Another Mile part 3

For a while, Stanford had a sitter for me, someone who follows me around everywhere I go to make sure that I stay safe, medical lingo for "not harming yourself."


With the psychologist here on the Unit, someone I've known for years, had me list all the things that makes me want to harm myself. The list was long and included everything from hearing rabid voices to gaining seventy pounds when put on Seroquel. Then there was missing my dog, Beck, and on and on.


The psychologist thinks that the reason why I'm having so much anxiety is because I have these emotions that I don't want to deal. And, she said, I am avoiding conflict with my parents. My mother pretty much rules the house, and most of the time, I don't feel like starting a fight. I told the therapist that I didn't want her to think negative characteristics of my parents because since my psychotic break in 2011, they have been exceedingly helpful. According to the psychologist, it's okay to be angry with someone you love, it doesn't mean that they're a bad person or you're a bad person for standing up for yourself.


I will probably withdrawal from my classes this semester, and I've decided not to go back until I can get more stable. Instead, I'm going to study for my real estate exam.

Another Mile, Part II

I keep getting asked why I tried strangling  myself with a towel, and I don't have any good answers. I'm depressed. I have problems with anxiety and hearing voices, I feel hopeless, lost and alone--

Another Mile

I've been at Stanford's G2P for almost two weeks now. My admission date was Oct 22nd. I was forced to go by my then therapist who gave me the option to go up to Stanford or she would call mobile crisis, which would have put me under another 5150 and thrown into the local mental hospital, of which I've never heard anything good about it.


Things have been rough with the voices, changing from being anonymous voices to hearing voices of people around me, like my parents and friends.


I was in the shower, finished and putting clothes on when I got up the stupid idea of strangling myself with a towel, which I did for a few seconds. It was more of curiosity than anything else. But what surprised me was how easily and thoughtlessly I decided (don't have you have to thoughts to decide?) to harm myself. It was just this compulsion.


The staff wasn't alarm, but they have paired me with a 24/7 sitter so something like that doesn't happen again.

Three Different Antipsychotics

My doctor up at Stanford Psychiatric Outpatient believes that the drugs I'm taking affect me cognitively.

For instance, I failed my first reading quiz in my American Lit class, and had to go to the professor personally and apologize. I told him I read the material, even if that's not reflected in my score. If you check on the school's website for class, I currently have 30% in American Lit.

One of the biggest culprits is the Ativan I take for my moderate-to-severe anxiety. I live on that shit because I'm almost always in a shade of anxiety. My doctor told me that taking Ativan was like downing a shot of whickey. (I wanted to ask him if I could just switch the Ativan for Grey Goose, but I didn't want to push my luck).

I'm now on three different antipsychotics, Abilify, Seroquel and clozapine, the heavy hitter.

Because I've been struggling so much, with my mood, with the voices, with the anxiety--and the pain--I've decided not to return to college next semester. I can tell that I'm just not on the top of my game. My grades are reflecting that.  I'm going to try to obtain a real estate agent license.

Maybe Someday

A few weeks ago, I received a "Restricted" call around midnight. Someone blocking their caller ID.

I've been puzzled by this for a while. Honestly, I think it was Morpheus having a nostalgic moment in which called but doesn't want further contact from me.

He's done this before, but it was years ago.

So, I waited for an email, a TXT-message, something to follow up the call, and so far there's been nothing.

This all falls back on my desire to be unforgettable, and special.

There's no proof that it was Morpheus, but I magically jump and say it was him. 

It also deals with the fact that I can't let him go. I still love him despite the fact that it's been a year and over eight months since we have had any contact.

Maybe some day I can put this behind me.

Beck is Dead, Part IV

That day I prayed to God that I would find my dog.

I forgot to pray that she should be alive when I found her.

Beck is Dead, Part III

I had thoughts, fears about Beck dying because I didn't know how I would cope without her.

I guess that day came.

Shadows

You can say my conversation with Elijah was overshadowed by the death of my dog.

On June 20th, he sent me a text-message, "I don't want to talk to you." His reasons weren't exactly clear, although he stated that "By talking to someone that felt like they were entitled to something." I wanted to correct him by saying it's "whom" not "that," but whatever.

