Hell, Fire and Damnation
So, it's October 03, 2006 and I finally get to come back to my journal. Never having been especially good at being consistent with journal-ing, if you will, when it's right there in front of me every day, having lost my internet access for 30 days did nothing to improve this flaw in my personality. :-(
28 Aug, after having spent the better part of the afternoon of the 27th on the phone making payment arrangements with the phone company, now that DH and I are both earning an income again, so that we could keep what little phone service we had left, (ie, call in and internet--having lost call out, caller ID and call waiting back in July), resulted in the phone company completely shutting off everything. Hmmmm, what, exactly, did they think those payment arrangements were for, anyway--my health? But, do you think I could get the company to fix this error? No, of course not. Had to pay the bill in full, first, then they would fix it. As Diana Gabaldon has Claire say in OUTLANDER--"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ."
I am already dealing with a major--massive depression, a visit that began back in mid-May, and now was full-blown and had moved in; DH had just been told he was to become permanent at the new job, having spent most of the previous four and a half months with piddly, hardly any pay at all jobs, or no job in sight, we could finally begin to make good, nice sized payments and get these bills caught up, only to have this blow come along. It was just more than I could take.
Just after this, (early Sept), I found a book for sale at the local grocers by a friend of mine, and being one of these types that believes in supporting struggling authors, whenever possible, I bought M.J.'s book. Not realizing that this one was incredibly dark, or, maybe it was my state of mind, but anyway, it was...incredibly dark. One of the characters in the story was a cutter, (someone who has the mental instability to cut themselves, usually with a razor, sometimes with a knife), and low and behold, I am about two-thirds of way through the book when I start to fantasize about what it would be like to cut myself. Now, you got to understand, in all of the other times when I have been fighting the Black Dragon, (explained more later), I have never actually wanted to hurt myself. I have wanted to just be left alone, and would go for days without eating, washing, etc, and yes, that hurts me, but it was, how shall I put this...passive rather than active.
This went on for three days. I couldn't get the thoughts out of my head. I finally admitted defeat, jumped to the end of the book, saw who the bad guy, woman in this case, was and called it good. But, the thoughts wouldn't go away. One Sunday morning about four days later, after returning home from those dispicable paper routes I still soooo enjoy, I'm sitting at the table with DH when I burst into tears. (Poor guy, that had been happening more and more everyday up to that point, and would leave him speechless and unnerved every time.) The thoughts were getting more and more vivid, to where I could actually imagine the feel of the warm blood running down my arm, and it scared the hell out of me.
DH is a hunter, and as such, tends to collect lots of different hunting type knives, (not to mention the four or so I provided him with to add to his collection--Oy!), most of which are dispersed in many points around our house. After my sob-fest, I went, gathered all I could find up, dropped them in his lap and told him to lock them up. I hadn't mentioned the games my mind was playing with me up to that point, so he was more than a little upset when I finally told him why he needed to lock them up. He suggested that I needed help. :-) Really, ya think?
I had an appointment with the working place I had been referred to back when we finally qualified for some food stamps, the next morning and she suggested that I go to the Welfare office because they also had adult mental health, (what mental health????), services there as well. So, I drag myself over there. The regular counselor isn't in, and a person who staffed the office once a month, (?) for one afternoon is in, sees me, and suggests that I go to Lewiston, (78 miles away), to the clinic down there. But, they only see walk-in patients on Thursday afternoons between 1:00 and 3:00, first come, first served. Had he not been listening to me when I said no money????? How in the friggin' hell am I supposed to do that, for cryin' out loud. Repeat after me....Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.
Well, you could try many of the local doctor's as they are used to working with poor people, they say. (Yeah, right.)
Sooooo, I drag myself to DH's doctor's office, begging for help, only to be told that without insurance there was little they could do. (They weren't nearly so nice about it, however.) I was referred to a new little local clinic here in town, run by the also local hospital, where, thank God, someone finally took me seriously and promptly provided me with my new favorite person, a Dr. who actually cared about the patient, not the bottom line.
