Bipolar Boulevard

Abysmal

2010-04-28T11:51:00.003-04:00

I can hardly see for the hand in front of my face. My thoughts are ubiquitous, like a raging wildfire. If I could beat myself into oblivion...
I hate myself. Sometimes the medication isn't enough. I've reverted to taking an old prescription for Seroquel to take the edge off and to keep me from taking all of my Klonopin.
I cancelled my appointment with my therapist today because I've been sick and I just couldn't take it mentally. The silence. The paradox. I'm ashamed.

Torture

2010-03-28T20:14:00.008-04:00

I have been seeing a therapist for the past six months, give or take. She is not in agreement with my psychiatrist. She thinks my psychotic thoughts are strictly anxiety-related. I do experience anxiety and/or panic while having these thoughts, but I think that may be a normal reaction to negative stimuli. She says to let the thoughts flow naturally because if I suppress them they will be that much stronger. As she put it so concisely, "You would have already done it if you were going to."

My psychiatrist believes I am psychotic and is heavily medicating me. (I am on Lithium 1200 mgs, Klonopin 3 mgs, Propranolol 10 mgs, Zyprexa 20 mgs, and Celexa 10 mgs.) He says to practice sublimation, trade the horrific thoughts for things I enjoy doing.

It's not normal or in any way acceptable to have homicidal thoughts. I realize how dire my situation is. The talk therapy along with the medication seems to be the most beneficial. So my treatment team has been somewhat successful no matter what they think of one another's opinions.

As I type this I feel a mixture of marked relief and disgust.
Until now, I've been very secretive about this, fearing what people might think. But this is my life, and it would be even more frightening if I chose not to share it.
It's like I'm carrying a millstone around my neck. I pray every day but I still struggle to find Jesus. I lost so much due to my nervous breakdown two years ago, which is when I started having these thoughts in the first place.

Hospitalizations 9 and 10

2008-10-17T08:24:00.011-04:00

These months have been empty, much of the same. My last post said it all. Hope is all I've had.
I unabashedly shared my fears with my psychiatrist. This was around the time that we went on vacation to the ocean, so I enlightened him of my occupation with drowning and rip currents. He then told me a story of a friend who drowned because he overestimated his swimming skills and asked what else I was afraid of. I told him I was afraid of someone breaking in to our home or a home invasion. He waxed religious, as he often does, and said that God was in control. His philosophy is that the Lord shall oversee, our will be damned. This is my opinion of him after six years.
My husband was soon required to work the overnight shift, and he wedged a chair underneath the doorknob of our most vulnerable door. He said it made him feel better since of of his co-workers had recently been robbed, twice. It made me so anxious that I had to call and scold him. I couldn't tolerate that mentally.
Shortly after, the company needed him to work in another state for a couple of days. I had a psychotic break. I was in full panic. At 10:00 at night I told my kids that we were going to stay in a hotel, to come as they were. Once we got checked in my thoughts started to churn. I kept looking at things that I might hurt myself with. I was huffing and sweating. I imagined putting my head through the secured wooden coat hangers and using the iron's cord over the "closet" rack. I'm ashamed to post just how gruesome it became. And even then it didn't stop there.
I had no choice but to wake my kids and take them to a friend's house. I then walked into the ER with nothing but my wallet and my cigarettes. They held me on a "1013", calling for my possessions to be taken and my clothing to be removed. They did some blood work, a urinalysis, and a chest x-ray. I was in observation for about 24 hours before a private ambulance service came to transport me to Anchr hospital.
I know I did the right thing, and it gives me the courage to keep going.
Once at the other hospital I could tell that denying to go to Rview had been a mistake. It was substandard. The patients were violent and unsupervised. One man threw chunks of concrete at another patient while on the smoking patio. I was approached by a man who said, three times that he was going to beat me up if I didn't give him my cigarettes. The next night he licked me in the ear. The sorry staff did nothing. We had group meetings all day, but often the staff didn't participate and whoever spoke up the loudest became the group leader. My doctor came into my room while I was sleeping every morning, so I never had a real conversation with him.
He put me on the maximum dose of Depakote even though I was already on the maximum dosage of Lithium.
I was there for five days.

Malaise

2008-06-18T02:41:00.004-04:00

My last post has left me exasperated, at a loss as to what I should share next. I am fluctuating between the pain of revealing that which is personal and also the solace of reciting the many trying experiences of Bipolar Disorder. I deeply regret unearthing my marital problems, but at that particular time the subject simply seemed to intermesh. This site was and is not intended to magnify my home life in such great detail, so why not delete the entry? The simplest answer is that I am not special. Bipolar Disorder is a familial disease.
Since I have now in essence apologized for my misgivings, I'd like to move on to the subject of the antipsychotic. I am still taking Stelazine with the difference of one additional milligram. No matter my symptoms, my psychiatrist will not increase any further due to the possibility of tardive dyskinesia, or other dibilitating side effects.
Yet, how do I escape the horror? I continue to have the terrifying thoughts about the people around me, and the best result of the medication has been that they are less recurrent. In fact, at my last appointment with my psychiatrist he said, "A less experienced clinician would call 911." The point is I feel like I am dangling over a dark and steep cliff, just willing that I don't plummet into the rocky waters. This cannot be the answer.
I need routine and stability. I need to be able to hug my children without holding my breath. I'm broken.
Though after all these years I am still hopeful, which in light of what I am writing is certainly an unusual thing to say, but there is the chance that I am but weeks away from an appropriate cocktail. Am I wrong? I've suffered decades but under the wrong diagnoses. Can't I yearn for peace?

