Just got home from Mom’s follow-up doctor appointment. Y’know, from the Broken Kneecap Debacle of 2010? Today was her last scheduled day of physical therapy. She’s gone from a 65-degree flex on that knee to just over 90 degrees. It’s been just over 3 months since this thing started.
She’s been driving (back roads, since highway driving with the constant acceleration hurts), she even went to the grocery store yesterday…first time since her accident. She’s cooking, too – thank God, because my culinary skills are roughly the same ones owned by 7-year-olds.
Long story short: Six more weeks of physical therapy to increase her flexibility and strength. She can return to work almost immediately. And another doctor visit in two months’ time.
Her going back to work is a good thing. It’s been a long three months and Mom has had more than her share of stir crazy. The BITCH about her going back to work now is that I’m the one that’s gonna have to chauffeur her around to work and back every day. See, she works off the highway, so…I’m kinda screwed, especially since her workday starts around 8am.
Ugh. Can’t wait till she can fully drive again.
Me? Meh. Depression still bares its vampire fangs my way, so much so that getting out of bed is just a couple clicks shy of more than I can do. It’s probably a good thing I have another video-conference with my shrink this afternoon.
The Abilify isn’t cutting it; not at the current dosage, anyway. The prazosin, a blood pressure med which has an off-label use for ridding people of nightmares, may be working. I rarely remember my dreams, but can’t recall any nightmares of late. Typically, with nightmares I’ll wake up in a sweat at 3 or 4 in the morning. Been a while since that happened.
What I have noticed is more energy, to the tune of cutting into “productive” nap time. I wish energy = motivation, but it doesn’t. I need something for mood. Or something that will excise drama from my life. Both, preferably.
I understand how my shrink is approaching my case. We don’t want to start me on multiple things at one time. That’d make it difficult to ascertain what medicines are doing what.
But as I mentioned in my last post, my super powers do not include waiting. I want to feel better…not yesterday, TODAY. Hell, I’d just about prefer a manic phase right now. Relief, any relief, would be welcome.
The trial-and-error shit associated with finding the right Magic Cocktail is not fun, nor fast enough for my liking. I know the universe doesn’t give a fuck, but I’m tired of uttering the mantra: “It has to get better, it has to get better, it has to get better.” Repeat ad nauseum.
Happy birthday, Mom. And happy birthday to my girls. I wrote this post back in August of 2006. Won awards and shit, which was nice (and surprising). Seems appropriate to rerun it today, on the 23rd anniversary of the day I felt life was worth living for maybe the very first time.
- Karl
—
I’m in a weird place at the moment. Effects from my California trip are still coursing through me. I’m really not happy with where I’m at in my life. Not happy with a lot of choices I’ve made (and continue to make). Not happy that I live in a little tiny town, have been here for nearly three years, and still know virtually no one.
I need to DO something. Quit letting fear rule my freaking life. Get a plan. Make lists. Put my ass in motion. Ugh. Ugh.
Right. So there’s that. Strange, I don’t typically get into the deeper shit here on 2HT. The crap I could lay down here is legion. I should probably start relying on my other more personal blog again. Or maybe this space is changing…evolving. Perish the thought.
As per Angela’s Inner Babs, today I’m going to write about one of the perfect days in my life.
I got married very young. I’d turned 20 only a month before, in fact. And though my wife and I were already very much in love and would likely have married, anyway, things were accelerated when we discovered she was pregnant. With twins.
Before that revelation came to be, we’d both decided we were joining the Air Force. But Uncle Sam doesn’t allow for pregnant women to join the Air Force. Imagine that. So we decided that I would join alone. Me, the wild and crazy kid with the long-ass tri-colored mullet, dangly earring, and Miami Vice wardrobe. In the military. Money was too tight to mention (as Simply Red sang) so it would be perfect. Uncle Sam would pay for the certainly HUGE medical bills related to my wife’s pregnancy. No way could we have afforded it otherwise, even if I continued as a civilian with the three jobs I had.
