouldn’t be, as I am not.

I have found peace, this is true.  I have gotten back what I can possibly retrieve (which is more than most people, and now I know why I was never an alcoholic), but few days go by, if any, when I am not reminded of what is forever lost to me.

Forever.  Forever.  And ever and ever and ever.  I may finally have reached a point where I have decided to live with what has happened (consciously, I have made the decision), but that doesn’t mean that I am ‘okay’ and am moving on with my life.  In the broader sense, yes, but in the more exact sense, I will never be okay with what was done to me.  What I said, ‘Okay, do to me.  Please, please.  You said it would help, you said it would fix me.  Dear God, fix me!  Make me better.  Please make me able to face another day, another moment.’

I’m sobering up, I think that’s all for tonight.

Except for two words:  Self-blame.  (One word, it’s a hyphenate.  I think I’m going to vomit up that Grey Goose now).
 
 
(I have edited only major mistakes for the sake of clarity.  I will not allow for comments on this post, because I am in a terror at the possibilities.  Please respect that.)

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

On Being A Bitch

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(I really wanted to first write a post on all the sweet comments and commiserations and sympathy I got from the lovelies who responded to my most recent post, but I guess this needs must come out now.) 

My mother and I were heading upstairs a few minutes ago, her to go to sleep, me, apparently to write this post (though at the time I had no thought nor intention, the fact that I am now hitting the keys with a formed idea tells me it was a forgone conclusion).

Mom said to me, “You’re so sweet.”

I thought about it, and struggled for half a moment, before responding, truthfully, “Sometimes.  Sometimes I’m just a bitch.”

My lovely mother responded with something like incredulity (on my behalf).  ”What, like I’m not ever a bitch?”

You would have to know my mom and me and have been privy to years of us in our most intimate moments to follow the rest of the conversation.  But the gist was about how when my mom is a bitch, it’s in an ‘I’m tired, I’ve had a long day/week/month, I need some space, I’ll snap at you’ way.  Every man, woman, and child had been a bitch like that.  And yes, through the years, she has sometimes upped her game and been a real bitch, but it has been rare.

Even at her worst, though, her most intense, out-of-control-bitch-ness, I don’t think she has ever come close to me (and she agrees, though she loves me much too much to outright say so).  My level of bitch cannot even be explained away as mood disorder related, though on some occasions that has added fuel to the fire.  I am something that there isn’t even properly a word for, when I am a “bitch.”

Because when I am a bitch, I am intense, intelligent, persuasive, subversive, focused, relentless, forceful, and ten million kinds of dangerous.  I could probably do more damage than an H-bomb.  Seriously.  Ask anyone who has known me intimately and at length. Actually, don’t.

I don’t bring out the bitch very much any more.  I keep her in check, because I know well the harm she can do.  She can destroy nations (though her work typically runs on a slightly smaller scale), because she has a pretty spotless history.  All of her crusades have been honest, informed, and honorable.  How powerful is that?  A bitch who only ever fights for causes that are noble and worthy of her faith, and who can stand up to everything that is dished out at her and still walk away without a spot or a stain.  Gives me chills.

Liberty Leading The People ~ Eugene Delacroix

So yes, I have reined in the wrath, and I have learned to wield my power responsibly.  And I have gone from Liberty Leading The People to La Belle Dame Sans Merci. Which has actually brought me full circle in a way that is not worth my words to explain.  

I present, instead, a visual for all of you. I’m not sure whether to be proud of myself or frightened. Probably both.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci ~ Frank Cadogan Cowper


© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Soul Shocked

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I confess that I have been feeling this way lately.  It’s that special time of year again, the time the creeps up on me, not without my knowledge, but at least this time without my preparedness.  The post-traumatic demons caught me, in spite of my best efforts.