A Sticky Web

2008-04-27T23:12:00.007-04:00

My life has been a melange of headaches, heartaches, and refuse of late. My cousin committed suicide by combining opiates and benzodiazepines in lethal amounts. The autopsy report hasn't been released, but he was notorious for abusing new prescriptions and threatening self-harm. My condolences go out to all surviving relatives, and I too bear scars. I no longer understand the compulsion to throw oneself into such a state of awful permanence. I am afraid of death as if it were hastened to tomorrow.
My psychotic thoughts are shrinking by a small percentage. But, the stress of living through stereotypes is having a marked effect on my well-being. Because I became disabled I am now embroiled in a joint, Chapter 7 bankruptcy case, which will come to light this afternoon in a sterile downtown courtroom.
If all goes as claimed by our law firm, this should serve as a fresh start, though our credit rating will be less than poor and will take years to recoup. Moreover, there is still the slight possibility that our creditors will not accept a complete liquidation and could demand that we refile as a Chapter 13 case to pay the debts off in small increments.
My husband is in distress. I fought hard and did a lot of research in order to find the local spousal support group for NAMI. He went once and declared it useless because most members were not spouses and loved ones, but ill. A woman attended for resources on her schizophrenic son, but my husband still did not feel comfortable.
He is drinking more and more. There is no history of alcoholism except to date. Yesterday, I vowed to check into a hotel room and he said, "No you're not. You are going to stay right here with the kids like I did all day while you slept." Today he is remorseful. I hope he finally sees how his drinking is interfering with our marriage.
Am I really this alone?

Bittersweet Victory

2008-04-14T06:20:00.003-04:00

My senses have been overloaded, and I think I am in some form or state of shock. Five days ago during Spring Break, a rather curt representative from the Social Security Office woke my husband at around 9:00 A.M.. She needed to speak with me, so my husband came downstairs in a sleepy fog and nudged the phone onto my ear. She started prattling on about how my backpay was determined, stated that I would receive $757.00 monthly, and inquired if I was competent enough to handle my own account. Damn, I won!!! Where was that pins and needles feeling, the endless flopping in the stomach?
It was an eight month uphill battle, stagnant. My backpay was a fraction of what I'd expected because the first five months after the application date did not get awarded. I wasn't officially declared disabled until July of last year, when I was undergoing electroconvulsive therapy. What a load of manure! My history dates back to 1989, and of late I don't recollect being able-bodied throughout most of my career.
I convinced the representative that I was competent enough to handle my own affairs by telling her of how I used to be an accountant, processing up to or exceeding $150K per night. Since I also balance the checkbook and prepare our household bills, I figured I deserved some respect. Very nonchalantly she murmured that my check would be on it's way via direct deposit.
It's over. My lawyer never called to notify me. In a slightly cruel way, I'm glad that my backpay is smaller than anticipated and I never had to attend a hearing. She only gets $500.00. What could warrant thousands of dollars in payment to her?
I credit my doctor's sensibilities the most. He, and only he reported my diagnosis and prognosis.
It's over.

Lawyer Lingo

2008-04-04T15:43:00.003-04:00

It is of my sorely defeated opinion that one should never repeat a single snippet of the English language which has been spewed from an attorney's paid-by-the hour mouth. It is of my learned belief that one should retain a smidgen of skepticism and freely exercise those particular faiths as needed.
Today, Social Security said I am A-P-P-R-O-V-E-D! The Claims Representative went on to expound that the "Regional Office" acts as a review board and determines the original disability date so as to set up a payment schedule and calculate the amount of back pay. I was told that the only reason my case would be overturned is that if there were blatant fraud involved ,or something to that effect.
My case was decided on the 25th of March according to the office, so I may rightfully assume that I will receive my final, "official" decision by next Thursday, using a ten day time scale as estimated by the Claims Representative.
My husband is telling me not to get my hopes up, my cousin who is very religious at times is telling me not to let Satan steal my joy. I am remaining modest and sincere, but part of me wants to schedule a seven-day retreat to the nearest saltwater beach. My nerves have been like hunks of brambles. My psychoses have worsened and have disrupted my entire being.
If I could just negotiate or pay my bills in full...I could breathe easier. I could break that choke hold. I can't breathe.

Regional Decision

2008-04-01T02:11:00.004-04:00

Whether I am heartily assertive or icily brutish, I received a fitting telephone call from my attorney today. She specifically called to tell me that my case had been approved at the state level. "I don't know what they do on that regional level you were talking about. But this is good news." I welled up...halfway to redemption.
I promptly called the Social Security Office, and the Claims Representative was cordial and helpful. I explained that I had talked with my attorney, and I recited her words. The Representative clarified that the Regional Office ensures all paperwork is filed correctly, and that it is very rare for them to overturn a decision. Again, I was told to expect a one month wait, but that in reality, "It's really only a matter of a couple of weeks."
I am nervous and perpetually upset. Months of anxiety are coming to a blistered head. I don't know that I can withstand the wait!

A Snake is a Snake is a Snake

2008-03-27T11:01:00.007-04:00

She blithely spouted, "Have hope. Your file has been passed on to a second adjudicator. They are giving your case due consideration. It's a good sign! It would be even better if I had your records from the clinic, but I've requested them several times to no avail. They've already been paid for, ha-ha!" Of all the low down, dirty, porcine, conniving, scheming ploys this ranks along with some of the most severe abuse and indignity I've ever incurred. Silver-tongued wretch. Back biting cur. Money hungry liar.

