at 3 AM. It seems a pattern has emerged where I wake up every morning at 3 AM. I'm not liking this early wake-up call because I generally can't sleep well after I get up. So, I'm going to do something useful and then try and go back to sleep for a while.
I've been in a pretty major funk for the last few weeks. I managed to slide through Christmas with a pasted smile on my face, but it was hard. It takes all my energy to get up in the morning, get the kids off to wherever they need to be, and get myself to school or work. Luckily, I'm off work this week, so I've mostly just sat on the couch eating peanut butter M&Ms and watching TV (anything that makes me cry is a plus). This is the first Christmas season that this has ever happened to me.
You see, I'm haunted by memories. I dream about old friends and old family, then I wake up at 3 AM and can't shake the dream and the people stick in my mind for the rest of the night/morning. It started with my Grandpa Walf, who died during my first leave from my ship in 1996. That's freakin' 14 years ago and he still haunts my dreams as if I saw him yesterday. It's gone on to other people that are out of my life now and I spend the hours of 3-7 AM thinking about those I've dreamed about and not going back to sleep.
I'm not kidding you -- this has been one of the worst down periods of my life. I literally have to force myself out of bed and I worry that one day I won't be able to do that, either.
The good news? I started back on Pristiq about a week ago and I've been feeling slightly more confident as the days go on. Hopefully, within another week, the effect will be more pronounced and I'll be able to get out and about with more vigor, instead of doing the basics just to get through the day. Like Frank said last night, I've been on "auto pilot" for the last couple of weeks, and it sucks. I want to do so much more, but lack the energy to do anything. Pristiq worked wonders before and I trust that it'll do it again and I just have to give it time to work.
I know from experience that these periods won't last forever, though it often feels like forever at the time. And it does feel like forever now...
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Manual Dexterity
Continuing with my Mad House commitment, here's this week's post.
I can crochet. Well, let me step back a bit. I could crochet, if I so chose to; however, I rarely get more than four or five rows in and, by then, I have usually lost my hook. So the project gets shoved to the side where it either stays, or I eventually donate it to Goodwill in hopes that some poor crocheter out there is looking for a lot project.
I can scrapbook. Well, I've only ever finished two, both of which were dedications to my 2 babies that never made it into this world.
I can make wood do what I want it to do and have made two beautiful pieces of furniture, with more on the way. You definitely need manual dexterity for that job...carpentry.
I'm a writer, but my hands don't do as much writing as they do other things; specifically, the "thing" I will focus on tonight that is much on my mind as of late.
It's getting close to 11 years since the tumor on my spine was found. Right there, a bright white spot on the x-ray, right at the L2 transverse process. Not hanging off like a berry, but muddled in right at the base, the pedicle, of the bone. I was given two options, both based on a biopsy I hadn't yet had. I could wait it out and see if it would grow, requiring monthly scans; or, I could have it immediately removed. Once the biopsy results were in, my choice was down to immediate removal. On April 13th, 2000, I went in for a looooong surgery to remove a piece of my spine and, hopefully along with it, an osteoblastoma. They had to remove the transverse process, there was no way to get the darn thing out without cutting through it. They sent it off to Walter Reed's lab to be labelled as an "Unknown cyst of unknown origin." Classically, it's been labelled an osteblastoma, functionally, it's been labelled the end of my life as I knew it.
Few people know this about me, but I was a runner. Running was very, very hard for me, but I loved it. I also loved walking, hiking, biking, and pretty much anything else that required extensive use of my back. I was also, at one point, a very heavy drinker but, having quit drinking, I had gotten back into running. I even ran a 5K a few months before the tumor was found.
The surgeon who did the surgey "nicked" my sciatic nerve and I have had years of pain from that. The inbalance that comes with the loss of a piece of vertebrae has degenerated my back into that of an 80-year-old. At this point, I have one ruptured disk and 2 bulging discs. If I could lose 80 pounds, my back may not bother me so much, but I'm at a point in my depression where I just can't get myself to expend the energy.
The tumor destroyed a piece of me that I have not, in my depression, been able to get back...that manual dexterity that goes along with broad, strong body movements like running and hiking. I do walk, but it's slow going in the weight department. I have an awesome trainer, but I'm too caught up in my depression to work with him. I have sacrificed my dexterity to a back that is unsuitable to large movements. I've been told time and time again not to pick up anything over 10pounds, that I risk bursting the other two discs...but how can I not jump up, run to my screaming child, and then NOT pick him, or her, up?
My next step is a spinal fusion coming up, most likely, sometime in the new year. I've made my decision after living through years of pain...pain that haunts every waking and sleeping moment and movement. I'm making this choice to get away from the pain meds in hopes that the fusion does the trick.
Manual dexterity...I know what I'll give up for it.
I can crochet. Well, let me step back a bit. I could crochet, if I so chose to; however, I rarely get more than four or five rows in and, by then, I have usually lost my hook. So the project gets shoved to the side where it either stays, or I eventually donate it to Goodwill in hopes that some poor crocheter out there is looking for a lot project.
I can scrapbook. Well, I've only ever finished two, both of which were dedications to my 2 babies that never made it into this world.
I can make wood do what I want it to do and have made two beautiful pieces of furniture, with more on the way. You definitely need manual dexterity for that job...carpentry.
I'm a writer, but my hands don't do as much writing as they do other things; specifically, the "thing" I will focus on tonight that is much on my mind as of late.
It's getting close to 11 years since the tumor on my spine was found. Right there, a bright white spot on the x-ray, right at the L2 transverse process. Not hanging off like a berry, but muddled in right at the base, the pedicle, of the bone. I was given two options, both based on a biopsy I hadn't yet had. I could wait it out and see if it would grow, requiring monthly scans; or, I could have it immediately removed. Once the biopsy results were in, my choice was down to immediate removal. On April 13th, 2000, I went in for a looooong surgery to remove a piece of my spine and, hopefully along with it, an osteoblastoma. They had to remove the transverse process, there was no way to get the darn thing out without cutting through it. They sent it off to Walter Reed's lab to be labelled as an "Unknown cyst of unknown origin." Classically, it's been labelled an osteblastoma, functionally, it's been labelled the end of my life as I knew it.
