I cannot live like this any more.

Desperate Measures

I'm still here.

I'm still stuck.

Little by little, I can feel life slipping from me every day.

I've had three appointments with my new therapist and so far all three have been identical. I'm beginning to think she has one speech which she has rehearsed and reiterates under the guise of cognitive behavioral therapy.

The first time around it was good, practical advice. All of which I was aware but good to hear all the same. I liked that she didn't sit back and allow me to talk my head off. It became quite clear only a few minutes into visit two she either 1) Needed a refresher of our first visit or 2) Was simply repeating literally everything she told me in visit number one. This visit left me much less appreciative of not being allowed to do all the talking. Visit three was almost exactly the same as visits one and two with the exception she took me 15 minutes late, allowed me to - at best - talk about five minutes in total. I don't believe I was able to express one concern in it's entirety before she cut me off. I left with more anxiety than I had carried in with me.

It appears as if I am going to have to start my search all over again. I'm not sure how much more of this fumbling through life I can tolerate. I know for certain I need my medication appropriately adjusted and that the likelihood of me getting that done is beyond slim. I know it's the combination of the medication and the right therapist, which I had previously and with great success, that will get me heading back in the right direction. I've exhausted every possible, legally appropriate avenue to get the help I need. Apparently my well being, my life, is not worth the risk to those who could be helping. Time to look elsewhere.

Meet theTherapist

I had my first appointment with my new therapist on May 20th. Personality-wise, she made a fairly good impression. She appears to subscribe to a somewhat Zen way of thinking, which I like. Her office, though, is not exactly comfortable and that will take some getting used to. Lot's of mismatched materials and patterns going on with the furnishings and the room simply has no flow. How she can concentrate in that room is beyond me. I am aware that should be insignificant if this therapist can help me find my way out of this perpetual state of emotional torment but I have enough clutter in my head and it really is not helpful to try to find stillness and calm in surroundings that trigger anxiety.

My next appointment isn't until the 18th of June. Between now and then I will continue to try to implement the cognitive behavioral practice of dealing with my anxiety attacks, when prompted by a situation, by acknowledging the irrational thought(s) and/or fear(s) and attempting to assure myself that I am all right....over and over and over.

On Hold

That's what I feel like. I am on hold. I am struggling day to day, going though the motions without really being there and waiting for my next (new) therapy appointment. At least this time I am certain I will be speaking with a therapist not a prescription pusher. I resent the last person I went to for telling me she felt I was suffering from multiple mixed mood disorders (Bi-polar disorder). That brilliant diagnosis came about a half hour into my evaluation. So here I am again, in a limbo of sorts and I feel so absolutely broken.

It's not easy to wait like this. I am waiting exactly one month to the day since my last appointment which I had waited a L-O-N-G twenty days to arrive. That wait was draining and to go all that time (in normal person time it isn't that long but during severe depression/anxiety person time it was a virtual eternity) only to find out I'd be receiving no counseling whatsoever was like being shoved back down after I just barely summoned the courage to stand.

The last few weeks have been fairly busy. Much more so than I have been up for, but I do just about everything I have to-never feeling my efforts are sufficient and feeling tremendous guilt over the things I don't accomplish. I know it's awful and lazy and inexcusable but I'd much rather be in bed with the covers pulled securely over my head. I'm sick of waking up each day wondering what is going to go wrong today?

Most night's I go to bed with an agenda for the following day and I try to psyche myself up to get things done but then the next morning rolls around and there I am, wishing I could turn the clock back another eight hours. It's not that I enjoy sleep. Maybe if I slept well and woke up feeling refreshed, which I have absolutely no clue  or memory of what that feels like, perhaps I might not want to stay in bed. Physical pain, which is not a new symptom, and overwhelming fear, sadness and hopelessness make it so difficult to get through my days.

The new therapist appointment is May 20th. I am trying my best to be hopeful.

Starting Over... Again

When I had my first appointment with the woman I thought was to be my new therapist, I was disheartened the entire session was dedicated to my history. I've gone without anyone to really talk with in well over a year and the year and change prior to that, the two people I did see were not at all helpful. It was even more disheartening when the evaluation session ended and she booked my second appointment out 20 days. I literally bit my lip so hard it bled.

Mentally, I marked each day off the calendar in anticipation of this visit. Each day telling myself how I was not going to just go in and start rambling on. I wanted her to pick at my brain and figure out the best place to start. When a therapist allows me do all the talking is when progress goes out the window. If they're going to do that they may as well just put a stuffed dummy in the chair and let a tape recorder run. It's futile. I don't need merely to verbalize what's in my head. On that I am quite clear, be it ever so jumbled up most of the time. I need someone to help me piece this puzzle that is my brain back in a way where things make sense.