The Social Security Claim Representative I spoke to over the telephone today explained that there are state and regional consideration levels both of which are simple government protocol, so there was nothing to relate to me except that my case is still pending. Furthermore, she disclosed that my status would be decided in likely less than one month's time.
Naturally I became keenly suspicious and phoned the clinic to speak with the Medical Records Department. The Recordskeeper said there was no documentation to validate any monies exchanged. Similarly, my talented, dazzling, golden-toed attorney had not provided adequate copies of my release of consent forms. She does not hold proof of my psychiatric history because she failed to include an expiration date on a single, paltry letter.
I complained to my lawyer, and she immediately went on the defensive. "I didn't add an expiration date because the authorization would still be good for one year." Disgusted to the hilt, I countered, "This is my life. It is not a joke, and I'm ready to kill myself for being treated as one for so long. I was physically shocked in the head, my psychiatrist has deemed me psychotic, so that I have to take not one but four pills. I hallucinate trees and mailboxes so that they have human qualities, and I can't even drive at night. I'm afraid I'm going to hit and kill one of these "people". I don't understand the wait."
"They don't care," she said. I had a judge apologize to my client today because her case had taken so long to reach a hearing. Don't set your hopes in your heart because they deny 89% of second-time appeals anyway."
Two-faced, fake, artificial, contrived, pseudo, actress.
I am to have no hope. The second adjudicator holds no water. My legal forms are bogus, and no one cares about me. In the mean time I am begging for food and money from sources she directed me to. Her pocketbook fattens with each day I am in limbo.
I don't know if I can stomach this. I don't know if my sanity will withstand the assault.

We are Stronger Hand in Hand

2008-03-20T22:53:00.008-04:00

It takes less effort to stand proudly alone, at ease with ones own works and achievements than to sit passively subdued in wait of personal aide. There's an emotional explosion, ruminations of life in more prosperous times, and the deep gnashing of teeth over a life gone sour. Salty tears well up in the lower lids for the disgrace and shame. Bipolar Disorder challenges my human rights.
It was gusty outside, yet I sat in summer clothes, scrunched into a small cracked vinyl chair with a clipboard intended for my personal information. A red head cheerfully talked about her dogs. A black woman related to her corny jokes. A man smartly dressed for winter carried a Marlboro brand satchel because he would not be able to accept his full food donation on account of walking. Still, he was upbeat, proudly telling of his tamer escapades. I sat bawled up inside, barely breathing. There was no humor in this situation.
The Salvation Army gifted me with two full bags of canned goods and a box of Ramen Noodles. I attempted to give the donor a glimpse of my soul through my ever- thankful eyes.
I also visited the Good Samaritan. The office was stark. Shelves were obviously provided by local grocery stores, once tiered food displays. I divulged my monthly budget, and was awarded an $85.00 check for aid with my heating bill. Also I received so much food that the service provided me with a wagon to load it into my truck. My pantry has never been so full. My heart swells and the repressed tears are pure pain.
Their primary motivation is Jesus-like compassion and he saved me, whether I am ready to fully admit that or not.
Thank you and God Bless to all involved. My humility is great.
(The title of this blog occurred to a dear chat friend, Mckeymows, and I promised credit where it was due).

A Plea to the Powers That Be

2008-03-18T11:16:00.003-04:00

I woke feeling very melancholy and helpless against the worldly forces that rule by spiny, cruel thumbs. It has been seven months and 11 days since I first filed for Disability. My family is in financial ruin. My self esteem is burnt to cinders. No more can I shop for school clothes or shoes. Groceries are purchased with borrowed money, but borrowed money is often expendable, here today and gone tomorrow. Our expenses leave us with a humbling, and embarrassing pittance.
I bawled like a baby today, not knowing what the next ledger entry would bring. In due course I called my lawyer, talking through thickly choked tears. She stated that my husband and I are having these difficulties sooner than most clients, but I explained that my income had sustained us to a much higher degree and that we had depleted all opportunities. She is sending a package or copy of all the organizations that we might be able to take advantage of. And she made a call to ensure that my case was on the adjudicator's desk, ready to be reviewed. Not only was it there, it had also been passed on to a second adjudicator for further review. She said, "There is hope, and I will send in any pertinent paper work."She also said she hoped we didn't have to go to trial and that I win on this second appeal.

Dystonia

2008-03-17T22:31:00.007-04:00

Juvenile delinquency was alluring and glamorous against the backdrop of stinking fields of cow droppings and debutante fever. I shimmied out the side window of my apartment's bedroom and secretly met with a much older male friend, who in the wee hours, surprised me with a half gallon of Aristocrat vodka. He concocted Screwdrivers in 40 ounce-Big Gulp cups, topping them off with just a smidge of orange juice. I siphoned mine through a straw and with each pull I became more furious with my absentee boyfriend.
I was dropped off at a seedy rat-infested apartment. The mutual anger between my boyfriend and I rotated like a super cell in a stormy sky. There was no working telephone. I was arrested for Public Drunkeness and Disorderly Conduct at the age of 14. We had set off to call my mother, but disturbed the entire ghetto. When the cops found me I was in terrible shape, spitting, and swearing, and kicking like a mule.
I was cuffed to a blue utilitarian plastic chair and darted around the room with it shackled to me. I couldn't identify my own mother.
A woman appeared and informed me that I would be going to the hospital. I was strapped to the bed in four points and had a gastric lavage snake it's way to my stomach to deliver activated charcoal. My Blood Alcohol Level was still .21. I couldn't speak.
The mysterious lady asked, "If we let you go are you going to be good?" I nodded yes and then rose as if electrically charged to choke her about the neck with my own hands. I was swiftly injected with Haldol, a typical-class antipsychotic, and unaware of being released.
(It's worth it to note that this woman later became my Probation Officer. In court my fingerprints were still about her neck).
My head gradually slumped backwards until my body looked as if it were made of rubber. I was in shaking, sweating pain, and my head was only inching closer to my lower shoulder blade. I shrieked in and squirmed on the Emergency Room's bathroom floor, just to feel the coolness of the filthy tiles. The pain was unreal, otherwordly. Racking. I endured this for hours, but finally a doctor injected me with intravenous Benadryl, and almost instantaneously I was able to breath in some relief.

