A Funny But Serious Post: Great Title, Kel!

I'm on day 20 of this dizzying sickness. It has been Hell, in the simplest, most humble of terms. And so for the last twenty days, I've lied (laid) (lay) (lie) in my bed, casually fantasizing about the gun emoticon on my phone...to, you know, jump out of my iPhone and take me out. Admittedly this fantasizing was done under the nastiest shards of pain, a shock so bad it confused me into thinking that I don't want this life, not like this.

See, I'd just need one fake bullet. Or two, because it's likely I'd miss and shoot my wall instead, and I've already put a hole in it by bouncing this ball against the plaster for the last oh, sixty or ninety days or so.

This ball's seen me through a lot of hard times. See, I've been down. Low, low, low. Lower than ever before.

I've never been low enough to picture the gun, to squeeze the ball, to embrace the sheer enormity of my physical pain and cry.

I don't cry very often. It's sort of a rule in our family, though not often talked about or discussed. It's kind of like nudity at the breakfast table. You just...don't. Dinner, maybe. But crying? It makes people uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable.

It makes me appear vulnerable. Ugh. So gross. So weak. So...mundane. I cry, because I'm not inhuman, but it's usually over commercials where the actors are aging from birth to college graduation in rapid order. Now those! Those are worthy of shedding some tears. Here's a favorite: (This is an audio-visual blog today, folks. Strap in!)

(My god, that kid is cute. Maybe one day I'll make one for Sadie. I definitely have a picture of her from every week.)

Back to the point: I didn't cry much before. And then in August, September, I hit the Wailing Wall of Tears. It was SobFest2013. It was gross. I became addicted to a certain Kleenex brand, like some Target-shopping commoner! I cried giving myself insulin because I didn't want to be diabetic; I cried when my mom said the wrong thing, even when it was benign; I cried when my dad begged me to get it together. I cried over THAT DAMN COMMERCIAL like ten times.

I cried and then I reached the Hole of Desperation and Blackness. Here's where all the Bon Iver and sad Paul Simon came in. I felt this way for awhile. Too long. And it was very, very serious. Serious to picture the gun. 

I considered going inpatient. I considered outpatient, and I still think group therapy is something I may do in the future. (Once I get over the miles-long waiting list of my fellow depressives: raise your hand if you have a favorite antidepressant!) I stopped one medicine and I started on a new medicine and I talked to my doctor and therapist for many, many billable hours. And one day, after a really good session that may or may not have included calling me out on my bullshit, I saw something differently.

My doctor said that she thought that I had PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. A disorder many cancer and chronically ill patients actually suffer from. (The stabbing needles; the time they literally cut my throat open and took my thyroid out while I had nightmares on the table...) 

I had all the symptoms: depression, anxiety, fear, disassociative behavior, lack of interest in anything except Sadie...

I had them all. And the relief flowed through me like it had when I was diagnosed with lupus and told that what I was feeling was real and it was not my fault. It is not my fault. Yes, people have it worse than me (so you've said) but this is my life, and it sucks sometimes. 

I started to talk about it with my cancer camp friends (First Descents, y'all) who had experienced exactly what I was going through and some of whom are still feeling it today. (Soon I'll hit you up for more FD money, but this is why.) They helped me to understand that I didn't have the life I did 2 years ago. And that I don't have the life my friends have today.

And while that may seem defeatist, it's also true. Like, extraordinarily true. I don't! I won't! I will not ever again, no matter how many vitamins I take or doctors I see. I never did. I just faked it until I landed on this sabbatical, licking my wounds and wondering how/why/dammit.

As soon as I started talking to my therapist--like, really talking with words that were honest, and stuff-- I began to feel a smidge better, and with that came purchasing items and Doing Important Stuff: buying a carrier to drag Sadie around the neighborhood, walking the dog, taking my pills, taking a tiny bit of an interest in living till I'm 40 (which I have probably never had an interest in because who wants to be in this much physical pain for that long?)...I got sick again. 

Really sick. Mouth sores in the shape of Very Large Plains States, like Montana and North Dakota. And there were rashes and fevers and two infections and it was all happening now, when my sister is getting married so very soon.

So I retreated. I cried. A lot. And I panicked. I said to my FD friend Hairband, I said, "I am going to ruin this wedding." And she said I wouldn't. And I won't.

