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Two days left.

Two days for me to get my fill of Twitter and Facebook and blogs.

Two days to wonder how good the cell signal is there.

Two days to wonder if I’ll be able to blog. I’m definitely bringing my journal and notebooks to write in. It’ll be blogging from my phone, if at all, since I’m told there’s no wifi and no Internet.

Two days to get my laundry done and choose 5 sets of clothing that’ll last me a month. Two days to figure out what shirts I’ll take with me.

Two days to squeeze in phone calls.

Two days to figure out what books I want to bring with me. Hell, two days to drop off my library book because I can’t renew it beyond my stay in the inpatient program.

Two days to fill my iPod with music to last me a month.

Two days to enjoy my own bed. Do I bring my own pillow?

Two days to stay up as late as I want. And attempt to sleep in as late as I want (9:30 AM is usually as far as I can get).

Two days of having my schedule be whatever the fuck I want it to be. Eat when I want, test my blood sugar when I want, give myself insulin when I want. Something tells me my schedule will be dictated much differently…in two days.

Two days to wonder if I get a roommate while I’m there. I’m assuming I will, because I can’t believe I’ll be lucky enough not to.

Two days to clear off as many shows from my DVR as possible.

Two days to be thankful that “Lost” finished before this wild psychological experiment. Maybe this is my “sideways timeline.”

Two days until I have to watch what everyone else is watching (Lord, let it not be “Jersey Shore”).

Two days to gather toiletries.

Two days to get a haircut that’ll last me through a month. Considering a crew cut. It’s only gonna get hotter in Florida for the next several months. And a crew cut seems appropriate for scenes that may match “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

Two days to let the anxiety build and fester.

Two days to keep telling myself this is voluntary and I can leave whenever I want. Two days to keep telling myself this may be the only shot I get at an inpatient program, so leaving prematurely would be asinine.

Two days to wonder why asinine only contains one “s.”

Two days to freak the fuck out.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

So the big concert on Saturday (OK Go) was a wash, thanks to a dead car battery the day of the concert. Thankfully, it didn’t happen in Orlando. Had I got out of the show at 11′ish Saturday night, and my car wouldn’t start, I would have been fucked royally. Instead, it happened in the short span of time it took me to get cigarettes from the smoke shop Saturday afternoon.

I was counting on the show to break me out of my funk, even if only for a few hours. But no. The universe had other ideas for me, apparently. After not being able to jump-start the car the first time, I left it in the parking lot and came back a few hours later with a friend. It started up fine the next time, with help of Mom’s car battery.

Got the car back to the house and I stayed home Saturday night, feeling especially melancholy when 8 o’clock rolled around (show time). Sunday I went to the auto parts store to get the battery tested. Surprisingly, when you hook up your battery to a charger – and acid starts frothing out of the top of said battery – it’s not a good thing.

Far better that it was the battery than something more expensive, like a starter or alternator. Still, my weekend was fucked, as was my mood.

I totally forgot about Kevin coming to Orlando this week, too, so when he reminded me Monday via Twitter that he’d be at Downtown Disney Tuesday night, I was like, fuck. Suddenly, not only was I miserable for missing OK Go, but I had to message Kevin and let him know I’d have to bow out. A 90-minute drive, mixed with overpriced dinner (no matter how enjoyable the company), was out of the question.

Sorry I couldn’t hang, Kev. Hope you and Katie are having a smashing time in Florida.

Yesterday, I met with the Matrix Therapist. Didn’t feel like going, much like I haven’t felt like doing most anything lately.

As she ushered me toward her office, she uttered the words “Temple of Tryptophan.” (NOTE: the new design has been up for just over a week now.)

Me: Oh my God, you’ve been to my blog.

Matrix Therapist: It’s not the first time.

Me: Oh my God, you’ve been to my blog…again.

(NOTE TO SELF: Don’t ever write any dirty dreams about the Matrix Therapist here.)

I explained to the Matrix Therapist just how bad the anhedonia is.

Me: Every time I use the word “anhedonia,” I inevitably have to explain to people what it means.

MT: So stop explaining. Tell them to look it up.

Me: I linked to the Wikipedia definition the last couple of times. Doesn’t seem all that difficult to figure out. I mean there’s hedonism – people seem to know what THAT means. Put “an” in front of it…hello, prefixes, ever heard of ‘em?

MT: So what’s going on?

Me: I can’t enjoy anything. TV, music, books, computer. I tried making that list of shit to get out of the house.

MT: And how did that go?

Me: Much like throwing bricks in the Grand Canyon. I went to the movies…

MT: What did you see?

Me: Iron Man 2.

MT: You went by yourself?

Me: I have nobody else to go with.

MT: How was it?

Me: It was okay^*. But I found myself wanting it to be over long before it was. Like I’m itchy to move onto something else, though nothing else is satisfying, either. I was just going through the motions.

MT: What else did you try?

Me: Bookstore…more motions. Gym, karaoke…motions, motions. Then, I drove in the pouring rain yesterday to go to the library. Got there and they’re fucking CLOSED Sundays and Mondays.

MT: Were you mad?

Me: Frustrated, but it seems par for the course. In my opinion, the library should be open on all days we have mail delivery, but then, no one ever consults me. So I just said ‘fuck it’ and went home.

It’s this isolation I feel that is part of my paralysis. Once again, I’ve put too many of my eggs into one basket. I lost my best friend recently – one of the only local friends I have. I have other close friends, but they’re all living in my computer, so to speak. And though I do answer my phone most of the time, I rarely reach out by calling them first.

Hate dragging people down into my muck.

In the first of these mugshots above, I was optimistic. Everything was great. I loved 2010, a far better year than 2009 had been. I had a girlfriend, a best friend, the Year of Resolutions, my life was back on track. Or so I thought. Within weeks, no girlfriend, lost my best bud, Mom broke her kneecap, I went manic, fainted twice from low blood sugar, lost my job.

Me: I’ve been ready to write this fucking year off for months. And it’s only getting worse.

MT: Have you thought about going back to school?

Sure, I’ve thought about it. But here’s the problem: go back to school for what, exactly? I’ve often said that the next time I go back to school, it’ll be only classes I WANT to take, as opposed to taking courses toward a degree.

