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.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
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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