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Day 3 of 28.

So I finish treatment on July 13, according to my advisor/therapist here. I’m already counting the days. Not that it’s a horrible place, but damn. My schedule is not in line with the schedule they have me following here.

See, I’m a guy who goes to bed at 1 or 2 in the morning, sleeps till 9 or so, has several cups of coffee before even thinking about food. That shit doesn’t wash here.

Our first gettogether – the "community meeting" – is at 8am. Breakfast is served from 6:30-7:45 in the morning. Lunch from 11-12. Dinner from 5-6. You don’t eat when they’re serving, you’re fucked. (Some would say that even if you do get to eat, you’re fucked. The food reminds me of chow hall days in the military.) This resulted in me awaking this morning at 5:45. OK, that’s not entirely accurate. I GOT UP at 5:45. My roommate (oh, yes, there’s a roommate) got up at 3:00 (in the MORNING) and was packing his stuff up since he leaves tomorrow.

He’s a nice guy, my roomie, but I’d much prefer a private room. They do have a few of them, but I didn’t get the luck of the draw on that one.

The day is pretty well packed with classes and groups. Aside from meals, the biggest break of the day is from 8:30-9:00 AM. After that, you’re fortunate to get 5 minutes between each session. It’s all individualized…I have a schedule that’s highlighted with the sessions I’m supposed to attend each day. Naps? Well, those have been severely curbed. I’m dragging a bit, but surviving.

As for logistics, I had no idea what to expect coming in. As it turns out, we’re allowed to keep all our meds in our room (under lock and key in our personal locker), unless you’re taking a controlled substance (which I’m not). I even have my insulin and syringes in my room. Wasn’t expecting that. Yes, we can have shoelaces and belts. Someone asked me about that beforehand and I didn’t have the answer till I got here Tuesday morning.

There’s a rec room with ping-pong table, pool tables, foosball, games, etc. There are 4 different TVs spread throughout our wing, each with DVD players. Just finished watching "Regarding Henry" this evening. Tuesday night was "Avatar," which I hadn’t seen but really enjoyed.

We can have visitors on Saturday afternoons, though I don’t really expect anyone, except maybe my Mom.

They’ve changed up my meds a bit. That’s one of the better things about the experience thus far, since I wanted them to do something different for me. (As if being in a residential program wasn’t enough of a change-up.)

The guys here are (for the most part) really cool. We have youngins who served in Iraq, all the way up through old-timers who served in Vietnam. Then there’s me, who served during the first Gulf War. Full spectrum. As much as the social aspect of this place scared the fuck out of me ahead of time, it really has turned out to be okay. Not surprising, it’s just that I tend to blow the hell out of everything in anticipation.

There’s one washer and dryer to serve about 100 or so people. And it’s not an industrial washer/dryer, either. You sign up for 2-hour blocks of time on a sheet, and the washer has the temperment of Sybil. Not Sybil Law…Sybil, as in you don’t know which personality you’re gonna get at any given moment. Sometimes it works fine, other times it just keeps starting and restarting its cycle over and over again. I look forward to Saturday, when I’m signed up to do my laundry.

The mops they supply for us (yeah, we clean our own rooms and bathrooms) are primitive at best. There are room inspections daily (feel like I’m back in the Air Force already, except for the part where I don’t have to shave and I can wear cargo shorts). We have bed checks, of course…which really isn’t a big deal. It’s not like I have anywhere to go after hours.

And there ARE computers with Internet, which I wasn’t expecting. Thank God. Course, I don’t have much time to sit in front of them. Most of my day I’m relegated to my iPhone, which only gets a signal outside (as I mentioned in my last post).

There are several wings here, ranging from people with mental health probs to PTSD to substance abuse. For the most part, everyone gets along fine, though there are occasional "disagreements." Rumors abound and word has it that someone is getting kicked out for starting a fight today. I don’t get it, you’d think people just just calm the fuck down and treat each other with some respect. But I admit there are a couple of guys I wouldn’t mind getting punched. Not by me, of course. I’m a pacifist. Mostly.

