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It feels like forever since I posted last. I’m also terribly behind on Dannan’s blog, and on replying to the heap of email in my inbox. However, I am beginning to allow myself to be the awful correspondent that I always have been, but which I have fought against. Three cheers for self-growth!!
At any rate, things were pretty rough here at The Muse Asylum. The “trial” med that I was stuck on for three months wasn’t doing me any favours. Neither was my psychiatrist’s office assistant, who couldn’t find me even a minute of his time. But that’s a whole other rant, which I might actually have already ranted.
On February 19th, I rounded the corner, even though I didn’t realize it at the time. That was the day I made my first trip to OneSouth, our local psych ward. To sum up how I got there (because I’m too lazy to edit): I was on one heck of a lot of meds, which all had nasty side effects that got together, had a party, and increased exponentially. And as I’ve mentioned, my past year has been rough in terms of access to a psychiatrist; when my original Psydoc closed his practice in December of 2007, he referred me to a great female psydoc named Dr. F. She was super, except for the fact that she and her husband decided that they didn’t like it here and moved to the Lower Mainland in June of 2008. Long story short, I didn’t see anyone from June until November, and that was too long.
In November, my new guy (Dr. W.) saw me. I think he will prove to be fabulous if a person can actually get in to see him. We decided to try a(nother) new med, on the theory that I would see him once a month for at least a year. Except that he is supremely busy, and I am on the cancellation list until July of 2009. (From then on, I do have a monthly appointment with him, if I can actually make it until then.)
From mid-December, no matter what we told the office assistant, I couldn’t get in to see Dr. W. It didn’t seem to matter that I ended up moving home with Mom and Dad because I didn’t feel safe at home alone all day, or that my mood had absolutely plummeted on the new med. Nothing would get me an appointment.
Finally, The Therapist suggested we tell her that it was “urgent”, which is apparently a code word that opens doors as if by magic. Except. Except her response was that their office doesn’t handle “emergencies”, so if it was urgent, I needed to go to the ER or to my GP.
Finally, on February 19th, Mom took me to my GP. By this time, I was in a very bad way. GP said she couldn’t do anything except admit me to OneSouth. I didn’t want to go (OH, how BADLY I didn’t want to go), but I told Mom and GP that I was in no position to be making decisions for myself. And this is how I came to be admitted (involuntarily, despite both my consent and Mom’s – the only way to get a bed was to go involuntarily), and how life started to be a bit brighter.
I have always been terrified of going to the hospital. I have never been in the hospital overnight, other than for two sleep studies. And when I practiced law, a number of my firm’s clients were folks with various mental illnesses. Often when they called, it was from the psych ward. And did they ever have awful things to say about it! It’s quite ironic, actually, that their descriptions would foster this great fear in me. When I think back to those days, one former client in particular comes to my mind, and I wouldn’t have considered here to be a credible witness on any other issue. One of the more prominent features of her illness was that she was delusional; most of what she told us was considered to be questionable in terms of it’s actual basis in reality, until further investigation was done.
However, the lasting effect of her (and others’) accounts of life on the psych ward was that I became extremely afraid of the place. Certainly, at the beginning, a big part of the fear was probably that I wouldn’t, couldn’t, be admitted to the very ward ward where my clients could be. (My whole adventure with mental illness began in Victoria, and it really was a possibility that such a situation could have happened.) Thus began more than nine years of absolute refusal to be admitted to any psych ward (even after I left Victoria), and absolute terror of what would happen to me if I were admitted.
Despite my terror, OneSouth is a good place. Even the isolation ward (where one wears yellow baggy pajamas and has a bare cinderblock room with only a bed, a pillow, and a blanket) isn’t so bad. I was terrified when I got there, even under the influence of a hefty dose of Haldol. At GP’s office, I literally begged my mother not to send me to OneSouth. I even at one point promised her that I wouldn’t be ill anymore, I would be better, if only I didn’t have to go. In the circumstances, I am very proud of her for having made the decision to have me admitted anyway.
