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I’ve been through a metric shitton of therapy, both individual and group, to varying degrees of success. Spent two years in an intensive outpatient program (IOP), in fact. Grief recovery and suicide prevention was the main focus. Most everyone in that group – and I saw people come and go over time as I became the senior member – probably suffered some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (amongst other maladies).

I recall my very first day of IOP. I’d had a nervous breakdown and couldn’t work. Showed up at the encouragement of my individual therapist.

There might have been 6 or 7 others there that first day. I had no idea what to expect. The first (of four) hours of each day was check-in time. Everyone in group spent 5 minutes “checking in,” telling the therapists what was going on. Because it was my first day, I got to check in last. Which seemed to be a mistake.

As each stranger reported in on their life, I heard stories that made me question what the fuck *I* was doing there.

Jesus, I don’t have any fucking problems compared to these people. What’s my deal?

Horror stories, some of them. If I weren’t so polite, I might have just sat there with my jaw hanging open, listening to it all.

Turns out, as I’d learn over time, there were more than a handful of distortions I was clinging to. Everyone’s problems are different, everyone’s life is different. Trying to compare your struggles to mine isn’t a fair comparison most of the time. Apples and oranges, etc. Or, as I tended to say, one person’s savior is another person’s pair of lead boots.

We had these sheets we’d fill out called Trauma Sheets, where we’d discuss traumatic events in our life and “process” these things with the group. The first time I told a story from my past, I was stunned. Mostly because my group members were stunned and more than one of them were left with their jaws hanging open.

“What?” I said. “That’s not normal?”

Come to find out lots of things from my childhood weren’t “normal.”

You can’t spend five days a week, four hours a day, with a small group of people and not make friends. Some of us hung out outside group, spending even more time together. Naturally, there were rules in IOP. We weren’t allowed to engage in any sexual activity with each other. Group members weren’t allowed to loan or borrow money. (The group represented most cross-sections of society…some of us were poor and relying on food banks, others were pretty damn well off.) These rules were meant to keep the group a safe place. There was already enough conflict and stuff to deal with – didn’t need to create more drama between us (though there was some of that, too, because not everyone followed the rules all the time).

Lots of group therapy stories, but I ramble enough already. Oddly, I left group and quickly lost track of most all those folks. Haven’t been in a group therapy situation since.

So when the Matrix Therapist suggested yesterday the notion of group therapy, I said that I didn’t have a problem with it. EXCEPT that the groups she was suggesting were at the main VA facility in Tampa. Being in Sebring, there’s only a small clinic here…most anything specialized requires a visit to the main hospital, about 2 hours away from me.

“Depending on how often these groups meet,” I said, “that could be a lot of traveling.” I mean, two hours there, one or two hours of group (I’m assuming), then two hours back home? That’s a full fucking day. And even once a week, that’d add up pretty fast to lots of gas money.

Which is what led the Matrix Therapist bring up something I’ve never experienced: INpatient treatment. Meaning: you stay in facility instead of staying at home.

Whoa.

But let’s face facts: whatever I’m doing now ain’t working. I’m stuck. Again. Stagnant, even, and I find that to be the equivalent of a 4-letter word. The meds aren’t doing their thing (so far). Being in-house would let them aggressively play with meds while I’m under their watch. Plus, there’d (presumably) be a lot of structure with the group situation.

What terrifies me about this (much as I can see the potential good in it) is that I’d be totally outside my comfort zone. The likelihood of there being unrestricted Internet access is slim to none. And most all of my friends are living inside my computer. Yikes. Sure, they’ll probably let me keep my iPhone, but I’ve been to that hospital and the signal inside (as is true for many hospitals) sucks ass.

I’d be not only hanging with strangers – and sharing lots of stories/events with them – but living with them, as well.

*ring ring*

Hello?

Hi, Karl, it’s me, Social Phobia.

I don’t know how long this inpatient thing typically lasts, but the MT said yesterday it could be as little as 3 or 4 days.

“No way,” I told her. “That’s not enough time to do shit with medication.” Hell, we’ve been playing this round of the Pharmaceutical Game for many months now. I’m no stranger to being a lab rat. Meds that mess with the brain take weeks/months to gain efficacy.

My educated guess for how long I’d stay is something along the lines of at least 2-3 weeks, if not more. Which, in Karl Time, is like 2-3 months of not sleeping in my own bed, not being able to get online any time I want to, not being able to stay up till 1 in the morning, not being able to walk around in my boxers all the time. The list goes on.

That’s a long time to be outside my comfort zone.

Nevertheless, I told the MT that I’m not averse to the options. So this morning I went back in and, after getting blood drawn for my diabetes, met with the Matrix Therapist again to fill out a qualifying questionnaire.