This is rambling and long-winded and all over the board, I know. Guess I just wanted to check in and say I’m ok. I’ll be better come July 13.

I put my mailing address in the last post if you feel inclined to write. If not, no biggie. I understand that you’re too lazy to write me while I’m in the looney bin. *sniff sniff*

WHAT I *CAN* USE: We sit in the atrium quite a bit, smoking, me and the guys. Lots of jokes get passed around, so if you know any really good ones, I’d appreciate you commenting here with one or two. Laughs most welcome, and the guys who’ve been here for weeks are always expecting the newcomers (that’d be me) to bring new jokes with them. Much appreciated.

I’ll post when I can. Thanks again for all your comments, Tweets, messages, texts, and emails. Again, I wish I could respond to everyone, but it’s just not feasible right now.

Hasta lasagna.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

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

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.

Seriously, It’s Not Me. It’s You. MEN SHIRT by karlerikson

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?

a

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

a

Not. Doing. Well.

It’s all in between my fucking ears, as usual. That’s always the problem area with me.

I had a good day yesterday. A friend visited and made my day. Hell, my month. So why are these awesome moments so short-lived in my head? I’m back to miserable today. Overwhelmed. Feeling on the verge of…shit, I don’t know. Not quite a breakdown, but close.

Every task becomes this monumental thing hanging over my head. Checking my blood sugar. Taking meds. A load of laundry. The dishes. Getting Mom another glass of water. Writing a story for work. Answering the phone, texts. Making an appointment for my head CT (Tuesday). I’m waiting for that Final Straw. Surely it’s coming.

And it’s days like this when I tend to cloak myself in one of my sweetest comforts. No, not Guinness. Not even rubbing one out. I’m talking about suicidal thoughts.

Bear me out here. I’m safe. You need to know that.

One of the hardest questions I get asked by shrinks is whether or not I’m suicidal.

“Are you having suicidal thoughts?” they ask.

The short answer is, “Yes.” But if I just drop a “yes” out there with no qualifiers,  I’m sure to wind up in a rubber room somewhere. No key.

Now, any shrink or therapist worth their fees will follow up such an answer with another question.

“Have you made any plans to harm yourself?”

THAT is the REAL question, the important question. Because while I *think* about suicide every day…every hour, even…I would never ACT on those thoughts.

Now that we have that out of the way…

I’ve spoken a little about my inner voice(s). Some might call it my Inner Critic, but that’s not strong enough a term. It’s like an ARMY of Inner Critics. That’s another iffy question for me…”Do you hear voices?” I’ve said, too, that sometimes these inner voices sound as clear to me as a real-live person.

Let’s say I fuck up, something I do routinely. We all do, we’re human.

My inner dialogue might go a little like this:

Gah! You’re a fucking idiot!

I wish I was dead.

Lightning quick, it’s out there in my head, it’s often the very FIRST thought that pops to mind.

I should die.

Everything would be simpler if I were dead. All the problems, the depression, the anxiety, my fucking up all the time, my loneliness, feeling so overwhelmed, so broken. All. Gone. In an instant.

I could get hit by a Mack truck. I could jump in the tub with a plugged-in toaster. I could jump off the Sebring water tower. Hanging is a popular choice. Pills I’m not thrilled with…tried that. Once. Guns. Trains. So many choices.

I often fall asleep thinking about all the ways I could blink myself out of the universe. It’s comforting. Morbid, sick, yes…but comforting. There’s power in knowing I can snuff it all away.

Now, I’m not saying it’s healthy to think like this. It’s not. At all. It’s part of my makeup, though. It’s hard-wired into my brain, these instant (sometimes gruesome) wishes for death.

I’ve come to grips with the myriad of unhealthy things happening in my brain. I know they’ll likely never, ever go away. I also know I’ll never act on the suicidal shit. Why?

I could never do that to the people in my life. Suicide is wrong, period. It’s an act of anger, and it’s the most selfish, heinous thing a person can possibly do. I don’t want to get into debates about how child molesters are far worse, or that people in chronic pain should have the right to assisted suicide. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck if you agree or disagree with me. I know I’m right. I’ve seen suicide, how it affects people.