After a long discussion, he agreed that drugs were in order, and because Effexor XR had worked well in the past, we went back to the tried and true. He gave me drugs. Drugs are goooooood. Now, remember, I have no phone; no way to call for help, should I need it. Oh, yeah, Miss MacKenzie most definitely will need it.
So, I start druuuuugs. Gooooood druuuuugs. And I promptly develop a roaring migraine no amount of pain killer will knock off; a stiff, painful neck, that hurts constantly, but even more so if I turn my head suddenly; a racing heart rate; cold sweats; an upset stomach that I'm certain will result in my gaining 100 pounds from all of the crackers I'm eating trying make the stomach stop hurting; a God-awful itch in the "woman's happy place" that is driving completely insane, (yes, I know it is a short trip), and last--but--not--least, (and this one is my favorite), symptoms that resemble a stroke. (Slurred speech; stumbling--ok, I admit that one isn't so obvious, considering I can trip over a non existent dust bunny on a good day- walking into walls; shaking; my eyes rolled up in my head--on two separate occasions that I know about--God knows what was going on in my head that hadn't manifested itself yet.) Even in all this, I am actually starting to feel better. At least K-2, (explanation later), is no longer breathing fire down my back, so it's a start, right....? (Surely you've read enough entries by now to know just how true that is going to be.)
I went three weeks like that. Hey, I really-really wanted to get better----honest, I did. :-O But after the second time the eyes did the disappearing act, and after spending some time with both my work counselor, who was horrified at the sight of me, and my mental health counselor, who had to refrain herself from taking a book and smacking the snot out of me, I went back to the Dr., who also had to refrain himself from taking a book and smacking the snot out of me. Off the Effexor. Cold-friggin'-turkey. (Insert Repeat after me here......Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.) But hey, after five days, at least my eyes were now staying where God put them and the headache finally went away, (but only after a nice-long stab in the backside with some really, really, REALLY great pain killer).
It had taken most of those three weeks for the depression to lift enough for me to say, "Oh, sunlight, hmmm, there may be hope yet." only to have it take those five days for me to go splat onto the canyon floor--again. The only nice thing about it was that I hadn't gotten very far up the wall yet, so the fall was short and sweet.
In all of this, I am trying to keep my appointments; continue the paper routes; pay bills; keep my house running, (a task I failed miserably at); deal with the two teenage children bent on finishing me off; handle that the oldest daughter is pregnant--but doesn't want a kid; that my lovely and favorite son-in-law, (ok, yes, he is my only son-in-law at the moment), is finally coming home from his third tour of Iraq in as many years, and that DH's sister is dying from cancer. Wonder why I'm depressed?
So, lovely new favorite person decides to try Lexipro; an antidepressant DH takes and is quite happy with. And, we're off and running. I've been on the Lexipro for two weeks now, and other than my poor self can't decide if I should sleep those eight hours after or before the sun comes up, or in my case, both times, I have had NO ill effects to the drug and am feeling so much better, that today, for the first time since the on-set of the latest visit of the Black Dragon, I have not, (as yet--cross your fingers), gone back to bed!
Now, about the Black Dragon and K-2. (And then I'll shut up.) Because depression is such a real but obscure thing, and I am a hands on- rote--repeat learner, in order to fight the illness, I had to make it something tangible. Something that I could Identify, and then form a battle plan against. Being a great lover of Sci-fi and fantasy and especially the Margaret Weis/Tracy Hickman "Dragon Lance" Saga, I formed the idea that my depression was a dragon. Black, since there is nothing bright or happy about the trip. The Black Dragon. I've referred to my battle in this manner for many years. The return of the Black Dragon.
I actually named it K-2 about two years ago, after a very dear friend, (Love ya Hamm, miss you bunches), who was stationed at a little known obscure military base owned by the Army--but run by the Air Force, set at the foot of mountains in Uzbekistan called Karshi-Khalad--but known affectionately by those sent to endure it as K-2. Hamm described it as "I've been to places on most continents, and even the slums of Singapore weren't as hot/cold; smelly; vulgar; decrepit or despicable as this base."
Hell, Fire and Damnation--I've been there! Hence the naming of my depression as K-2; the Black Dragon, who at the moment at any rate, has returned to his Lair. I haven't quite got the stone rolled in front of the cave as yet, but I truly think we're getting there.