So I took the battery of tests and joined the Air Force with a “guaranteed” job, meaning I could pick any five jobs I wanted and be guaranteed one of those five. The fighter pilot option was out since I’d be enlisted. (Not to mention I don’t have perfect vision.) I chose the five jobs that had the longest training schools, thinking that those would be the most difficult and valuable, and thus the highest paying jobs once I returned to the civilian sector.
Blah, blah, blah. That’s not really important.
I went through basic training, missing my wife like hell the entire time. When I graduated, I went to Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi to begin training as an Air Traffic Control Radar Equipment Specialist. In other words, a radar repairman.
For the first two months of tech school, you weren’t allowed to have your spouse and family join you. I guess it’s an adjustment period of sorts. It sucked. I missed her so badly I physically ached at times. And I felt so out of place because I was generally two years older than everyone else, and that made me feel even worse.
I missed my daughters’ birth. I fucking hate that I did, but it was the choice my wife and I made at the time because of my Air Force training. If I’d gone home for the birth, my training would be delayed and then it’d be even longer before I could bring them to Mississippi. I still remember well the Master Sergeant from my squadron knocking on my dorm room door – me in a t-shirt and skivvies – to tell me that I was a father. It flabbergasted me then, as it does now. I saluted the MSgt, in fact. “Airman, congratulations, but you don’t salute me because I’m not an officer. And you don’t salute ANYONE indoors.” Oops.
So, the perfect day? As you’ve guessed by now, I’m sure, it came nearly two months later. I busted my ass to find an apartment for my new family and I signed the lease and got the keys. And the day finally came.
My wife’s uncle was, coincidentally, a colonel in the Air Force who happened to be the commander of ALL the training squadrons at Keesler. My wife pulled up in front of the Triangle (a gathering place for us dweeby trainees) while her mother and my new daughters waited at her uncle’s house. I stood there, hugging her tightly for ages, soaking in the feel and the smell of her all over again. I’d been so starved for her the last 3-1/2 months I was crying. We kissed and hugged and kissed again and then got into the car to drive across base to visit a place no dweeby trainee had ever been: the Officer Housing Area.
I had a cast on my left leg. I had fallen down some stairs and tore the ligaments in my left foot. Had to wear the damned thing for six weeks. I’m just now remembering that I had it on that day.
Then came the moment when we got to her uncle’s house. I went in and there were a number of people there I didn’t know, members of my new extended family. I gravitated immediately to my mother-in-law, who I’d also missed a lot. We hugged and cracked some pleasantries, all of them immediately passing from my mind because what I was really looking for was…them.
“Sit down, Daddy,” said my MIL. I did. Sat down on the sofa.
Within a few moments, I had these two tiny perfect packages thrust into my arms. Little strangers wrapped tightly in little tiny clothes, wiggling around on my lap. Somewhere there is a photo of that moment – I’d have to sift through boxes and boxes and boxes to find it – where I look utterly shell-shocked with these creatures in my arms.
How on Earth could these beautiful teeny people have resulted from anything that I did? An idiotic oaf like me? Astounding. Bloody impossible.
Yet, there they were. In my lap. Living proof that I didn’t totally fuck up at everything.
Even though the day is muchly a blur in my mind’s eye, I do remember that absolutely everything about it was perfect.
I even remember the next morning, waking up at the girls’ slightest breaths – before they could even whimper, let alone cry. I left my sleeping, exhausted wife in bed and sprinted to their crib. I stared at them in awe as they stared right back at me, and I found my eyes welling up once again (as they did many times in those early days).
It took me some time to muster up my courage and dare to pick them up, but I did. I was determined to let my wife rest and to prove that I could do this. I brought them out to the living room and placed them on the blanket upon the carpeted floor. And I changed their wet diapers as if it were the most glorious and amazing privilege on Earth.
Thanks to all of you that sent in entries for the Funniest Sex Story contest. We had eight funny stories. They’ve all been read and the votes are in. Thanks to Shannon, Mike, and Janet, my amazing judges.