You see, it was about this time two years ago that I started my course of what would ultimately be 16 shocks to my brain.  Forget what you have heard or been told by your doctors or read about the safety and efficacy of ECT for a moment and just think about it.  Think about allowing yourself to be anesthetized, given a muscle-paralyzing agent, and having someone administer an electrical shock to your brain.  Think of that, not in terms of what science says is appropriate or therapeutic, but as the actual, terrifying, barbaric procedure that electroconvulsive therapy is.

I know that ECT has helped people, and I am happy for anyone who has achieved a better quality of life, but it destroyed so much of mine.  It obliterated great pieces of my mind and of my soul, pieces I have to fight to reclaim again every single day.

You may not have a sense of it from the posts that make up this blog, but I have always lived my life as a very independent woman.  Even when my manic-depression and anxiety were at their zenith, I still fought on my own two feet.  I don’t yet know what happened inside, what caused me to “consent” to undergo a procedure I had researched thoroughly and had been vehemently against for years.  But it changed me in ways I am still trying to wrap my mind around.

The Thursday before last, I called my psychiatrist and my mom called off from work.  My father was at home as well, but I was simply too distraught to be left.  I spent the greater part of that day curled up in my parents’ bed, alternating between crying, sleeping, and taking my next dose of alprazolam.  My mother watched over me, sometimes just sitting and talking or holding me, other times peeking through the gap in the doorway at me as I slept.

I had come to a crossroads of sheer terror that morning.  It was An Unspeakable Dilemma all over again, minus the seizures.  I knew I couldn’t continue to live the way that I had been, but I also knew I wasn’t ready to confront and work through the trauma that was holding me hostage.  I had no direction in which to flee, monsters surrounded me at every turn.

But somehow, between my mother’s love, my doctor’s care, the soporific effects of the Xanax, and the oblivion of sleep, I passed the time.  I saw my psychiatrist the next day, and we discussed the issue very generally.  He doesn’t know all of the gory details of the situation, he hasn’t been treating me for very long.  But he is a kind and extremely knowledgeable man. He prescribed more alprazolam, 2 mg t.i.d (three times a day), and we discussed a more comprehensive plan.

He wants me to see a psychologist and be treated with Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy (you might read the article EMDR-Breakthrough Therapy for Overcoming Anxiety,Stress,Trauma & Self-Sabotage for an explanation of this technique).  Generally, I don’t do well in therapy, but I underwent EMDR years ago for a different issue and found it tremendously effective.  I also found the process itself incredibly distressing.  You have to relinquish control (which I am terrible at), trust your therapist completely (which I am equally bad at), and be prepared to be hit by memories, feelings, and thoughts that you had no idea were even disturbing you (I’m no good at that one, either).

But.  Something’s got to give.  I really feel that with all of my Alphabet Soup diagnoses, post-traumatic stress disorder is the most horrible and virtually impossible to deal with.  Right now I have fallen back into patterns of insomnia (I haven’t slept since Friday night), I am reactive and irritable, I am scared and anxious, and I am in danger of becoming the ugly, hurtful, hateful person I found when I reread much of this blog.  The woman who lashes out at those who love and support her, the woman who dissociates and creates different identities just to get through the day, the one who suffers from strange forms of paranoia.

So I am taking steps.  I have finally worked up the nerve to begin to read an excellent book I have on the subject of PTSD, and I also just purchased a text on EMDR, written by Dr. Francine Shapiro (who “originated and developed” the therapy).  I even had a really brave moment and made an appointment with my psychologist for later this week.  I can’t say with any certainty that I am ready to start this therapy, but as least she is someone I trust (mostly) whom I can discuss my options with.  And I have another appointment in a day or so with my psychiatrist.  He’s keeping a close eye on me.

And, oddly enough, I’m not really doing so terribly.  I am keeping my mind occupied and surrounding myself with supportive people.  I’m journaling and doing a great deal of housecleaning, both literally and figuratively.