Few people know this about me, but I was a runner. Running was very, very hard for me, but I loved it. I also loved walking, hiking, biking, and pretty much anything else that required extensive use of my back. I was also, at one point, a very heavy drinker but, having quit drinking, I had gotten back into running. I even ran a 5K a few months before the tumor was found.
The surgeon who did the surgey "nicked" my sciatic nerve and I have had years of pain from that. The inbalance that comes with the loss of a piece of vertebrae has degenerated my back into that of an 80-year-old. At this point, I have one ruptured disk and 2 bulging discs. If I could lose 80 pounds, my back may not bother me so much, but I'm at a point in my depression where I just can't get myself to expend the energy.
The tumor destroyed a piece of me that I have not, in my depression, been able to get back...that manual dexterity that goes along with broad, strong body movements like running and hiking. I do walk, but it's slow going in the weight department. I have an awesome trainer, but I'm too caught up in my depression to work with him. I have sacrificed my dexterity to a back that is unsuitable to large movements. I've been told time and time again not to pick up anything over 10pounds, that I risk bursting the other two discs...but how can I not jump up, run to my screaming child, and then NOT pick him, or her, up?
My next step is a spinal fusion coming up, most likely, sometime in the new year. I've made my decision after living through years of pain...pain that haunts every waking and sleeping moment and movement. I'm making this choice to get away from the pain meds in hopes that the fusion does the trick.
Manual dexterity...I know what I'll give up for it.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Holiday Bonus
I'm continuing my commitment to "Mad House" -- a sort of group posting on a topic of the day -- with this post.
________________________________________________________________
Growing up, the entire family spent Christmases in Florida at my Grandma and Grandpa's house. My Aunt and Uncle flew in from Oregon, my Aunt and cousin flew in from Boston, and we, my parents, brother and I, drove from N. Louisiana. It was a 3-day trip because my Mom gets gruesomely carsick, so we would stop each night at a hotel to give her a break. We always knew we were getting close when we started seeing nothing but orange trees for miles and miles. We knew that when those orange groves stopped, we'd be at Stuart, Florida and ready for the big Christmas that we loved so much.
My Grandpa was the son of poor Swedish immigrants and spoke Swedish fluently, though spoke English just as well having been born in this country. He was the man who taught us how to laugh, as he was the most humor-filled man I have ever met. I think, like many immigrant sons, he needed that humor to balance his home life with the life outside. He was a brilliant pianist and I have no shortage of memories of standing around the piano singing Christmas carols. Uncle David played the flute and would join in, as well as my brother, Tony, who played the trombone. The year I played French Horn, I played along as well. Grandma believed in hot lunches, with the occasional sandwich lunch thrown in. Everyone brought a treat of some kind, and we never, EVER missed cocktail hour.
The memories of Christmases past is filled with laughter, music, and the smell of food.
So, it's appropriate this year that these memories, my holiday bonus, overwhelm me as we get closer to Christmas because this is the first Christmas in close to 20 years that we will gather together again -- this time here in my town -- and celebrate with each other. After my grandparents died, and my brother and I went to build our own families, we stopped our yearly Christmas gathering. Frank and I celebrated on our own, and then got together at either my parents' house or my brothers' house on the way to his family Christmas. Tony celebrated with his in-laws, and my parents would have a small Christmas here before heading to Tony's, followed by flying out to Oregon to meet up with my aunts and uncle. We've gone our separate ways, for the most part, in the last 20 years, creating new traditions and mingling the old within, but this year will be a throwback to the old, sans piano and sans Grandma and Grandpa. But I long to give my kids a taste of a big family Christmas. Because they're the only grandchildren, they will get to revel in the attention and the presents, while I get to relive childhood memories. A holiday bonus, indeed.
________________________________________________________________
Growing up, the entire family spent Christmases in Florida at my Grandma and Grandpa's house. My Aunt and Uncle flew in from Oregon, my Aunt and cousin flew in from Boston, and we, my parents, brother and I, drove from N. Louisiana. It was a 3-day trip because my Mom gets gruesomely carsick, so we would stop each night at a hotel to give her a break. We always knew we were getting close when we started seeing nothing but orange trees for miles and miles. We knew that when those orange groves stopped, we'd be at Stuart, Florida and ready for the big Christmas that we loved so much.
My Grandpa was the son of poor Swedish immigrants and spoke Swedish fluently, though spoke English just as well having been born in this country. He was the man who taught us how to laugh, as he was the most humor-filled man I have ever met. I think, like many immigrant sons, he needed that humor to balance his home life with the life outside. He was a brilliant pianist and I have no shortage of memories of standing around the piano singing Christmas carols. Uncle David played the flute and would join in, as well as my brother, Tony, who played the trombone. The year I played French Horn, I played along as well. Grandma believed in hot lunches, with the occasional sandwich lunch thrown in. Everyone brought a treat of some kind, and we never, EVER missed cocktail hour.
The memories of Christmases past is filled with laughter, music, and the smell of food.