This is called Dystonia, and it is but one of the possible side effects of my new typical antipsychotic, Stelazine.

Here is some info from the Net:

Adverse Effects

At therapeutic dosage levels, adverse reactions are infrequent, usually mild and transient, and unlikely to affect the course of treatment. Drowsiness, dizziness, skin reactions, dry mouth, stimulation, insomnia, fatigue, weakness, anorexia, amenorrhea, lactation and blurred vision may be seen occasionally. Extrapyramidal symptoms may occur but are rare at dosages of 6 mg or less. Tardive dyskinesia has been reported.

Extrapyramidal Symptoms:These symptoms are seen in a significant number of hospitalized mental patients receiving higher dosages of trifluoperazine (10 mg to 40 mg or more daily). They may be characterized by motor restlessness, may be of the dystonic type, or may resemble parkinsonism.

Motor Restlessness:Symptoms may include agitation or jitteriness and sometimes insomnia.

Dystonias:Symptoms may include spasm of the neck muscles, sometimes progressing to torticollis; extensor rigidity of back muscles; sometimes progressing to opisthotonos; carpopedal spasm, trismus, swallowing difficulty, oculogyric crises and protrusion of the tongue. The onset of the dystonias may be sudden. They may last several minutes, disappear and then recur. There is typically no loss of consciousness and definite prodromata are usually present. They usually subside within a few hours, and almost always within 24 to 48 hours after the drug has been discontinued.

Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome:As with other neuroleptic drugs, a symptom complex sometimes referred to as neuroleptic malignant syndrome (NMS) has been reported. Cardinal features of NMS are hyperpyrexia, muscle rigidity, altered mental status (including catatonic signs), and evidence of autonomic instability (irregular pulse or blood pressure). Additional signs may include elevated CPK, myoglobinuria (rhabdomyolysis), and acute renal failure. NMS is potentially fatal and requires symptomatic treatment and immediate discontinuation of neuroleptic treatment.

Tardive Dyskinesia:The syndrome is characterized by rhythmical involuntary movements of the tongue and facial muscles (e.g., protrusion of the tongue, puffing of cheeks, puckering of mouth, chewing movements) and sometimes of the extremities. The symptoms may persist for many months or even years, and while they gradually disappear in some patients, they appear to be irreversible in others

ECG Changes:ECG changes, particularly nonspecific, usually reversible Q and T wave distortions, have been observed in some patients receiving phenothiazine tranquilizers. This relationship to myocardial damage has not been confirmed.

http://www.mentalhealth.com/drug/p30-s04.html#Head_6

Latest Conference with Rafiki

2008-03-17T01:00:00.002-04:00

Through my nervous chatter and shifting about my doctor determined that my thinking is abnormal and disorganized, and therefore psychotic. My relationship with death is so unhealthy it could be deemed rotten and soul-stealing. Night after lunatic night, day after angst-leaden day, I question my existence and ultimate demise. My worst fears frequent my thoughts, whether waking or fitfully sleeping. Hell comes to my doorstep through nightmarish visions of my children and other loved ones in distress.
I presented my doctor with my full medication history, which is also posted on this site, and after much deliberation and gum chewing, he advised to discontinue both the Abilify and the Tripleptal. Common sense prevailed. He made some offhand comment about my brain chemistry, and then recommended that I try a "typical" antipsychotic, an antipsychotic that is much more dated than Seroquel, Risperal, Zyprexa, and Abilify. It is called Trifluoperazine or Stelazine.
The side effects are dissuading: Akathesia, tardive dyskinesia, motor restlessness, dystonias. Hidden behind these words are physical pain and sometimes the irreversible loss of bodily functions. I have taken my first dose, which is very low according to my doctor and also what Internet literature I have perused.
He increased my Klonopin two fold to 60 pills.

Social Security Reconsideration (Step 2)

2008-03-13T09:51:00.002-04:00

As I have previously written, I was denied for the initial claim for Social Security Disability (SSDI), benefits on December 7th, 2007. I retained the services of an attorney on December 17th, 2007. She did not complete my Request for Benefits, or file for Reconsideration until January 24th, 2008. The Social Security office informed me that they have until May 24th, 2008 to proclaim the status of my case. Q: What do you call 10,000 lawyers at the bottom of the sea? A: A good start.
She wasted nearly 6 weeks of my time and is pressing my sanity.
The hook is that an attorney only gets a certain percentage of your winnings for compensation, which is 25% in my case. What the layperson does not know is that the longer the attorney prolongs the case, the more she profits.
I'm lost in the system. My dr. can't even present me with an appropriate appointment card, and would rather I couldn't see than end certain medication therapies.
Heckle and Jeckle. Tom & Jerry. Moe & Larry.

Seroquel Stupor

2008-03-10T06:55:00.005-04:00

I want to touch upon the strangeness of the unbridled insanity of Bipolar 1. I'm am not particularly well-acquainted with the soaring maniacal highs of the disorder, as I was previously afflicted with hypomania alone.

My mother had trouble sleeping one night, so I gave her 50 mgs of Seroquel, the usual dosage for myself. To stress the potency of this medication she compared it to the drug Quaalude, which was banned in the U.S. in 1985 due to its abundant recreational use. In fact, she claims that Seroquel is much stronger, and was sedated for three days.
Nevertheless, I have been ingesting 50 to 100 mgs several times a day for the past two weeks for anxiety. At my worst, I "eat" it until I am embraced by oblivion. This may seem like abuse, but it is non-addictive and has saved my life.
This is the behavior of a true Manic Depressive.