Moral of the story:  

“We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full.” ~ Marcel Proust


© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

A Big ‘Ol Apology

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I should have written this some time ago, it just didn’t click in my head until now.  I am so sorry to all of you who commented on my post I Put The HOT In Hot Mess.  I made comments back to you that, while true, came from a place of frustration and anger, and most of all poor judgment.  I was in a place where I expected that somehow my words could convey feelings beyond any I could ever remember feeling.  And I expected all of you, my lovelies, to do what I cannot even accomplish oftentimes, which is live in my head.

jillnottelten, Sharon, Shelly and most especially my dearest friend, Lulu, I am so, so sorry for repaying your kindness with sometimes hurtful words.  You showed me support and I showed you one of the few sides of myself I am ever ashamed of.  James, you didn’t get it quite so badly (because I had been pharmaceutically settled down some by then), but I still apologize, because I was short and frustrated.

I try always to respond to comments readers make, because they are kind to take the time to make them, and in this case show such unconditional support and belief.  But I realize now that silence is sometimes the better choice.

Moral of the story:  Sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all (discretion being the better part of valor).

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

What Is Mine

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“I don’t want pity

I just want what is

Mine. . .”

~ Faith Hill

I went to my doctor’s office yesterday to follow up my weekend foray into the land of emergency mental health care.  They were able to schedule me at 3:45 Monday afternoon, hooray.  Except it took every ounce of strength, every reserve I had in me to drag myself out of bed, put on a coat and make it to the car.  I didn’t change out of my pajamas, or look in the mirror or even brush my teeth.  I fastened the coat and slipped my feet into some flip-flops and picked up my purse and was on my way.

I arrived on time, and I sat in the waiting room and waited.  And waited and waited and waited.

Finally, after 45 minutes I went up to the reception desk.  I had made a very simple decision in my mind.

“Is Dr. ~ going to be able to see me in the next five to ten minutes?” I asked calmly, doing everything within me to hold it together.

The answer was “No,” along with “We’ve had a lot of emergencies and. . .” I tuned out.  When the babbling stopped, I stood there, voice cracking with desperation, fighting tears, and asked the following.

“Why would you schedule someone for an appointment when you knew you would not be able to fit them in?”  The tears were welling in my eyes now.  I have not cried in public since I was a young teenager, I have always made it to the car or my home.  I received a lot of useless garbage from the other side of that reception counter.  What I didn’t receive was one ounce of empathy, between three women.

“Well, I’m not waiting any longer,” I said, walking from the counter and collecting my purse and my coat.

I heard a faint, “I’ll let Dr. ~ know you had to leave,” as I was walking through the door.  They obviously don’t know about my ace in the hole.  I’ll share it with you in a moment.

I did make it to the car before the sobs overcame me (small favors).  And I cleaned up my face so that no one would have noticed (had there been anyone around to notice) when I walked into the house.

I know those three women didn’t know the specifics of my situation, and they are not used to dealing with mental health issues.  But what human being with one iota of human compassion does not offer to do something, anything, when they see a woman, a regular patient whom they know, in her pajamas, in front of them, eyes brimming with tears?  A cup of water, somewhere quiet and away from the public waiting room to have her breakdown?  Anyone that cold-hearted should not be in health care in any form or fashion.

And here is my ace in the hole.  My doctor has known me half my life.  He knows that it takes a great deal to push me over the edge, that I have endured many, many things in the name of keeping him as my doctor, that I have seen him through four or five practices and dealt with a mountain of bullshit higher than Mt. Everest, all because my priority has been exceptional healthcare.  He also happens to like me, as a person and as a patient.  And I have his private cell phone number.

I will never go back to that office.  I will never deal with those horrible women again, even if it means inferior healthcare.  And I will detail to my doctor the complete irresponsibility, lack of feeling, and disregard for the patients (it wasn’t only me) that I experienced and witnessed that day, names included.  It is not my intent to get anyone fired, but my doctor will absolutely censure them, at least informally.  Knowing what I have dealt with and what I am going through, knowing that even in a mood episode I am able to think on things and assess behaviors fairly and accurately, he will tell those women what’s what.  It may not change the fact that they are cold bitches, but it will put the fear of God into them.