So, it's appropriate this year that these memories, my holiday bonus, overwhelm me as we get closer to Christmas because this is the first Christmas in close to 20 years that we will gather together again -- this time here in my town -- and celebrate with each other. After my grandparents died, and my brother and I went to build our own families, we stopped our yearly Christmas gathering. Frank and I celebrated on our own, and then got together at either my parents' house or my brothers' house on the way to his family Christmas. Tony celebrated with his in-laws, and my parents would have a small Christmas here before heading to Tony's, followed by flying out to Oregon to meet up with my aunts and uncle. We've gone our separate ways, for the most part, in the last 20 years, creating new traditions and mingling the old within, but this year will be a throwback to the old, sans piano and sans Grandma and Grandpa. But I long to give my kids a taste of a big family Christmas. Because they're the only grandchildren, they will get to revel in the attention and the presents, while I get to relive childhood memories. A holiday bonus, indeed.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
No Strings
"No Strings Attached" is an historical term referring to the strings attached to puppets and means that there are no conditions or terms. Another "source" of the saying, though, could come from the cloth industry where from the cloth industry, where a small flaw in a fabric would be marked by a string so it could easily be spotted. This suggests a meaning of "without flaws." Also, and totally copied/pasted from Wiktionary, "in ancient times, documents that were written on parchment had strings that were used to tie them shut, after they were rolled up. The Babylonian Talmud in Tractate Bava Metzi'a[2] mentions an example of a man who gives his wife a get (bill of divorce) with a string attached, but holds on to the string, so that he can snatch it back (apparently because he is unwilling to actually give her a divorce). According to Jewish law, this is not a valid divorce, because the man has not properly delivered the get, by freely giving it to his wife." Whatever the etymology of the term, it is accepted that the general meaning is one of getting something with no conditions attached to it, be it flaws or control by others. It's a great term, often underused, I think.
I definitely came with some strings attached. Frank and I discussed some of the ways, just the other night, in which I came to this family flawed. A general mistrust of people, incurable insomnia (except in the case where cats puke in my hair in the middle of the night -- that's definitely not incurable insomnia but a far, far darker thing), and an ability to drop people at the least infraction and turn my back and walk away. These, to me, are the darker side of MY adoption and I have my feeling that I'm not the only adoptee who has felt this way. I've often wondered how a person can trust other and subsequent people in their life when the one person they should've been able to trust the most, was not able to provide it. For whatever reason, the voice we got to know over 9+ months was gone, or the person you knew as "mommy" would not show up for much-looked-forward to visitation. That disappearance of trust has been my biggest string attached.
I've also suffered lifelong insomnia because of my inability to trust mixed in with a healthy dose of being transferred from place to place sleeping. I would wake up in new places, abandoned or just going out to eat (it was still waking up in a new place with a non-existent trust system) and all of those times added up equaled the inability to sleep.
Lastly, I have the ability to just turn my back and walk away from things that hurt me. I close myself off to those things and "banish" them from my life. This is perhaps the one string I also consider a little of a gift. As long as it's there, I also know that I accept NOT to do that to my family...especially during the hardest of times when it would be easiest to just run away. The very thing that could take me away, I use to tie myself to them.
We all have our own flaws, our own conditions, and our own terms. We all allow some amount of control of our lives to be passed into the hands of others. It's what we do with those things that shows the quality of who we are.
I definitely came with some strings attached. Frank and I discussed some of the ways, just the other night, in which I came to this family flawed. A general mistrust of people, incurable insomnia (except in the case where cats puke in my hair in the middle of the night -- that's definitely not incurable insomnia but a far, far darker thing), and an ability to drop people at the least infraction and turn my back and walk away. These, to me, are the darker side of MY adoption and I have my feeling that I'm not the only adoptee who has felt this way. I've often wondered how a person can trust other and subsequent people in their life when the one person they should've been able to trust the most, was not able to provide it. For whatever reason, the voice we got to know over 9+ months was gone, or the person you knew as "mommy" would not show up for much-looked-forward to visitation. That disappearance of trust has been my biggest string attached.
I've also suffered lifelong insomnia because of my inability to trust mixed in with a healthy dose of being transferred from place to place sleeping. I would wake up in new places, abandoned or just going out to eat (it was still waking up in a new place with a non-existent trust system) and all of those times added up equaled the inability to sleep.
Lastly, I have the ability to just turn my back and walk away from things that hurt me. I close myself off to those things and "banish" them from my life. This is perhaps the one string I also consider a little of a gift. As long as it's there, I also know that I accept NOT to do that to my family...especially during the hardest of times when it would be easiest to just run away. The very thing that could take me away, I use to tie myself to them.
We all have our own flaws, our own conditions, and our own terms. We all allow some amount of control of our lives to be passed into the hands of others. It's what we do with those things that shows the quality of who we are.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving!
Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers (all 1 of you)! I hope you have a wonderfully filling day!
Sunday, November 21, 2010
The Invevitable Holiday Post
Holidays bring out the best, and the worst, in me. It's a dichotomy of good v. evil that lives in a lot of us, I think. We yearn to be the providers of joy to our families and have a competitive desire to be the family member remembered for making the holiday great. Especially because I harbor some jealousy toward my brother, which he probably didn't know until this post, I try to put on a front of superiority despite riches in his presence. And my Mom succeeds in bringing that down every, single time.
Last week, I had the impression that, after Christmas, I would bring the kids down to Houma to visit my brother and his wife...especially since my aunts and uncle would be down here for the first time since Tony's wedding in 2003. It's not like we have the dough to just jet up to Boston or out to Oregon to see them, so it's rare that I get to see them. It was enough of a hurt that they were going to go down to Houma to see Tony and Tammy without knowing that my Mom's idea of fun didn't include her grandkids seeing their great aunts and great uncle. To me, it was the idea that they'd rather show off Tony's new house than their grandchildren...it hurt my heart. I've never been able to understand my Mom's desire to trot off to Houma whenever family is in town...now I know she's embarrassed of me.
It makes sense, though. We don't have a lot of money, we tend not to be very social, and we definitely do not put on airs of importance. As such, we tend to fade into the background. Tony and Tammy don't do that, either, but they tend to be much more social, have a large network of family and friends, and spend their money on fun things because they don't have kids to funnel all their resources to. I don't envy them that because my kids are my heart and soul, along with my husband.
I did get the chance to talk to Tony tonight and mentioned that we would very much like to visit them and see their new house...especially their beautiful built-in aquarium. His response? "Why don't you come at Christmas? We'll find room."
Sigh.
Just another act that proves my Mom is more worried about appearances than us. We embarrass her, plain and simple. The things I've done to alienate myself from my Mom have eternally hurt her, and she'll never let me forget it.