I should hear either today or maybe Monday from the VA about if I qualify and, subsequently, where I fall on the waiting list. Then I can ask questions like:

• How long is the average stay?
• What am I allowed to bring with me from home?
• What is the structure of the program? How many hours of the day are scheduled, and how much free time do we get?
• Is there wifi?
• What’s the bed time?
• Do I have to be roomies with anyone possessing that old-man smell? (What? This is the VA we’re talking about. I’m a young whippersnapper compared to most of these people.)
• How do we deal with things like my insulin and syringes?
• Is there live-tweeting allowed from group?

I don’t have answers to any of these yet, but hope to soon. If anything, as Sybil was keen to point out last night on the phone, I should get some decent blog posts out of it.

So there’s that.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Happy Easter to you and yours. Hope it’s a great day.

March’s Resolution for the YOR was exercise…five days a week. I’m saying it was a successful month, despite being sick for the last couple of weeks. I plan to continue on with it, even if the local Y isn’t yet offering Tantric Yoga classes.

I meant for this month to be totally different when it comes to the April Resolution. I’m gonna put that one off till maybe next month. Instead, I’m going with something that the Matrix Therapist mentioned last week in our session.

Reconnecting.

I haven’t yet figured out the metrics portion of this Resolution. Basically, it all comes down to my girls and reestablishing a connection. Long story I’ve alluded to before, but in my really Dark Days, I thought they were better off without me around. A self-fulfilling prophecy. I was very mistaken, it’s plagued me for years, and I’m trying to do something about it. Again.

But there’s more to the reconnecting than my girls. I have quite a few people I need to reconnect with, and this is the month I start making that happen. I have emails to write, blogs to read for the first time in forever, phone calls, texts.

My myopia tends to shove friends and even family to the outskirts of my attention. And the more depressed I get, the more powerful those blinders get. This might make sense somewhere in the dust bunny farm known as my brain, but it’s counterproductive. My support group is largely online. The bulk of my friends are elsewhere, so it’s time to reach out and bring some of these long-lost folks back to the fold.

So don’t be too surprised if you suddenly see me on your blog, or if you get an email from me from out of the blue. Crawling out of this Funk ain’t easy, but I’m still trying to push through it.

In the meantime, here’s to hoping Jesus doesn’t see his shadow today, or there will be six more weeks of Apocalypse.

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One of my oldest blogging buds, James, and I have a lot of commonalities, particularly our battle with depression (and bipolar disorder). He wrote a post, listing some of the things he’s grateful for. Think I’ll follow suit because the Depression is rearing its ugly head yet again.

Feel like withdrawing from society, ignoring all social media, etc. etc. You’ve heard it all before. You’ll probably hear it again.

Sometimes you need to take stock of the good shit in your life in order to maintain some semblance of sanity.

• Despite the last week-and-a-half, I’m relatively healthy. I’m normally not hocking up half a lung. It’s a good year for me to quit smoking, since I still have my health. (And yes, that will certainly be one of the Resolutions for YOR.)
• I have good friends. I may not touch base with them nearly as much as I should, but I know that they’re there for me should I need them.
• I have a working computer. It’s ancient, it crawls along, but it works. And that’s saying something for a 4-yr-old laptop. I’m currently in the process of what will likely be a 17-hour defrag. I’m praying this is the year for the replacement to come along. (MacBook Pro, anyone?)
• My brain works. Yes, I fight depression, PTSD, bipolar disorder, ADD, social anxiety, and who knows what else. But compared to many who have it far worse? I’m thankful that my mental faculties are pretty much operating at full capacity. Usually.
• My car works pretty damn good, considering it’s 10 years old. I’m not a person who gets hung up on vehicles, since they’re a utilitarian kind of thing as far as I’m concerned. Get me where I need to go (and back) and I don’t really give a shit that there’s a swamp in the back seat or that rust is perhaps the only type of molecule holding the roof together. Well, that and the bubble gum.
• Rumor has it that Apple is developing an iPhone for Verizon. I hope it’s true. Another rumor holds that the 4th generation iPhone will be announced on June 22nd. My upgrade pricing became available in January, so I *could* get myself a 3GS, but why? When the next iPhone is due to be released in a matter of months, I’m not tying myself to a 2-year deal for LAST year’s model. I’ll be good and patient and wait. I’m praying that Apple announces not just the next AT&T iPhone in June, but the Verizon iPhone, as well. Cuz when they do? Hasta lasagna, AT&T.
• I have a place to live. That’s not to be taken for granted. I’m fortunate.
• Food. I have that, too, even if lately everything tastes like cardboard to me.
• Daughters. Despite the troubles I’ve caused in those relationships, I couldn’t be prouder of my girls. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: they are my crowning achievement.
• Family. Like most people, I have my share of dysfunctionality in my family. Hell, sometimes I feel like I’m the sane one. But I love my family, and I know that I’m lucky to have them.
• Health care. I’d be screwed if not for the V.A. Thank God I have them for my physical AND mental health. Otherwise I’d be broker than I already am.
• SillyBring is only three weeks away and then Shannon arrives!