As for what I’ll do. . .  I’ll settle for sub-par healthcare.  I’ve already begun weaning myself off of my medications (three at once, two of which are benzos, and through the holidays, no less, this should be fun) – why keep taking them when I have no one to prescribe for me?

And I’ll weep silently in stolen moments for what has been lost, but I’ll press on.  I always do.

Moral of the story:  Never, under any circumstances, let anyone treat you as less than you are worth.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Mendacity

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It means bullshit, more or less.  And it’s one of my favorite words.  But I realized that the person who had tripped my trigger over this one tonight is not bullshitting for the sake of it, she is severely mentally ill.

Yes, I will pull even that hated phrase out of my lexicon when it’s the lightning.  You see, I don’t like the term “mentally ill” applied to myself, or to those I know and love, or even just those I know who are accepting of their diagnosis (or diagnoses) and trying to be well.  If you want to use consistent language, you could say we are “mentally convalescing.”  But I will pull out the term “mentally ill” when someone is obviously in desperate need of treatment and refuses their diagnosis.  Or latches on to another one which is patently false.

The person to whom I am referring, well I wasn’t actually sure about until tonight.  I couldn’t tell if she was deliberately manipulative.  Then after something I read which gave me an empirical metric for comparison – oh boy, she is seriously out of touch with reality!

I wonder about people, and how no one seems to see it save me.  No one that I know of.  I don’t know her very well, but it’s almost as though she has everyone under some kind of weird spell.  Now, certainly there are people who can do that, but trust me, this woman is not one of them, and she should have been seen through months ago.

Probably on most days it wouldn’t bother me.  Who is she to me?  I’ll never meet her, and we have no meaningful connection.  Today, though, it has me so bugged.  Partly because I’m weaning myself down on the Valium, and partly because of reasons verboten.

I seem to have a great many of those lately.  Or maybe it just feels that way to me.  I promise I’m not suddenly closing up and going all tight and quiet on all of you.  I have made this into a venue where I can be free to express everything and anything, to spit fire if I so choose, and not care about what those reading this will think.  But I do follow a few cardinal rules which make things a trifle complicated (all of them have to do with privacy and anonymity, both mine and other people’s).

  1. Never call someone out directly, by name.
  2. Never reveal details about myself which are specifically identifying.
  3. Certain topics – though very limited – are entirely off-limits.  Things which have been confided to me personally (one would hope that would be obvious), and one or two specific people in my life come to mind.

I don’t know if I made this clear at the outset of starting this blog, or anywhere subsequently, but it’s not entirely an anonymous venture for me.  Some very good friends and family members know about it, and a few even read it regularly (or so they tell me).  So while I am always entirely honest in the words I write, I don’t have the freedom I would if no one knew who I was.  Mostly it’s neither here nor there, because those same three rules would apply either way.

I’m sure that soon I will be back to ranting and raving and being my usual crazy self again.  Of course, the way I feel inside right now, the anger and hurt and frustration, I may just lose it altogether.  I’m going to try for a little longer and see if things improve, because I know what a bitch it can be to wean off of a benzo.  But if things don’t begin to get better, what then?  I don’t want to go back up on my dose, but I also do not want to feel like this.

Sigh.  At least my baby sent me some texts today.  Be still my heart!  It’s funny, too – funny nothing, it couldn’t be any other way – when I was really having severe sleep issues, I put my cell on silent.  Once those issues improved some, I bumped it up to vibrate.  It still doesn’t wake me, though.  Except it did this morning when she texted me.  I hadn’t been asleep for more than a few hours, either.

See, that’s a good way to end this on a happy note!

Moral of the story:  Learn to separate out specific manifestations of your emotions so that you can more easily figure out what really has you upset.

© Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ruby Tuesday and I Was Just Thinking. . . with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This work is protected under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.