You want to instantly become the Douchiest Person on Earth? Kill yourself. And if you do, don’t expect me to come to your funeral. I don’t mourn assholes.

What kept me from following through on my one suicide attempt in the mid 90’s was my daughters. Dark living room with a single lit candle, I had the pills all swallowed, my bottle of wine to wash them down with. Only a few minutes passed, and I was in tears. Then my girls popped into my head, and I cried even harder. I realized I was about to become the Douchiest Person on Earth.

Like I hadn’t screwed them up enough already? Now I was going to saddle my girls with a father who committed suicide? Put them through a life of fucked-uppedness? No.

I got up, went to the toilet, shoved fingers into my mouth, and puked all that shit out. No ambulance, no hospital, no further ceremony. I cried myself to sleep, knowing I was so fucked up I couldn’t even take my own life. And that the pain was still very much there.

My girls…that’s a sore subject with me. A topic for another post, maybe. Let’s just say that, in order to protect them from my bottom-of-the-pit depression, I played the neglect card. I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping them from me. I was wrong, perhaps the wrongest I’ve ever been. And that haunts me daily. Those relationships are non-existent now, both of them are fed up with my shit.

But I can say I didn’t pull the trigger, and my girls are the reason why I’m still here today. Sometimes they’re the ONLY reason, and that’s enough. We all need a reason to not be dead, preferably multiple reasons.

So…today. Back to the present. Days like today, when I’m down and overwhelmed and anhedonic, make me think of suicide a lot. Because it’s the hopelessness that convinces me this shit will never EVER end. I will NEVER have relief. Precisely why I watch “Highlander” and shudder at the thought of living forever. Fuck, I dread making it another 20 years on days like today. Living for all of eternity? No fucking thanks.

I got my new meds in the mail today. The Abilify, and the one for the nightmares. I have a lot of concerns, I’ve told you why before. But my need for something better – anything better – is so great that I’m gonna try this shit again.

I’ve already agreed to not leave Mom’s sight for 3 hours after taking the Abilify tomorrow morning. I look inside that vial and see those teeny little pills, and I think, “That little thing could make me or break me. THAT.” They terrify me.

I read through the list of potential side effects. Diabetes is mentioned specifically. Could raise my blood sugar, and mine has been not so great already. Could lower my blood pressure – which is always damn good – and make me faint.

But it could…just maybe…work. I’m not holding my breath, though.

And I’m pretty sure I know how I’ll be falling asleep tonight.

Jumping off an overpass. Barrel in my mouth. Too much insulin. It’s the Parade of Morbidity, and I am the mutherfucking Grand Marshall.

a

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.

a

Tuesday night, Mom and I had our first TNT night out since her accident. The TNT’s, for those that don’t know, are otherwise known as the Dynamite Divas. In my head, I call them the Tuesday Night Supper Club, but it’s basically the Meatsuite mentality…just a couple decades down the line.

Every Tuesday, the TNT’s gather round a dinner table at a different restaurant. There’s laughing and crying and everything in between. I happen to be a member, even though I technically lack a vagina. Don’t mock, I paid my dues (which involved a coconut bra and grass skirt).

Mom did great, walking all the way from the car to the table (using a walker). Everyone was happy to see her out and about. Lots of laughter is a good thing.

At some point, the girls were discussing the obituaries. Half the girls read them daily. I suppose when *I* hit the ripe old age of 36 (the age my mother has claimed to be for decades now), I’ll have to read the obituaries every day, too. Isn’t that what old people are supposed to do? That, and eating dinner at 4:30pm, wearing shades that engulf your entire head, and donning black socks with shorts and sandals.

Seems a morbid thing to me, looking to see who died, but whatever. I’m not here to judge (outside my head, anyway).

