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.

I'm bad, but not in the good "Bad" way

I'd say it's been a month of dealing with the mess of mental illness, probably longer. I've pulled back, retreated, isolated and not for COVID. The world is, in fact, too much and I can't tell you how this ride is going to go. This is going to be a trip in my head as it has been recently.

I'm afraid, like seriously afraid of 45 winning in November. I'm not thrilled at the idea of Biden, but I would say, "President Biden" with ease. I don't think I've actually ever referred to 45 as "President". I'm concerned the Bernie people will do a protest "vote" by not showing up and, therefore, voting in the incumbent. 

I'm surprisingly not as scared about COVID as people think or expect. I'm just frustrated that there are people who aren't taking it seriously. I'm also annoyed that wearing a mask is such an issue. Just wear it. Protect people, loved ones or not.

So, Shawn kind of put a suggested ban on me watching MSNBC. 

That stuff is so minor compared to how really bad things are.

I don't want to leave the house. Not because of COVID. I don't want to go out except when I walk Jarvis. I have to really work on convincing myself to do it. I put everything off. I need Shawn to be with me. I suck it up for work...that's because Shawn and Jarvis coming to work with me didn’t work out well. We thought Jarvis would love to have a yard to play in, but he knew I was in the building and that didn't work for him. Shawn takes me to the bank. He goes grocery shopping with me. The anxiety is so much. We shopped at Costco the other day and I cried in the Fish Oil section because none of the brands had the right potency. And, if I bought enough to make up the difference, the cost would be too much.

I get my shit kind of together to do work, respond to work emails, update our account on a pet search site. Otherwise, I don't communicate much with anyone but Shawn, Jarvis, my mom, and my BFF - Shawn and Jarvis being the most. I just can't right now with so many things.

My bedtimes vary. Super early some days and really late on others. I sleep late and stay in bed a lot.

The anxiety is terrible and the meds aren't working. A change to the meds is being worked on. As many who deal with mental illness know, med changes are tough. They can take a long time to start working. It can be a couple months. I'm not sure I have that in me right now. 

Shawn is amazing. He is super talented and I'm not going to deny that I'm jealous - or envious - whichever sounds less like an asshole. He just has so much going on in his life and that's not including taking care of me.

I used to be proud of myself, I think. Maybe I just used to be less hateful toward myself. I had a real, significant income that helped us out. I mean, I was making double payments on our fertility treatments to get them paid down as quickly as possible. Now, I can't imagine what I could possibly do. 

I cry. I cry about all the things. I can't tell you what it will be about. I mean, I cried in public about Fish Oil. I cry at TV shows and movies. I cry taking a bite of dinner. I cry in bed while using my coloring app on my phone. I cry when I fail at something, like spilling something. I cry at moments of pride about Conner, so that's kind of an okay thing to choke up over. I cry.

Lately, I've been thinking that ECT fucked me up. That it made me worse. My anxiety leads to vomiting and diarrhea (TMI?). I don't remember that before. But, I don't remember a lot of things from that time. 

My avoiding messages and not being active on social media is not you, it's me. It is really me. I can't handle myself right now and so I can't handle things and people outside of myself. I'm sorry if that is hurtful, but truly, I mean it, it's not you, it's me.

I don't know when I'll be back. There is so much more to everything in my head than what I've written here. Too much, really. I need to figure things out.

Should you go back again?

I've been having some real moments lately. Crying spells and exhaustion. Sometimes I think about ECT. Thoughts sometimes that maybe I should revisit, even with the amnesia experience, I sometimes wonder if I should. Shawn tells me that it didn't do what we had hoped the first time, so why would we go through it again? Why? Well, it's a legit reason to sleep the day away. At least treatment days. The amnesia sucks, but sometimes, not so much.

Sometimes.

Shaky McShakesmore

It's been going on for quite a while. I have shaky hands, particularly the right, of course. It has to be my dominant one. I've looked up the side effects of my various drugs and from my ECT treatments. I couldn't find anything about it being from ECT. Lithium seems to be the likely culprit. Lithium also can contribute to my memory issues, more short term, minor things than ECT has caused. This can hopefully get worked out with new medical insurance and a new psychiatrist.

Last weekend and this week have hit me particularly hard when it comes to the fine motor skill trouble. I've been pretty down for a while now, but more so this last week. I found some art supplies that I haven't used in years. I thought maybe I should try to do some stuff, do more than sit around with my laptop and the TV. So I picked up the pens and the pad of drawing paper to get going. I was trying to go back to my days of abstract design.

