I disagree with agreeing to disagree

I’m tired. I’m tired of so many things. The one thing that has really gotten to me the last 8 years or so is being told that differing opinions don’t mean we can no longer be friends and it is childish to think it does.

We are not talking about simple differences in opinions. We are talking about ideologies that impact actual human lives. These are things that are classifying some as lesser. The thinking that rights should be taken away because they shouldn’t have been granted in the first place is not simply an opinion.

Saying that Teddy’s Guncle shouldn’t have a legally, valid marriage to her wife with all the benefits that entails is not the same as saying that Coke is better than Pepsi (even though Coke really is better). Actively working to have it invalidated is not an agree-to-disagree situation for her or those of us who support her.

I had breast reduction surgery because I could longer deal with the physical issues having extremely large breasts caused. But, there was an internal aspect, too. I couldn’t live how I wanted, be who I wanted. This was fine. No one protested my right to the procedure. I wasn't told that God made me to have huge boobs and I need to live with 

Somehow, people see trans and non-binary persons as going through a phase; freaks; mentally ill; whatever other things they come up with to minimize their reality. Gender affirming care is necessary. If Conner’s step-sibling has top surgery so they are free to feel their authentic self, who did they hurt? They aren’t pushing an agenda that everyone should be breastless and should be non-binary. There is a sense of peace and pride that shows in their pictures now.

Folks who go crazy about pretty much anyone in the "alphabet [used in a derogatory way]" community, claim pretty much any one part of the LGBTA+ community is living unnatural lifestyles. I'm not painting with a broad brush here, but many of the folks with this thinking tend to be Trump supporters. Speaking of painting, these people need to look to their orange leader and recognize that he is being unnatural. Also, the amount of plastic surgeries and fillers and botox in his posse, are also not natural. So, they can have procedures that are not natural to make themselves feel better about themselves, I guess. But, the people who want to be their authentic selves, should not even think about having procedures done.

I want Teddy to have the rights to gender affirming care, if that is were his life path leads. Thinking he should not have those rights is not a little difference of opinion in our family. If you can't accept Teddy's authentic self and feel his rights should be stripped from him, then that's not a vibe our family wants to have around.

Then there is the desire for Gilead. Women around the country are having their bodily autonomy limited bit by bit, state by state. I'm almost 50 and do not have a uterus, so I know I won't be wearing red. But, we aren't Christian, so I'm not entirely sure where Shawn and I will fit. Conner, will end-up in red and I'm not sure where Teddy will go.

In all seriousness, the extreme ideas about women's rights are insane. Vance thinks childless women are a lesser class, yet is anti-IVF according to his voting record and things he has said. So, if you are childless, but don't want to be, then you're screwed. And, stepparenting does not count toward having a child. 

Women are dying because procedures are being made illegal that previously were life saving for an expectant woman. Some laws are so confusing that medical providers aren't even sure what they can and cannot do without risk of criminal charges. Carrying a dead baby to term seems cruel, not to mention dangerous.Touting something about "post-birth abortions" to make people think people are deciding they don't want to be a parent after having gone through an entire pregnancy is beyond ridiculous. The very idea of women being put at risk of death because of an ideology claiming to be "pro-life" is contrary to how my mind works. Women being allowed a chance to live shouldn't be minimized as one's opinion rather than a human right. 

I can agree to split a pizza with you on which your half has anchovies and my half has ham and pineapple. You can wash it down with a Pepsi while I drink my ice cold, Coca-Cola. But, if the conversation turns toward calling for the removal of rights for women, minorities, and LGBTQ+ individuals, I'm going to have to pay my half of the bill and walk away.

The elephant on the arm

I love elephants. In my opinion, they should be called elovephants. These giant creatures are so amazing. I mean, how can you keep scrolling if a reel pops up showing a baby elephant learning how to elephant; trying to get itself out of a mud bath? Or, how about a video with a guy who had been working in human prosthetics who decides to venture out to create prostheses for animals AND does it for an elephant!!! 

Elephants have been known for not forgetting. A strong memory helps them survive. They are also highly intelligent, emotional, and social animals. Because of the observations of elephant behavior, they have become a symbol for mental health. They are known to experience joy and are playful. They also recognize emotional behaviors and offer comfort to those in need. Sadly, they also suffer from things like depression, grief, anxiety, and even PTSD. These experiences increase when placed in zoos or when used for entertainment in circuses and festivals. It is heartbreaking.

So, what does this have to do with the elephant on my arm? It's quite a tale.

About nine years ago, my psychiatrist of many years decided to retire. I knew this wasn't great, but little did I know just how bad things would get.