The Runner-Up is Sandi, who wins a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store:
As a diligent public servant, I worked as a court clerk in a public safety building which consisted of only 2 stories. Rumors were rampant as police, fire, and the courts were all in 1 building, and well, boys will be boys. I kept my nose clean and my reputation cleaner refusing to “fish off my own pier.”
I had been dating someone in the legal field, which often brought them to the building several times a week. As our relationship intensified (got closer to having sex), one day 3 dozen long stem roses were delivered to my office, to celebrate our 3 weeks of dating and his 3 weeks of waiting. This of course caused quite a bit of ruckus in the rumor mill and secretaries to cops were putting out APB’s trying to figure out just what innocent little me could have done to receive 3 dozen roses.
Shortly thereafter, he arrived at my office with a single rose. He had paid his penance and waited quite gallantly. We used the NEVER used elevator since the building was only 2 stories, pushed the emergency stop button, and I began to show my appreciation for the flowers. However, a building full of firemen and cops that hear an emergency bell tend to come running quickly, and our episode was cut short. It was clear to the huge crowd when we exited the elevator either something of a sexual nature had/was going to happen or this young man had a subway sandwich in his pants.
Embarrassed highly – but not thwarted – our hormones took over once we entered my office just off the courtroom. It was a Tuesday, meaning no court, no judge, empty huge room with solid furniture. I slipped on the judges robe (why? who the fuck knows? I was horny) and we began to “make mad passionate rulings” right there on top of the judges mahogany bench.
I had the gavel in my hand and it was just insane crazy good shit, like when you haven’t eaten in a week and you eat a cracker. Yeah, damn good cracker. We were letting loose over a month’s worth of pent up sexual anxiety and tension and it was awesome. Well until the point the mayor and the local news crew with cameras rolling came thru the court room double doors and looked straight at us.
Yeah, apparently it was “student government day” and there was a high school boy shadowing the mayor and the stupid TV News thought that was a worthy story. As the mayor was showing this kid around his kingdom, I don’t think they thought they would run across a court clerk being pounded on the judges bench with cameras rolling.
Much to my pleasure, the local news was kind enough (paid off) and didn’t air the story. The guy I was dating sent more flowers but I just knew it would never be as good as it was that day so I dumped him. Plus, the mayor kind of said something about conflict of interest. Oh yeah, I had to have the judge’s robe cleaned and apologize …that sucked.
And the Winner of the $25 gift certificate from Eden Fantasys is…
“Minding my own business” is probably a very polite way of saying “so I was in front of the computer, getting myself off, when all of a sudden…”
Oh yeah. Like you don’t. Pffft. Whatever.
Let me take you back, back, back…way back, to a time before the hotband was in the picture. To a time when internet porn reigned supreme in my life, because frankly A) I was checking out women, not men, B) The ex was a little lacking in the “give it to me night and day, baby” department and finally C) I don’t know. I was bored, it was there.
Again. Don’t judge me. You know damn well you do it too. You just don’t admit it on your blogs.
So there I am, in my computer chair. No kids at home. No (ex) husband was home at the time. It was just me, my computer and my portable little friend, Buzz Lightyear.
*blinks* Yeah. Like you don’t have a name for your vibrators (and/or penises!).
Lawdy, so judgmental!
I am pullin’ up some sweetass lesbo porn, a few threesomes, some gangbangs, couple of upskirts…you know, your average male porn, except it was being enjoyed by me…a female. Isn’t that so erotic? *eye roll* (I can literally hear my hotband panting all the way from NYC) *snort* HONEY! You’ve heard this story already. Get over it.
Anyway, when I feel I am primed and supremely ready for the thrills to begin, CLICK! On goes Buzz Lightyear! Yes! TAKE ME THERE! To Infinity…and BEYOND! Mouse in the right hand, Buzz in my left (yes, I am ambidextrous. I am also sodium free and low in monotriglycerides) and going to funky town! Wee hoo! When all of a sudden…
*snap*
My nail breaks.