Buckets of Fun

2008-03-09T14:31:00.006-04:00

I am alternating between elation and an aggravated state of happiness, otherwise known as mania. I've applied make-up, the trendiest T-Shirt I own, and my hair is banging. I spot cleaned the dining room carpet and lit every vanilla candle in the house so that it smelled of freshly baked sugar cookies. The surround sound is blaring the new Black Crowes album, Warpaint, and vintage 80's. (My daughter is doing a combination of dance and crooked gymnastics. Thanks God she sees a degree of normalcy in me).

My doctor snubbed me today. My Apex Behavioral appt. card was written for 03/09/08, a Sunday...today actually. I didn't find it all that odd because I've had Saturday appointments, but when we got there all the lights were off and the doors were locked. I called him on his cell, and he told me it was a mistake, right? I'm a mistake. His lack of professionalism is disgusting.
I'm supposed to call him when he has his appt. book in front of him tomorrow.
Anyone know of a good doctor? This man is handling my disability case.

A Banister, a Chair, and Abilify

2008-03-07T01:43:00.008-05:00

Months back my doctor prescribed Tegretol, an anti-epileptic which is sometimes utilized for Bipolar disorder. I experienced two full weeks of ecstasy, complete joy, and then I was so terrified I half-expected my hair to develop streaks of horror-movie white. My vision went double and remained in such a manner until finally I could barely read or focus on my children's faces for quite the long time. Also, I could not drive or perform fine motor skills. Even as a passenger in an automobile I had to worry about the sun flickering in my face and inducing a seizure.
I'm all but certain I've mentioned these events. Rafiki's medical expertise guided him to prescribe Trileptal, which is reputed to be a much milder form of Tegretol.
So, two months passed and my dx was changed to Bipolar1/Mixed. Thus his opinion was that an atypical antipsychotic would be my saving grace. The gruesome thoughts had taken over.
Forward one month. I suffered the same visual disturbances I experienced with the Tegretol, so I promptly discontinued the Trileptal, with no results. Five days after ceasing the Abilify, the antipsychotic, I could see again. In the interim, I could not sit still. I'd prop myself up against our stair's banister or on the back of a chair for rest. I bawled for mercy because after three days I'd only had four hours of sleep, even with Seroquel. Finally I swallowed mega doses and my family had to make as if I did not exist.
Now I am on (1500 mgs) Lithium Carbonate, (100 mgs) Seroquel, and (1mg) Klonopin. I am enjoying a happiness I haven't felt in 10 months. I left the house and got a much-needed haircut yesterday. I am cleaning my house in bits. Even the thoughts are all but gone.
I'm going armed with my complete medication history at my next psychiatric appointment.

Bipolar Anthem

2008-02-23T00:45:00.007-05:00

With my husband manning the wheel, blazing down the twisting side roads of Georgia is a transcendent experience. The quiet matched the effect on my brain, then this song came on the radio: Sanitarium by Metallica.

Welcome to where time stands still
No one leaves and no one will
Moon is full, never seems to change
Just labeled mentally deranged
Dream the same thing every night
I see our freedom in my sight
No locked doors, no windows barred
No things to make my brain seem scarred

Sleep, my friend, and you will see
That dream is my reality
They keep me locked up in this cage
Can't they see it's why my brain says “rage”

Sanitarium, leave me be
Sanitarium, just leave me alone

Build my fear of what's out there
Cannot breathe the open air
Whisper things into my brain
Assuring me that I'm insane
They think our heads are in their hands
But violent use brings violent plans
Keep him tied, it makes him well
They think our heads are in their hands
But violent use brings violent plans
Keep him tied, it makes him well
He's getting better, can't you tell?

No more can they keep us in
Listen, damn it, we will win
They see it right, they see it well
But they think this saves us from our hell

Sanitarium, leave me be
Sanitarium, just leave me alone
Sanitarium
Just leave me alone

Fear of living on
Natives getting restless now
Mutiny in the air
Got some death to do
Mirror stares back hard
Kill is such a friendly word
Seems the only way for reaching out again

Rafiki The Witch Doctor

2008-02-14T15:06:00.004-05:00

And the Lord spake from Heaven and said, "Go now Stephanie. Cigna will provide for you." I say this out of complete jest, but how true it is! I now see Rafiki at Apex Behavioral, and my last appointment was on a Saturday at 1:00. How is that for customer service?
He asked about my general health, and I told him it was worse than it had ever been. (I hope he felt some kind of doctor-patient responsibility). I told him about seeing a cat leap towards the open face of the fireplace, my circular, intrusive thoughts about God, about my tendency to blame myself for the illness. He told me it was now time to use an atypical antipsychotic called Abilify because that was the only way to swim back up from the depths.
He offered to see me more often. I said I was willing to take every ounce of help he could spare. His congenial attitude strikes me as ironic at the least.
How could I not be angry to the guts?
He changed my diagnosis from Bipolar 2/Psychotic Episodes to Bipolar 1/Mixed/Psychotic Episodes. He said it would help with my Disability Claim, but that it was my true diagnosis.

My brain is a whirling mass of soupy confusion. My dx or diagnosis is surely going to be the subject of choice for months to come.

Uneventful Pharmacy Visit

2008-02-12T11:20:00.003-05:00

When I wrote on Wednesday I was entirely too upset to be doing so because I look back on my entry and want to delete it. I did make some adjustments and am brimming over with gratitude that those who know me only arrive here by personal invite.