Then there’s all the headache associated with getting a hold of all my previous transcripts. I’ve been to more than a handful of schools (Air Force traveling).

MT: You don’t need that stuff just to take a class.

Me: Oh? Hmm.

But this is how I approach everything, really. I think of something that might be even remotely interesting, then I flashforward and talk myself out of it because whatever it is is insurmountable.

MT: Let me ask you this…what do you feel is lacking from your life?

Me: Local friends, companionship…

MT: OK…

Me: But what do I have to offer a woman? I’m 43, unemployed, living with my mother, and I’m about as much fun lately as The Meat Thawing Network.

And again, we come to this impasse. So the MT starts talking employment, and that’s a whole other kettle of fish. Working. I haven’t worked in a “real” job for 10 years now. That was a 4-month stint as a technical writer in the corporate world, where I started having another breakdown toward the end of that gig. Two years before that, the Great Nervous Meltdown of ‘98. All I imagine when I think about working a “real” job again is freaking the fuck out and having another breakdown. I lack confidence in my ability to work a normal job.

So the MT suggests a few non-traditional things, such as research studies and mock juries. Oddly, she never even brought up gigoloism. She also suggested working in the local bookstore. And while the bookstore might seem a natural fit (I’ve worked in one before, albeit decades ago), the thought of “normal” working hours, having to get dressed and presentable and leave the damn house, gives me the heebie jeebies. Research studies may be the way to go. Put me in a giant maze and make me chase for cheese or some such shit.

I’m simply lost. Overwhelmed and mired in shit. And nothing I do feels right, let alone fun. A total lack of engagement.

Hmm. Perhaps there’s no pressure being a lab rat. After all, I already feel like one.

^* Iron Man 2. SPOILER ALERT. Decent flick, not as good as the first one. Robert Downey, Jr. is great, natch. But I felt it was too slow in many places, lacked a lot of the charm from the original. The action sequences were too few and far between, and the last half hour was just spastic with too MUCH happening. Watching multiple Iron Men duking it out sort of takes the “special” out of Iron Man. And seeing Mickey Rourke – some muscle-bound semi-dreadlocked tattooed gold-toofed Russian – as a nuclear physicist was stretching my disbelief beyond normal limits…even for a comic book movie. Overall grade: B-

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

This week has been a total write-off as far as exercise is concerned. I’ve been sick for a week now, and even though I’m pretty sure it’s just a cold, it’s been kicking my ass. Major snot factory, coughing, wheezing, headaches, sore throat, etc. (And yes, I’m keenly aware that smoking isn’t helping…that Resolution will come later this year. Not ready for that one yet.)

Being sick isn’t something I do well. It’s a rarity to begin with, perhaps once a year (twice if it’s a bad year). In this case, it’s been over a year since I was last afflicted with anything. Physical, I mean. Mentally, I’m afflicted many times over, of course.

We’re nearly done with March already, but I’m calling the exercise Resolution successful. I’ll start on it again as soon as I’m up to snuff. Let’s take a look at the Resolutions so far, yeah?

January: Diabetes. This is still going strong, mostly. I’ve been a bit lax on checking sugar this past week. Getting on the horse again, though. My sugar this morning (before meds or breakfast) was 211. High, yes, but again…haven’t been great about everything this past week. Sugar the last week has averaged 146.

I’ll be filling my weekly pillboxes when I finish here. Doing really good taking my meds most of the time, too.

February: Work. Meh. Not so great here. Plan to get to work today, as well. Gotta write a story. And I haven’t even begun looking for another writing gig, though I’m totally open to more.

March: Exercise. Already mentioned. I plan on continuing with this. I’ve seen how it affects (positively) my blood sugar…knocks it down quite a bit. And that’s a good thing. That was part of the idea behind the Year of Resolutions: that they’d interplay in various ways, all to make me feel better physically and mentally.

Now it’s time to think about April. We’re only days away from it and I need to come up with another Resolution. I have it narrowed down to a few ideas, but am open to more suggestions. I’m leaning toward something spiritual at the moment. We’ll see.

I’ll be announcing the winner(s) of the Funniest Sex Story contest tomorrow. Got some really good entries.

Lordy, I need a new computer. Finally fixed my problematic mouse by getting a new wireless mouse. Works fine now…must have been the old mouse’s receiver that was the problem. But my 4-yr-old Dell laptop is just sluggish. Takes nearly 7 or 8 minutes to fully boot. Maxed on RAM, dependent on an external hard drive.

Oh, Apple, why can’t you send me a shiny new MacBook Pro on a scholarship or something?

In the good news department, I’m mending things with a friend, and that feels nice. The last few months have been a whirlwind of a roller coaster ride. The Matrix Therapist noted that I seem “different” at our last session. Not sure what that means, exactly, but she said I seem “mellower.”

The new meds seem to be doing something, I’m just not sure what, exactly. My energy levels seem higher (this past week notwithstanding). My mood? Perhaps better, but not markedly so.

The new 2HT design is coming along. Not on the schedule I was hoping for, but then that’s what happens when your designer has sick kiddos. Fucking priorities…ugh. The development site is up and running. I’m thinking it should only be a couple of weeks, but can’t be sure. In the meantime, the runner-up from the Funniest Sex Story contest is getting a sneak-peek at the new design with a specially-made item from the 2HT store.

Speaking of which, there’s a new shirt for the dudes. I already had a girl’s shirt made up. Now the guys are free to tell it like it is, too.

Naturally, you can customize the color and style of shirt.

Lastly, I decided to end my relationship with my ad network. I love BlogHer, don’t get me wrong. I just got tired of being suspended for the occasionally offensive post, or for running a giveaway. If I was pulling in hundreds of dollars in revenue, that’d be one thing, but I’m not. I barely cover my monthly hosting costs. Just not worth it any more.

So that’s what’s going on with me at the moment. How about you?

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CONTEST

Eden Fantasys is providing me with a prize to give away to you, my lovely, dirty readers. It’s a $25 gift certificate to their shop, and believe me when I tell you, there are lots of things for girls and guys alike in that store. You could even use that $25 toward their Kissa glass vibrator. It’s waterproof and everything.

RULES

1. Email me your funniest sex stories. I want the stuff that makes me spit beer through my nose. Confusing super glue for lube is tragic, by the way, not especially funny. Email your stories to karl at secondhandkarl dot com. Be sure to put Crazy Sex Story in the SUBJECT.