Now, most women would have ignored this completely and continued with their quest to find the honeypot, the top of the mountain, the promised land. Nope. Not me. I cannot bear to look at the brunette babe, spread-eagle in front of me, a vision of celluloid perfection…WHILE I AM SPORTING A BROKEN NAIL! No. The Jewish princess in me takes over. This simply will not do. I mean, come on. How tacky is this? I won’t even look at porn that has a poorly manicured or pedicured model. It’s not that I am a porn snob, it’s just that I am…well, okay, so I’m a porn snob. But if I expect the most from my porn, then dammit, I will be nothing less than perfect when I cum too!
I place Buzz down on my bare lap, pants down around my ankles and lean down to my purse to get out my nail glue.
SQUEEZE.
Nothing.
SQUEEZE.
Nothing.
*stab stab stab the top of the tube of glue with safety pin and SQQQQQQQUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEZE…*
SPLOOGE!
Crazy glue explodes everywhere. I drop my fingernail. Bends over to pick up said fingernail, gluing her extremely large tits to the crazy glue that has pooled in my lap.
“SHIT!” I exclaim.
“Bzzzzzzz,” replies Buzz Lightyear with a muffled cry from below my mammaries.
“HA!” snorts extremely hot brunette spread eagle on my computer screen. If she could be laughing at me, she would be.
“What the fuck could be worse than this,” I think aloud, while trying to dislodge her vibrator from between her nipple and her labia.
*sound of garage door opening*
“HOLY FUCK,” I shriek, and jump jump jump, bent over, ass out, tits glued to thighs, into my bathroom and turn on the shower.
“Honey,” says the (ex) husband, “are you here?”
“I’m in the shower,” I call back.
“But I’m here,” says the hot brunette still dangling on the computer screen.
Fuck.
It was sort of hard explaining to my (ex) husband why there was a naked woman on my computer monitor.
“There was??? Really???” I feign complete ignorance. “Oh my gosh, someone must have sent me a virus.”
*blink. blink*
After 8 years, I think the patch of skin on my upper thigh is finally the same color as the rest of my thigh. For a long time, I had a tell-tale dildo shaped white spot where my tan tore away in the shape of my vibrator.
I now refer to it as my “birthmark”. It’s this version of the story that allows me to keep my PTA membership intact.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
Drive all of Route 66. This is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Big road trip.
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.
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?
Drive all of Route 66. This is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Big road trip.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Watched half of the last “Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien” before bed last night. Funny, funny shit. Conan is funnier than I’ve ever seen him. I can relate. I often find that I’m near the top of my game when I’m in crisis mode. Not lately, mind you, but other times.
His ratings the last couple of weeks were up by over 60%. And NBC is still ditching him because, well, NBC is being run by rabid monkeys. Clearly. I mean, it makes sense. Jay Leno did so fantastic in prime time (*cough*) that anyone in their right mind would want to move him back to 11:30. Cue the Jaywalking and Monday night Headlines…comedy gold, people. *cough*
I don’t know who the fuck thinks Jay Leno is still funny, but the monkeys sure seem to dig him. Something tells me that Letterman’s ratings are gonna stay ahead of Leno’s now that this shit has gone down. But we’ll see. Either way, I’m back to not watching NBC late-night.
It’s like “Dallas” in the 80’s. That time when Bobby was killed, but a year later he wakes up and realizes the whole last season was a dream? Yeah, that’s the shit NBC is trying to pull.
“Just pretend the last 7 months never happened. You never saw Conan in the 11:30 slot. See? Jay Leno is host of ‘The Tonight Show.’ You must have dreamt the whole thing.”
Er…right. I was just imagining that “The Tonight Show” was finally funny again.
So. Back to me.
I slept last night. Finally. For about 6-1/2 hours. My brain finally shut off, thanks to classical music. And a beer. And a sleeping pill. And exhaustion.
Music has always been there for me. It’s critical in my life. But lately, naturally, music is trying to kill me. Every song that plays on the radio or my iPod (even on Shuffle) has lyrics that are speaking directly to me. Yes, music is trying to make me have an emotional breakdown.
Normally, I go to sleep to music, whether it’s my iPod or this retro 80’s radio station called The Point (101.5). But with me in manic mode, everything I see and hear is just more stuff for my brain to chew on. Actually keeps my brain BUSIER when I’m trying to relax and sleep.