But that's simple enough. I told him I wouldn't bother him again.

Harry made the comment that it sounded like high school. 

Beck is Dead, Part II

Beck had a special relationship with my father. She always behaved better for him, and they seemed to talk to each other on multiple levels.

She went missing for about thirty minutes before I called him to help me search for her. Within a few hours, we had filed a lost dog report for the animal services, posted a Craigslist notice, called all the local vet clinics, connected with a local Facebook group that finds lost dogs, and etc.

I walked the area she went missing, and couldn't find her. I was at the far back of the park when I ran into some strangers, and asked him if they'd see a Doberman.

"The one with the blue service dog vest? Yeah, she's dead, she's between the sixth and eighth hole," he told me.

I walked away and called my father, asking if it was true. Yes, he had found her.

Dad and I took Beck to the vet clinic, where I want to have her cremated. I asked to spend some time with her, and they put Beck in the conference room, and I sat there with her.

Dad joined me, and taking a tissue, wiped Beck's face, removing the grass.

It was then that I started to cry.

Beck is Dead

I told my mother many times that I wanted Beck to die while playing at the park, fast and painlessly with a heart attack at the age of ten, instead of growing old and endure great physical pain that comes with age. 

Beck is dead. She died sometime around 11am yesterday.

I keep turning my head, instinctively looking for her, but she is never found.

Beck and I were at one of the many parks in Yuppieville. As soon as I opened the back of the Tahoe, Beck flew out of the SUV, and tore down the park, running as fast as she can. I caught up with her in a few minutes, and found her digging a hole under a tree. I turn my back, and call for her but she never runs to catch up. I look back over my shoulder and can't find her.

Hours later, Beck is located right in the spot where I saw her last. She probably died quickly and peacefully. There were no signs of trauma.

For the better part of her six year old life, I was with her constantly. We were usually never more than a few feet apart from each other. I took her everywhere, to school, to my doctors' appointments, to the grocery store, Costco--

I have no idea what to do about all her balls that she loved. Should I get rid of her dog bed?

I have to face all those people at school, who are used to seeing me with Beck, and deal with their questions about why she's suddenly missing. Many students received great pleasure from having her in class. Beck was known for walking up to a student while she/he is sitting at the desk, and gently resting her chin on their thigh, coming up for a pet. She got one student through an anxiety attack.

I have dog food that she'll never eat. I have tick medication and wormer for her that she'll never swallow down. I have a dog bed she'll never lie in again. I'll be alone now when I'm downtown.

She was beautiful. People told me that over and over every time we went outside.

Why We Have Best Friends

"Elijah may ghost you, but you will haunt him."

--Harry

Things I Do Understand, Part II

Why do we care about those who discard of us?

Because it either affects our pride or mounting evidence that we were unlovable in the first place.

Things I Do Understand

One of the main problems of being "ghosted," no matter by whom, is the fact that the rejected person has a near-delusional belief that the someone will see the error in his/her ways, and contact him/her again, like it was all some large mistake.

We don't like to think that we're cast aside for any good or realistic reason. I'm a genuinely nice, thoughtful person, who would want to hurt me? 

As time goes by, this belief continues to dim until it is finally snuffed out. How long does that take? I'm still holding out hopes for Morpheus to email me, and it's been one year and five long months. 

Things I Don't Understand

I don't understand why he blocked my phone (I also don't have the make and model of his cellphone so I don't know if he still received TXT-messages from my phone or if that was severed as well), I didn't call him often, but more importantly I don't understand why he's still friends with me on Facebook. If you are going to dump someone, isn't that the first step? Cutting ties with Facebook?

"What is the Aim of Life?"

"...which was that I could know nothing and that the best that I could do was to hang myself--"

--Leo Tolstoy

The Symptom of Sex

 I bought the line that said, "If we're friends, having sex will bring us closer, on a different level."

Sex always manages to fuck shit up, perfectly good shit like a loving, open relationship where two people respect each other, and don't play games.

To fall in love with someone, who is your best friend, and your best lover--I've never met him.

So Silent Now

My phone is so silent now, like no one has ever cared about me, like no one ever will--but, ah, the thrill of a shrill ring or ding. Now I'm connected back to earth, I'm no longer floating away from society and from people. I have one small string pulling me in closer.