I couldn't do it. The right hand wouldn't allow a straight line. I couldn't make a shake-less arch or loop. It brought me to tears of frustration. I can't imagine that I would be able to do a portrait such as this again:

I also tried to paint the way I used to. I did a water effect with a wide sponge-brush, but I haven't had it in me to really try to paint the fish I want to do. Smaller details are so difficult.

There are many other things. Things that you probably take for granted. Things that start to make me cry or to make me extremely frustrated. Sometimes, using a fork is a challenge. Not for big things that you stab, like a piece of meat. But, trying to eat something like rice or something like coleslaw can be a really annoyance. Scooping with a spoon isn't too bad, but getting the spoon to my mouth can be tough sometimes. Pouring things can sometimes be a problem, but not always. 

Trying to turn pages or separate pieces of paper can make me seize up and want to throw the things across the room. Writing isn't always a problem, but there are moments. This week I used a drill and screwdrivers. While holding the tool with my right hand, I need my left hand to hold the end to place it into the head of the screw. Once I do that, my right hand can handle the turning, for the most part. But, if the screwdriver slips, I need my left hand to swoop in and grab the end and place it in the screw head again. 

I know it could be worse, a lot worse. But, that doesn't change how bad I feel when facing these things. It sucks. Among many other things, it makes me cry and can cause me to fall into one of my lows. 

Maybe it's the Lithium. Maybe the new insurance will lead to a better doctor who can come up with a better treatment.

Until then, I'll be Shaky McShakesmore.

Here I go again.

I've been binge watching Six Feet Under. I watched it years ago. I'm on the final season and it's been tough. Ruth Fisher (Frances Conroy) is married to George Sibley (James Cromwell). George is struggling with psychotic depression (not what I have, to be clear). His treatment is ECT, which, we all know, is something I am very familiar with.

The way the show's style is, there are scenes that turn out to be in someone's head. You have this moment of thinking, "Is this scene for real?" So Ruth is on her own taking care of George. They are at the kitchen table and she absolutely looses her shit! She goes on about having to be his caretaker and not having help and all of the resentments that she holds tight and the rage she feels.

Where I went for my treatments, they had a social worker who would focus on being a support for the caretakers of the patients. Shawn was seeing that social worker which I didn't know, or maybe I did know but didn't remember. I mean it was ECT.

As I watched Ruth have the meltdown in her head, I thought of Shawn. I thought of what must have been, what must be in Shawn's head when it comes to me. I wondered about his sessions with the social worker. I wonder what feelings he swallows

There's another character who takes lithium and seroquel, two of my five drugs. He decides to stop. I wonder what that would be like.

A most gentle man

Today I found out that Dr. Frank Guerra, one of the heads of the practice where I had my ECT, had died. He was the anesthesiologist. He had cancer. It seems it was too far gone when they found it.

I've written a lot about my ECT experience. It was a significant part of my life, so I will continue to write about it whenever I see fit. 

One of the strange things about my memory loss is what wasn't lost. I remember the office; the waiting room; the staff; the pre-treatment questions; getting in my gown; lying on the gurney; and being wheeled into treatment room. With all of this, I remember moments with Dr. Guerra. Some days, the nurses would have a hard time getting a vein for my IV. They would leave it for Dr. Guerra to do when I went in. He was so gentle and got it done easily. My favorite memory of interacting with him was a day when I were late to our appointment. Being late can turn into a huge trigger of my anxiety. So, I was all keyed up about it. When I got into the treatment room and he was on my right side as per usual, he brought his observation of my stress. He asked me what was going on that had me so anxious. I explained that we were late. He asked me something like, "Did you make it? Are you here?" and I said, "Yes" and he told me that that was all that mattered. He then had me relaxed and put under. He's bedside manner was sweet and kind.

My hope, that in his memory, those he taught and mentored learned one very important thing, a tender and kind bedside manner. 

I ordered all by myself

I posted on Facebook about how I successfully ordered my food at Qdoba without having to check with Shawn. It seems like a silly thing that I may have been goofing around about. But, I have struggled with remembering something that minor. I believe it is just more effects of my ECT treatments. My brain is just fucked up in different ways.

We are coming up on 3 years since my treatments began. I talk about it probably more than people think I should. Oh well, come back to me when you've gone through it.