So the classical music last night (thank you, WunderRadio! ) did the trick.
Yes, you heard me right a couple paragraphs ago. I think I’m manic right now. It definitely explains a lot of my behavior of late. The racing thoughts have really been out of control lately…far worse than usual.
I have a hard time explaining racing thoughts. Here’s what Wikipedia has to say about them:
Racing thoughts refers to thought confusion which occurs in manic episodes, hypomanic, or mixed episodes. While Racing thoughts are most common with patients with Bipolar disorder, they are also common with Anxiety disorders, such as OCD. Racing thoughts are also associated with use of amphetamines. [1]
Racing thoughts may be experienced as background or take over a person’s consciousness. Thoughts, music, and voices might be zooming through one’s mind. There also might be a repetitive pattern of voice or of pressure without any associated “sound”. It is a very overwhelming and irritating feeling, and can result in losing track of time. Sometimes racing thoughts are accompanied by an elevated pulse, including drumming in the ears.
Generally, racing thoughts are described as an event where the mind uncontrollably brings up random thoughts and memories and switches between them very quickly. Sometimes they are related, as one thought leads to another; other times they are completely random. A person suffering from an episode of racing thoughts has no control over his or her train of thought and it stops them from focusing on one topic or prevents sleeping.
I think of racing thoughts in cartoon form, because I really try to relate most everything to cartoons at some point. Cartoons explain things so much more simply.
You’ve seen Pinky & the Brain, right? Imagine the Brain, mulling over his amazing Take-Over-The-World schemes. He’s sitting there – while images of da Vinci’s Vetruvian Man, chemical compositions, quadratic formulas, Acme Rube Goldberg device blueprints, chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, quotes from Andy Warhol, and giant Pi’s go swirling over his head. Tons of different ideas and thoughts surrounding him, consuming him.
It’s like that in my head. Most all the time. As if my reticular formation is malformed…or nonexistent.
For most of my life, I thought that was how EVERYONE’s brain worked. I was stunned to find out that wasn’t the case in the 90’s. Stunned, I tell you.
It’s astounding, really, knowing what I know now about bipolar disorder and racing thoughts, that I was a straight A student throughout the bulk of my academic career. But somehow I managed to compensate for the mess inside my head.
Growing up, my parents always called me “a dreamer.” But not in a good way, really. A “dreamer,” as in someone who daydreams all the time and gets nothing accomplished. And I always just bought into that. It’s not as if they had any understanding of bipolar disorder, or depression, or any of the other mental shit I’m afflicted with.
My problems were easily explained. Karl is a dreamer, his head is always in the clouds. Karl is lazy. Karl is very smart BUT doesn’t apply himself. Etc. etc ad nauseum. These were the things my parents were dealing with, and I can’t blame them for not knowing the warning signs or symptomology associated with BPD. It was the 70’s. Back then, divorce was still a “taboo” word, kids could go trick-or-treating unescorted by parents, and we still thought that shag carpet was a good idea. Our collective conscious was obviously afflicted.
One of the more prevalent threats I used to get from my folks when I’d misbehave was this: “Do you want us to take you to a psychologist?”
“Noooooo!” And I’d start to cry and beg for them not to take me.
Jesus, I wish I’d said yes. My life might be totally different. But back then, a shrink was a very scary threat. Shrinks were BAD, and proof that *I* was BAD. A fuckup. A loser. Crazy. Irreparably Broken.
Now I know better. Shit, I know a LOT of things better since I started going to therapy and psychiatrists. Not that I don’t often see myself as irreparably broken, mind you. Those negative tapes are still prevalent between my ears. I hear them at full volume a great deal of the time. It’s why, whenever I make a mistake, the first thing I say in my head (and usually out loud, too) is, “Gah! I’m an IDIOT!” Because I am literally hearing that shit in my mind, as clearly as I hear the television or a real-life conversation with a friend.
I tell you all this, about the racing thoughts and some of the other shit inside my brain, so you have maybe a little better understanding about the stuff I have to constantly compensate for. And because yesterday I had an appointment with the Matrix Therapist.