2. Deadline is MIDNIGHT on Wednesday, March 24. That’s just before we officially hit Thursday. Don’t be late.

3. One entry per person, please.

4. I will not be judging the contest. Instead, I have chosen three remarkable individuals to read the stories and come up with a winner and a runner-up. The judges are: Michel (LeSombre), Shannon (Bubblewench), and Janet (IzzyMom). They won’t see the names or emails of the people sending the stories, just the stories themselves.

5. Funniest story receives the $25 gift certificate to Eden Fantasys. Runner-up will receive a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store. It might even contain a peek at the new 2HT design, coming to a browser near you very soon.

So…get to writing. Make us laugh with your dirty, dirty self.

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Allow me to share a few photos from the amazing Ben Folds concert the other night. Great freaking show, and my first time seeing him live. Also got to discover a new artist (for me, anyway): Zach Williams. Another outstanding performer.

He played everything I wanted to hear – “Annie Waits,” “Landed,” and even “Gone.” Banged on that piano like you wouldn’t believe. Rocked.

Back to an ongoing project…filling up that self-worth tank. Mine’s a little rusty, but y’know…

There are people that fill that tank up for me on a routine basis. Well, they try, and I’m trying to be better about absorbing the love.

Just a few of them:

1. Angel. I wrote a post about some of the things I love about that woman. All those things are true. The woman is amazing and helps keep me sane almost daily. Level head, smart as a whip (a really smart whip), and amazingly patient with me. Believe me, I require a lot of patience, particularly when it comes to buying into the nice things people say about/to me. She talks me off the proverbial ledge a lot. Makes me think about things I’m not thinking about, see things from a different perspective. She’s also woman enough to let me know when I’m being an unreasonable fuckhead. Adore, adore, adore.

2. Shannon. My Prick Buddy, and also the woman most likely to make me cough up a lung from laughing so hard. Shannon is real beyond real. She says what’s on her mind, often without a filter, and I really dig that. We text every day, swapping blood sugar readings and diabetic woes, and I wouldn’t have my diabetes under the control it’s under if not for Shannon. I admire her for the way she’s taking care of herself lately. Like me, she’s lost a lot of weight the last year, is actively working more of it off and taking an active role in her health. We talk on the phone every so often, too, and she’s one of the elite people that don’t make me want to rip my ears off if the conversation goes more than 10 minutes. (And it pretty much always does.) Good, solid people. I’d trust her with my life.

3. Sybil Law. Despite her having the blog URL from HELL, Sybil is another amazing gal who I can talk to for hours. Funny as shit, snarky, intelligent. She, too, helps ground me with her level-headed laid-back attitude. Another real-as-you-can-get girl, you pretty much know where you stand with her at all times. She has a problem, she’ll let you know. She’s great to bounce ideas off of. And she occasionally pumps sunshine up my skirt, which I’m prone to believe because I don’t think she’d say nice shit if it wasn’t something she believed. Unless it involved Dave Grohl. Love her.

Three people that make my world a better place.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/brokersaunders/ / CC BY 2.0

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Had a scare yesterday where I didn’t completely read a letter I got from the VA. Thought they were cutting me out of the VA system, but actually, they were denying my emergency room claim from January. Y’know, where I did the faceplant on my kitchen floor?

Paying $170 for the damn E.R. visit is much better than having to switch all of my doctors, I have to say. Lesson learned…read EVERYTHING. Then panic.

Doctor visit this morning. My blood sugar readings are highest in the mornings, generally always above 200. So we’re moving back to an evening dose of long-acting insulin. Just a small dose, so I don’t feel all that panicked. Not too worried about crashing – my sugars are fairly under control. I haven’t had a low-sugar event in a couple of months or so.

I go back in a couple of weeks for another follow-up. New lab tests in a month, right after Shannon gets here.

The YOR exercising? Going well. I’m doing the 5-days-a-week thing. And though I haven’t yet found something that trips my trigger, I’m still sticking with it.  This week, the Zumba class starts, and even though I’m told it will kick my ass, I’m going to try it. I figure if I can get in on the ground floor, maybe I have a shot. Then again, if it kicks my ass the very first class?

There’s other stuff I haven’t yet tried, but am already convinced it’ll be too hard. A Pilates/Yoga class. Belly dancing. Hatha yoga. So far, most of my activity at the Y is treadmill (still). I tried a stationery bike thing yesterday, and that was cool. May go with that one some more. If it weren’t for my iPod, I’d be bored out of my skull. I’m still bored, but at least I have tunes. And sometimes Adam Carolla’s podcast.

Tomorrow, I go to see Ben Folds in concert. Woo hoo! Never seen him live before, and I can’t wait. Tickets were a reasonable $34. Now, if I could just cough up $70 or so to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (with Joe Cocker as an opener!), that’d rock even more.

Poppy recently wrote about filling up the self-worth tank. Good post, great idea, but no surprise, considering the source.

Soooooo, here’s the challenge: Fill up someone else’s self worth tank. Let’s say nice things about how awesome each other is so that we feel like our existence on this planet is not a waste of space, time, and energy. If you’re strong enough to say nice things about yourself, then do that too.

I’m gonna start today with the hardest part…saying nice things about ME. That shit gives me the heebie jeebies, but bear with me. I’m not well-versed at this stuff.

I’m smart. I mentioned this briefly in my 100 Things list, but my I.Q. only rarely manifests in obvious ways. Just because I’m smart doesn’t mean I don’t make plenty of bonehead moves. Oh, right…NICE things. See? Told you I’m not so great at this.

On occasion, my brilliance does shine. Case in point:

When I was a little kid, around 9 or so, my parents were both working. I had a babysitter, of course, who was a teenager and more interested in boys and cranking Queen records than keeping up with my sister and I.

My father had this amazing smutty magazine collection, which I’d recently been perusing whenever I had the chance. There were a handful of neighborhood kids over at my house and I told them I had something to show them.

We go into my parents’ bedroom and close the door. I slide open the closet door and point to the shelf up top. STACKS and STACKS of mags, each complete with naked women in lots of odd positions with naked men.