What happens when it snaps?

The Fellow

My doctor at Stanford Pain Management Clinic is unusually handsome, graduated from Harvard Medical School, has two degrees in Biomedical Engineering, and is now a fellow at Stanford.

I wonder what makes these people tick, did they have to work hard, harder than anyone else, or was the gift of intellect bestowed upon them like a crown on a king?

I'm always a little nervous when I see him. We are probably close in age. Does he see me as anything besides a hospital gown? Would that be improper?

Ghosting and Ghosted

I can't help feeling like being "ghosted" is a control play.

Plumage, Part II

Some people will say that I must miss the sex, if anything.

With as many medications I'm on, I rarely even think about it. I remember earlier days when I was compulsive about it, but those were my twenties, and--sigh--I've gotten older. I'm no longer manic or hypomanic. While moving, I found a box of old business cards from the Agency. In the picture, I was lying down in lacy black panties. Who would think that at some point, that was me?

Who would have thought that girl would book the most shows, top of the gorgeous girl pile?

If I was fifty pounds lighter, I would probably go back to dancing, at least while I still could. Back in the days when I was hit on all night long. I didn't pay attention to the men, the men paid attention to me.

Maybe I use the weight gain, the fat, to hide behind. I've wondered about that. Men don't notice me now, and if they do, they don't say anything.

Plumage

For the most part, I've managed to escape situations like this (i.e. waiting for some man to come back and re-establish communication). I avoid Tinder and Bumble, only occasionally flipping through it during school breaks.

The only way you can avoid someone disappointing you, is to avoid him all together.

People will remind me about love and how great it is, I see pictures of newborn babies on Facebook with happily married young couples, but I've been in love. At some point, which I'll never know, I might even had been pregnant. Love makes you crazy, and if you're crazy to begin with, the craziness blossoms into total insanity or madness. Obsessive thinking, anxiety, etc. As I tell my friends, I've been in love once, and I don't plan on repeating the experience.

I do pretty well at avoiding love. To be honest, love doesn't come and find us. We have to be at least somewhat open to the experience. My lab buddy in Microbiology this semester was very handsome, but also engaged. He was sweet too, often cleaning our portion of the lab all by himself. He let me look over his notes (and with the instructor approval), steal his answers if I missed a lab from going up to Stanford. He paid attention, and he did good work. He was also my age, a cop wanting to change occupations. I thought about offering him a beer in thanks of being my buddy all semester, but I never did. If I was younger, I probably would have.

I don't go out to bars any more, I've used the excuse that I'm gay on a few men.

Elijah reminded me that I don't like the stress, the worrying, the waiting, perhaps I'm too old but I don't see the benefit to all this colorful plumage.

To Be "Ghosted"

Millennials call it "ghosting," but back in my days, we just called it being ignored for some allotted amount of time that we could never comprehend.

"I hate being ignored," my friend Rosa told me once. It's a truism for all women. We hate it. We like talking, we like to think that talking helps, we talk to bond, we talk to alienate other people, we talk because someone, somewhere down the line, fathers of psychotherapy, taught us that talking helps. Talking heals. If you can't solve a problem, talk about it. Eventually, under some proverbial rock, we will talk ourselves into some solution.

Elijah is quite the talker, or he was. He would send me random txt-messages that said nothing except a detail of his day. He would leave me five to 10 (sometimes more) txt-messages on my phone for me when I woke up. Most of these messages, I didn't understand, but I like the idea that when someone can't sleep, he/she immediately thinks of me and wants to talk to me.  Elijah isn't much of a sleeper. He is often await until past three am. He knows that after about nine pm, I'm drowsy from my meds, and, as he once told me, slurring my words.

He has a mean streak that reminds me of my mother. What he has over my mother is the fact that usually by the night, he has insight into his own behavior, and more or less apologizes.

Some things he just doesn't quite understand, a quality I blame on his youth (he's 23). When he sped away from the ranch gate that day, driving drunk, the women working the gate were so startled that they called the cops. I tried to explain to him that he scared me too, that I could see him in an accident, and he dismissed my concerns callously. Of course, Morpheus never learned the lesson of not to drive drunk, he's still doing it in his forties.