I had some curiosity about numbers. I wondered what the average number of treatments is. Basically found a range and the high end was 20. Three times a week seemed the norm, so we're looking at 6 weeks plus a couple days. I had double 20 treatments.

39 Treatments

I was looking through my paperwork and found 39 treatments, so that could be more if we misplaced any. I started out at 3 times a week for a couple months and then slowly spread things out. Then, Shawn finally said it was enough; things weren't changing. I went along with him since I really couldn't gauge things very well for myself. If he wasn't seeing changes, I trusted him. Through it all, I do remember the end. I remember the doctor telling us he disagreed with our decision.

So, my memory is a hot mess. Before, during, and after all the treatments, I've lost some things. I've lost a lot of things. Some things have come back, some things are fuzzy, and, so far, those things are still quite outnumbered by the losses.

UPDATE: I found another sheet from a treatment. So, it's 40 treatments.

Drugs and treatments and doctors, oh my!

Things have been rough. Things have been rough for a few months. More than the usual roughness that has been my life for too many years. 

Earlier this year, my primary care physician did my annual thyroid check. He keeps tabs on my hypothyroidism and prescribes the Synthroid as he sees fit. He has always been my thyroid guy. 

My PCP knows my PsychNP. He recommended her to me when my previous psychiatrist was retiring. His reason for liking her is that she doesn't over-prescribe. She focuses on using the least amount of meds to get the job done. I honestly can't remember how long it has been since I started seeing her. But, when I did, she changed my diagnosis to Bipolar Depression. I'm not sure if she kept the anxiety in there, but since I'm still taking Ativan, I'm thinking she did. 

So, a pretty significant med cocktail rehaul took place. Then, Electroconvulsive Therapy was added to the list of shit-to-try-to-fix-me. That was 9 months of being put under and having electrical stimulation of the brain. The hope was a reboot of my brain to make me more responsive to medications. Uh, not so much. The average course of treatment with ECT is 6-12 sessions. I was going 3 times a week in the beginning, so those average numbers were blown away and I still went 2 days a week, eventually working down to about 1 a week, and, I think it may have been an every other week thing in the end. Given I don't remember pretty much the entire year of 2016 (ECT can wipe your memory from periods before treatment, during treatment, and kind of fuck up after, too) I'm not sure how the tapering worked. Shawn was pretty much the one to put the stop to the treatment. He didn't see that I was benefiting, so my last treatment, against the Psychiatrist's recommendations, was December 23rd, 2016. 

The ECT Psychiatrist also knew my PsychNP. He would be in regular contact with her throughout my treatment. I didn't entirely agree with her about my diagnosis and some of the meds I was on. Um, okay, what should I do? He doesn't do psych work other than ECT. So, it wasn't like I could start seeing him. 

I've stayed with my PsychNP. It's been a few years at this point. She doesn't take our insurance anymore, so I see her less often. She is quite frustrating, but finding another mental health provider is a very stressful process. There's the "FUCK! I have to start at the very beginning!" then there is the "Are you kidding me? I've been being treated for something and you don't agree?" and the starting over on a different course of meds. The meds part is the worst. Breaking in a new medication means trial and error; maybe it doesn't work; maybe it works but needs a higher dose; and, of course, new side effects.

As often as he can, I have Shawn come to my appointments. He can provide insight as to my special kind of crazy. This last appointment, he came. It was probably good because I was extremely frustrated. There's her excessive lateness, for one thing. The last few months she has screwed up my Ativan prescriptions with the pharmacy. She is SUPER married to my drug cocktail even when I tell her things are off. This time, she looks at my thyroid report and the dose of Synthroid and decides she's taking it over. She explained that the thyroid issues and the bipolar issues can sometimes cause problems when trying to dose the Synthroid. She said my PCP is very good, but not experienced enough with treating both things. WTF???? I've been on thyroid meds since you started seeing me. Why wouldn't you just take them over from the beginning? Then she brings up that the problem with two of my meds could be the generic versions I'm taking. She said it could be that we need to specify that I get them from the generic company I had gotten them from before the switch a few months ago. I know generics are hard to deal with, especially when coming off the name brand, so I agree that this could be the reason for my issues these last few months. So, we're changing from one generic to another for a couple of drugs. We are changing the Synthroid dose, which is so frustrating because I have months worth of the dose I was put on earlier this year. But, then there is the one med that she hates that I'm on the generic version. She brings it up and mentions Canada. We've been through this, Canada wasn't any cheaper. I'm not paying hundreds of dollars a month for a name brand med. She doesn't like that I make money an issue. She says she's not concerned about money, she's concerned about my health. I tell her my anxiety isn't going to be addressed by excessive amounts of money being spent that we can't afford. She then looks at Shawn and asks if money's really that much of an issue. Now that was some bullshit there. We do not have hundreds of dollars a month to spend on name brand because she swears by it....must have a deal with the company.  I was pissed during and after.