Last week, I had the impression that, after Christmas, I would bring the kids down to Houma to visit my brother and his wife...especially since my aunts and uncle would be down here for the first time since Tony's wedding in 2003. It's not like we have the dough to just jet up to Boston or out to Oregon to see them, so it's rare that I get to see them. It was enough of a hurt that they were going to go down to Houma to see Tony and Tammy without knowing that my Mom's idea of fun didn't include her grandkids seeing their great aunts and great uncle. To me, it was the idea that they'd rather show off Tony's new house than their grandchildren...it hurt my heart. I've never been able to understand my Mom's desire to trot off to Houma whenever family is in town...now I know she's embarrassed of me.
It makes sense, though. We don't have a lot of money, we tend not to be very social, and we definitely do not put on airs of importance. As such, we tend to fade into the background. Tony and Tammy don't do that, either, but they tend to be much more social, have a large network of family and friends, and spend their money on fun things because they don't have kids to funnel all their resources to. I don't envy them that because my kids are my heart and soul, along with my husband.
I did get the chance to talk to Tony tonight and mentioned that we would very much like to visit them and see their new house...especially their beautiful built-in aquarium. His response? "Why don't you come at Christmas? We'll find room."
Sigh.
Just another act that proves my Mom is more worried about appearances than us. We embarrass her, plain and simple. The things I've done to alienate myself from my Mom have eternally hurt her, and she'll never let me forget it.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Whither do you Wander?
So, I've realized in the last few nights that I have a real problem. The kids generally go to bed at 7:30 and then, after they're all tucked in, I can't figure out what to do with myself. It's definitely anxiety as I sit and wiggle and wander and I can't figure out what to do with myself. I get grumpy and sarcastic (that's nothing new) and generally irritable. I realized last night that I need something to do to fill the time between their bed time and my bed time...because this "mood" I've been in is going to kill my marriage if I don't figure something out.
I know what I don't want to do:
Play on the computer
Read
Write
Eat
Watch TV
I tried just going to bed early, but I ended up getting up between 2:30 and 4 and wandering again. That definitely wasn't a good option.
So, in an attempt to get myself a "hobby," I went to Wal-Mart today and got yarn and new crochet hooks. I also picked up some knitting needles, though I don't know how to knit. I figure I can find a good website that will show me how. I just can't take the wandering jittery feeling anymore. I also got a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle in hopes that Frank and I can work on it after the kids are in bed. We used to do puzzles all the time, but it's been a while for sure.
I did talk to my doctor about it and got some Vistoril to hopefully help. So far, I haven't seen any difference.
I really, really feel like I'm on the edge of a depression. UGH.
I know what I don't want to do:
Play on the computer
Read
Write
Eat
Watch TV
I tried just going to bed early, but I ended up getting up between 2:30 and 4 and wandering again. That definitely wasn't a good option.
So, in an attempt to get myself a "hobby," I went to Wal-Mart today and got yarn and new crochet hooks. I also picked up some knitting needles, though I don't know how to knit. I figure I can find a good website that will show me how. I just can't take the wandering jittery feeling anymore. I also got a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle in hopes that Frank and I can work on it after the kids are in bed. We used to do puzzles all the time, but it's been a while for sure.
I did talk to my doctor about it and got some Vistoril to hopefully help. So far, I haven't seen any difference.
I really, really feel like I'm on the edge of a depression. UGH.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Early to bed, early to rise
I'm still waiting for the rest of it, though I seem to have healthy down ok, I'd love to see the wealthy and wise parts come true. I've made the mistake of going to bed too early for the last two nights. Morning comes way too early when I do that, though. At least the Sonata is working, though! I'll just have to try to adjust my bedtime. It makes for a long, long day when I get up this early.
The kids are up early this morning, too. They're gonna be hating life around 2 this afternoon. Maybe it's all still a reaction to the time change? Who knows, but this early morning stuff is for the birds (who, interestingly, aren't awake yet).
I had a good visit to my psychiatrist the other day. I still hesitate when trying to write about those visits and my depression and I'm not sure that stigma will ever fully go away. I come from a long line of post-Depression era ignorers who would rather stuff away feelings than ever share them with anyone else...not that it's always a bad thing to stuff...but this blog is about opening peoples' eyes to depression. At any rate, we're continuing the Abilify, took away Ambien, and added Sonata. I'll see him again in a month.
Other than that, I'm still waiting on an acceptable solution from pain management. Sheesh...why do I giggle every time I see those two words together??
The kids are up early this morning, too. They're gonna be hating life around 2 this afternoon. Maybe it's all still a reaction to the time change? Who knows, but this early morning stuff is for the birds (who, interestingly, aren't awake yet).
I had a good visit to my psychiatrist the other day. I still hesitate when trying to write about those visits and my depression and I'm not sure that stigma will ever fully go away. I come from a long line of post-Depression era ignorers who would rather stuff away feelings than ever share them with anyone else...not that it's always a bad thing to stuff...but this blog is about opening peoples' eyes to depression. At any rate, we're continuing the Abilify, took away Ambien, and added Sonata. I'll see him again in a month.
Other than that, I'm still waiting on an acceptable solution from pain management. Sheesh...why do I giggle every time I see those two words together??
Monday, November 15, 2010
Pain Mangement
Imagine my surprise today when I called my Pain MANAGEMENT doctor b/c my most recent foray into pain meds has left feeling, well, painful (and nauseated, fwiw). Summoning up my courage to call, I waited for most of the day before calling them back. It took 5 minutes for my 2nd call to be returned. After I told the nurse that my pain meds were not working and that perhaps I had a tolerance from 10 years off and on with them, she said, "Well, we're not going to change your medicine."
Wait a minute...don't I give you the big bucks to manage my pain? I don't care if it's extra super duper strength Aleve...it's the job of your clinic to manage my pain. If that means moving up my shot date or cutting out my discs, I don't really care.