Biologically, younger people take more risks because their brains aren't fully formed yet.

I tried as best I could to get Elijah to pull over and let me drive (I asked if I could drive as we were leaving the restaurant), and he ignored my concerns. If Elijah would have crashed in those hills between the ranch gate and town, I would have forever blamed myself.

Being "ghosted," it's hard for me to comprehend why. He doesn't like opioids, so perhaps in turn he decided that he doesn't like me.

I've considered the option that he's just depressed over something (or perhaps over nothing) and doesn't want to talk. I've ignored my friends for months at a time when depressed, and I suppose it's possible for the same to happen to someone else. Maybe a taste of my own medicine.

Poetry and Wisdom

"Then I knew that not by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration, they are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many fine things, but do not understand the meaning of them. The poets appeared to me to be much in the same cases; and I further observed that upon the strength of their poetry they believed themselves to be the wisest of men in other things in which they were not wise."

--Plato

What We Deserve (Absolutely Nothing)

"Well, I wish we could have worked through it...I won't contact you again." (Me, yesterday)

"Good, I deserve it." (Elijah)

"What do you deserve?" (Me)

"Absolutely nothing." (Elijah)

The Dangers of People and the Dangers of Opioids (About Elijah) [UPDATED]

I don't know what makes people disappear from our lives. In Morpheus' case, he had a whole family he was trying to hide from me.

It's strange, but I usually find constantly answering my TXT-messages as a pain in the ass, especially if you're playing the game with someone on Tinder or Bumble. With Elijah, I never care. I was interested in the conversation, and I didn't want it to stop.

But it did. It did stop.

The last argument we got into before he left was when he accused me of being an opioid addict.

"I don't deserve to be criticized on something you just don't understand." (Me)

"You're right. You deserve a handful of hydrocodone and a little more fucking arrogance." (Elijah)

"If you want to be an asshole, be an asshole, but I don't deserve being treated this way." (Me)

"I told you my motive here three times. Whatever. Squander the beauty of life stuck on the couch." (Elijah)

The irony of all of this is the fact that Stanford Pain Management is highly motivated to titrate me down to the lowest dose of Tylenol #4 possible, perhaps ending the therapy when I get only a few pill every month for times when the pain is especially bad. Another possibility that has been brought up is putting me on the Butrans patch.


"Ay, if you can't handle honesty you won't be my friend for long." (Elijah)

"Your 'honesty' can be wrong, you know, You're not a doctor, I'm not your patient....If you insist on judging me for using pain meds when I'm in pain, well, then, I don't want to be your friend either." (me)

___

"I know drug using people." (Elijah)
"I don't need you passing judgment on me." (me)
"I'm not. And you keep lying to yourself." (Elijah)

___

Elijah Part VIV

Earlier on, he told me he loved me, but not to get too excited because he loved  a lot of people.

At the end of one phone call conversation, he say, "I love you."

I say the most natural rhythm back, "I love you too."

Common Themes

These past few weeks I've been in contact with Elijah has been very anxiety inducing. It reminded me why I never get into romantic relationships, the constant worry about "I'm a coming on too fast" or "Am I not coming at all?" What happens when we have sex? Will we ever seen each other again?

Elijah Part VIII

Elijah is too smart, his brain must work in extraordinary ways because he's constantly trying to escape it--him. When I was manic and drinking, I felt similarly. I wanted to hide, but alcohol made soothed the voices and the racing thoughts, and with just the right amount of vodka, and I could make it home (by walking) before throwing up.

He denies using drugs in that matter, but I want to tell him that he's just fine without all of that stuff.

I'm supposed to be a good influence on young Elijah, but I miss alcohol.

Once, I drove over to see him, and he took me to a rocky trail to the ocean. From there, we found a nice sandy place, secluded by the rocks. He takes his pants off, and I suck on him to the point that he almost comes. Then I stop. He tastes good. Mild and salty.

He's never seen me naked.

Elijah Part VII

Because of his background in psychopharmacology, one of his main interests is drugs, for most of these conversations, I recognize the drug and know a little about them. He sent me a picture of his books.

Far and away, Elijah is one of the smartest people I know, and probably the smartest person I've ever met who's in his early twenties.