Ages of the kids ranged from 14 down to around 6 or 7. Johnny, the teen, pulled down a couple of stacks for us to look through. We all got on my folks’ bed and started paging through the mags.

Oh my God. GROSS! She has his thing in her mouth!

Why would anyone want a thing in their mouth?

Look at this! His thing is in HER thing!

She looks like she’s in a LOT of pain!

Do you think that’s what ALL policemen do with women?

Our burgeoning education of naked things came to a sudden halt, however, when I heard my father’s car pull up in front of the house.

“Oh no! It’s my DAD!”

And five boys started freaking the fuck out, gathering all the dirty magazines in a heartbeat. Most of them ran from my parents’ bedroom, not heeding my pleas for help to restore the bedroom to its proper working order.

My life was flashing before my eyes. I stacked the mags, and shoved them back up onto the closet shelf.

It was then that God decided to have me killed.

The shelf came toppling down inside the closet. And approximately 847,000 porn mags crashed to the floor, spilling everywhere.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaah!

I was dead meat. My father would be coming in at any moment. All my friends had run out the back door, retreating to leave me to my execution.

Then…a flash of brilliance. Little Karl saw what had to be done.

I shoved all the magazines back inside the confines of the closet, grabbed Midnight (my black cat), tossed her inside the closet, and closed the door. And I ran from the bedroom, just in time to greet my father at the front entryway. I was damn proud of that maneuver, proof that I could think fast on my feet and avoid certain death.

I finally admitted to my father that Midnight wasn’t the culprit…y’know, around 20 years later. Naturally, he and my stepmother both laughed and acknowledged what a smart move I’d made.

Perhaps I’m just a porn-savant, I don’t know. But either way, I’m smart.

I even understand why it’s not such a bad experience to have my thing in her mouth. And that the reason why she looks like she’s in such pain when my thing is in HER thing is because I forgot to pack my lubed shoehorn.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/36498826@N02/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

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I’m slacking. I feel it. Losing my momentum is not a feeling I like. The mania has subsided. My brain is much calmer (and dumber), though that’s relative. It’s still busier than most people’s, I get that. But compared to the manic shit? It’s like my brain finally said no to steroids or something.

Tomorrow I have my first real session with the new shrink, via videoconference. Amazing the V.A. even knows such technology exists, but I’m not bitching. If it weren’t for the video thing, I’d have to drive 90 minutes to meet up with her.

I’m not slamming the V.A. in any way. I’ve heard horror stories, but to be fair, I’ve not experienced many problems with the care I’ve received. And I’m very thankful for that. I don’t have regular health care. The jobs I’ve had of late are contracting positions. No bennies provided. Sure, once upon a time, when I got $43/hour for my time, I could afford it. But not now.

I’m already impressed with this new shrink of mine. She called me a few weeks ago, unsolicited, just to check on me and my meds. On a Friday. At 5:15 in the afternoon. That speaks volumes to me.

So we’ll be discussing meds, mostly that the current regime isn’t doing shit. We stepped up the Geodon. I’m now taking twice as much as I was a few weeks ago and…nothing. That’s the bitch with being treatment-resistant. Lots of meds don’t touch me, then there are those that require a much higher dose than what others find effective.

The trial-and-error associated with medication is exhausting and nerve-wracking. I’m far from the most patient man on Earth, and adjusting meds (and trying new ones) pretty much requires patience, and lots of it. That’s how it is, particularly with the meds designed to hit your brain instead of just your body. They take WEEKS to build up efficacy in the body. And if they don’t work, many of them take weeks to get OUT of your body, which is sometimes needed before adding something NEW.

For me, I’ve pretty much always required a Magic Cocktail, a mix of different meds. I wish like hell that there was a pill that did it all, but there’s not. My chemistry is different than yours, which is different than everyone else’s. So, yeah, trial-and-error. With all the technology we have today, that’s still the way it works. I long for the days of Star Trek, when they scan you with a Tricorder and have you fixed up with a simple shot.

I read an interesting article last month about a pretty major discovery regarding Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (and yeah, I’ve got that, too). They’ve found a way to definitively diagnose PTSD using pictures of the brain. Remarkable, since the only way to diagnose before was through a series of questionnaires and a laundry list of symptomology.

Unfortunately, this discovery probably won’t lead to helping ME…not for a long time. Not until they can point to a brain scan and say, “Ah, see that squiggle there in Karl’s hippocampus? We need to give him Miracle Drug Alpha for that.” Until they know how to correspond the brain pics with specific forms of treatment? Not gonna do much for me. But it’s hopeful for future PTSD’ers, and I’ll take that.

I started out talking about me losing momentum, and that’s really what I’m feeling right now. A lot of hopelessness, lack of motivation, simply losing my give-a-shit attitude. Depression. An overwhelming sense of, well, being overwhelmed. Yes, I’m still checking my sugar and taking my meds, but I really don’t care about it.

I knew this was going to come, the return to the old me. Trying to find some shrivel of happiness in this mode is daunting, at the very least. I can’t survive in full-blown mania all the time – I’d die from sheer exhaustion, from insanity. But I wish I had a way to harness the motivation, the good attitude, the Happy.

Think I’m treatment-resistant in the attitude department, too.

For now, I’ll just take what little pieces of enjoyment I can get. I like the winter Olympics (tons more than the summer Olympics), even though I’m not a sports guy. I never watch baseball, or football, or basketball, or hockey. None of it. That shit bores me to tears. But the Olympics has something for everyone. Plus, it’s only two weeks long. I’m in, I’m out, I’m done for another 4 years. My fave events, by the way, are figure skating, snowboarding, and the skiing…none of which I’ve ever tried.

I also found some meditation podcasts, thanks to Angel. A friend has offered to help me with meditation – something I’ve never tried before – and I plan to take her up on that offer. But the podcast I listened to yesterday really helped to calm me down. I like that. I say I’ve never tried meditation, but the truth is I’ve probably achieved that “nothingness” mindset on my own many times. I may be wrong, but all the dissociating I’ve done in my life kind of mirrors that calming void sensation in meditation. I suppose there are positives to being a Survivor, after all.

I’m gearing up for 2HT’s redesign, and I am excited about that. Should be happening within the next month or so. My original launch date was going to be April Fool’s Day (seems appropriate), which also happens to be both my Mom’s AND my twin daughters’ birthdays. But it’s going to be sooner than that. Can’t wait to see it all come together.