So, I'm waiting for the office manager to call me back because I "complained" (which is short for cried over the phone about how I don't understand why the nurse was gruff with me), but I expect I'll be sitting in an office some time this week, with or without an apointment.
Wait a minute...don't I give you the big bucks to manage my pain? I don't care if it's extra super duper strength Aleve...it's the job of your clinic to manage my pain. If that means moving up my shot date or cutting out my discs, I don't really care.
So, I'm waiting for the office manager to call me back because I "complained" (which is short for cried over the phone about how I don't understand why the nurse was gruff with me), but I expect I'll be sitting in an office some time this week, with or without an apointment.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Once a Day, Once a Week
I've decided that I will be updating once a week instead of daily...it's just too much to ask to do all of a day's work and then update a blog, too! I mean, c'mon, I'm not superwoman.
Anyway, Abilify seems to be doing the trick. It keeps me on the level without fogging me up too much. The only thing I don't like about it is the very subtle tremor I've developed. The only thing it affects, though, is my almost textbook cursive and I can't say that's a huge disappointment, just a little heartbreak. Now, if I could just sleep at night we'd be set to go! I was taking Ambien CR, but that seems not to work anymore so I went back to plain ol' Ambien to tackle my lifelong insomnia. It wasn't very effective last night as I lay in a half-awake/half-asleep status most of the night.
I had a very good visit with my new pain-management doctor last week. We are going to try a new shot for my back, a lumbar medial branch block. I've had numerous epidural steroid injections with absolutely no success, but this one is supposed to be immediately effective and, then, when it wears off, the doctor can go in a cauterize the nerves -- effective for up to 2 years. Wouldn't it be nice if he could do that in my knees, wrists, ankles, and shoulder, too? I suppose I'd look like a spaghetti noodle walking around with that many cauterized nerves, though. In the meantime, I'm still on Neurontin and Lortab, which is honestly not very effective anymore and I'll be giving my doc a call on Monday to see if there's a different combo I can get on until December 3rd when I have my shot.
On a different note, I have to give props to my girl, Katy, this week. Yesterday, we went to a birthday party for one of her classmates. Because she's at Montessori school, she is in a class with 6, 7, and 8 year old kids. Well, one of her classmates turned 9 and had a pizza part where Katy was introduced into the "Girls are icky" phase of childhood. She hung around hurt for a while until she finally took my advice of sitting wherever her little, feminine butt wanted to sit. I'm so proud of my little feminist...she plopped herself at the boys' table and didn't move until it was time to go. Good for her!
On the "boy" front, Jamie woke up screaming Saturday morning. For the first time, ever, he was able to verbalize what was wrong and told me his ears hurt. He was also running a fever, so I suppose tomorrow will be a doctor's visit for his ears -- the first for his ears since right after he had his tubes in! They fell out ages ago, so I've been very happy with the result of him having tubes!
My beloved husband, Frank, called me on Thursday night this week to tell me "we needed to talk" as he was on his way home from work. Terrified, I just knew he was going to tell me he had lost his job and I was absolutely nauseated as I waited for him to come home. I could have punched him when I met him at the door and he said, "I got a raise!" I cried with relief, then immediately apologized for crying! But, when all is said and done, I'm thrilled that he has done so well! Good job, my sweets!
All for this week. I've got one more load of laundry to get folded before we get back in the "week."
Anyway, Abilify seems to be doing the trick. It keeps me on the level without fogging me up too much. The only thing I don't like about it is the very subtle tremor I've developed. The only thing it affects, though, is my almost textbook cursive and I can't say that's a huge disappointment, just a little heartbreak. Now, if I could just sleep at night we'd be set to go! I was taking Ambien CR, but that seems not to work anymore so I went back to plain ol' Ambien to tackle my lifelong insomnia. It wasn't very effective last night as I lay in a half-awake/half-asleep status most of the night.
I had a very good visit with my new pain-management doctor last week. We are going to try a new shot for my back, a lumbar medial branch block. I've had numerous epidural steroid injections with absolutely no success, but this one is supposed to be immediately effective and, then, when it wears off, the doctor can go in a cauterize the nerves -- effective for up to 2 years. Wouldn't it be nice if he could do that in my knees, wrists, ankles, and shoulder, too? I suppose I'd look like a spaghetti noodle walking around with that many cauterized nerves, though. In the meantime, I'm still on Neurontin and Lortab, which is honestly not very effective anymore and I'll be giving my doc a call on Monday to see if there's a different combo I can get on until December 3rd when I have my shot.
On a different note, I have to give props to my girl, Katy, this week. Yesterday, we went to a birthday party for one of her classmates. Because she's at Montessori school, she is in a class with 6, 7, and 8 year old kids. Well, one of her classmates turned 9 and had a pizza part where Katy was introduced into the "Girls are icky" phase of childhood. She hung around hurt for a while until she finally took my advice of sitting wherever her little, feminine butt wanted to sit. I'm so proud of my little feminist...she plopped herself at the boys' table and didn't move until it was time to go. Good for her!
On the "boy" front, Jamie woke up screaming Saturday morning. For the first time, ever, he was able to verbalize what was wrong and told me his ears hurt. He was also running a fever, so I suppose tomorrow will be a doctor's visit for his ears -- the first for his ears since right after he had his tubes in! They fell out ages ago, so I've been very happy with the result of him having tubes!
My beloved husband, Frank, called me on Thursday night this week to tell me "we needed to talk" as he was on his way home from work. Terrified, I just knew he was going to tell me he had lost his job and I was absolutely nauseated as I waited for him to come home. I could have punched him when I met him at the door and he said, "I got a raise!" I cried with relief, then immediately apologized for crying! But, when all is said and done, I'm thrilled that he has done so well! Good job, my sweets!
All for this week. I've got one more load of laundry to get folded before we get back in the "week."
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Neutral
How is it November already? How is it that it's time to set our clocks back an hour already? How is it Frank's birthday on Monday?
This year is almost over. I hate the month of November...I've had too much crappy stuff happen in the month of November. The one really, really good thing that happened in November happened on the 28th of 1994 when Frank and I went on our first date. That was 16 years ago!!