I got my Klonopin and this time I asked a receptionist to help me contact the doctor. She collected my information and said to sit in the lobby to see if she could work me in between his appointments. Most of the waiting room's chairs were taken, so I went out on the front steps to smoke and eat, or chew a Klonopin dry. I wasted more than an hour. In the end, she gave me a pad and pen and asked me to leave a very detailed note.The nurse was curiously absent.

He never called.
So, Friday I rang Aetna and somehow ended up on the Suicide Prevention Hotline, surprised and befuddled. The representative acted as if my toes were curled over the San Francisco Bridge and a great gust of wind had just blown. I explained the whole situation play by play, so the people in the big white wagon wouldn't come knocking.
Dr. A. is within their network and they only require a $10.00 co-pay! She said there is no deductible to meet for the office visits! I was starting to feel the world had righted itself then I called the doctor on his cell phone.He asked, "Why do you want to leave the Community Services Board?" I laughed. I told him I couldn't get five minutes of his time for simple adjustments between appointment times and that I had been trying all week.
He said, "I'm traveling. Call me back next Monday."This is the man who oversees my SSDI case. He holds my life in his hands...a slippery grip.

Government Mental Health Equals Abuse

2008-02-12T11:18:00.001-05:00

It's a sad and common fact that the size of one's billfold molds the future. It's the truth. A better way of stating it might be either you have it or you don't. Concerning American health care and health insurance, well, I think Michael Moore said it best in his moving documentary Sicko. I could hardly stop wriggling on my couch when one of his subjects described a grotesque table saw accident in which he lost the tips of two of his fingers, the middle and the ring finger. He couldn't afford the intricate reattachment surgeries on both, so he chose his wedding ring finger at the lower cost. My grievances aren't so bloody or bizzare, but they're authentically painful.I began seeing my psychiatrist years ago, in a private office setting. I was employed at the time and paid for Blue Cross Blue Shield of Alabama on a bi-weekly basis. My co-pay was affordable, and he seemed to have sparked a real interest in me. I once participated in a joint evaluation by two of his peers, and I-GASP!-had his cell phone number to contact him whenever my lunacy struck during inopportune times. I raved and rallied for him because I was receiving superb care.Alas, my finances proved too little even as a member of Blue Cross Blue Shield. For myriads of reasons, I discontinued our sessions together which in turn influenced me to abandon Lithium therapy. Weeks went by and quite predictably I was driven to utilize his phone number to save myself from crisis. He suggested that I could always see him at the Community Services Board where he managed lower income patients, that money was not a valid complaint.He prepped me by telling me not to reveal that I had an insurance policy when questioned by the intake worker. Therefore, he communicated that I could be treated no matter what my tax bracket. My own self-esteem was like a shiny coaxed bunny rabbit. He aimed to heal me at any cost, or this was the presumption.I was so credulous in retrospect. I made an urgent emergency call to his cell phone and he asked, "Why are you using this number?" I said, "Because you gave it to me!" He replied, " You are not to use this number! Call the clinic!" That dewy-eyed little bunny rabbit was no more, I tell you.Weirdly disjointed I skulked to the clinic, back to his couch, ever the masochist. You see, I was now low income and apparently interchangeable with low class.Even so opposed I accepted it. He's remained my doctor to-date, but now I feel abused by him. I've had an attack of intelligent reasoning. His nurse at the clinic never relays my messages often resulting in a three to four week wait for simple medication adjustments. To me, this is akin the asking a suicidal or homicidal patient to cross the finish line. He's asked me to continue on with Tegretol knowing that it can induce grand mal seizures much like Elavil did because I could not yet afford a milder medication (Trileptal) at my last appointment. My husband's employer hadn't provided me with Aetna insurance and Cigna prescription benefits when this took place.
Tuesday morning at 9:30 I called nurse Ratched/Sharon to see that the doctor knew I needed that prescription. She said they'd be very busy, so I reiterated that it was very important. I also informed her that I'd be at the clinic later on to refill my Lithium anyway and her cooperation would mean the world to me.Five and a half hours later the pharmacist simply asked how I was doing, and I broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. Lo and behold if Ratched didn't materialize behind me...all 450 pounds of her. I was very polite but visibly unglued when I questioned if she passed on my message. She, not even lifting her cowardly face to mine, grumbled under her breath that she was too busy! I must have cried a small river causing ample concern for the pharmacist to call Ratched and confront her about her response to me. Damn if that bitch didn't come up and start shouting at me that she never said such a thing. My six year-old daughter, swinging her feet in her chair witnessed this, so I did what any self-respecting manic depressive mother would do. I screamed, "DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH ME OR SOMETHING?"The entire lobby went into an uproar. She quietly said, "No, I don't have a problem with you, " then ran behind the receptionist's desk and slammed the door locked. I'm not looking for a pat on the back here. I wanted someone, anyone to know what she'd done.I am consumed with this entry because being poor doesn't make me undeserving white trash too. I'm very keen to maltreatment. I've been to enough hospitals and doctors to be cognizant of their environments.No word from the doctor. My symptoms are pressing on me like a fallen brick wall, and I simply want to try medication number 23 before hospitalization is an option.I have to make another appearance to get my Klonopin in the morning, since it's a controlled substance and the pharmacy only operates three days a week. I'm going to go against the grain and drive myself so in the event that I get held on a "1013" I won't have to involve my children. I pray for the strength to arrive safely and with civility. In fighting for my rights I don't want to define trash via my own behavior and defeat my own ideals.THIS IS MY LIFE!!!

