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so i'm going to start by cross posting from fucking meds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Risperidone
I started taking you June 22, 2010. And I must say, I do appreciate that I no longer hear and see things, because, dear teenage self, hallucinations are not cool and romantic and comforting. No, they are scary as fuck.
But Risperidone, this is where you stop being a dear. This is where you start being a demon. I do not enjoy that you make my head fuzzy and dull. I dislike the inability to think of words. I could do without this on-set of hormonally-induced migraine with vomiting that, when I called my psychiatrist to ask for assistance, she gave me brief sympathy and the comment that I was starting to sound manic again, and the direction to increase the dosage of you, Risperidone, by fifty percent. And why do I blame you for these migraines, demon Risperidone? Because you raise prolactin levels and I know you are doing this because I am FREAKING LACTATING. I am in no way, shape, or form pregnant, yet dribble I do from time to time. I'm like the manic Mary of the mental illness concept-child. A concept who apparently needs milk.
So Risperidone, I am soon off to the doctor to get a starter pack of a new med that could give me a life threatening rash, and I may not be able to come completely off of you, but I oh so look forward to the prospect of not being a headachey, vomiting, milkable mess.
Good riddance, I hope I hope I hope,
capricia
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
so, i've got the crazy. have for a while, learned to cope with depression, was a decent arrangement we'd come to. then after a year and a half of working part time as a teacher and cobbling together other creative and diverse jobs, i started working fulltime for a soulless reality tv production company, and i got acne, and i got bipolar I.
i always used to think being bipolar would be awesome. lots of energy, get things done, get really gregarious. it sounds exciting, especially, i think, if you're already depressed. you can't bargain away your depression, but if there could be a positive flip side, that would be Something.
but the decisions made aren't good ones, and i didn't get to channel all this extra energy. when the best decision you can make out of the ones you've presented yourself is to sleep with you manipulative, certifiably crazy, leech-like pushy ex's girlfriend with him in the room and you not liking men a'tall anymore...it's a problem. the singular determination to grow a full vegetable garden inside the second story apartment, by the scorching window, is, though some might call it admirable, decidedly crazy. and there's this intensity, whatever the obsession of the moment is, it is a matter of life and death, it MUST be done, to its fullest, RIGHT NOW.
it is, quite simply, exhausting, damaging, and frustrating.
being hypomanic is great, getting useful things done, still sleeping reasonably, still have a sense of focus on reality. but it doesn't stick. and it escalates maddeningly easily, and there's no clear line between the two. at all.
i managed to keep it mostly away from work. but people started telling me to lay off the caffeine (which i don't consume), slow down, explain what i need again because i don't make any sense. it was mortifying.
because when i start to get crazy, a small part of me dissociates. always has. i've mostly tamed it so it's not always hyper critical 24/7. but there's a part that knows i'm making poor decisions, that steers me towards the least damaging of a rotten selection. that knows i'm spinning out of control and am not social, but scary. that is fully aware of the fact that the music i'm hearing isn't there, that there really isn't a dog behind me, that those are newspaper and magazine dispensers, not hunched over homeless people on the street. but it's a difficult voice to listen to, especially since it makes me feel more insane.
when i was around 10 or 12, i read "i never promised you a rose garden." i fell madly in love with schizophrenia, with hallucinations, with insanity. slightly older, i was utterly entranced with drugs, hallucinogenics. it sounded like the height of ecstasy to me.
i want to go back in time and throttle my teenaged self, on the off chance that it would somehow make this go away, that i wished this on myself.
my mother always gets angry at me when i talk about being crazy limiting me, limiting what i can expect from myself on a daily basis. "look at the professor from 'A Beautiful Mind,' he doesn't let his problems get in his way," and she says it like i'm dealing with the most trivial thing. but there are limitations. i'm on a medication that relaxes my eye muscles so i can't focus. it's particularly bad with reading, especially on the computer. it's problematic for someone who works on a computer. my eyes are in a constant state of hurt as a result. sleep schedules are strict and imposing--i don't get to say how much i sleep. it feels like whining about bullshit, but--well, where else can i? certainly not in public. not at work, where i risk giving a round about excuse to get fired. not among anyone i know, save in hushed corners. i take 11 bits of pill a day for my brain, and i can't function long without them, i'm wholly dependent on these fucking chemicals, but it's not real, it's in my head, it's all a matter of mind over matter. it's enough to drive you insane.
i'm pissed as fuck about the whole situation, but i don't have any place to channel, to use the anger. when i speak up, when i scream, my voice sounds ridiculous. but that's for another post.
i'm going to try to make this a place all about my head. i have a boring me journal for the day to day. but it's also very much a part of me right now, and i refuse to censor myself in my own space. sooooo yeah. welcome to me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Risperidone
I started taking you June 22, 2010. And I must say, I do appreciate that I no longer hear and see things, because, dear teenage self, hallucinations are not cool and romantic and comforting. No, they are scary as fuck.