The person I started to see for my medication needs was a psychiatric nurse practitioner. I heard she was known for using the least amount of drugs possible to help her patients. At this point, I was on very few meds and wanted to keep it that way. I scheduled my first appointment and away we went. Shawn came with me to appointments because I felt it was helpful to have his point-of-view on my behaviors. The very first appointment should have been a bit of a red flag. She was technology averse, she had no computer so the thumb drive I brought with my records from my previous psychiatrist was of no use. She asked a bunch of questions to do an assessment. Next thing I know I'm being diagnosed as bipolar and being put on lithium in combination with the other meds I was taking. So, this brought me up to 4 psych meds.

Now, my first major depressive episode was when I was 28. That was 12 years before I started going to her. I had three psychiatrists in that time. The first doctor was when I lived in Cleveland. Then I found someone when I moved to Colorado. I wasn't with her long before changing to the guy who retired on me. None of these three ever brought up bipolar, EVER!

But, I needed help. Shawn and I both were like, okay, this is different, but she did her assessment, so what do we know. After a few months of taking lithium and changing other meds, she suggests electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). Well, shit. Things got really serious, really fast. I mean, the first image that comes to mind is Jack Nicholson's character R.P. McMurphy in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Rest easy, my friends, it is not like that.

We went for a consult at the clinic where I would end up going. I went through assessments and tests. The idea was this could reboot my brain in a sense. It could help improve the efficacy of the drugs. The expectation was about 6-8 weeks of treatments, starting with 3 times a week and then reducing the number based on what progress was being made. My first treatment was April 18, 2016. My final treatment was December 23, 2016. Not quite the 6-8 weeks we were planning on.

While I was going through this, I was 100% dependent on Shawn, especially on treatment days. We were fortunate enough that Shawn had a company willing to let him work from home. The office was only three miles away, so if he needed to run in on a non-treatment day, it wouldn't be too big an issue. My life was quite restricted. I couldn't work. Driving was not allowed at all. Jarvis and I couldn't take walks by ourselves. I was pretty much required to have supervision if I were to leave the house, even on non-treatment days. All of this is because your memory gets FUUUUUUCKED! On treatment days, I was super useless. Shawn would bring me home and put me to bed. Then, I'd get up at some point and have dinner and watch something with Shawn. Seeing my therapist was kind of pointless because not much was going on with my brain being so messed up. I think I wasn't seeing the PsychNP, either. My ECT doc was my mental health provider for the course of the treatments. I didn't know it at the time, but Shawn was able to meet with the clinic's social worker as she was there to provide support to caregivers. I'm glad to know he had that. I did go down to a couple times a week to once a week at some point. When treatments became fewer and further between, some restrictions were lifted. I could drive, but had to have an adult with me. I could venture out for walks with Jarvis. Eventually, I was able to drive alone. But, come December, it was frustrating because things really weren't having the results we were hoping for. Shawn thought it was time to stop. I had no reason to disagree. So, we stopped.

Here's the thing, what I didn't realize was that I lost a year of memories. We've come to refer to 2016 as the "lost year" because I have almost no memory of that year. There are some flashes every so often. It even took away those few months of 2016 before treatment even started. When I see pictures from that time, they mean nothing. They look like I was having a good time. I hope I was. My dad had such a hard time understanding how this could be. He would talk to me about something and I would tell him I had know memory of it. Whatever it was, he thought it was so significant an event that surely it would have stuck out. At this time Captain America: Civil War came out. We saw it a couple of times, so I'm told. Shawn said that my chosen "side" changed with different viewings. When it came out on DVD, I think it was the fourth time watching, it was like the very first time seeing it and retaining it. So, yes, my memory was seriously FUUUUUUCKED by ECT.

I continued with my PsychNP after this. I stuck with her for far too long. But, the idea of starting over with someone else just stressed me out. The person who was known for prescribing the least amount of meds as possible, kept adding meds and/or changing my dosages. For sure I had gotten up to six medications, but I think it may even had gotten to seven. She checked my blood regularly because lithium is a real motherfucker. Side effects suck. I developed tremors, common for lithium users. One of the meds she added messed with my sleep. I also had one that gave me these weird jerky movements. We dropped those and moved to something else. 

She stopped taking my insurance so we decided to spread out appointments and pay out-of-pocket. Then COVID hit and in person visits were out. Like I mentioned, she has some weird issues with technology, so I bit the anxiety bullet and found someone else.

I really didn't think it possible to go from worse to worst. This guy, thankfully is now retired. But not soon enough for me. He decided to just go the bipolar route without really doing any kind of assessment. To him, lithium was the end all be all; an oldie but a goodie. I really should have stopped seeing him when he asked about my weight and said he may have to send his orc he found in a dumpster after me so that I would run to get more exercise. Again, I hate doc shopping, so I stuck with him. Also, he didn't have me get regular blood work. I didn't think much about it until my physical health started to get messed up. I was seeing my primary care doctor for something. He ordered blood work and was concerned, so he ordered more bloodwork for lithium levels. I was in lithium toxicity. 