A Woman in Disguise

2008-02-12T11:16:00.001-05:00

I am 30 years-young and practically friendless. My husband stands helpless as my depressive/psychotic episodes hover and swarm like so many buzzing black flies. The intensity is now at its maximum force. My one lowly defense is, as I have previously confessed, unrelenting self-talk so that I stay fixed to one place...until it's physically safe to move about my house and around my family. In cold periods of relief I question why I am so alone, without companionship or hope. If I dissect my own behavior and the resultant situation my illness creates, my answer is already there: I am not capable of building that level of intimacy with a healthy person who otherwise does not already know me.Only months ago I could brag that I had a friend who accepted my handicap. I was an expert at silently concealing my wild and sometimes dangerous changes in personality to the extent that I became bored with the effort and told my "secret" to a co-worker. It liberated me when she listened to my description of the disease and forgave my shortcomings. I shared that I had been dismissed as too needy many a time, and it seemed that the more complicated I became the more intent she was on salvaging our friendship. She researched electroconvulsive therapy when I was hospitalized and called regularly to see how I was progressing. But, I didn't return home any healthier, to every one's dismay.
Like my family she expected more, a medical miracle. I believe that I became a huge disappointment to her, and when I started this blog, the gauntlet was buried into the dirt. I scare people when I voice my thoughts just as I scare myself. Perhaps it was stupid of me to ever think anyone would ever understand. Even as I reach out to my doctor in crisis I realize how unnatural and ridiculous I am. It's absurd to expect anyone to be at ease in my presence, to take me seriously when I admit to perilously intrusive and disturbing thoughts. I am not sane by society's standards, but my life did not begin with me in these chains. That's quite the painful, bitter pill.I can't lay the blame of my distaste for solitude on someone else when I am so ill, but I hate this part of my being immeasurably. One question always prevails once the noise dies to a whisper: Is it truly better to be aware of psychoses? I've been commissioned warden over my own mind.I despise this illness. My illness is not a catch phrase, nor is it remedied by the next big Super Drug, or even shock therapy; it's an aberration of the human condition. There's nothing enticing in imagining a 60 year-old woman alone and overtaken by madness. Surely to God I'll find a way to be stronger than manic depression itself; to live along side of it rather than be enslaved by it. I have to disconnect from these thoughts, to be free of them no matter how persistent.

The Existential Crisis (Pondering My Journey)

2008-02-12T11:13:00.001-05:00

The question of the Biblical God's existence has long troubled and puzzled man throughout the ages. There is no empirical evidence to support a Heaven or Hell, and in Christian theory to know God is to part from the earthly flesh, freeing the soul to enter unto Paradise. A myriad of possibilities pummel the intellect. To invite a Higher Power into our hearts is to literally take a leap of faith. Some deny this seemingly universal thirst for the truth and concede to what is worldly and malleable. If it cannot be cupped and coddled with human hands, then it must not be so. Others believe that nature as a unified forced has spiritualistic power.I grew up as a Southern Baptist. The preachers were boisterous, convincing by way of their convictions. Congregations were anointed with purified oils and of the Holy Spirit. They spoke in sacred tongues, danced erratically, and lay down in ecstasy. They illuminated and exalted the Good Book. I received Christ's love and guidance because I believed it was so, never giving credence to Atheistic condemnation.I argue that as cerebral beings it is only natural to question our own ultimate destinies, and that only a select few are devout enough to conquer the doubt that forms as a wellspring at the pit of the stomach and harbors the seeds of madness. Yes madness.While I entirely respect Christianity, my crisis began seven months ago, almost to date. One cannot suddenly will Salvation into fruition. It must be deeply ingrained in the Spirit, ready to counter the unjust. It is very much like believing in the unbelievable. I lost my God, my Comforter, and it was in no way a conscious effort. I remain appalled at the simplicity of the transition. Was it the prospect of turning 30 and losing gainful employment? Misplaced anger over my father's death? Is Bipolar Disorder powerful enough to seal my fate? Is there an answer?
I read my Bible. I pleaded with kindly witnesses to bless me with an answer. Family members desperately worked to locate the verses that might reveal Him to me again.But, how could I leap without looking? I was so blinded by my own pain that I couldn't see past it. My surroundings were painted with death and decay, if you will. My shower became a sepulchre, the enclosed space reminded me of what my burial casket might feel like. The homicidal thoughts raged so intensely that I forcibly did not move a single finger until they passed. The guilt from these mental attacks prompted suicidal ideations. I had to hide scissors and knives to avoid any temptation. Repetitively I imagined myself as the Bible's Judas Iscariot. I imagined myself similarly under attack and a strand of rope from the garage or even the dog's leash seemed fitting material for a noose. I even chose a particular tree. I felt a bastardized form of Judas because I had committed the one unforgivable religious sin: I had turned my back on God. (Matthew 10:33 "But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in Heaven." Luke 9:26 "For whosoever shall be ashamed of me and of my words, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed, when he shall come in his own glory, and in his Father's, and of the holy angels"). I am beginning to realize that as a creature of the flesh I am imperfect. Life is but a series of sometimes very painful lessons. Perhaps I never truly abandoned Him. Even my writings in this blog reflect some religious forethought. I utter His name in acknowledgement. (Luke 9:23 And he said to them all, "If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me"). I will make it my life's wish to accept this challenging invitation, but I cannot undo the past. My own mind has been as a writhing snake, evil unto itself.
Obviously this has been a single-ended "discussion", and a very controversial one at that. These are my most personal thoughts at the time being. Please respect my rights to an opinion and to be human. It should also be apparent that I have been quite ill, in a psychotic depressive phase. At the least I am proud and very grateful to be able to name my own symptoms.Here's what others have had to say:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Existential_crisisAn existential crisis is a state of panic or feeling of intense psychological discomfort about questions of existence. It is more common in cultures where basic survival needs have been overcome.An existential crisis can result from:A sense of being alone and isolated,The realization of one's own mortality, or the realization that there is no afterlife; orA realization that one's life has no destined, supernatural, or in some cases external purpose or meaning.It is quite similar to the sociological concept of anomie. It has also been likened to a mid-life crisis. The implication of an existential crisis is that the crisis itself stems from some sort of existential realization or understanding.In non-existential belief systems the essence of what it means to be human is largely held to have been predefined before birth, usually by some sort of supernatural being or group of beings. A certain lack of faith in such belief systems is typically a prerequisite for an existential crisis. Basically, an existential crisis is the sudden awareness of not knowing what one's life is all about and or the sudden awareness of one's inevitable impending personal doom.Cognitive dissonance results when a person is faced with the paradox of believing that their life is important on the one hand while at the same time perceiving that human existence itself is without meaning or purpose. It is the resolution of this paradox which dissolves the crisis. A typical solution to resolving the paradox is a belief in some sort of a supernatural explanation through religion; others hold that one can define for ones self what ones own meaning and purpose is on this planet.Existential crises are sometimes triggered by a significant event or change in a person's life. Usually the event in some way makes the person reflect on his or her own mortality, revealing the repression. Typical examples of such events are the death of a loved one, a life-threatening experience, use of psychedelic drugs such as LSD, one's children moving away from home, reaching a certain age, or a length of time in solitary confinement.There are more ways and variations on how to handle an existential crisis, however. One may decide, for instance, that thought is pointless and existential truth or security cannot be obtained through it. Others may decide that it is not important to know what happens or how things work, all that is important is the present. Others may decide that being happy is the pursuit of life and strive to increase their knowledge base to accomplish this.