I calmed myself down once I was in the “cell”, mostly because I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to go home if I was hysterical. (Suffice it to say, I could never have actually calmed myself if it weren’t for the shot of Haldol.) I was, at first, determined to go home as soon as humanly possible (hopefully the next morning, if not sooner). As time passed, I began thinking that the isolation ward wasn’t such a bad place to be. (I may write more about this in another post.)
I got to see Dr. W. the next afternoon (Friday). How do you like that? Three months of begging for a moment of his time… Admittedly, I wasn’t begging him, but rather his office assistant. Anyway. He transferred me to the open side of the ward as soon as we had finished meeting. Our decision was to take me off all of my psych meds so we could start all over again. No better place to do that than in the hospital.
I’m now on a med called Remeron (mirtazapine), and I was in a good place to go off everything else. And I finally got to see for myself what the psych ward was all about. I have a friend who told me once about one of her other friends who called her times in the psych ward a vacation. I couldn’t imagine before how anyone could say such a thing, but it is in reality a very nice place to be. Rooms of four, a richly-appointed lounge with a pool table, a table-top curling game, a ping pong table, a piano, board games and puzzles, and lavish comfy chairs. An open kitchen where a person helps herself to whatever she want at any time. A TV room, nurses to look after anything a person needs, and time to do whatever a person wants. I had a grounds pass, so I wasn’t confined to the ward.As long as I wrote on the chalkboard by the nurses’ station that I was going for a walk, I could do it.
I was there from the Thursday of the GP appointment until the following Monday, and it was the best decision I never made. (I have thanked both my mother and GP many times for finally overruling my fearful protests.) And, so far, the new med is working well (knock on wood). Not too many side effects (and most of myformer side effects are gone!). I am very sleepy all the time (somnolence being the #1 side effect), and I’m pretty dizzy most of the time (the #2). My appetite is also way crazy (another side effect), but I’m trying to keep my eating in reasonable check. I had also decided that if I had to choose, I would choose sane and balanced over keeping my girlish (ha ha!) figure.
The big thing: my mood is better than it has been in many months, and my anxiety (which had become almost unmanageable) is well in control. I haven’t really been doing well since June of 2006 (when I went off all meds to do my second sleep study, which in the end told me absolutely nothing), but I think that I might have turned the corner.
Wow, what a long story. All to get to the point of writing this: as I wrote, I am doing better than I have in a very long time. I nap a lot; nothing like compulsory napping to make a person feel four years old. But when I was in my very bad state, having to nap everyday sounded a hell of a lot better than the way I was feeling. So I’m holding to that memory, and I’m also happy to say that the somnolence is lessening as time passes.
The dizziness, not so much. I did a trial drive to the grocery store yesterday, having decided that I was okay to be on the roads. (Fortunately, the grocery store is quite close to my parents’ house, and I can get there and back on roads that are virtually empty of people at the time of day I tried this.) Turns out, sitting around all day and only moving around the house is a misleading test of how dizzy I am. I drove home very carefully, on the deserted roads. So I have to give up some of my independence and allow other people to drive me places. (Have I mentioned that public transit makes me very anxious?) And I even have to ask people for rides, which is an exercise that The Therapist will be very happy to hear about.
My appetite is still enormous; indeed, it seem to grown everyday. I could eat the world, that’s how it feels. So we’ve stocked up on fruit, veggies, cereal bars, rice cakes, cheese and crackers, and the like. I’m not trying to diet, but if I’m going to eat the world, I might as well start on the healthier part. Get some of my recommended servings from the food pyramid.
I am slowly starting to get back to my routine. I’m going out to dinner with The Roomie tonight, and tomorrow I am going to a Chamber of Commerce social for the SPCA. I’m posting here, and I’m catching up gradually on the many posts piled in my Google reader. I’ll post something soon for Dannan, too. It’s all so much better than it’s been in so long, I can’t even begin to tell you (even though my 1800 words so far are probably far too long of a start!)
That’s the update. Now for the next part…. Elton John gives me shivers!
I was watching the last episode of The Bachelor last night (no, I’m not going to bother linking to it; Google it if you need to find out what I’m talking about), as well as their post-competition wrap-up shows. (Yes, I watch terrible t.v. You don’t have to watch it with me, so let me have my vice in peace.) During the commerical break, I was channel-surfing, and I found this: Elton John: Live at the Royal Opera House. As long as I can see him perform songs like “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” and “Your Song”, the world is a wonderful place.