It was basically me blurting out 10,000 things all at once. For an hour. Mom fell on the ice. Now I’m her caregiver 24/7. I almost killed myself TWICE last week. I’m sleep-deprived. I’m losing relationships. My car “Service Engine Soon” light came on during my drive here.
I. CAN’T. TAKE. ANY. MORE.
And I told her I’m pretty sure I’m having a manic episode. She agreed. She’s gonna talk to the shrink and see about adding more meds. Now that we’ve seen me at baseline, and we know the Geodon isn’t enough. I’ve been taking (most) all my meds as directed since January 1.
I need more. And fast.
So she’s working on it. And that’s a good thing.
As for my diabetes, my sugars are running a lot better. Still high at times, because I’m not taking EVERYTHING until we get the meds adjusted. I am, however, checking my sugar 4 times a day (except for yesterday, when it was a very full day), using the regular insulin when I’m way high, etc.
This morning, I tested a 171 straight out of bed. Not bad, considering I don’t take nighttime insulin at the moment. Too scared. Last night, after two slices of pizza for dinner, my sugar was 294. That’s not good, but for the time being, I’d rather be high than low. Sure you can understand why.
My doctor went home violently ill yesterday, so my appointment with her is rescheduled for Monday. That’s when we’ll go over my blood test and make med adjustments. This isn’t a bad thing, since it’ll give her 3 more days of numbers to look over before we change things around. (And thanks to Glucose Buddy I have graphs and numbers galore.)
Mom’s surgery went perfectly. They went in, removed all the little kneecap fragments, reattached the tendon to the remaining kneecap, and it went without a hitch. She’s in a LOT more pain now, though we are staying on top of it with the pain meds.
She goes back to the doctor Wednesday for a follow-up appointment. We’ll know more then. For now, what I know is this. Six weeks in the knee immobilizer. Then 6-8 weeks of physical therapy. That puts us well into April.
Which brings me to my next point. TequilaCon is out for me this year.
It kills me, but quite frankly, I’m seriously considering everything being out for me this year, including BlogHer. I wasn’t kidding about not feeling the social media thing lately.
That may change, of course. As I progress through the Year of Resolutions, my attitude may change. But I have yet to buy my BlogHer ticket for this year. And at the moment, the only must-do as far as travel goes this year is visiting Bubblewench for her birthday.
In fact, I may adopt that for any traveling this year. Just visit friends in intimate gatherings, instead of attending the big blogger gatherings. That does not, of course, include Avitaween, which I can’t see skipping.
We’ll see. I’m not making any rash judgments. I think I’ve made enough of those in the last couple of weeks. And now that I know I’m manic, I know I need to keep the impulsivity in check and try more heavily to rely on my logic, as opposed to my emotions.
Emotions come and go, people. Acting on them impulsively, without any thought whatsoever, is foolhardy at best. And that’s something I’m trying to avoid.
I HAVE decided upon my February Resolution. Will be announcing that February 1. But the other 10 Resolutions for 2010 are still completely up in the air. So keep those suggestions coming.
I’m a natural Glass-is-Half-Empty person. Jaded. Cynical. Even petty. I’m trying, with the YOR, to do a 180 and move to being a Glass-is-Half-Full kinda guy.
It’s a bitch, believe me. My first instincts are always to point out the bad shit. Making a conscious effort to make NOTE of that Negative Nancy tendency – as it HAPPENS – is quite a workout. Those negative self-tapes and all that shit.
But I’m trying. And my friends are helping a lot with that effort, pointing out to me (in the moment) how things could always be worse. And I am trying to be gracious about it, even if in my head I’m hearing, “Fuck, I can’t say a single thing without it being criticized.”
Perhaps, though, the first step is controlling what comes out of my MOUTH, regardless of what’s going on in my head. Fix that part, then we can backtrack a little and start trying to fix the words that AREN’T coming out of my mouth.
Change what I say, then change what I think? I dunno. I could just be totally full of shit. I’m winging it here, people. This shit is all new to me.
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