No Coke, Ritalin

 "The drug screen tested positive for cocaine," the ER doctor tells me. 

"I don't do coke," I reply honestly. Who is she going to believe: an impersonal test or me?

 "I'm just saying that using coke will aggrivate your condition."

 But no one really knows what happened. 

 It all started when I was in line at the local pharmacy, and while paying for my father's drugs, I fainted. First, I heard my heart thumping, and then it went dark. I came to on the floor of the grocery store. Two of the assistants at the pharmacy stayed on the floor with me, one of them calmly rubbing my arm. The other dialed my father. 

When I arrived at the ER and explained what happened, I was told there were no beds available, but that the in-take nurse would perform an EKG while we waited for a room. 

She never completed the EGK, she just hooked me up to the blood pressure cuff and saw that my pulse was 195. The in take nurse grabbed a wheelchair, and drove me to the back with one empty bed. Soon, I had doctors and nurses swarming around me. They stuck paddles to my chest, telling me if the drugs they are about to give me don't work, they will have to electrocute my heart. 

"That's sounds scary," I commented. 

"Oh, that's just because you haven't had it done before," the nurse said, trying to console me. 

They started an IV, gave me the drug, and watched to make sure it was effective. After a little while, the room was cleared except for one nurse, and while leaving they said they were watching me through the monitors.  They seemed satisfied that I wasn't going to die or have a heartattack. 

As they were going to discharge me, they said for me to stay away from the stimulants, caffeine for starters, and to make an appointment with a cardiologist. 

While I was in the Stanford hospital, just weeks before, my psychiatrist started me on Ritalin, and it worked very well. I got a boost in mood and in energy. At moments, I felt like myself, the me before the disease got real bad in 2011. But, alas, one of the Stanford doctors, a woman I've known since my first admission, saw that the Ritalin was increasing my TD symptoms (a movement disorder called Tardive dyskinesia), and that the drug was causing the stiffness in my neck, which was causing headaches. Despite these side effects, I wanted to keep taking it. The doctors put me on Provigil for a start while, but I felt no benefits.

My regular psychiatrist decided to try the Ritalin again with a drug that specifically targets TD symptoms. I last left a message with him telling him what the ER doctors recommended, and that while the tachycardia  might be a one time phenomenon, I wanted to be cleared by a cardiologist.

 

 

This too shall pass...

The psychologist at Stanford G2P has encouraged me to write. So, write I shall.


The biggest news is, of course, the COVID-19 pandemic, and the government suggested social distancing. My parents think this is some kind of government conspiracy to keep people afraid while our rights are being taken away. However, a few days ago, I read in a paper that the death toll was over 65,000 people--that's a hellva lot more than the flu (typically around 10,000 to 20,000 people each year). Have we see the worst of the coronavirus?


I'm back at Stanford G2P, and the voices have decreased, but the depression and anxiety is still very real.


How did this slide down into hell begin?


Sleep deprivation.


I got a new puppy, Hope, and was ill prepared to deal with a bundle of joy and energy. When I first got her, I thought to myself that I had made the biggest bad decision of my life. Now, I miss her like crazy while I'm in the hospital. But she didn't sleep well at first, sometimes not settling down until 12am and then up again at 4am. Some nights I was up every couple of hours.


Hope has been a great pleasure, but also a lot of stress. After getting her from Gainesville, TX, on February 16th (she was shipped out to California), I noticed my mood dip lower and lower.


So, here I am, back in the hospital, dealing with suicidal ideations and depression and anxiety.

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.