In hindsight, I suppose it should have been a clue to me this person, who's door sign reads; [name redacted], M.S., R.N., C.S., wasn't what I was looking for. That and the evaluation immediately followed by the "take this medication or die" spiel. I should have known I ended up with a psychiatrist wanna-be. 

So here I am, back at square one, waiting for a LICSW to get back to me to let me know if she is accepting new clients. It's tedious. I'm so tired. My head, my mind and my heart are just so tired. I sought help when I finally realized I couldn't hold on much longer-when I realized I was at the point where I had one foot in this world and the other in the next- and that was twenty one days ago and here I am waiting again.

It's Been a While...

"It's been a while since I could say that I wasn't addicted and
It's been a while since I could say I loved myself as well and..."

This song has been playing in my head quite a bit lately. I am a recovering addict to opiates and benzodiazepines. Although I have maintained control over my opiate addiction without ever needing any intervention or detox, I still must make somewhat of a conscious effort to reject them when they are offered. Thankfully, it is not extraordinarily difficult.

I first became addicted to opiates about 18 years ago when I was incorrectly diagnosed with TMJ. Ultimately, it turned out to be a dental related infection which had symptoms mirroring those of TMJ. At the time my primary care physician, fresh out of medical school and working in her husband's established practice, handed out prescriptions for narcotic pain relievers with impunity. After the first month during the almost year she would continue to allow refills, I became addicted.

I'm not certain if any narcotics help alleviate pain because that has never been my personal experience. For me, they simply made me not care about the pain. Not only that but the feeling of anxiety, which at that time I was not fully aware I was suffering from, was quelled as well. It was as if these magic pills controlled an on and off switch in my brain. The Off switch, which left me in panic over the pain and wondering how much worse it may become, if I would be able take care of all my responsibilities at home and then go to work, if I would need surgery and what if I died during surgery leaving my baby and my husband behind? So many racing thoughts that left me breathless and my heart pounding and in nearly unbearable agony. Then there was the On switch. I still had the same thoughts, fears and pain but there was a buffer between those things and myself. They were still there but they couldn't attack me with the same effect. And the opiates helped me sleep. My intention was never to feel a high, only to feel numb. I got what I wished for.

Due to several surgeries in the past decade as well as a few accidents, I have been offered opiates and in most cases refused them, opting for over the counter pain relievers like acetaminophen or ibuprofen. If I were to say it didn't take every bit of my resolve to refuse a medication I know would flip the switch in my brain to the on position, allowing me a break from the weight of my fears, I'd be lying. It was beyond difficult to refuse in those earlier years. Now it's to the point where it has become almost automatic for me to refuse any kind of narcotic pain medication. While I strongly feel I have my opiate addiction under control, the same cannot be said regarding my addiction to benzodiazepines.

Unbeknownst to my family, I am back on Klonopin and have been for over a year. Even after being dangerously and wrongfully detoxed (in my opinion) from it in a rehabilitation facility over a year and a half ago, I managed to persuade my primary to put me back on them in February of last year. I am not glad to be on them. I'm ashamed I managed to manipulate my doctor into re-prescribing them. She has taken some precautions though. I have only been allowed 2/3 the original dosage I was prescribed when I first went on the medication four years ago. This is the medication my family was glad to see me taken off of. On this medication, when I was taking my highest prescribed dosage, I became someone they didn't like too much. Someone who was less easy to manipulate. Towards the end I began to push people away. Ultimately I just seemed to become ambivalent towards everything as I continued to introvert. It is this particular medication which officially landed me the label of addict in my medical records. I only agree with that assessment to a certain degree. If saying I am an addict is equal to feeling like I am not able to live without Klonopin, then yes, I am an addict. Very much as I am an addict to oxygen, water and food. I cannot live without any of those things. Klonopin has been the only medication that has kept me here. Alive. The enormity of my irrational fears has been greatly diminished with the use of Klonopin as well as my desire to cause myself harm (This is not the post where I will go into detail about the compulsion to self-harm). Although it's been a struggle to function on even the most basic level on such a low dosage, it's better than nothing-but not by much. Again, my defense in not wanting to be labeled an addict to this medication is because, to me, an addict is someone who achieves a high-a state of euphoria from a drug. I have never felt euphoric while taking Klonopin. All I have ever experienced was calmness when on the appropriate dose and numbness on the rare occasion when I doubled my dose. My addiction was to not feeling torturous and debilitating fear. I was addicted to not feeling like I wanted to rip my skin off due to the constant crawling beneath it's surface that made me shake from head to toe. I was addicted to not having the perpetual feeling of impending death looming over my head. If those things make me an addict, then so be it, I was and still am an addict.