I’d really like a dog. I think that’d do wonders for me. Mom hasn’t been so keen on getting a pet, though. Her rationale has always been, “If you can’t keep your room clean, how are you going to take care of a dog or a cat?” My rationale has always been, “Those two things aren’t even closely related.”

And yes, I’m 43 and live with my mother. I’m also depressed, anxious as Monk, and unemployed. Put me on “The Bachelor” now, ladies. I’m available. *cough*

Like my brain, this post is all over the board. I’m tired of that, too.

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It’s the end of Month One of YOR. On January 1st, I started off the YOR with this Resolution:

January: Medical

I resolve this month to take all of my medications as directed (including insulin). I resolve to check my blood sugar every day.

This month (and the year to date) has been very rough on me. Mom broke her kneecap just 10 days into this Resolution. The same week, I had major turmoil with friends and relationships, plus two life-threatening low-sugar events. And I came to discover (after that week) that I was in the manic portion of my manic depression. Then *another* episode of near-fainting. And that’s not even everything.

Whew!

Because of the low-sugar incidents, I could not follow the above Resolution to the letter. I had to cut meds until I could meet with my doctor and adjust them. All my weight loss from the past year required lesser dosages. I haven’t been perfect, as I’ve admitted here during this month. I haven’t taken my meds every single time, whether it be because I’m swamped or stressed or whatever.

Nevertheless, I am labeling this first Resolution a SUCCESS. I have been a very good boy (in terms of taking care of my diabetes). Proactive, compliant, asking for help…actually taking an interest in my health (even in the days I really didn’t give a fuck about my health). My meds have been adjusted, I’m officially off long-acting insulin and several other pills…this is all GOOD.

My sugar tonight was 176 two hours after dinner. But my sugar BEFORE dinner was 124. So I’m in much better shape now than I was 30 days ago. We are still working on the control, getting my numbers where they need to be. It’s a process and, again, I knew going into January that this wouldn’t all be done by month-end.

I’m going to continue on with this new habit, as I prepare to move on to Month Two tomorrow. Brand new month, brand new Resolution.

I’m also going to continue with my Prick Buddy. That shit works, and Shannon is doing amazing with her diabetes, as well. I like that. It makes me smile.

Even when I’m not feeling very smiley.

See you tomorrow.

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Today is January 30. Already. Shit, where the hell has this month gone? How did we already get 1/12 of the way through 2010?

Tomorrow is the last day of the month, which means it’s the last day for this month’s Resolution. Not that I’m tossing my new habit out the window, mind you. I’m not. And that was the point for the Year of Resolutions – starting 12 new HEALTHY habits.

Thursday night, I had ANOTHER low blood-sugar episode. I’m OK. (I say that because I hate when someone throws out some scary news and then takes 10 minutes to walk you through the whole story before saying, “I’m OK.” No, people. When you say something like, “I got in a car accident,” you follow it up IMMEDIATELY with “Don’t worry, I’m OK.” THEN fill in the rest of the story. Idiots.)

My best bud was here with me when it happened. I felt I was going low, recognized it, said aloud, “I need to eat something NOW. I’m low,” and came inside to do just that. The details aren’t important, really. Suffice it to say that I found myself on the floor again, trying hard not to vomit or pass out, but orange juice did the trick. And my friend was very calming and reassuring the whole time.

She got to help me check my sugar, and that’s a good thing. She’d never had to do that before. Hell, for most of the time I’ve known her, I haven’t been very compliant with my meds. She’s never seen me low before this year, mostly because I haven’t BEEN low…or even close.

Here’s what I’m supposed to do when I’m feeling low: check my blood sugar, then remedy the situation. It’s important to know what your sugar is when you feel low. Again, normal glucose readings are between 80 and 120. I know from recent experience that at 71, I’m still not fading out. So I was probably at 60 or lower.

Here’s the problem with doing what I’m supposed to do when I’m feeling low: I don’t give a fuck what my sugar is…I just want to STOP THAT LOW FEELING, AND NOW. It’s awful, I don’t want to feel nauseous and flushed and sweaty and dizzy and terrified. I just want it to stop and, y’know, not smash my face into the tile floor. I probably have a cracked skull from the first incident a couple weeks back. There’s this weird…shifting… when I push on my forehead now.

I’ve been checking my sugar 4 times a day, like I’m supposed to. And I’ve been taking my meds, especially now that they’ve been adjusted. Because I nearly passed out again (that’s three incredibly bad episodes for me in the last couple of weeks), I reported it to my doctor yesterday. And we’ve adjusted the plan again.

“You’re scaring me,” she said when she called me.

“I’m scaring me, too.” And I am.

But here’s what’s new…I’m not pulling an Ostrich. I’m pushing FORWARD. I’m being proactive, I’m receptive to changes, I’m asking for help, I’m being compliant, I’m checking sugars, recording the numbers, reporting out to those that need to know. All of that is ALIEN territory for me. And new stuff? Is very scary to me. Change…brrr, gives me chills.

But I’m doing it, anyway.

And it’s paying off.

I know now that my nighttime snacks are critical. No matter how fine I feel, a nighttime snack HAS to happen…and sooner rather than later. This was what caused me to fall out Thursday night. Stupid. Again with the stupid. But these things are not happening for naught. I’m LEARNING.

What we’re doing now to fine tune my diabetes control is adding a 3:00 AM sugar check. Yes, even if it requires me setting my alarm. The doc wants to know what’s happening while I’m (supposed to be) in bed. Why?

This is the 2nd incident to happen around 1:30am. That means my sugars are crashing at night (if I don’t have a snack). And that’s kind of weird.

My morning and noon sugars yesterday were high…above 250. But my pre-dinner reading was 176. Two hours after dinner, my sugar was 157. That’s still high, but it’s relatively close to normal for a post-meal reading. At least for me.

The doc’s theory is that my sugars are dropping at  night. My body’s defenses then are inflating my sugars so that I don’t go into a diabetic coma. Thus, high readings in the morning.

MY theory is that I don’t take insulin at night. Plus, Thursday night (after the incident) I had orange juice, and a PBJ, and Doritos, and beer. And THAT’S why those high morning readings happened. Who’s right? I don’t know. We’ll see. Pretty sure it’s me, though. I feel like Einstein’s smarter brother right now.