Here I am. A few months of major mood issues. I've been breaking down in the same conversation I had just been goofing around during. I simply cry. Just cry. I drive and cry. I work and cry. I sit in an office working on files at work and cry while Abby, my office mate cat, just chills out with no empathy whatsoever (Did I mention she's a cat? Who would expect empathy?). There's also some rage mixed in followed by exhaustion. The exhaustion also comes from putting on a show, doing some of my best acting in social situations without bawling my eyes out. Hopefully all of the drug changes will change things. Hopefully I'll figure out a new shrink. Hopefully I simply will.  

Then there is Shawn, through all of this...

...and I'm not sure I will ever understand why.

A tale of two wars

Well, it's the two year mark for the start of ECT. I'm "celebrating" anniversaries of things I don't remember.

As the opening of "Avengers: Infinity War" is full throttle, it is the second anniversary of the opening of "Captain America: Civil War". Yes, I'm entering into a geek timeline that would most likely not even be a thing for me if it was not for meeting Shawn. Anyway, I'm very excited for "Infinity War", I mean, Groot and the Hulk together, who wouldn't be? But what does any of this have to do with anything, including ECT?

Well, I'll tell you. When "Civil War" opened, we of course saw it right away. We saw it while I was going for ECT three times a week. That's three days of me going under anesthesia and being more useless than my usual state. Then, the other four days may have seemed like I was totally with it, but I actually was existing in, while not really experiencing reality.

We saw "Civil War" a second time in the theater with Shawn's parents. It was a brand new movie for me. So, I once again existed in the movie theater, but experienced nothing.

Then "Civil War" came out on DVD. My third viewing. The story was not familiar. I knew the characters, of course, because they had been in so many movies already. Well, not T'Challa aka The Black Panther.

In my case, the fourth time turned out to be the charm. I was able to make connections. I could recall things. Not as much of the movie was new. Apparently, I returned to my original side of the war. Shawn had told me that in the course of multiple viewings, I actually changed sides. At one point I was pro-Iron Man and another had me rooting for Cap all the way. I'm not going to reveal my stance because I don't want to start a war...a comments' war.

Maybe this post means nothing. Maybe it's my own, weird word vomit. But, for me, "Captain America: Civil War" has been one of the most significant examples of the power ECT has on the brain. And ECT, and meds, and therapy are all part of the war I fight everyday.

Remembering what took my memory away

It’s been on year since you hooked up me
Shocked my head on each side
And made me fuzzy
Twelve months since you shocked up me saying
Get some rest and come back and see me
Twelve months since the waiting room
I realized it was worth a try, and I told you
Last year you signed off on me
But it’s still in my head, “Was I really ready?”

*With apologies to the Barenaked Ladies

Life is better for whom?

Earlier this year, I started volunteering for the animal rescue where we got Jarvis 4 1/2 years ago. It was kind of an idea that Shawn, my PsychNP, and my therapist were all pretty much no board with. My PsychNP and Shawn really didn't think I was in any shape to get back in the actual workforce. Actually, this conversation may have started at the end of last year, you know, the time of my life that is lost to me. For some reason, I think my ECT psychiatrist was in on this whole thing, too.

It took me awhile to work through my anxiety enough to contact Life Is Better Rescue. Then, I think it may have taken some extra drugs to actually go that first day. The first few days involved cleaning out the cat cages at the Care Center. I had this super skinny, super tall, young kid showing me the ropes. One day, I was slated to go solo, I grabbed Shawn for the assist. As the part of my DNA that is strong within my siblings and I kicked in, I was gagging to dry heaving to being on the verge of vomiting. For some reason, taking a little green poop bag and grabbing Jarvis' shit isn't so bad; but cat boxes and kitties covered in the shit they shat is more than a Kendel (or maybe Sawhill, it might be my mom's genetic contribution) kid could bear.

So, I sucked up my overwhelming sense of failure and additional anxiety, and confessed to my ineptitude.