There are many other items, I’m sure, but these are the things that spring to mind. I have a lot to be grateful for, even if my miserable curmudgeonly self doesn’t mention them as often as I should. Wish I could throw this one in there, though:

• I get laid three times a day.

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Got nothing done today. My brain sometimes acquiesces and let’s me sleep, but not for long. It’s not a manic thing, either. Not having the luxury of naps to escape…*sigh*

I wonder how long it’s going to take. For lots of things. Meds. Mood. Me. How long does it take to gain a grip?

I’m tired of having very little to get excited about. Tired of being tired.

I want to feel better. I want to BE better. I want to not feel so damn lonely. I want…what I can’t have.

And that’s not frustrating in the least.

Blogged via iPhone

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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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So yesterday I went to see the Matrix Therapist for the first time in a couple of weeks. For those of you that are new to 2HT, I call her that because of our first meeting:

MT: I have this sticker on my car that says, “There is no spoon.” You know what I mean?

Me: Did you just quote from the fucking Matrix?!

MT: (smiling) Yes.

Me: We’re gonna get along juuuuust fine.

She’s been the Matrix Therapist ever since.

Once again, I entered that office – complete with stylish shoji screen – in full-blown crisis mode. All the shit I’m juggling right now overrides my need to get down to the nitty gritty of my real problems. We’re sticking corks in the dam, so to speak, before we get to actually repairing the fucking dam. Every time. For a while now.

I’ve had a number of setbacks in recent months. Many, actually. Things I can’t talk about here. Or won’t, whatever. Let’s just say that I thought I was a rather good judge of people. I’ve always prided myself on reading people really, really well. And I’ve taken several blows of late that make me question everything I think I know. Am I actually any good at judging people? I’m shaky on that answer right now. And just to be safe, I’m not talking about any one person here. This is about my reality, not anyone else’s.

My point is that when trust is an issue between two people, the whole relationship is under heavy scrutiny. And that, to me, is nerve-wracking. This is only one thing I’m dealing with right now, albeit on multiple fronts. I’m stressed, on the border of Freaking The Fuck Out, because I’m putting MYSELF under heavy scrutiny.

Again, I thought I was good at judging people. Now, not so sure. This is a crucial issue for me, monumental even.

MT: Why are you beating yourself down over these things?

Me: What are you talking about?

MT: You’re saying that you’ve been disappointed and let down by people.

Me: Yes, exactly.

MT: So why are you putting the blame on you by saying you’re not a good judge of character?

Me: I’m no–huh.

MT: As if you’re not smart enough to see it coming.

Me: Well…right.

MT: Why is it your fault, when it’s them that did what they did?

Me: It’s…not?

MT: We all get fooled, Karl. Especially those of us that choose to see the best in people.

Me: Yeah. (sigh)

MT: It’s not a question of how smart you are.

Me: Yeah. (sigh)

As usual, I take on far too much, including the blame. And the shame. And the problems, other people’s problems.

Call me an empath, or a “fixer,” or a good listener. All those things apply to me, I suppose, at one time or another. The point is, when I’m your friend, I am pretty loyal and trusting. I try to help, offer good counsel. I expect big things of the people I choose to keep around me: honesty, trust, and accountability. Well, the trust part really comes as a result of the honesty and accountability, but you get what I’m saying.

I guess what I’m talking about here is that I’m quick to take on shit that isn’t mine. I get invested in things I have no business being invested in. And I’m lightning-fast at slapping myself any chance I get, and I don’t mean in a happy-slapping-my-monkey kinda way, either.

That needs to stop.

The other big realization that came to me through therapizing…

I’m growing and changing. I’m doing things I’m not used to; therefore, they are uncomfortable.

I’m going to feel uncomfortable a lot for a while. It’s like they say: if you’ve been sitting on a pile of shit your whole life, then that’s what you know, and that’s what your comfortable with. Anything else, as bizarre as it may seem, is going to be uncomfortable because it’s outside your Comfort Zone.

This came to me because I talked to the MT about how I HATE confrontation. I’m a Smoother-Outer kinda guy. I learned to be funny at a very early age. It helped greatly to calm the waters when my parents were fighting. Helped for most any conflict, really. Kept me from getting my ass kicked by bullies on more than one occasion…and I got a lot of ass-kicking.

I’m anger-phobic. I’ll do most anything to avoid an argument.