My first 3:00 AM reading this morning showed my sugar at 257. This morning before breakfast, it was 254. These are bad readings, I know. But again, I’d far rather be high than low any day of the week. And we’re still working it, still grasping to get this shit in control.

It’s a work in progress. I knew going into this Resolution that my diabetes wouldn’t be under control by January 31. That was not the point. The POINT was for me to be compliant in my health care, to take a proactive role, to stop being an Ostrich.

And that’s actually happening.

The doc wants to drop another diabetes med. The brand new med that she just prescribed to me at our recent appointment. The med that has still not arrived in the mail.

“Stop taking the glipizide,” she said.

“I’m not taking it,” I said. “I haven’t gotten it yet.”

“Good. When it comes in the mail, don’t take it.”

Far be it from me to bitch about having one less pill to take.

We have a follow-up appointment in a couple of weeks. I will continue emailing the doctor my glucose readings. I will continue calling her to report anything significant. We will continue to tweak my treatment plan. We WILL get this under control.

I’m in a very unique position right now, having this manic phase (and recognizing it while I’m in the midst of it). I am optimistic, and hopeful, and open to new stuff. That’s not going to last, I know it. I’m dreading the inevitable crash, which will come…and probably very soon. It may already be happening.

I’ll be back to my morose, miserable, pessimistic self. It’s not an attitudinal thing, folks, it’s biochemistry. The euphoria associated with mania is brain chemistry gone amok. It’s not the norm.

So I’m taking advantage of the good attitude while I’ve got it, false or not. And don’t go jumping on me for using the word “false” there. It’s a genuine good attitude, yes, but again…it’s a result of my mania. It’s chemical. Yes, it’s false. In a manner of speaking.

That doesn’t mean I’m not going to use it to my advantage. I am, totally. I’m going to start keeping a paper journal again, to take copious notes on how I’m feeling…physically, mentally. I want to be able to tell the doctors everything, so we can closely monitor what changes I’m experiencing, so we can continue fine-tuning my treatment plan, so that I ultimately feel BETTER.

And when I come down from Mania Mountain, and Poser Pollyanna is gone, and I’m the fucking misanthropic Karl again, I want to be able to look at my blog (and the journal) and attempt to regain the positive attitude I have at this moment. I want to be able to see the cause-and-effect thing. I want to read how my proactive stance is actually making a DIFFERENCE.

I feel very much like Charlie in Flowers for Algernon. In the beginning of the story, Charlie is a janitor with a 68 IQ. He receives experimental surgery that kickstarts his brain and ultimately becomes one of the smartest people on the planet.

The book spends a great deal of time showing Charlie’s emotional changes, as well as his increase in smarts. Suddenly, world leaders are contacting him for help with their problems. Charlie is curing diseases. He’s solving impossibly complex equations. He’s fixing things that nobody has been able to fix before. He’s fallen in love with the woman that began as his tutor, but becomes his lover when she sees the amazing new person Charlie has become. Hell, he’s far SMARTER than the woman now.

But here’s the rub: his new-found genius status is temporary. He slowly starts moving back to good ol’ Charlie with the 68 IQ.

And that’s how I feel when I come down off my mania. I’m super smart right now. My brain is operating far above and beyond its usual state. I actually feel like I have the IQ I supposedly have…y’know, if you even buy into Intelligence Quotients.

I’m going to slip back to Stupid Karl very soon. And like Charlie, who had a good long taste of a super-charged mind, it’s almost better to have never experienced my brain the way it is now. Because knowing things can be so good is godawful when I’m beginning the maddening decline to the way I was before. It’s the cruelest bait-and-switch I know of. Contemplating this inevitability brings me to tears.

I feel this crazy need to blurt out everything in my head right now, to get it all onto paper before I lose it. I’m making abstract connections that I can’t normally make. My intuition is so advanced and well-honed right now that I feel almost psychic. I’m coming up with brilliant ideas. I’m creative as fuck.

And it’s all going to slip away.

It’s far easier to survive day-to-day when you’re used to being miserable. The expectations are low, so it’s hard to be disappointed. Knowing that there’s another way to see life – EXPERIENCING that other way – is bittersweet. It feels wonderful now (despite all of the BAD shit associated with mania).

But like most things in life, it’s not going to last.

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So the skinny on my doctor visit Monday, which I mentioned on Twitter and Facebook:

• Check my sugar 4 times a day. Before every meal, and two hours after dinner. This helps provide a good picture of my sugars throughout the day. Which, in turn, helps to know where (and what time of day) we need to adjust meds.
• No long-acting insulin till further notice. We may not even get me back on that at all.
• One of my diabetes meds only, the others are dropped.
• 5 units of regular insulin before every meal. I suppose that’s for coverage.
• My A1C is 9.2. Ideally, these days the American Diabetic Association says your A1C should be below 6.5. For those of you that don’t have to know what the fuck Hemoglobin A1C is, here ya go. It’s the 3-month average of your blood sugar readings. When I prick my finger (4x a day) to check my sugar, that gives me my sugar for that particular moment in time. But just because I get a 294 on the meter (80-120 is normal), doesn’t mean I’m that high all the time. That’s where the A1C reading comes in. It shows a truer picture, because it lets them know what my OVERALL sugar has been over the last 3 months. I could explain how it works and shit, but it’s not important. Hell, all this right here probably wasn’t important. Unless you’re diabetic. And me.
• My cholesterol, remarkably, is 118. I haven’t seen numbers below 200 since my 20’s. So there’s that.
• She wants me to email my numbers to her weekly.
• We have a follow-up appointment in 3 weeks. More adjustments from there, as needed. Unless I need her sooner.

But I don’t think I will. I think I’m getting it. Yes, I’m not perfect. Today, for instance, I took most of my meds, but then went out for dinner (thank God for Tuesday nights). Didn’t check my sugar before leaving the house, or take my dinner meds. But I get back on the horse. I’ll take my bedtime meds and start all over tomorrow.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Ad nauseum.

My body has been in such pain. I ache everywhere. The trouble with only sleeping 3-4 hours a night for a few weeks straight (save a couple nights here or there) is that your body is vertical that much more. That puts a lot more stress on the bones and joints. Heh, I said joints.