But Risperidone, this is where you stop being a dear. This is where you start being a demon. I do not enjoy that you make my head fuzzy and dull. I dislike the inability to think of words. I could do without this on-set of hormonally-induced migraine with vomiting that, when I called my psychiatrist to ask for assistance, she gave me brief sympathy and the comment that I was starting to sound manic again, and the direction to increase the dosage of you, Risperidone, by fifty percent. And why do I blame you for these migraines, demon Risperidone? Because you raise prolactin levels and I know you are doing this because I am FREAKING LACTATING. I am in no way, shape, or form pregnant, yet dribble I do from time to time. I'm like the manic Mary of the mental illness concept-child. A concept who apparently needs milk.
So Risperidone, I am soon off to the doctor to get a starter pack of a new med that could give me a life threatening rash, and I may not be able to come completely off of you, but I oh so look forward to the prospect of not being a headachey, vomiting, milkable mess.
Good riddance, I hope I hope I hope,
capricia
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
so, i've got the crazy. have for a while, learned to cope with depression, was a decent arrangement we'd come to. then after a year and a half of working part time as a teacher and cobbling together other creative and diverse jobs, i started working fulltime for a soulless reality tv production company, and i got acne, and i got bipolar I.
i always used to think being bipolar would be awesome. lots of energy, get things done, get really gregarious. it sounds exciting, especially, i think, if you're already depressed. you can't bargain away your depression, but if there could be a positive flip side, that would be Something.
but the decisions made aren't good ones, and i didn't get to channel all this extra energy. when the best decision you can make out of the ones you've presented yourself is to sleep with you manipulative, certifiably crazy, leech-like pushy ex's girlfriend with him in the room and you not liking men a'tall anymore...it's a problem. the singular determination to grow a full vegetable garden inside the second story apartment, by the scorching window, is, though some might call it admirable, decidedly crazy. and there's this intensity, whatever the obsession of the moment is, it is a matter of life and death, it MUST be done, to its fullest, RIGHT NOW.
it is, quite simply, exhausting, damaging, and frustrating.
being hypomanic is great, getting useful things done, still sleeping reasonably, still have a sense of focus on reality. but it doesn't stick. and it escalates maddeningly easily, and there's no clear line between the two. at all.
i managed to keep it mostly away from work. but people started telling me to lay off the caffeine (which i don't consume), slow down, explain what i need again because i don't make any sense. it was mortifying.
because when i start to get crazy, a small part of me dissociates. always has. i've mostly tamed it so it's not always hyper critical 24/7. but there's a part that knows i'm making poor decisions, that steers me towards the least damaging of a rotten selection. that knows i'm spinning out of control and am not social, but scary. that is fully aware of the fact that the music i'm hearing isn't there, that there really isn't a dog behind me, that those are newspaper and magazine dispensers, not hunched over homeless people on the street. but it's a difficult voice to listen to, especially since it makes me feel more insane.
when i was around 10 or 12, i read "i never promised you a rose garden." i fell madly in love with schizophrenia, with hallucinations, with insanity. slightly older, i was utterly entranced with drugs, hallucinogenics. it sounded like the height of ecstasy to me.
i want to go back in time and throttle my teenaged self, on the off chance that it would somehow make this go away, that i wished this on myself.
my mother always gets angry at me when i talk about being crazy limiting me, limiting what i can expect from myself on a daily basis. "look at the professor from 'A Beautiful Mind,' he doesn't let his problems get in his way," and she says it like i'm dealing with the most trivial thing. but there are limitations. i'm on a medication that relaxes my eye muscles so i can't focus. it's particularly bad with reading, especially on the computer. it's problematic for someone who works on a computer. my eyes are in a constant state of hurt as a result. sleep schedules are strict and imposing--i don't get to say how much i sleep. it feels like whining about bullshit, but--well, where else can i? certainly not in public. not at work, where i risk giving a round about excuse to get fired. not among anyone i know, save in hushed corners. i take 11 bits of pill a day for my brain, and i can't function long without them, i'm wholly dependent on these fucking chemicals, but it's not real, it's in my head, it's all a matter of mind over matter. it's enough to drive you insane.
i'm pissed as fuck about the whole situation, but i don't have any place to channel, to use the anger. when i speak up, when i scream, my voice sounds ridiculous. but that's for another post.
i'm going to try to make this a place all about my head. i have a boring me journal for the day to day. but it's also very much a part of me right now, and i refuse to censor myself in my own space. sooooo yeah. welcome to me.
no subject
Date: 2010-08-31 09:25 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2010-08-31 04:37 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2010-09-01 01:49 am (UTC)From:also, "look at john nash" is pretty harsh. i'm pretty sure your mother was trying to get you to think positively about it, but it does come across as almost expecting you to be more accomplished now ("look at this brilliant mathematician with the same problem, you should be like him.") it's a bit like telling a person with a degenerative muscular condition that she ought to try to be more like stephen hawking...
no subject
Date: 2010-09-03 05:51 am (UTC)From:with john nash, she was trying to keep me from being defeatist and letting it limit me. and she's my mother, she thinks i'm fabulously wonderful and bound to leave A Mark on the World. sort of an iiiiii caaan dooo ANYthing!
but one, he has a completely different problem, and two, it's like she's dismissing that it sucks & is hard. i can't just ask other people if the people i'm talking to is real, or some such easy quaint solution. it's not my big issue, and i'm not in an environment or point in my life where that sort of eccentricism is okay.