I've been doing alright lately. I saw a new psychiatrist and I think he's ok. I've only seen him once so I can't really say whether I like him until I get to know him a little more. I'm also seeing a therapist and I do really like him. He's a great guy. The psychiatrist prescribed Abilify for me and took me off of everything else. I think it's working, but will need a couple more weeks to know for sure.
In the meantime, my back has been killing me. I see pain management on Monday and I hope they can do something about it until I see the neurosurgeon -- whenever that's going to be -- who I hope will do a laminectomy on my two bad discs and then fuse the vertebrae. I just can't live with this back any more.
So, I can't say things are great, but things are definitely not awful. I'd say I'm in a neutral place right now...and that's definitely OK.
This year is almost over. I hate the month of November...I've had too much crappy stuff happen in the month of November. The one really, really good thing that happened in November happened on the 28th of 1994 when Frank and I went on our first date. That was 16 years ago!!
I've been doing alright lately. I saw a new psychiatrist and I think he's ok. I've only seen him once so I can't really say whether I like him until I get to know him a little more. I'm also seeing a therapist and I do really like him. He's a great guy. The psychiatrist prescribed Abilify for me and took me off of everything else. I think it's working, but will need a couple more weeks to know for sure.
In the meantime, my back has been killing me. I see pain management on Monday and I hope they can do something about it until I see the neurosurgeon -- whenever that's going to be -- who I hope will do a laminectomy on my two bad discs and then fuse the vertebrae. I just can't live with this back any more.
So, I can't say things are great, but things are definitely not awful. I'd say I'm in a neutral place right now...and that's definitely OK.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
I Hate Halloween.
Really. I despise every aspect of it and almost always did. As much as I love my Mom, we NEVER got store-bought costumes like the other kids did..we "made" our own costumes and they usually looked exactly like a little kid made them. I've been trying to get in here for a couple of days to write about my pretty eventful week, but have been so out-of-sorts that I just couldn't do it.
On Tuesday night, I took my usual cocktail of medications, but instead of going to sleep, I wandered around the house stumbling, slurring, and, eventually, saying I was going to go meet up with a friend, J, who knew nothing of this "plan" I had. I briefly fell back on the bed, as Frank tells it, and he noticed my breathing was really, really off. He immediately called 911. I don't remember a thing until I woke up in ICU Thursday morning -- having no idea where I was or how I got there. Frank said that the doctors told him that it was touch and go with me as tried to get the meds out of my system (and these were all legitimate meds, not some handful of something bought off of someone). I had my stomach pumped, and was ventilated. I have bruises all over my arms and on my chest, where they pounded my heart to get it going. My shirt was cut off of me, as was my bra.
I can tell you, in all honesty, that this was not a suicide attempt or even a "cry for help" that people so often hear about. It was a combination of Zyprexa (my new med), Tramadol, and Klonopin.
To top it all off, I spent most of Friday morning at the VA walk-in b/c I threw my back out. I'm off to an orthopedist on Monday morning.
I don't know if there's much more I can say. I've never been so terrified and horrified in my entire life...and so greatful that what could've happened, didn't.
On Tuesday night, I took my usual cocktail of medications, but instead of going to sleep, I wandered around the house stumbling, slurring, and, eventually, saying I was going to go meet up with a friend, J, who knew nothing of this "plan" I had. I briefly fell back on the bed, as Frank tells it, and he noticed my breathing was really, really off. He immediately called 911. I don't remember a thing until I woke up in ICU Thursday morning -- having no idea where I was or how I got there. Frank said that the doctors told him that it was touch and go with me as tried to get the meds out of my system (and these were all legitimate meds, not some handful of something bought off of someone). I had my stomach pumped, and was ventilated. I have bruises all over my arms and on my chest, where they pounded my heart to get it going. My shirt was cut off of me, as was my bra.
I can tell you, in all honesty, that this was not a suicide attempt or even a "cry for help" that people so often hear about. It was a combination of Zyprexa (my new med), Tramadol, and Klonopin.
To top it all off, I spent most of Friday morning at the VA walk-in b/c I threw my back out. I'm off to an orthopedist on Monday morning.
I don't know if there's much more I can say. I've never been so terrified and horrified in my entire life...and so greatful that what could've happened, didn't.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Why is it always a fight?
I know it's been a few days since I've posted, but there are several good reasons. As I've sunk deeper and deeper into my depression, I have struggled to get the help I need...and it has not been easy. Originally, I was scheduled to see a psychiatrist on the 5th November which, when you're severally depressed, is a long, long way away. My PCP couldn't get me in any sooner and a sobbing phone call from me elicited nothing but, "That's the only date we have."
So...on Friday morning, I drove the 30 miles to the VA Medical Clinic (VAMC) in Monroe to attempt to get some help. I was there for many hours, which is not a bad thing by any means. They just happened to get me in to see my new psychiatrist on Monday. Yes...Monday. I was amazed, and I'm very content to know that the the end of this pit is beginning.
Now, I've heard from several people about my legal "troubles." I think now is the time to talk about it, as few people seemed to know. In May, 2006, I was suicidal and cutting myself. I went to see a local doctor in hopes he would give me enough Lortab for a "bad back" that I could swallow it down with a bottle of vodka and end my pain. He didn't. So, I stole a sheet off of his prescription pad while he was out of the room. I forged a prescription for SIX Lortab as a test...if it worked, I would do another for more, swallow them down with the vodka, and never have to deal with it again. Well, it didn't work. I was caught by the pharmacist, who rightfully called the police. I now have a felony on my record for "Attempt to obtain CDS by forgery." Fortunately, I was granted an Article 893. Article 893 says that I can get the felony permanently removed from my record.
But hiring the lawyer to get it removed takes money. Because I have not been able to get a job, I don't have the money for the lawyer. Because I have the felony, I cannot get a job. It's a vicious cycle.