So, there you have it. And, I'll try to be better about more regular, but much shorter posts in the future.
28 Aug, after having spent the better part of the afternoon of the 27th on the phone making payment arrangements with the phone company, now that DH and I are both earning an income again, so that we could keep what little phone service we had left, (ie, call in and internet--having lost call out, caller ID and call waiting back in July), resulted in the phone company completely shutting off everything. Hmmmm, what, exactly, did they think those payment arrangements were for, anyway--my health? But, do you think I could get the company to fix this error? No, of course not. Had to pay the bill in full, first, then they would fix it. As Diana Gabaldon has Claire say in OUTLANDER--"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ."
I am already dealing with a major--massive depression, a visit that began back in mid-May, and now was full-blown and had moved in; DH had just been told he was to become permanent at the new job, having spent most of the previous four and a half months with piddly, hardly any pay at all jobs, or no job in sight, we could finally begin to make good, nice sized payments and get these bills caught up, only to have this blow come along. It was just more than I could take.
Just after this, (early Sept), I found a book for sale at the local grocers by a friend of mine, and being one of these types that believes in supporting struggling authors, whenever possible, I bought M.J.'s book. Not realizing that this one was incredibly dark, or, maybe it was my state of mind, but anyway, it was...incredibly dark. One of the characters in the story was a cutter, (someone who has the mental instability to cut themselves, usually with a razor, sometimes with a knife), and low and behold, I am about two-thirds of way through the book when I start to fantasize about what it would be like to cut myself. Now, you got to understand, in all of the other times when I have been fighting the Black Dragon, (explained more later), I have never actually wanted to hurt myself. I have wanted to just be left alone, and would go for days without eating, washing, etc, and yes, that hurts me, but it was, how shall I put this...passive rather than active.
This went on for three days. I couldn't get the thoughts out of my head. I finally admitted defeat, jumped to the end of the book, saw who the bad guy, woman in this case, was and called it good. But, the thoughts wouldn't go away. One Sunday morning about four days later, after returning home from those dispicable paper routes I still soooo enjoy, I'm sitting at the table with DH when I burst into tears. (Poor guy, that had been happening more and more everyday up to that point, and would leave him speechless and unnerved every time.) The thoughts were getting more and more vivid, to where I could actually imagine the feel of the warm blood running down my arm, and it scared the hell out of me.
DH is a hunter, and as such, tends to collect lots of different hunting type knives, (not to mention the four or so I provided him with to add to his collection--Oy!), most of which are dispersed in many points around our house. After my sob-fest, I went, gathered all I could find up, dropped them in his lap and told him to lock them up. I hadn't mentioned the games my mind was playing with me up to that point, so he was more than a little upset when I finally told him why he needed to lock them up. He suggested that I needed help. :-) Really, ya think?
I had an appointment with the working place I had been referred to back when we finally qualified for some food stamps, the next morning and she suggested that I go to the Welfare office because they also had adult mental health, (what mental health????), services there as well. So, I drag myself over there. The regular counselor isn't in, and a person who staffed the office once a month, (?) for one afternoon is in, sees me, and suggests that I go to Lewiston, (78 miles away), to the clinic down there. But, they only see walk-in patients on Thursday afternoons between 1:00 and 3:00, first come, first served. Had he not been listening to me when I said no money????? How in the friggin' hell am I supposed to do that, for cryin' out loud. Repeat after me....Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.
Well, you could try many of the local doctor's as they are used to working with poor people, they say. (Yeah, right.)
Sooooo, I drag myself to DH's doctor's office, begging for help, only to be told that without insurance there was little they could do. (They weren't nearly so nice about it, however.) I was referred to a new little local clinic here in town, run by the also local hospital, where, thank God, someone finally took me seriously and promptly provided me with my new favorite person, a Dr. who actually cared about the patient, not the bottom line.
After a long discussion, he agreed that drugs were in order, and because Effexor XR had worked well in the past, we went back to the tried and true. He gave me drugs. Drugs are goooooood. Now, remember, I have no phone; no way to call for help, should I need it. Oh, yeah, Miss MacKenzie most definitely will need it.