I believe our disease tells us things about ourselves that simply is not true. A brain like Elijah deserves to be a Stanford or UPenn (Wharton School of Business). Instead, he's stuck in a local community college. Maybe no one told him he could or maybe someone told him no.

Elijah Part VI

My mother, after my initial meeting with Elijah and his father, told me to tell young Elijah the benefits of stopping drinking and doing drugs and coming over to the other side, which is infinitely more boring like taking your medications at the same time, every night and/or every morning.Sleeping.

I was sitting in Elijah's Cadillac Escalade, and Elijah offered me nitrious, the kind you breathe in and for a few seconds, you're high, but then the high goes away,

We were supposed to park somewhere downtown to sit at a California-Mex restaurant that everyone swears is the best place to eat in town.

It was on a Saturday, my parents were getting ready to leave for Las Vegas, and I intended on having Elijah come over after they've left.

Elijah, on the other hand, was drinking at a bar downtown while waiting for me.

By the time, we found each other in the hectic early afternoon due to some car show or what not, he was already drunk.

We got our tables at the Cali-Mex restaurant and he was holding his head in his hand. He didn't order anything, so I sat alone eating my burrito, and then boxing it up of later dinners.

I asked him as we left the restaurant, if he was okay to drive. He assured me he was.

I waited for him outside the community gate, even though I had him cleared as a guest.

Something happened, and the arm of the gate came down on top of his SUV, he was so angry at the staff that zoomed out of there, recklessly.

I sent TXT- messages asking him to stop driving and that I would take him home. His response, "Fuck you. I'm going home."

Elijah Part V

You hear this bing on your cell, and it happens again and again. After a little while, the sound becomes normal.

Then it stops.

But then there's silence--gone---you realize how much you deserve and desire for human contact. When you feel the cold ocean, and it slowly swallows you. Your frantic legs, the twisting and turning, and no one to pull you out. So, you're too tired to pattle, so you give up on that.

You can't find the ocean. You can't fight the something so large and powerful and dangerous. You care at his whims.

Elijah Part IV

While we were all sitting at a restaurant on a counter, Elijah's father was there, and then my parents and me.

The young man sit oppose of me. When Elijah took off his sunglasses, I was paralyzed by them. They're blue.

I wanted to drink with him, and then find some bar where we could dance.

"Let's go dancing!" Elijah offers. I decline. I have to take my meds at a certain time in the night every day.

I'm not twenty-three anymore. I can't just pour my pills down the toilet and hope for the rest. I remember those days when the whole world is prime for the picking. And now?

I haven't had sex in years, it will be three years in September.

Elijah Part III

Elijah studies psychopharmacology, which mean he knows a lot about drugs. As a lay person who's never graduate from college, much less gone on into medical school, I usually understand what he's talking about. The stuff I don't understand, I have to Google. I've never been in a relationship with someone who's younger than me, and I have to look up words.

He's the only man who has left messages on my phone (in the middle of night), reciting poetry.

Elijah Part I [UPDATED]

Elijah.
The man with schizoaffective disorder

When I first met him on the back patio, with all my parents and including Elijah's father.

Elijah's father, James, is raised partially by my father, who adopted me. Dad attempted to become James' father, but there were issues with the adoption.

Technically, that makes Elijah my nephew. As I told my mother, who thought I was joking, in Game of Thrones, that would be perfectly acceptable.

I guess when I found Elijah, I felt like I had found a soul mate, someone who knows all about the deepest parts of me.

He reminded me so much of me when I was his age (he's only 23). The reckless behavior, the drugs, I understand it. Alcohol was my main drug. I love it, even now, but I know that drinking is not good for my mental stability.

He's about my height, but much thinner than I am. He has a handsome face.

When I first met him, I just noticed how anxious he was, but after we left the ranch for a late lunch, after he got some alcohol in his system, he seemed much more gregarious.

At the end of the meal, I asked Elijah if he was on Facebook. He replied yes. A little while later, he said, "Don't forget."

Driving home from the restaurant, I added his name to Facebook. The next day he asked from my cell phone number,and after that, I maintained an ongoing conversations on a daily basis. We just talked and talked.

Elijah Part II

His semen tasted salty and warm.