And that's where my life is right now. I'm hoping that my new job (YAY) will allow me the funds to hire the lawyer to get the felony off of my record and, thus, remove some of the depression that has plagued me because of the felony.
You wanted to know. You now know. And it is finally no longer my shameful "secret."
So...on Friday morning, I drove the 30 miles to the VA Medical Clinic (VAMC) in Monroe to attempt to get some help. I was there for many hours, which is not a bad thing by any means. They just happened to get me in to see my new psychiatrist on Monday. Yes...Monday. I was amazed, and I'm very content to know that the the end of this pit is beginning.
Now, I've heard from several people about my legal "troubles." I think now is the time to talk about it, as few people seemed to know. In May, 2006, I was suicidal and cutting myself. I went to see a local doctor in hopes he would give me enough Lortab for a "bad back" that I could swallow it down with a bottle of vodka and end my pain. He didn't. So, I stole a sheet off of his prescription pad while he was out of the room. I forged a prescription for SIX Lortab as a test...if it worked, I would do another for more, swallow them down with the vodka, and never have to deal with it again. Well, it didn't work. I was caught by the pharmacist, who rightfully called the police. I now have a felony on my record for "Attempt to obtain CDS by forgery." Fortunately, I was granted an Article 893. Article 893 says that I can get the felony permanently removed from my record.
But hiring the lawyer to get it removed takes money. Because I have not been able to get a job, I don't have the money for the lawyer. Because I have the felony, I cannot get a job. It's a vicious cycle.
And that's where my life is right now. I'm hoping that my new job (YAY) will allow me the funds to hire the lawyer to get the felony off of my record and, thus, remove some of the depression that has plagued me because of the felony.
You wanted to know. You now know. And it is finally no longer my shameful "secret."
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Rehabilitation
For as long as there have been convictions in America, there has been talk of rehabilitation. What does that word even mean? Is the act of getting out of prison, or completing court-ordered sundries? Does that automatically prove that the prior criminal is free from his evil trappings?
I am a convicted felon. I forged a prescription and was convicted of "Attempt to Obtain CDS." That was four years ago. Since then, I completed the court-ordered drug rehabilitation program, reported to every probation meeting, completed by B.A., completed my Graduate Certificate in Technical Writing, and got my Master's in English (with a concentration in Technical Writing and pre-1600 British Literature). I raised my daughter during all of this, while also producing a second offspring -- through an extremely difficult preganancy, followed by 8 days in the NICU for my son and a year full of sickness for the poor little guy. I am published by the Professional Communication Society for the IEEE. I am a respected freelance editor. I am a "natural" technical writer, with an eye for details and an extraordinary ability to research things that others would hang their heads in confusion over.
My ability to rehabilitate, however, has not merited me a job. Because I am a felon, I cannot have a job handling money. I cannot own a gun (not that I want one). I cannot be taken as a serious candidate for a job b/c I am high risk. Meanwhile, others in the same situation turn to selling drugs or stolen goods while I try to just make it day by day.
Rehabilitation does not exist in the Land of the Free. The abhored class system defeated in Old England lives on today in America, despite the few...the proud..the rehabilitated felons desperate to put their talents to use.
Give me a chance America.
I am a convicted felon. I forged a prescription and was convicted of "Attempt to Obtain CDS." That was four years ago. Since then, I completed the court-ordered drug rehabilitation program, reported to every probation meeting, completed by B.A., completed my Graduate Certificate in Technical Writing, and got my Master's in English (with a concentration in Technical Writing and pre-1600 British Literature). I raised my daughter during all of this, while also producing a second offspring -- through an extremely difficult preganancy, followed by 8 days in the NICU for my son and a year full of sickness for the poor little guy. I am published by the Professional Communication Society for the IEEE. I am a respected freelance editor. I am a "natural" technical writer, with an eye for details and an extraordinary ability to research things that others would hang their heads in confusion over.
My ability to rehabilitate, however, has not merited me a job. Because I am a felon, I cannot have a job handling money. I cannot own a gun (not that I want one). I cannot be taken as a serious candidate for a job b/c I am high risk. Meanwhile, others in the same situation turn to selling drugs or stolen goods while I try to just make it day by day.
Rehabilitation does not exist in the Land of the Free. The abhored class system defeated in Old England lives on today in America, despite the few...the proud..the rehabilitated felons desperate to put their talents to use.
Give me a chance America.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Definitions
Women define themselves with words, sometimes backed by actions. We are mothers, sisters, daughters, wives, friends. Each of those relationships depends on actions we do for others and on our status of belonging. I am Frank's wife. I am my Mother's daughter, and my Father's. I am my kids' Mother. I am Tony's sister. When asked what we do, we say things like, "I'm a Mom and a housewife." We give up ourselves to those around us. We belong in the world according to our service to others.
I struggle with this relational being. I AM a Mom, I AM a wife, I AM a daughter...but that is not all that I AM, and those things do not reflect my feelings, desires, and goals. The older I get, the more I question who and what I am, but the answers I discover only work for a little while.
I am a student...but I am sick of school, am tired of homework, and ready to join the "real" world, which for reasons I won't go into right now has evaded me.
I am a writer...but I find it nearly impossible to sit down and write.
I am a musician...but I don't do much more than listen to music anymore.
How do we escape our servitude? We can't tell our children, too young to get along without the loving hands of a mother, to tough it out and do it on their own (at least we can't if we care for them even a little). We can't leave our husbands to take care of it by themselves, though it occasionally seems to be a good idea. We can't withdraw from the world, or forge on ahead, while still holding the hands of those we love. Some people do, and we hear about their kids on the news. That's not me.
Perhaps that's the key? It's easy to define myself by saying what I am NOT, or what I will NOT do. I'm a woman who will not leave her family. I will not leave my kids to get themselves to school in the morning without my help. I will not be the Mom who doesn't get up every morning to pack her daughter's lunch. The mere inclusion of the word "not" implies negativity, though, and I'd rather say those things that I will do....and that's a hard task for me. I can tell you what I've done, my accomplishments and achievements. That's my history and, yes, part of the person I am, but it is not all of what makes me, well, me.