I brought this to my psychiatrist who was like, it's just a tiny amount over the line. But, there is a line and it exists for a reason. Meanwhile, my tremors were so severe I couldn't do so many things like write; insert my debit card into the slot; use a pin pad or touch screen; turn pages; and, at times feed myself. I was dealing with incontinence, both bladder and bowel. There were times when, thankfully I was at home, I just surrendered and pissed myself and flooded the floor. My calcium levels were also getting out of control. My parathyroid glands, which I didn't even know were a thing, were not functioning correctly. If they suck, you have to have surgery. There isn't medication for it. So last September, I had surgery to remove the two funky glands, move the less funky one to my chest so that if it gets worse it'll be a simple outpatient procedure to remove it, and the good one was left in it's proper place. Thankfully, my thyroid is able to be controlled with medication. My kidney function and my liver are both being monitored on a regular basis. I had another surgery last year for a growth on my ovary that went through torsion. The ER was convinced I had cancer and within two days I was seeing an oncologist. So, that was it, all female reproductive organs were gone and I woke up in menopause. Not entirely sure if lithium can be ruled out for that, but it could be on the list. I also have curly hair. So many things. 

I got off of the lithium in September. It was my decision against the advice of the doc. He did a nine day taper. That is ridiculous! Then, October comes and I'm asking him for changes to be made. He swears by the lithium. He tells me I'm difficult patient who is beyond his skill set; that I refuse his recommendations; I care too much about side effects and therefore limit his medication options; tells me again to go to a certain depression clinic, which I already told him had a six month waiting list. This isn't my first rodeo when it comes to meds. I understand side effects are part of the game. But, when the side effects are severe and intolerable, I'm not going to take that medication. He then referred to treatment resistant depression instead of bipolar. So, what was I really being treated for? I laid into him. I raised my voice. He told me we should meet in person because the phone call had gone too long. I told him I was done and would no longer be using him for my care. He tried to talk me out of it. I stood my ground. He said something about enjoying having me as a patient. I hung up (not as satisfying with a cell phone, but still).  He was retiring, so I was going to need someone new anyway.  

So, I lost what little mind I had left. Once again, dependent on Shawn, he found someone new. Her take is:

Moderate recurrent major depressive disorder.

Panic disorder, also known as episodic paroxysmal anxiety.

Chronic post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

This feels like we're getting back to Miller time (the name of the retired guy from years ago, not the beer). A little more like where I was before late 2015. I'm on a slow taper of one drug. The plan is to go through the dark to get to the light; to start fresh with medications. I'm down to only three medications. However, she's leaving the practice...so, in July, I will start seeing someone else in the practice. So, here's hoping for a better mental health journey.

Back to the elephant on the arm. I decided I need this tattoo to remind me where I've been. It's on my arm where I can look at it easily and often. The thought bubble is a play on elephants never forgetting, but for this one, 2016 is lost (not quite visible in the picture is a "?"). And the elephant itself is a symbol of mental health; of the good and the bad experienced in life; and, my simple love for elephants.

*Tattoo credit goes to the amazing Britton Dixon at Coven Tattoo.

Sometimes you just want to smell your dad

In a million years, I bet you never thought you'd read the words of this entry's title. I know I never expected to think them.

It's been 3 years and 2 months since my dad died. It's a weird feeling of it being just yesterday and ages ago since it happened. The whole grief thing is a very wild ride. Recently, a lot of things have been popping up in my head, my heart, and my gut. I think of that as a grief trifecta, in a sense.

I've listened to the first season of the podcast All There Is with Anderson Cooper (I had to take a break, so I haven't started the next season). Anyway, I HIGHLY recommend it for anyone experiencing any phase/type of grief, or anyone trying to support someone through grief. It gives a glimpse of all the different types of grieving people experience. 

Because of the show, I am processing so many things. This will hopefully be my outlet as it once was for other phases of my life.

As for the title, the sense of smell hits directly to the parts of the brain related to memory and emotion. It is the quickest of the senses to stir up memories. So, lately, I've wanted to remember my dad and the after shave he was known for. 

My newly purchased office décor.

Half the battle?

Is logging in progress?

A lot of things have been and are going on in this here head of mine. Trying to fill this space again. 

Sticks and Skates and Stats, Oh My

It has been a hot minute. This isn’t how I thought I’d make a comeback, but it feels right. I came upon this Facebook post I wrote on Nov. 21, 2018:

Jarvis and I were out for a walk. We came upon a couple of hockey sticks leaning upon a fence. They had the tightly, twisted tape spiraling the stick's end and then the tape wrapping over that. And, BAM!, a flood of memories came rushing to mind.