The stress levels for me of late are through the roof. I maintain some vestiges of my mania, I think, though it’s getting harder and harder to tell. This Natural Calm shit isn’t making me feel very calm, but I’m still taking it…along with the multivitamins, L-Theanine, and melatonin. And my pharmaceuticals.

There’s this thing I do – a lot of survivors do it, actually – called Trauma Breathing. Essentially, it’s very shallow breathing, interspersed with a lot of breath-holding. I rarely breathe deeply. It’s a physiological manifestation of my PTSD. And from what I understand, it’s not good for me.

Somewhere down the road, and sooner rather than later, I plan to undertake meditation. I may find Meditation for Dummies somewhere cheaper than what I saw at Books A Million over the weekend. As an aside, I think it’s ridiculous that you’re expected to become a BAM “member” by paying $20, just so you can get 10% off all your purchases for a year. That means I need to buy at least $200 worth of books in order to make it worthwhile. And that’s a shitty business practice. Why not just GIVE me 10% off? I can already find everything cheaper online. Again, though, nobody ever consults me on these things.

The Resolution, right. Well, it’s not going well, I admit. But I did post my first work story yesterday, so that’s a good thing. (Please Digg and Stumble it, I’d be most appreciative. The more traffic I get, the better it is for me.)

A while back I started my Bucket List, which looked like this:

KARL’S BUCKET LIST

• Great Fucking Road Trip
• Bungee jump
• Meet Flight of the Conchords and get them on my show
• Go to Australia
• Get my own medical marijuana card
• Fix my smile
• Write my story in a book. Have at least one book signing.
• Do the largest dancing in my boxers video ever with dozens of women at least
• Have some random stranger recognize me on the street in any place other than home
• Meet Jaime Murray
• Do a video with @jennyonthespot
• Karaoke in Tokyo (EDIT: a country song)
• Fall in love and get married
• Party in Vegas
• Get paid to do a talk show on radio

I’m going to keep adding to this and editing as need be. I really liked a post that Adam wrote a while back. He was contemplating all the things he wants to accomplish before he’s 40. Adam and I seem to have a lot going on at the moment in the Change Department.

I’m already past 40, but I think I’m going to create a second list of things I want to accomplish before I’m 50. Some of them may crossover onto my Bucket List, but that’s OK.

Making goals is not something I’m well-versed at. I’m not a future-thinking kinda guy. I can barely think about what I’m having for dinner tonight, let alone goals for the next 7 years. It’s a Survivor thing, I’ve learned. Just focus on getting through THIS MOMENT. Survival IS the goal. But surviving isn’t enough, people. That’s not LIVING, that’s just existing. Maggots do as much.

But still, this is the Year of Resolutions, a time when I’m working hard to make mental shifts. I want to see the positive instead of constantly focusing on the negative. Fuck, I want to be – dare I say it? – happy.

So here are some of the things I’d like to get done before I’m 50.

1. Do stand-up comedy. My friend, Mic (who I still call Mike, but whatever), is doing this now in L.A. As a teenager, I’d walk to and from school with Mike and Rob and my brother, Chris. We’d make each other laugh constantly. And play Dungeons & Dragons. Mike’s been telling me I should do stand-up for a while now, and I’ve always pooh-pooh’d the idea because I’m laden with anxieties and neuroses. But lately, I’ve been feeling more and more like I want to try this.
2. Finish and publish a book. Doesn’t have to be my autobiography, but it probably will be. Haven’t touched that damn manuscript in a decade, but I plan on changing that.
3. Get back to England. I lived there for three years, and loved it, even if that was also the time that led to the end of my marriage. I have friends there still, and now I have NEW friends there, thanks to the InterWebz.
4. Drive all of Route 66. This is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Big road trip.
5. Become my own boss. I love writing, and I’m happy that I’ve had the opportunities to make a living at it. Ultimately, though, I want to answer to myself. Sure, I don’t know shit about business or even budgeting, but I can get there. And I’m hoping to get a business venture launched in the near future, something I’ve been mulling over for a while now. (That’ll come after I relaunch SecondHand Tryptophan, which is happening in the next month.) Ultimately, this is about not being poor any more.
6. Move out of Sebring. I never intended to stay here this long. I’ve come to appreciate the town, but it’s not enough for me. I want to be somewhere else. Not sure where, exactly, but it needs to be bigger than Sebring. And it’s probably going to be somewhere relatively warm because I’m so not a snow person.