So my neck, shoulders, and ESPECIALLY my lower back have been killing me. All this extra activity I’m experiencing in order to take care of Mom exacerbates it. Or maybe it’s the non-sleep that exacerbates the activity. I dunno. The point is, I’ve been miserable physically, as well as mentally.

Today I went and got a 90-minute massage. And it made an enormous difference. I fell asleep twice on the table, and was told that’s the highest compliment you can give a masseuse. She’s good. And I didn’t even get a Happy Ending. Bigger shock? I didn’t even care.

I just wanted relief. I got it. And perhaps the best part? My masseuse’s name is Cher. I so wanted to ask her if she was a Cherokee, but she was even whiter than me, so it’s unlikely. Amazing hands, though. I pretty much melted into that table, let me tell you.

The REAL best part is that my head is quieter. No, not quieter, that’s not right. It’s more unified. There’s still way too much shit going on between my ears, but I feel calmer now. The racing thoughts are not back down to normal level, but they don’t feel like they’re where they were last night at this time.

Which, by the way, was a really bad time for me. It’s like being able to view all the alternate universes at one time. I mull over every single possibility, every single outcome…dozens…hundreds of times. Even the ridiculous possibilities. And even those crazy-ass potential outcomes seem reasonable, which only serves to freak me the hell out even more.

I’m insecure enough, but my manic brain makes me paranoid like you wouldn’t believe. Thank fucking God I have my logic. Somehow I manage to talk myself out of my most ludicrous insecurities. Well, I talk myself out of ACTING on them, at any rate. And that’s enough. Mostly. Still torturous, and the self-restraint manacles are getting mighty frayed, but I’m doing it.

And I’m trying to acknowledge that I’m doing it. Because in my mind, what I hear when someone says, “I’m proud of you Karl, you’re making it happen” is this: “What other option do I have?” Dismissing the positive. That freaking Permeable Teflon skin of mine…damn tough. It’s how I describe myself, Permeable Teflon. The bad goes in, but the good slides off…

I’ve talked about the downside of bipolar disorder. It’s bad, yeah. But that’s not the whole picture. There IS an upside…a lot of upside. I think I’ll save that for next time.

I’m actually tired. And I want to take advantage of that.

Mom’s follow-up appointment (first one post surgery) is in the morning. I need some sleep. A LOT of sleep.

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When I decided to do the Year of Resolutions thing, I had no idea what was coming my way. Clearly. Had I, I never would have ventured forth with the project, no matter how brilliant an idea it was for me.

I just figured that I’m better with bite-sized chunks, rather than full-blown permanent resolutions. One resolution, 30 days, no biggie. And at the end of each month, to quantitatively know if it’s been a success or not – or even a relative success (because I’m far from perfect) – is pretty cool.

But almost three weeks in and I’m going slightly mad. I’m sleep-deprived, stressed to the gills, not to mention stir-crazy. It’s only been a week, folks. Mom broke her kneecap a week ago Monday and I’m already melting down. There’s a long road ahead still.

Yes, to be fair to myself (something I’m not very often), I have other birds and kettles of fish in the bush (or whatever). It’s not just caretaking Mom that’s stressing me out. Nevertheless, if I don’t find a rhythm soon and pace myself, I’m seriously going to be fucked. I mean, more fucked than I was twice the past week with my diabetes episodes.

I have snapped at some of my favorite people on Earth recently. I’ve said things I regret. I’ve made a record number of poor decisions and judgment calls the last week. I’ve even pulled passive-aggressive bullshit that would infuriate me from anyone else. I’m not slamming myself  here (mostly), I’m just stating facts. I’m not happy with myself since Mom’s accident. My emotions seem like exposed nerve endings, raw to the touch. I’ve come perilously close to bawling my eyes out. Sunday night, in fact, I had what can only be described as the “dry heaves” equivalent of crying.

Couldn’t make them come.

Here’s how messed in the head I am of late. Monday, I came *this* close to shutting it all down. Deleting EVERYTHING…Twitter, Facebook, my blog…all of it. So overwhelmed by my own assininity that I just figured it’d be easier to say “Fuck it all!” and never worry about social media again.

Fortunately, a leveler head was in mine *somewhere* and I realized that would be stupid. First off, out of all my years blogging, I’ve only seen one person successfully (meaning, permanently) shut down their blog. Everyone else is pretty much full of shit. They come crawling back, usually within a week. “Oops, my goof. I’m back. Please disregard that whole 2,000-word rant about how I’m disappearing forever and deleting everything FOREVER. I couldn’t stay away.”

And that’s the thing. I KNOW I can’t stay away for long. So I followed the advice I usually reserve for my idiot friends who are overwhelmed and ready to shoot their online identities in the face at point-blank range.

That advice? Don’t post. Don’t tweet. Don’t do any of it. For now. Come back when you’re ready. Anything more drastic than that, and you’re gonna regret it.

I have enough regrets already, I don’t need any free refills, thanks.

On top of that, I’m actually (slowly but Shirley) finding a new blogging rhythm. I’ve blogged more this month than I have in a long time. And I think that’ s a good thing. For me, at least, and isn’t that what matters?

What I have done is create an anonymous blog that only *I* know about for the sorts of things that I can’t (or won’t) say here. Don’t ask me for the URL. I don’t care WHO you are, you’re not getting it. It’s for me, and me only.

Then there’s the YOR. I started it, I need to do my best to see it through. It’s daunting, but it’s far less daunting than telling myself at midnight as the big ball drops down in Times Square that I’ll never smoke a cigarette again. That’s the whole point behind my YOR concept. You can do almost *anything* for 30 days.

In order to really make the YOR effective for me, I need to blog about it. Not only does it help me keep a record of my progress (and setbacks) but it also keeps me accountable. My friends read this fucking thing (for some reason that often escapes me). I have a Prick Buddy, one of my favorite ladies on Earth, who swaps blood sugar readings with me via text and Tweets. That helps a lot. So much so that I’m going to try to find a way to have a Buddy for each of the 11 Resolutions to follow this year.