I never took my clothes off, I didn't see the need to. I've refused sex because I hate looking myself in the mirror, much less let some practical stranger, Elijah, ogle at my fat thighs with cellulose. I have stretch marks on my arms and boobs. I'm a different person now. I don't get drunk and find some guy at the bar to go home with me.

But Elijah, he's in the mix of it, connections to about any drug available. (For the record, he doesn't deal with opioids--apparently has some prejudice against opiods, and has expressed to me multiple ptimes that I'm walking down a dangerous road, he put it, "slippery slope.") The fact that Stanford Pain Management sees me every two week for my Tylenol #4 prescription doesn't placate him nor easy his fears.

Social Reform

"But the adulation we heap upon billionaires obscures the plain moral quandary at the center of their wealth: Why should anyone have a billion dollars, why should anyone be proud to brandish their billions, when there is so much suffering in the world?"

--The New York Times, Abolish Billionaires

Three More Days to Go, Part II

Does pain prepare you for something?

Three More Days to Go

If you're in pain, and gradually losing options, you think of the final fix: suicide.

I've toyed with the idea, but have made no plans. I'm hoping I'll get through this semester, and it won't be agonizing.

Four More Days to Go

A month later after the first back surgery, I re-herniated the same disc, only worse this time. The pain was unimaginable. The morning after it happened, the pain was so intense that I wasn't sure I could get out of bed, but somehow managed to see the neurosurgeon that day. I couldn't sit in the waiting room, so the receptionist put me in an examining room, and there I could lie down on my side, the only comfortable position I had.

On Oct 22, 2018, I was hospitalized at Stanford's G2P, but the doctors were somewhat at a loss. They prescribed Lexapro again because it had worked in the past, and were puzzled about what to do with the Tylenol #4. My Stanford outpatient psychiatrist wanted me to get off of the opioids within a week. The inpatient doctors, including Stanford Pain Management, felt like this was an unrealistic goal.

I couldn't sit long enough to attend groups or even eating my meal in the dinning hall. In order to eat, I had to take breaks from sitting, lying down on my hospital bed periodically so I could again sit up. When I was discharged, I collapsed in the hallway of the hospital from the pain.

One Year Later

On Jan 10th, 2019, it has been a year since I've heard from Morpheus. I haven't sent him an email or called him--nothing, no contact. After a year, I expected myself to be healed, that I wouldn't think about him much, but I talk to him every night before I go to sleep. I talk to myself. I tell myself all the bad things about him, about our relationship. But it doesn't work: I still love him, am in love with him.

Out of Pain Meds and 6 more days to go

I had two back surgeries, one on September 18th and then another on November 27th 2018. Slowly, the neurosurgeon has been titrating me off of Tylenol #4 with the approval of Stanford Pain Management.

Recently, I received my prescription of Tylenol #4, a twenty day supply. I went through it in a week, and am now completely without opioid pain meds. Technically this is opioid abuse, and if the doctors know what I've done--well, let's just say they would be displeased. To be honest, this game of running out of meds and then stealing them from family has been going on for close to two years now.

My mother has caught me a couple of times, each time angrier than the last. She has said that it's "going over to the dark side" when you have a habit you can't disclose to your family, when you have secrets to keep. She's used the word "addiction."

I have a golden rule: I never take opioid pain meds unless I'm in enough pain to warrant the use. I blame it on the doctors mostly: that they don't understand how much pain I deal with every day. I talk and they don't listen. They have this agenda, and it doesn't matter the reality of the situation. Opioids are bad, and therefore, you shouldn't be on them. Opioids worsen depression. Opioids cause hyperalgesia. Opioids cause addiction.

The truth is: I would take all of those risks for a few hours of pain relief. Give me something that works better, and I will take it. To cover my bases, I take other non-opioid pain medications like gabapentin and Mobic--it helps, but not as well as opioids.

How can I steal pain meds from someone who needs them? Selfishness wins out, and so does desperation. If you're desperate, you do all sorts of things that you never knew you were capable of like taking three hundred dollars for a blowjob. I imagine this is a decent explanation for petty crimes--people hungry or going through withdrawal or needing to pay for certain life's requirements like rent.

Every time I see my mom's pills out, I have a strong urge to take some.

But I don't.