There was still other work to be done. I didn't have to deal with people or shit (it's hard to tell which of those things is worst) nearly as much. I was doing spreadsheet updates and microchip registrations. Officey, nerdy, anti-social stuff. I was fitting into my niche. But, anxiety still reared its ugly head because, well, fuck my life. I am still filled with an overwhelming sense of ineptitude.

New challenges have been added to my plate. I wish I was talking about a nice piece of chocolate cake, but this is the proverbial plate. So anxiety is kicked up yet another notch. My intolerance for idiocy and assholery is strong. I take the comments of bitches and douchebags too much to heart. I need to get stronger. I need to get harder. But, I also need to be tactful in covering up my disdain for those telling me to "contact me ASAP!" about their application; telling me they'll just go to a breeder; and, telling me I have taken their potential "Savior" away.

With all of these things that probably sound pretty miserable, I manage to muster my way through...still with breakdowns because I am still the mentally fucked up person I've been for much of my life.

The rescue's name is Life Is Better. It's about making life better for the animals we bring into the organization. It's about saving Fallon from euthanasia because grass awns (google it! YIKES!) were in all four of his feet and the shelter couldn't handle that. Now, he has a family ready for him and he walks just fine. Or, there's Gabe who was displaced from his shelter due to Hurricane Harvey and managed to survive treading water for 2 days. And, my loves! The Rottweilers Carl and Chloe, a 1 year old male and 6 month old female who were impounded when their owner was busted for drugs.

But, in my time volunteering, I've come to learn that the name applies to the human animal. Life Is Better. I get to play with and just hang out with dogs and cats of all types and ages. I'm almost a cat person, if the litter box isn't involved. I have syringe fed kittens who don't even have their eyes opened yet. I've learned cats have lots of breeds. I've felt the choke in my throat and the tears in my eyes when a dog I've come to love finds the exact family he/she is meant to have. The happiness that comes when a person emails me about the joy they feel knowing his/her application was approved.

So, yes, all of my issues pop up and almost win the fight; inadequacy, anxiety, and all the other shit my medication cocktail should be helping, come at me full force. But, a lot is better for this human animal's life.

It's been a year

I began my 8 month journey through ECT one year ago today.

What difference did it make? Well, it stole almost all of 2016 from me. Even though ECT started in April, it managed to rob me of memories all the way back to January. I continue to find out more and more things I was a part of, but didn't experience. What I mean is that when a see a picture from something last year, I can see that I was there, I was physically present, but I didn't experience it. Experience, in my opinion, is in the mind and not fully having my mind available to me, I was not having the experience.

Did it change anything else? Honestly, I don't think so. Shawn is probably the better one to ask.

Would I do it again? Probably. I mean, when your brain is so fucked up, you look for options. Also, in some ways, having some of my darkest moments "erased" with electricity brought respite.

Now I'm in the beginning of a 12 week group therapy course. I don't like it. The vibe just isn't working for me. But, I should continue to plug away at it because maybe it will strike something, other than annoyance, in me. I guess we'll see...

"On This Day"

Facebook has a feature that allows you to see old posts from throughout the years. It's a fun thing to look through each day.

Now, it is a bigger deal because I've started to get to the point of last year that I began to lose my memory. I thought the memory feed would be a cool thing to go through to help me experience my life. And, it has kind of been neat to see things. There are pictures from our Cleveland trip. Some of them are really sweet showing Shawn with our nieces. There are goofball moments with my BFF Linda.

But, there is also a sadness. There is the realisation of all that I missed out on experiencing...but, I did experience them. It's a bizarre and frustrating thing to go through. I wish I remembered the tender moments between Shawn and our nieces. I wish I remembered being a goofball with Linda. My Dad holding my brother's dog in such cute way. Tasting all the amazing food that it looks like we had. All of these things I don't remember.

It's hard for me to say whether it is better to be completely clueless or to see these pictures everyday.

It will be a long year on Facebook.

What a year

I was looking at last year's posts from this time and times were tough (Hanging On & Exiting Crazy Town). It probably kicked off the worst part of my mental health journey.

My "Valentine" carried me through that whole, months long journey. His life was pretty much consumed by taking care of me. He took me to every ECT appointment which also meant putting me to bed after getting home from the treatment. He worked from home through the course of my treatments. In the beginning, he was home all five days of the week. He had to do all the driving until some point in October, I think. Jarvis was almost his entire responsibility. Because of the intensity of my memory fucked-uped-ness for several months, I couldn't walk Jarvis for fear of me getting lost. Most of all of that time, he was my everything in a different way than he was before in our relationship. There have been terrible moments since finishing ECT. Those moments are more examples of his amazing love and strength. Moments of darkness; moments of talking me down; moments of considering having me committed; moments of my being an asshole. Through it all, he has endured.