Having admitted all that, I now want to state unequivocally; I don't want to be remain on Klonopin. It isn't fixing anything. I understand this. It's just a bandage that disintegrates as time elapses-never healing the wound-only covering it temporarily. What I desire is resolution. I want to feel whole. Normal. The new medication I am taking, Depakote, is not giving me any problems thus far and tonight I graduate to my full dosage of 1500mg. While I am not feeling noticeably better yet, as it is too early for the full effects of the medication to be felt, I am holding out hope this will be the last medication I will have to try in order to get my brain chemistry issues resolved-if that is at all a possibility.

Collateral Damage

No matter how hard one tries to conceal their depression, when the duration is long and/or it reaches an extreme, the ability to keep everything hidden is impossible. I've tried to keep as much to myself as I absolutely could. Not just for selfless reasons, though I'd like to think that has been a significant part. I understand how living with someone who is suffering from depression and anxiety can wear on the people around them. Even if the person suffering doesn't voice it. It's just there. You can feel the heaviness in the atmosphere. And knowing your disease has an impact on those around you makes it even worse. It adds guilt to the pain that already exists. It's painful to know you are responsible for hurting the people you love the most and that you've done so involuntarily.

But then you wonder, is it wholly involuntary?

I've asked myself this question over and over again when I am having a particularly down time and what little patience my family has for me has clearly worn thin. It's during these times where their resentment is only half-heartedly concealed. On their own, depression and anxiety feel like a punishment. The show of resentment just feels like additional punishment, albeit one which I believe is not fully a conscious reaction on their part, but vehemently denied when I point it out. That may seem selfish-to call them on it instead of just letting it go- but in all fairness to myself, my issues have never been met with very much patience or understanding. I cannot count the times I have been told to "just get over it" or to "knock it off," which are fairly light compared to some of the more cruel words that have been thrown in my direction. And honestly, if it were as easy as just getting over it or knocking it off, would I still be in this mess? No. Their other method of dealing with me is by walking away. I think I prefer temporary abandonment over the very palpable resentment. I've grown accustom to being alone and it has become my preference-a more comfortable form of dismissal.

I sincerely hope with every fiber of my being that I am able to get these issues under control and lead a truly productive life. So many years of trying and failing will not allow me to invest the level of hope I wish I could. It seems like every step I've taken in faith to become well has betrayed me. All I want is a normal life. No more pretending. No more just phoning it in. I am nine days in and the medication I am currently taking is not giving me any significant trouble and for the first time in more years than I can remember I think I am not feeling as badly as I usually do. It's really too soon to tell. It could be wishful thinking on my part-a little mind over matter-in which I wholeheartedly believe.

My entire adult life has primarily been spent taking care of others and putting myself last. I'm still not going to put myself first, it's just not in my nature. But I am going to work harder on taking better care of me. In doing that, maybe I can take better care of those around me. Those whom I love. Those who have become the collateral damage as a result of my disease.

Fifteen Days

It's been nearly a week since I had my first visit with my new therapist. This was my evaluation visit. I did quite a bit of thinking as I left her office that day-as I have in the days since.

There's something about being evaluated that has never set quite well with me. I equate evaluations with judgement. Having always felt judged throughout my life, evaluations are a jagged pill to swallow.

At just over an hour, this evaluation has been my 4th in less than three years (coming in at #2 for overall time spent taking my history and asking questions). Time will tell if her hour plus evaluation along with the "here's your prescription-don't let the door hit ya where the good lord split ya-see you in three weeks" has any merit. But I am giving it a chance, albeit with a fair amount of due reluctance and skepticism.

While my most recent evaluation left me slightly aggitated and uncomfortable, the evaluation which will permanently be etched into my memory as the most irresponsible, critical, judgmental cut down of my life was the 2nd one, where in probably less than fifteen minutes the psychiatrist managed to scribble down his diagnosis of major depressive disorder, acute anxiety disorder, PTSD, OCD along with possible borderline personality disorder and alcoholism. I cannot give him credit for coming up with the first four, as that information had already been provided to him. As for the latter two, his definition of borderline personality disorder is very different from the clinical definition. The clinical definition being the correct one and his-where I only see things the way I want to see them-was completely off base. I also didn't care for being referred to as an alcoholic. After all, it was only upon my own admission to using a minimal amount of alcohol in conjunction with my prescribed benzodiazepine, Klonopin (which is extremely dangerous) on and off for brief periods of time, which garnered me that label. I suppose it was a fair assessment, as much as I disliked it. Although I had never been someone who drank with any type of regularity, literally only a handful of times in my adult life, and almost always alone, when I did drink it was with a purpose. The purpose being; to become numb.