Here’s where I bring up the fact that I do a great ostrich impersonation. My primary method of coping throughout my life has been avoidance…pretending it’s not happening. That’s not healthy. I’ve dropped off the grid many times and I made a promise a while back to Hilly (one of many victims of my sudden and thorough disappearances) that I would NOT disappear again. And I may make a lot of mistakes, but I do try hard to stick by my promises. Not always possible, but I go by the motto: “Make very few promises, and bust your ass to keep the few you do make.”

So I’ll reiterate, if only for my own clarity and peace of mind (fragile as that may be at the moment). I won’t completely drop off the grid. That’s not to say I may not stop posting for a while, if necessary. Or that I won’t stay off Facebook and Twitter for a while at a time. But I won’t totally ignore all of my email (permanently) or phone calls. And I’ll make an effort to stay in touch with my friends to let them KNOW I’m taking a social media breather. For now, though, you’re stuck with me.

I have spent relatively little time on Twitter of late, less than usual. That’s not likely to change soon. I’m still myopic (perhaps more so than when I wrote that post). Mostly, I send out Tweets and only respond to those who address me first. I don’t ever sit in front of Tweetdeck for 45 minutes and spend time interacting, really…reading other people’s Tweets. Not feeling Twitter that way, and I don’t feel guilty about it, either. Twitter is a tool and I’ll use the tool however I want. Heh, I said “tool.” Twice. Well, three times now, actually.

My friends know how to reach me, anyway. You’ve got my number. I sure as hell hope you’re not waiting for ME to call. I’m a little swamped, in case you  haven’t noticed.

Today is January 20th. I have 11 days to figure out what February’s resolution is going to be. Open to suggestions. I have one in mind that seems very fitting to follow up this month’s, but with 12 resolutions in 12 months, I need all the help I can get.

Last night, I was given the chance to get out of the house for a while, and I took it. My TNT girls came over for Tuesday night dinner and they kept Mom company, while my best bud and I went to go see “Youth in Revolt.” It was truly what I needed, a respite from…well, everything.

Lots of laughs (till we were both crying). And as an aside, how come I can be so fucking funny OFF my blog but can’t ever seem to bring it here any more? Dunno. But we ate in the mall food court so we could mock people watch. Then we saw a really good movie.

“Youth in Revolt” has been one of my all-time favorite novels for over 15 years now. I picked it up at a Barnes & Noble and laughed out loud on page 1. Within 120 seconds, I owned it. And there were a LOT more laughs after that. Funny as shit, and very smart comedy, too. I’ve bought that book at least a dozen times over the years, only to loan it out to friends and never see it again. Usually, because THEY loan it out to THEIR friends…it’s a vicious cycle. And I don’t care because it’s THAT good.

The concessions stand guy was talking about “Revolt” last night, saying that the movie seems to have a “cult following.” I didn’t even snicker at what a cult following in Sebring might look like. I just said, “There *is* a cult following, because it’s one of the funniest books I’ve ever read.”

“Really?”

My bud agreed, because I’m the one responsible for getting HER to read it and subsequently chomping at the bit to see the film.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s like Ferris Bueller on steroids.” I was pretty proud of that summation because it’s apt and rolls off the tongue well. At any rate, I think I have 3 more converts to the books of C.D. Payne. Yes, people, there are SIX books in the Twisp series and they’re all good.

The movie? Fantastic. I’ve waited over a decade for this flick and I’m happy to say they do the first book justice. Sure, there’s a lot missing, but they did a really good job condensing it down into a 90-minute flick (not to mention modernizing a book that is nearly 20 years old). I’m impressed with screenwriter Gustin Nash, who is also responsible for the sublime “Charlie Bartlett” a couple of years ago.

The casting was superb. Michael Cera nails the part. Steve Buscemi? Ray Liotta? Fred Willard on shrooms? Rockin’.

If you haven’t yet met Nick Twisp, the 14-year-old protagonist of “Youth in Revolt,” I highly recommend you get to a bookstore or library and pick up a copy. It used to be an obscure thing to find, but with a movie out, it’s probably a lot easier to get a hold of. I snickered at “Confederacy of Dunces,” but SNORTED with “Revolt.” Many times over.

Laugh out loud expel liquid through your nose funny, people.

On top of the movie and the company, I had a really amazing texting session with a very dear one and that helped to calm me, too. Temporarily. Which I’ll take.

Yes, I know this is a long post, but seriously…can you really be surprised? You’re at MY blog, after all. Maybe it’ll help you to know that this was originally supposed to be two posts. Nah, probably not.

Gonna wrap up with the doctor updates. This morning, I went in for blood (and pee) tests. First step in correcting my medications. It occurred to me, while peeing in a little cup and trying to keep my guggenheimer from actually dipping into my own urine, that I have NO idea how WOMEN do that shit. And I don’t want to know, either. I’m just going to assume it gets done somehow, probably by magic Urine Elves or something.

I go back Friday morning for my follow-up, after my blood test results are in. We’ll make adjustments from there. For now, I’m supposed to test my sugar FOUR times a day. Ugh. Before each of my three meals (oh yeah, I’m suppose to eat three times a day), and then two hours after dinner. And I’m off long-acting insulin and one of my diabetes pills till then, too. Which is good, because I’ve already been doing that. Something about crashing twice in a week has made me pretty skittish about taking insulin before bedtime.

Odd part about that is – much as I fantasize about blinking out of existence with nary a POPping sound – I actually fear NOT waking up. I can’t say I’m happy to be alive, but I CAN say I’d rather not be dead. I suppose that’s something.

I also have the Matrix Therapist Friday afternoon, first time in over a month, I think.

AND Friday morning is Mom’s surgery for her kneecap. Lots of friends to sit with me in the waiting room, even stay while I go to my own doctor appointment. Much as I’d rather be at the hospital the whole time, I’ve got to get MY proverbial house in order so I can take care of Mom. So I’ll keep my appointments.

Yeah, another (of many) lessons I’m learning lately: ask for help and don’t hesitate to use it when offered. That’s a biggie for me. I’m not a guy who easily admits he needs a hug, let alone help.

I’m still hurting. A lot. But it’s not quite as bad today as it was early yesterday morning when I started writing this diatribe.

Thanks to all of you for your texts, Tweets, Facebook love, emails, and phone calls. I may not be the speediest to respond, but I do see it all and appreciate it.

Now I need a nap. Mom is sleeping and I should take advantage of it.

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