There's the pot of boiling water for molding the rubber mouth guard. Also, heating the stick blade just enough to increase the curve without drawing the attention of the referee. And, the other kitchen memory was the game night dinner of pasta, I distinctly remember cavatelli. 

There were the changes from entirely metal blades, to black plastic, white plastic, and clear plastic coverings. Metal cage face masks moved aside for the super trendy Itech. Our local rink went from a chain link fence around it to plexiglass for a more modern feel.

My 3 brothers played. My sister did for a little bit, but I don't really remember that. There were lots of games and I spent lots of time in the rinks. A rink rat, you may say. I kept track of shots on goal for one team. Sometime worked the light behind the goal to indicate a goal was scored. I even worked in the scorer's box filling out the paperwork.

I haven't thought about this stuff in years. Possibly wouldn't have for years to come if it wasn't for seeing those sticks. They aren't important memories, but they make up part of my youth. 

No matter how small or mundane a memory may seem, don't take it for granted. Take it from me, you never know when you will lose even the tiniest trip down memory lane. Random things that come to mind may make you smile for just a little while and who can't use some more random smiles?

A year in the death of my father

 Obviously I knew this day would come. The first anniversary of my dad's death. Technically, last year was the first Christmas without my dad, but he died on Dec. 23rd, so everything about that Christmas was weird, including COVID.

This year has been quite surreal. I thought the passage of time would help the grief, but it hasn't. What has surprised me is that it started to worsen each month. I have moments where I have to actually tell myself, "My dad is dead". In a dream I had, he was so real, so present that I, again, had to tell myself that he had died.

This year I've handled the holidays in a way that would disappoint someone as Mr. Christmas as my dad. I know the way to really honor him would be to get the tree up and have as many lights as possible, and then some, strung upon it. But, I'm not strong enough for that right now. Christmas music is more like a funeral dirge than anything jolly. Mustering the creativity and energy for creating another Jarvis themed Christmas card seemed an epic feat. Shawn and I aren't exchanging gifts, but have talked about getting a new tv as joint gift. I pulled my holiday themed attire out of storage, but haven't worn much of it. No cookie baking has been done, even the simplest of recipes.

In a typical year, the Friday after Thanksgiving is the kick-off. We would probably have our cards ready to go. The tree would be up. Christmas tunes playing in the car instead of podcasts. The first t-shirt with a holiday them would be worn along with some socks. Then, as the days move on, I would shop and I would bake. Then there would be wrapping and shipping. All of those things that my dad loved about the holidays.

Today, I woke up not wanting to think about what this day is. I didn't want to remember waking up to my mom's voice telling me he was gone. But, I did. I never read last year's Christmas letter that he managed to send. Today, I took a stack of letters from years past and read them. They represented history, but also showed his decline through the years. After I finished that stack I went to my desk and took out last year's letter. It was so very brief, only one sheet of paper front and back. I didn't cry. I really thought I would cry, especially at the end.

My dad had done a long stint in the hospital and rehab which ended with him coming home the day before Thanksgiving. When he came home he worked on cards and the letter. On December 21st he was back in the hospital and died on the 23rd. I give this little timeline because of something he wrote in the letter. His letter always included an in memoriam section to list those who had passed throughout the year. He began the in memoriam with, "While John is blessed to be back at home and doing better, we recognize and remember fondly those we have lost this past year..." Little did he know that he would become a part of that list a short time after writing those words.

This didn't really come out right

I don't know what has happened to me when it comes time to the blog. There is plenty going on in my head - too much, really.

My current state is extra hot mess. I am physically and mentally all over the place. So many things are breaking me down. 

Recently, my dad's death has been hitting me hard. It's been harder than it was in the beginning months. It's just this weird feeling that it's not real. I think about it and wonder what will make it seem real? Will it be the first time I go to Cleveland since his death? Will it be seeing his grave in person?

The world and all it's changes get me to stay in bed. COVID, Texas laws, Afghanistan are all more than I can think about right now. I get choked up over the news. 

Work has me stressed out. There are changes that I don't know how to handle. My anxiety at the idea of certain tasks is manifesting itself physically. I'm not cut out for certain things. I'm not a people person.

I should be able to get my shit together. I used to accomplish things with less anxiety issues. Now, I tend to isolate and it's not because of COVID. Nausea is a constant and diarrhea is regular (so far no vomiting). Headaches and muscle aches are common. I'm quite tired. It's all part of the mess.

I have an appointment coming up with my shrink. I'm not all that optimistic right now. There are probably going to be med changes and that is a whole other thing I don't look forward to.

I'm just so tired.