I wrote this post months ago and found it while looking for something to post for today. It is a post that at it’s heart is about the frustration I feel trying to deal with my bipolar disorder. Some things are day to day things and some things are the story arc of my life.
Well this was fun.
First, I had therapy. I really like my therapist. Her name is Karen and she’s very professional and very personable. I feel like I would like her if she wasn’t my therapist, which helps.
So, I told her of the Zyprexa fail. Yet one more medication to go into the books as less than useless for me. And then I started to go off. I love therapy. I love the opportunity to get the things that are rattling around in my head out of my system. The major problem with the medication issue is that therapy is useless. I still need to go, because I still need to get this stuff out. I still need the professional objective person to help me see fact from fiction. She helps me understand some of the reasons why I feel the way I do.
But, the fact remains, that if the medication doesn’t start working, then therapy is never going to be anymore than a venting session for me. Yes, I do get something from it, but not nearly as much as I should. And I try. I try my ass off. I blog, because I can’t journal, and I know I need to get this stuff out of my head. I run to my bedroom in the middle of the day, because I know that the thing my MIL is doing isn’t really an issue, but the meds have not moderated my reactions enough. I know that but I can’t live it.
So, then I go right to the pdoc’s office for that appointment. Right off the bat, I tell her that Zyprexa was a fail. I explained the side effects that I experienced and watched her eyes widen and her expression fall. One more med for the scrap heap. Oh, and the ativan is doing less than nothing and the restoril is not helping me sleep. So, you know, I’m all around fucked as far as meds are concerned. Oh and by the way, every afternoon sucks. Often the morning do as well. But the afternoons, great googly moogly, I’m always anxious in the afternoon and I’m lucky if I’m only anxious.
Have I been on Risperdal she asks? No, I don’t think so. What about Seroquel? Yes, AND it worked, BUT I gained weight, and once the year was over and I had to meet my insurance deductible again, I couldn’t afford it. But it worked. But I gained weight. But….fuck. Back onto the Seroquel I go. As soon as I recover from my next foot surgery, (I’ll probably have it next week) my goal is to start exercising like, well, like a crazy person. I don’t work, I don’t have kids. I should be able to pencil in some exercise time. Right? RIGHT!? Fuck.
We’re going to try the genetic testing from Genomind. The kit hasn’t come yet, she’ll call when it does and I’ll run over there to get my cheek swabbed. This test is supposed to tell me what side effects I’m most prone to based on my genetic makeup and possibly help figure out which meds will help me most. We’re actually doing a pretty good job at finding the side effects that I’m prone to all by ourselves, but this will take some of the drama out of it. I hope. Maybe. *sigh*
ANYway, if the Seroquel works, then we will see if we can stop the prozac. She also changed my ativan to klonopin, and she’s counting on the Seroquel to back up the restoril. So, seroquel at 6:00pm, everything else at 8 and see what happens. Back to the pdoc in 3 weeks.
I’m exhausted. It’s exhausting. I just want to feel normal for a minute. One minute, maybe two. Is three too much to hope for? Probably.
Karen and I also had a brief discussion about an upcoming topic. My grief for the woman I used to be. The loss nags at me constantly. The inability to work reminds me of the woman who defined herself by how good she was at her job. But that woman, the one who could work all day, go out for dinner with friends, buy a house, fix up a house and do it all on her own? She’s gone. Left the building after the first nervous breakdown. Maybe before. And I miss the shit outta her.