The Fight for Social Security Disability

2008-02-12T11:10:00.001-05:00

In the state of Georgia the process of obtaining benefits can be comprised of five steps, but one hopes to avoid the last four. An initial claim must be filed with the local Social Security Office. This can be done in person, over the telephone, or online. I applied online on August 1st, and after becoming very confused and frustrated, a Social Security caseworker called my home to complete the "interview process" over the telephone. She then mailed a couple of forms to be signed and witnessed, and I returned those along with my original birth certificate as requested. Weeks later I received a larger package more to the tune of a long questionnaire. I was asked how often I bathed, whether I drove my car any substantial distance, and if I had any hobbies. I had to explain how I attained groceries and in all humility answer that my husband had to do the most basic of tasks for me. I had to provide a list of friends and relatives so they could corroborate my written statements. Months went by. A caseworker finally contacted me to ask the name of my regular psychiatrist. Still, I made call after call to the Social Security Office to check the status of my case, and they could tell me nothing except if my claim was still listed as pending. Finally Saturday, December 7th, my letter of denial came. I didn't even have to open the envelope because "your claim has been denied" was shown through the cellophane window. Inside it stated that although I clearly had a psychiatric disability and could not work closely with others, I was however able to find "suitable employment". Here's where I have to ask, "Do hospital doctors routinely go about charging electricity through the average person's skull?" Even a gravedigger works with others. Would that be a more apt job for me since the intrusive homicidal thoughts wouldn't make a rat's ass at that point? I am furious because the more I try to seek help, the sicker I seem to get. This two-bit government operation is no exception! (God forgive me for my impurities).I hired a Disability attorney within the week. On my first and only visit, so far, we appealed for Reconsideration, which is the second step in this comedy of a process. She took frantic notes of everything I admitted to feeling and had the papers typed up that day. I gave her a complete history of psychiatric medications much like the one I've bared on this blog, likewise a history of my hospitalizations with doctor's names and dates.I recently gave her permission for access to my R. View hospital and my outpatient doctor's records, but she sent a Mental Impairment Questionnaire as well. It looks pretty official to me, though my clinic's attitude is so nonchalant I doubt they'd notice if I came in off the streets with a noose in one hand. The questionnaire includes a full DSM-IV Multiaxial Evaluation, a listing for Prognosis, Functional Limitation, and yes, whether I am a "malingerer"! "Kindly Dr. A." is out of the office until Januray 3rd, so I talked to his receptionist who told me my "best bet" would be to wait for the forms until my next appointment on January 31st. This hardly allows time for Social Security's sixty-day guideline for Reconsideration, and adds to my feelings of unimportance.A mere 20% get approved at this Reconsideration level, so I want to stand strong. Next, there could be a hearing if I am denied, and that could take up to three years because the city of Atlanta is backlogged that far. A hearing is my greatest chance at winning approval, but my house is liable to implode under the weight of this sickness by then.Next is Appeals Council review, and then Federal Court. The sound of my laughter is not maniacal enough!We filed Chapter Seven Bankruptcy yesterday. Our 401K's are ancient history. The money my dad left behind when he died also paid past-due duns. A pill isn't going to make this all better. Only money. Only to be recognized as disabled.

A Moment for Trent

2008-02-12T11:08:00.001-05:00

If you recall, Trent was right along side of me while having electroshock therapy, trying to make everything okay, goofing around. After his 12th session he was released from R. View and sent to an assisted-living home in New York, against his will or wishes. I never thought I'd hear from him again since a family member had taken over the use of his cell phone and because of the distance, but I tried one more time.His mother answered and said he was back at R. View. He is being shocked again.I called the lobby of the hospital, and a patient located him for me. He didn't remember me! He quizzically begged me to come up on Saturday during visitation, but I cannot see him in that state. I doubt the staff has even ensured that he bathes daily because I once saw them carry his rotten bed sheets out by gloved hands. Everyone in the medicine line had to hold their breath since the hampers were rolled against an adjoining wall.Besides, my level of functioning has been almost nil. I only drive five or so miles from home at a time. My own baths are often supervised. I have flashbacks of my own "sessions". But, my whole heart is with him. I share his pain in knowing that his mind won't rest.