MT: You’re not confronting. You’re setting boundaries.

Me: Well, the effect is the same. I dread it.

MT: You dread saying what you want, or need?

Me: I dread the confron…the conversations.

MT: It’s uncomfortable.

Me: Yeah. Why is it uncomfortable for me to stand up for myself?

MT: You’re  not used to it. You’re used to taking on everyone’s stuff. You’re used to being the problem-solver, to keeping everyone happy.

Me: Yeah.

MT: For everyone but yourself.

Me: Yeah. Wait, what?

So yeah, it was like that.

Last night, I felt something so alien it may as well have burst out of my chest while I was eating my General Tso’s chicken. I don’t know who the fuck General Tso is, but he makes some damn fine chicken.

That alien entity? Just might have been…peace. It’s hard to say, it’s not something I’ve felt often enough to recognize.

There’s peace in letting go. Platitudes, corny as they may be to us now, are still true. There’s a peace in letting go of something and telling myself, “That’s not mine any more. I’m getting rid of it.”

Or perhaps it’s just me sighing in exhaustion from hanging onto that shit for so long.

Either way, the effect is the same.

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So I mentioned that my Resolution this month hit a snag. Big time. Bottom line is, I got fired. From one of my gigs, not both.

Not that it’s a huge shock, mind you. After all, I haven’t worked in quite a while. I take the blame for that.

I won’t say exactly which site fired me, but it doesn’t involve travel blogging, and it might rhyme loosely with Brain Trawler.

No matter. It’s lit a fire under my ass. I plan on doing more travel stories until I find another gig to add to the hotel blogging. So if you know of anything, please let me know. Especially if it involves me writing more humor’ish, slice-of-life stuff. I’m also going to get my other little project going. I told you, I have ideas.

Course, this reaffirms what I’ve already said. TequilaCon is definitely out for me this year. And it doesn’t look good for BlogHer, either. Disappointing, to say the least. For you, I mean. Ahem.

In the meantime, I thought I’d write a little letter to any future employers I have. I’m sure they’re all reading this and are interested in anything and everything I have to say.

Dear Future Employers:

Hi, I wanted to take a moment to give you a list of things you might try in order to make my life with you more pleasant. Or more professional. Whatever.

1. You should know up front that I prefer being notified when I get fired. You know, as close to when you hire my replacements as is convenient for you. To clarify, telling me months later – only after I am ready to return to work – is just a tad late for my taste. I realize it’s a personal preference, but it’s MY personal preference.
2. If you simply must fire me, I prefer getting a phone call over getting an email 15 minutes before end-of-business. It’s more professional and, as an added bonus, it doesn’t make your company seem like it truly doesn’t give a fuck about their employees.
3. Please don’t try to explain your decisions for firing me, unless you’re giving me REAL reasons. I’m not as dumb as I look. For example, saying that it’s because of “budgetary constraints” when you only have a finite number of writing slots per day, and it doesn’t matter who writes them or gets paid for them, is kinda bogus’ish.
4. If you’re going to fire me, please do me the kindness of removing me from the company email lists first. I have enough email to wrestle with every day, I don’t need more.
5. If you happen to be in, say, the gossip industry, please don’t pretend to class up the joint by not using words like “butt” or “nude.” Especially if it’s a blog skewed toward mommies. Because moms happen to be nude a lot, and they also have butts. And they’re also there to read GOSSIP. Running a gossip blog – and again, this is only if you happen to be in that industry – and telling the writers they can’t use words like “sex” or “boobs” is a little like telling TMZ not to take photos. It can be done, mind you, but no one is going to want to read it any more. And I think the traffic reflects that. Or *would*…sorry.
6. I like employers who send me things like free coffee or Cherry Coke Zero. And massage gift certificates. Even without the Happy Ending added on, it’s still a nice perk.

I have other ideas, too, if you care to ask for my input. Most involve naked women, but I do have a great one that includes a shaved giraffe.

Sincerely,

Karl Erikson

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February 1. Shit, why did I agree to do TWELVE resolutions this year? What the fuck was I thinking?

Gonna make this short and sweet. Don’t expect that on a regular basis. I’ve got a lot in the air right now.

February: Financial

I resolve to start working again. Two stories per day for Famecrawler, one story per week for Uptake.

Yes, I have actual writing jobs. No, I haven’t acted like it for a long, long time. Since Lisa passed on LAST February, truth be told. I’m tired of being broke and bitching about it when I’m the one who has the power to fix the fucking problem. So I’m doing it.

I’m fortunate that I haven’t permanently screwed up those gigs. And that I get to work from home, especially right now with Mom in bed most of the time.

So that’s the deal. I begin working in earnest tomorrow.

Over and out.

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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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