Seriously, hearing him play these songs with a 90-piece symphony sent shivers through me. And at the time, I was thinking: I must always remember that life is worth living so long as there is music out there that can send chills through my entire body when I hear it.
Music is so powerful, such a gift to humanity. For me, many pieces of music (from all sorts of different genres) evoke this kind of response. Elton John (at least his older work) is an example. If death metal, hip hop or even Marilyn Manson give you chills, then I’m glad for it. Even if I don’t understand it, I’m glad for it. If there’s someone out there with this kind of musical taste who can tell me that it makes you shiver, please leave a comment. For me, this is the magic of music, and I’m curious to know if you fans feel the same way.
Enough for today. I’ve got many other ideas for posts bubbling away in my brain, so hopefully my next post will be soon!
Thirteen Jobs I Have Had:
1. Library page
2. McDonald’s slave
3. Working at a laser photocopy place
4. Working at a stationery store
5. Track and field coach and administrative assistant
6. Records management clerk at the Ministry of Forests
7. Legislative Intern (really, not as exciting as it sounds)
8. Contract researcher for the Ministry of Attorney General
9. Records management clerk at the Cowichan Valley Regional District
10. Legal research assistant
11. Articled student
12. Lawyer
13. Assistant to the Diversity Program Coordinator, Immigrant Services
More Thursday Thirteens here!
Well, it was a really hard week. Like I posted at the beginning of the week, I had a ton of SPCA meetings scheduled for this week, plus a big event. I did get through all of the stuff I had to do, but for the rest of the week, I’ve been fighting a losing battle with the ever-lurking depression demon. I’ve spent a lot of time lying in bed, letting the inertia take hold.
There is one major reason that I’m in danger of crashing again, but I won’t talk about it here. I’d like to, but for now, it’ll just stay in my journal. If I can even bring myself to write there about it. I’m still having some paranoia issues about the absolute privacy of my written word, even in my journal.
I’m between psychiatrists right now; I had a new one that I started seeing in December of 2007, after my psydoc of over seven years closed his practice and moved to the Yukon. The new one and her partner decided they didn’t like it here, and moved to Vancouver in June. She did refer me to a third guy, back in May. I never heard from his office, so last week I forced myself to call to see what’s going on. I had to leave a message. The office person called me the very next day to set up an appointment, which is at the end of November. (Second psychiatrist had told me the end of September, at the latest.) So now I’m wondering, if I hadn’t called at all, would his office ever have called me? Seems suspicious to me.
(And just a word about me and the phone… I have a terrible phobia of the phone. Just thinking of having to call someone, or of the phone ringing, can send me into a panic attack. And for now, I’m not interested in working on it. I’ve always had trouble with the phone, but I think practicing law and having to have the 24-hour phone line all the time set the stage for a phobia to develop. After my breakdown in 2000, I’ve just been so panicked about the phone that I’ve just basically avoided it as much as possible.)
Anyway… I’m going to write my second psychiatrist a letter, because I want to see if she’ll write me a letter stating that my dog, Dannan, is an emotional support animal. He really is as necessary to me as my meds, which is saying a lot. I’ve often jokingly called him my “suicide prevention dog”, but no one laughs at that but me, so I don’t say it anymore. But he definitely helps me to manage my anxiety, and to battle my chronic depression. He sticks right by me when I’m not doing well, and when I cry, he stands on my lap and licks my face until I recover. Even when I’m sick, he cuddles up with me and hardly leaves my lap.
I’ve been doing some research on emotional support animals, but most of the info is from the US. So if anybody out there knows anything about ESAs in Canada, or even better in British Columbia, please let me know. I would be forever grateful.
Well, I’ve certainly rambled a lot here. But it’s done me some good. I always find that as my mood declines, I find it harder and harder to just pick up a pen (or open my laptop) and write. Once I take the plunge, I always feel somewhat better. And the longer I let it go, the harder it gets to take that first step and write the first word. So, my apologies for my ramblings here, if you’re still reading. I’ll get it together soon.
The Muse Asylum 