I think those are enough for now. Again, it’s another list in progress.

I’ll bring these lists with me to my Matrix Therapy session this afternoon. The MT was off last week, and I’m in heavy need of some therapizing. I’m also bringing my old IOP journal, the one that lists my med regimen, including the meds that were WORKING. If I don’t find some fucking relief, and soon, I don’t know that I’ll be in any position to get any of the things on my lists accomplished.

In the meantime, who needs a drink?

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I wish I could tell you that this month’s Resolution has gone off without a hitch, but it hasn’t. There’s a bit of a fly in the ointment, and I can’t yet say what. Suffice it to say that I’m still working on fulfilling at least half of my Resolution. And when I find out what I’m waiting to find out, you’ll hear about it.

Meantime, I have other news to report.

Mom had her follow-up at the doctor today. It’ll be two weeks since her surgery tomorrow. Things are moving along. She hasn’t had a pain pill since the weekend. X-rays look good. The doc took her staples out today, so now she can actually get her knee wet in the shower (instead of sticking her leg in a big black garbage bag and taping it shut).

No more lounging around in bed all the time, either. Doc says I need to crack the whip, so I will. Up and about as much as possible. Her endurance is shit right now, but that’ll change, too. She’s walking back and forth short distances (with a walker, mostly, but still).

She’ll be in the knee immobilizer for another month, when she goes back for more x-rays. Thumb needs to stay in its own immobilizer, too. Yeah, we forgot to ask about the thumb last time because, well, it’s pretty inconsequential when compared to the broken kneecap.

Should everything look good in a month, it’ll be time for physical therapy. And that’ll be another 6-8 weeks.

That’s all good. Aside from me being locked to the house for a while longer, anyway. But I can get out when I need to…just have to ask for a sitter. Mom doesn’t agree that she needs one, but she does agree that if the shoe were on the other foot, she wouldn’t be leaving ME by myself right now. So there’s progress.

My diabetes is coming under control. My sugars the last few days have mostly been well under 200, mostly under 140, even. I’m not including tonight, of course, because I scored a 222 after three slices of pizza. Oops. Still, I’m getting there.

I ordered a number of herbal and natural supplements to help with my depression and the bipolar disorder. Checked the list with both the Matrix Therapist and my new shrink, of course. I’m still being compliant and very honest with them about…everything, really. I keep no secrets from my medical team. That would just be stupid. No therapy this week because the MT thinks she deserves time off or something.

Whatev.

Got the Natural Calm yesterday and I’ve been taking it twice a day. Still waiting on my other shipment, which will include a multivitamin, as well as l-thiamine and melatonin. I love the InterWebz.

In an odd burst of motivation today, I went out to the shed and reclaimed some of my journals from my days in group therapy. Took a while, but I found the one I was really searching for. It lists the meds I was taking at the time, some of which were really working. Found tons of stuff in those journals. This stuff is just some of the doodlings between my scribblings.

Hmm. 10 years later and not much has changed from that particular drawing.

My head? It’s…I don’t really know, actually. I’ve had a lot of shit happening (again. still.) and haven’t been taking note of everything. With the journals I found today, I found a blank book I can use. So I’ll start keeping one with all my symptoms/feelings so I can report out to everyone that needs the info.

What I do know is this: I feel more depressed. I’m still likely to tear up if a hummingbird burps the wrong way. Still oddly calm, yet at the same time freaking out from stress. So I suppose I’m still manic, though it’s not nearly as heightened now as it was a week ago.

That Charlie feeling I described? The reversion to Stupid Karl? I feel like it’s happening. I’m not as sharp. Things are a tad foggier. I’m slipping.

I just hope I can hold on to some semblance of a good attitude.

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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.

a

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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