See, this story doesn't have a happy ending, because I'm still working on that. I'm still trudging through the last couple of days of this illness, and then I'm gonna man up, get my hair colored and be a terrific (marginally okay) maid of honor for my best friend, my beautiful sister. I'll do the things, I'll get it done.

And I'll keep working toward what we call "radical acceptance." Acceptance that maybe, after 17 months, I still need to be at home, recovering. Acceptance that I made it through the rigorous disability process for a reason: state-mandated doctors determined I needed it to survive. Acceptance that these diseases and this hardship will always be a part of my life, and it will make it so difficult at times, that you won't want to go on.

But for now, I'm grateful I had people to tell me to get help when I needed it. 

And I am dreaming again. Of Kristie's wedding, in 5 days (!). Of a January spent in Los Angeles. Of my trip to Hawaii in December. Of my friends' annual ski trip. An FD reunion in 2014. And Erin's wedding in April (bridesmaid for the fifth time! 22 away from a movie deal, bitch!). And maybe a place in Brooklyn in the spring...

But most importantly:

Watching this love of mine, this heart that beats outside of my chest, go on and on.

Depression and Some Other Stuff

Hi. I haven't been here in awhile.

It's not that I don't have the time. Boy, do I have the time. I have the time to watch TV and babysit my niece and take long rides to the beach on the bike my legs are too short for.

I have the time. But writing or reading might remind me that I should write or read, and I don't think I'm ready for that.

But maybe I am. Yes. Here I am.

In May, I was put on a drug for nerve pain. I immediately had a bad reaction to it, and we reduced the dose. Two weeks later, I held a bottle of morphine in my hand and did the math.

It'd probably take a few of these plus a couple of Xanax to kill me. I held the bottle in my hand and thought about it, how I wanted to be dead without having to do it.

But I stopped.

I reached out and I got some help and I saw a guy, a doctor. He told me that the drug had caused a really bad reaction, making me suicidal.

I would describe myself as prone to depression. I have a million excuses: I've basically been bed-ridden for 9 months. I am living at home. I don't and can't work. Writing is fleeting when I feel like this. It's hard to get me out when I'm sick.

One thing stood out every time I thought about ending my life. My niece's face. It shone like a sun every time I collapsed into the blackness of my head, of my bed. I could never do it, I thought. I would never ruin my family and friends' lives like that.

But boy, did I want out. I wanted no more of the lupus, the pain, the depression. The loneliness and fear and boredom. I just wanted to sleep.

I don't know when I started to get a little happier. I think it was around when I booked my trip to Washington. That gave me something to look forward to.

Eventually the drugs flushed out of my system and I was no longer on the floor. But sometimes, I'll catch myself crying over nothing, though those days are less and less now.

I guess I wanted to say that there is where I've been. Under my covers, wishing the rain to stop and the sun to shine. Grasping for glimmers of summer and riding that until I am out of my bed and biking to the beach to see that sun rise.

If you feel the ways I've just described, please get help. Not everyone is going to understand but someone will, and they will save your life.

Thank you for your support. I am feeling less like a Cymablta commercial and more like a real person. I'm blessed. We all are.

I am out of bed and I am smiling and I wish the same for all of you.

Paranoia

I am beginning to really worry that I'm turning into a hypochondriac.

And then I think that because I'm worrying about turning into a hypochondriac, I'm really a hypochondriac, for worrying about becoming a hypochondriac (get it? It's a vicious cycle.)

Lately, I've been learning about this MS drug at work...so I've convinced myself that I have MS.

It would explain the following symptoms:
1) Dizziness
2) Blurred vision
3) Extremely bloodshot eyes
4) Loss of feeling in extremities/ numbness
5) Impaired thinking (kidding...kind of.)

But so would a massive hangover...but I haven't been drinking TOO much lately (except for St. Paddy's Day)...

So chances are it's not MS.

Maybe I've got... Chinesefooditis.

Instead of MS...it's MSG!

See. I eat a lot of Chinese food. And everyone knows that the best ingredient of Chinese food is the MSG. It seriously makes it so much more delicious. And sure, I don't know what excess MSG does to the body, but it can't be good.

Probably not that though...but seriously...

I've noticed this to be a growing trend among my peers: an increased awareness of their health. Everyone seems to think they have something these days.

We're probably all fine, just miserable at our entry level jobs or flailing in the face of change and increased work.

That sounds about right to me...anything for a sick day!

(Shoutout to HS for her inspiration...MSG).