I am just now realizing I have spent more time on that last lengthy paragraph than the psychiatrist did during his fifteen minute evaluation. Admittedly, I do have a tendency to ramble, whether being with a therapist or just writing about something. I've discovered when I am feeling very emotional and misunderstood, I try desperately to explain myself without trying to sound defensive, though I am certain it comes off as being defensive. That being said, I'm not the "pass the buck" kind of person. I truly do own my faults and my mistakes and readily admit to them. What infuriates me and brings out clear defensiveness on my part is when someone implies otherwise. That is probably why that particular evaluation brought back some very harsh memories for me. The worst perhaps being when the psychiatrist made what I consider to be a highly inappropriate analogy. Based upon our brief conversation, he likened my abuse of benzodiazepines and alcohol to the behavior of a heroin addict. When I attempted to explain why I had done the things I had, he quite literally motioned me to shut up. *At this point it was 3AM. I was emotionally and physically exhausted. I was going on two days without food or sleep, missed two scheduled doses of Klonopin and had not been given anything besides a Dixie Cup of water since my adventure into rehab began at 10AM the previous morning. He followed up my hushing by insisting there was no need for me to explain anything because that was merely my attempt to justify my actions. I wasn't trying to justify anything. I knew what I was doing was wrong. I knew I needed help. That's why I made the decision to seek immediate help. I understood it was crucial to explain why I felt the need to do what I had in order to work towards resolving the problem(s). Apparently his method of treating addiction combined with a brain chemistry disorder is to not look at the individual situation and needs of the patient but to make sweeping generalizations and begin the process of recovery using degradation and condemnation.

That evaluation, which was just over a year and a half ago, and the week which followed, was the start of a steep, downward spiral for me. Just when I thought I had hit rock bottom I managed to fall even further into the abyss of deep depression and crippling anxiety. I also developed some significant physical health issues immediately after this time period which I am continuously struggling to get under control and with very little success. The last three or so months of my life have lead me to this point where I understand in no uncertain terms, this is it. I don't know when it will end or how. I only know I have been weighed down with this feeling that something very bad is about to happen and it has grown worse with each passing day. There have been other periods in my life where if this feeling had surfaced, I likely would have given it to it. But not now. I refuse. I am not going down without a fight.

Fifteen days until I meet with my new therapist. Fifteen days of wondering where she is going to want to start. Fifteen days of trying to decide what I am ready to talk about. It's going to be a long fifteen days.

Monday Morning

Tonight I am to graduate to my next dosage level of Depakote. I am not happy to be on this medication. I have never been happy to be on any medication at all, ever.

For the past 20+ years I have been prescribed what seems like the full spectrum of anti-depressant and anti-anxiety medications from the SSRI and SNRI families. And not unlike Depakote, I have been prescribed medications not targeted to deal with brain chemistry disorders (BCD), but known to be helpful in treating related issues. And I use the word "treating" very loosely in this instance. Since no medication has ever worked for me thus far, I am not entirely convinced a medication has the ability to treat BCD.

Once again, I find myself taking a huge leap of faith by trying yet another medication. Though I have no explanation for the reason, the fear is not as bad as I had anticipated. With five days behind me, I have yet to experience any negative side effects. By this time, several of my prior medications have left me feeling like I was mere moments from collapse.

Starting Over

I have reached the end of a very long and unstable path where I find myself teetering on the edge of a virtual precipice and it is crumbling beneath my feet. My only option is to jump and it is at this point I am left to make the most important and final decision of my life; am I going to sink or swim? It's time to work on putting all the unpleasant memories, fears, regrets and failures behind me-for now-and little by little, as necessary, reach into my memory and once and for all deal with the things that lead me to where I am today. Where I am today is not a good or a healthy place, nor has it been for many, many years. I fully understand this is going to be a long and arduous journey but I am hoping to come out of this darkness wiser and with the ability to feel a genuine contentment with this life.

As I am ready and able, I will go into further detail about some of the things that lead me to where I am and what motivated me to give "help" one more try.