I am proud of my kids. My daughter's smile and my son's laugh are some of the brightest parts of my life. I love my husband. I adore and respect my parents, my brother, and my extended family. But, who am I when the day is done? When everyone else is asleep and the night closes in, how do I define myself? And, how do I do it in such a way that I belong to only myself for a while?
I struggle with this relational being. I AM a Mom, I AM a wife, I AM a daughter...but that is not all that I AM, and those things do not reflect my feelings, desires, and goals. The older I get, the more I question who and what I am, but the answers I discover only work for a little while.
I am a student...but I am sick of school, am tired of homework, and ready to join the "real" world, which for reasons I won't go into right now has evaded me.
I am a writer...but I find it nearly impossible to sit down and write.
I am a musician...but I don't do much more than listen to music anymore.
How do we escape our servitude? We can't tell our children, too young to get along without the loving hands of a mother, to tough it out and do it on their own (at least we can't if we care for them even a little). We can't leave our husbands to take care of it by themselves, though it occasionally seems to be a good idea. We can't withdraw from the world, or forge on ahead, while still holding the hands of those we love. Some people do, and we hear about their kids on the news. That's not me.
Perhaps that's the key? It's easy to define myself by saying what I am NOT, or what I will NOT do. I'm a woman who will not leave her family. I will not leave my kids to get themselves to school in the morning without my help. I will not be the Mom who doesn't get up every morning to pack her daughter's lunch. The mere inclusion of the word "not" implies negativity, though, and I'd rather say those things that I will do....and that's a hard task for me. I can tell you what I've done, my accomplishments and achievements. That's my history and, yes, part of the person I am, but it is not all of what makes me, well, me.
I am proud of my kids. My daughter's smile and my son's laugh are some of the brightest parts of my life. I love my husband. I adore and respect my parents, my brother, and my extended family. But, who am I when the day is done? When everyone else is asleep and the night closes in, how do I define myself? And, how do I do it in such a way that I belong to only myself for a while?
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Beginning
If I have the funds, I can walk into any store in the United States, plop down my cash or my debit card and buy just about anything I want to buy. There is only one thing I want, though, that I can never, ever buy: happiness. Though I'm not trying to run the old saying into the ground, I will admit that it often occurs to me as I go through the checkout with my groceries and sundries. Why is it that I can buy a gun at Wal-Mart, but the simple peaceful mind I so desperately want evades me?
I've been "clinically depressed" for as long as I can remember, though only diagnosed in 1999 while in the Navy. I've tried therapy and drugs, both prescription and non-prescription, and my medicine drawer is full of roads taken...Paxil, Zoloft, Wellbutrin, Pristiq, Seroquel, Depakote, Cymbalta, Xanax, Klonopin, Geodon, Effexor, Blue Skullcap, L-theanine, St. John's Wort, Magnesium, Calms Forte...you name it, if it's for depression, I've probably tried it. And so, after throwing thousands of dollars into my insanity, I spend another night frustrated that the Ambien doesn't calm my anxiety and that the meds aren't working. In the land of plenty, I have nothing. With millions of other Americans struggling with the same thing, I am alone.
My Mom says, "Get over it!" Growing up post-Depression (haha) must've been easy. It must've been nice to determine that there was just no time to deal with those bothersome emotions when there were mouths to feed. But years of Baby Boomer-hippy touchy-feeliness has created a whole new species of person in-touch with their most painful thoughts and, hence, those of us born in the 70's use more anti-depressants than ever before....as do our kids. And, so, I lie in bed at night, wide awake, failing at willing myself to sleep, and fill myself with anxiety about what *I'm* doing wrong with my own kids. What will my depression do to them?
They are 6 and 3. I already see too much of me in my daughter. Her smile turns too quickly to tears. Her frustration at not being able to perform a task turns to anger and rage. What will her struggle be? Will she be able to overcome this all-encompassing depression? Will it eat at her insides, turning her guts to rot while she lies awake at night? Will she lie awake thinking that, just perhaps, she won't make it past 35 years old, as I have nightmares about myself dying?
I am Nikki. I am a 35-year-old Mother of two. And this is my story.
I've been "clinically depressed" for as long as I can remember, though only diagnosed in 1999 while in the Navy. I've tried therapy and drugs, both prescription and non-prescription, and my medicine drawer is full of roads taken...Paxil, Zoloft, Wellbutrin, Pristiq, Seroquel, Depakote, Cymbalta, Xanax, Klonopin, Geodon, Effexor, Blue Skullcap, L-theanine, St. John's Wort, Magnesium, Calms Forte...you name it, if it's for depression, I've probably tried it. And so, after throwing thousands of dollars into my insanity, I spend another night frustrated that the Ambien doesn't calm my anxiety and that the meds aren't working. In the land of plenty, I have nothing. With millions of other Americans struggling with the same thing, I am alone.
My Mom says, "Get over it!" Growing up post-Depression (haha) must've been easy. It must've been nice to determine that there was just no time to deal with those bothersome emotions when there were mouths to feed. But years of Baby Boomer-hippy touchy-feeliness has created a whole new species of person in-touch with their most painful thoughts and, hence, those of us born in the 70's use more anti-depressants than ever before....as do our kids. And, so, I lie in bed at night, wide awake, failing at willing myself to sleep, and fill myself with anxiety about what *I'm* doing wrong with my own kids. What will my depression do to them?
They are 6 and 3. I already see too much of me in my daughter. Her smile turns too quickly to tears. Her frustration at not being able to perform a task turns to anger and rage. What will her struggle be? Will she be able to overcome this all-encompassing depression? Will it eat at her insides, turning her guts to rot while she lies awake at night? Will she lie awake thinking that, just perhaps, she won't make it past 35 years old, as I have nightmares about myself dying?
I am Nikki. I am a 35-year-old Mother of two. And this is my story.
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