Yes, this is another blog post about Shawn and how fortunate I am to have him in my life. "Our song" is Power Of Two by the Indigo Girls. It's probably more accurate to say "Power Of One".

The holly, jolly, holidays

Yesterday, as I lie on my gurney getting prepped and readied for my head zapping, the head nurse was over by the printer. She pulled off two blank sheets of paper. She jokingly asked who was printing blank paper. Well, I piped up and said that it was I and that it was my Christmas Letter. I said it sums up all that I remember about 2016. It just needed my signature.

That little ECT humor was a pretty big hit with everyone who was in the area....everyone who was fully conscious, that is.

And now for something kind of different

Watch this space for new mental health shit that may possibly happen. 

I'm looking into another type of mental health treatment. My ECT psychiatrist brought it up at my last ECT session and then he talked to my Psych NP about it. So, at Monday's appointment with my Psych NP, she brought it up. 

It is called Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT). I haven't done any real research on it. No matter what decision we (I include Shawn because every bit of this impacts him) make about DBT, we feel that ECT has run its course.j

As 2016 comes to an end (THANKFULLY) and we move into 2017, we'll see what plays out. 

I still manage to be phased

Here it is. Another post about my memory issues. This one is a hard one because it seems to be affecting longer term memory than just something from this year.

There is a card game that I have played for over ten years on a pretty regular basis. I played it with one of my best friends back home in CLE and then brought it to my CO life with Shawn and his parents. I have easily played it hundreds of times. It's a pretty simple card game called "Phase 10".

Thanksgiving Eve, Shawn, my in-laws, and I were playing games, as per usual. Shawn brought out "Phase 10". I looked at it and was a bit puzzled. The rest of them were puzzled by my puzzlement since we have such a long history with this game. Shawn ended up having to teach me the game. I picked it up pretty quick, but it was still troubling.

I never get used to discovering that there is something I don't remember.

Searching on and on

In the reality of my dreams, this blog was making me money and getting me book deals. Someone, somewhere, thought I was worth paying attention to and paying money to. So I wouldn't have to be dealing with the painful life's work of job searching.

Job searching sucks. I don't even know what I'm searching for. Also, I don't feel like my shit is under control. ECT seems like a failure. Meds are always being adjusted. I cry so easily. I simply can't keep emotions in check. How am I supposed to figure out this whole work thing?

Why can't I have some friends with some kind of employment connections? Why can't things be simple? Why can't the whys be answered?

2013 may still hold the record

This year has been pretty shitty. 2016 deserves a, "FUCK YOU!" without question. I, however, don't really know what I'm saying, "FUCK YOU" to thanks to ECT. I watched the season finale of "Last Week Tonight with John Oliver" during which his final segment was a variety of people explaining why 2016 really sucked. Much of what was shared were things I had no recollection of. So for me, the shittines of 2016 is that I don't remember much of 2016. My lack of memory is really disconcerting. I wish I knew how to explain just how painful it is. Even with all of this, however, I still think 2013 was the suckiest...and, maybe even 2014.

F*ck the cheese and that other thing

I've been thinking about when I was first facing major depression a little over 13 years ago. It's been on my mind since over the last year my Psych NP has diagnosed me with Bipolar after almost 13 years of being treated for Uni-polar. Anyway, when I was first going through it all I was involved with a religious order. What has come to mind is a couple of things that reveal that some people have no business trying to handle the depths and seriousness of someone facing mental illness. Here are the two things that should not be done:

1. Do not give him/her a copy of Who Moved My Cheese? as a means of working through everything that could possibly be the matter.
2. Do not tell him/her to look to the crucifix because that is what real suffering is and that whatever he/she is going through pales in comparison and should be recognized as insignificant in light of the suffering of the cross.

Yep, those are real things (like modern day memes) that I was presented with when what I really needed was a mental health professional. Thankfully, my mom did recognize my struggle and swept in to get me and take me to a psychiatrist. Granted, the diagnosis wasn't quite on the mark with him and the other psychiatrists I saw for awhile, but mental health is a tricky thing that can have hits and misses. Right now, and I think Shawn may agree, we might be facing more hits than misses.