So, I start druuuuugs. Gooooood druuuuugs. And I promptly develop a roaring migraine no amount of pain killer will knock off; a stiff, painful neck, that hurts constantly, but even more so if I turn my head suddenly; a racing heart rate; cold sweats; an upset stomach that I'm certain will result in my gaining 100 pounds from all of the crackers I'm eating trying make the stomach stop hurting; a God-awful itch in the "woman's happy place" that is driving completely insane, (yes, I know it is a short trip), and last--but--not--least, (and this one is my favorite), symptoms that resemble a stroke. (Slurred speech; stumbling--ok, I admit that one isn't so obvious, considering I can trip over a non existent dust bunny on a good day- walking into walls; shaking; my eyes rolled up in my head--on two separate occasions that I know about--God knows what was going on in my head that hadn't manifested itself yet.) Even in all this, I am actually starting to feel better. At least K-2, (explanation later), is no longer breathing fire down my back, so it's a start, right....? (Surely you've read enough entries by now to know just how true that is going to be.)
I went three weeks like that. Hey, I really-really wanted to get better----honest, I did. :-O But after the second time the eyes did the disappearing act, and after spending some time with both my work counselor, who was horrified at the sight of me, and my mental health counselor, who had to refrain herself from taking a book and smacking the snot out of me, I went back to the Dr., who also had to refrain himself from taking a book and smacking the snot out of me. Off the Effexor. Cold-friggin'-turkey. (Insert Repeat after me here......Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.) But hey, after five days, at least my eyes were now staying where God put them and the headache finally went away, (but only after a nice-long stab in the backside with some really, really, REALLY great pain killer).
It had taken most of those three weeks for the depression to lift enough for me to say, "Oh, sunlight, hmmm, there may be hope yet." only to have it take those five days for me to go splat onto the canyon floor--again. The only nice thing about it was that I hadn't gotten very far up the wall yet, so the fall was short and sweet.
In all of this, I am trying to keep my appointments; continue the paper routes; pay bills; keep my house running, (a task I failed miserably at); deal with the two teenage children bent on finishing me off; handle that the oldest daughter is pregnant--but doesn't want a kid; that my lovely and favorite son-in-law, (ok, yes, he is my only son-in-law at the moment), is finally coming home from his third tour of Iraq in as many years, and that DH's sister is dying from cancer. Wonder why I'm depressed?
So, lovely new favorite person decides to try Lexipro; an antidepressant DH takes and is quite happy with. And, we're off and running. I've been on the Lexipro for two weeks now, and other than my poor self can't decide if I should sleep those eight hours after or before the sun comes up, or in my case, both times, I have had NO ill effects to the drug and am feeling so much better, that today, for the first time since the on-set of the latest visit of the Black Dragon, I have not, (as yet--cross your fingers), gone back to bed!
Now, about the Black Dragon and K-2. (And then I'll shut up.) Because depression is such a real but obscure thing, and I am a hands on- rote--repeat learner, in order to fight the illness, I had to make it something tangible. Something that I could Identify, and then form a battle plan against. Being a great lover of Sci-fi and fantasy and especially the Margaret Weis/Tracy Hickman "Dragon Lance" Saga, I formed the idea that my depression was a dragon. Black, since there is nothing bright or happy about the trip. The Black Dragon. I've referred to my battle in this manner for many years. The return of the Black Dragon.
I actually named it K-2 about two years ago, after a very dear friend, (Love ya Hamm, miss you bunches), who was stationed at a little known obscure military base owned by the Army--but run by the Air Force, set at the foot of mountains in Uzbekistan called Karshi-Khalad--but known affectionately by those sent to endure it as K-2. Hamm described it as "I've been to places on most continents, and even the slums of Singapore weren't as hot/cold; smelly; vulgar; decrepit or despicable as this base."
Hell, Fire and Damnation--I've been there! Hence the naming of my depression as K-2; the Black Dragon, who at the moment at any rate, has returned to his Lair. I haven't quite got the stone rolled in front of the cave as yet, but I truly think we're getting there.
So, there you have it. And, I'll try to be better about more regular, but much shorter posts in the future.