December Melting -- Day 10: Her Passing

12.12.09

After over a week in the unit, I did a quick check of my voicemail and discovered a message from my sister. My mother had died. My presence was requested ASAP but I was behind locked doors. At first I panicked and then I went numb. I was grateful for the Seroquel ... and anything else they give me.

Did she know what I had done? Her body is in a morgue somewhere. Is she watching me now? Did she feel my heart stop when I over-dosed so that this is why hers failed? These are the questions that traipse back and forth.

Happy Holiday To All

December Melting -- Day 9: Something Broken

12.11.09


The days are blurring together now into a mix of depression and agitation. I woke up tearful today and realized that this would have been my last day on my job before it would be outsourced overseas. I don't think I realized the pressure this pending loss had been weighing on me but I know now that I never want to be in such an unstable situation again. Something broke in me last week and it is serious. The job did not help. I can't even read one page of text -- it takes multiple attempts to just finish one sentence. For the second time, a counselor in group today suggested ECT. No freaking way ... my intelligence is all I have ... just give me a gun.


I've also been becoming frequently agitated and spend time in the "Quiet Room" as a result. Because my behavior frightens me, I don't mind. Sometimes, I wish they would just strap me down and let me go at it so I can get this poison out of me and be safe at the same time. I reluctantly accepted some Seroquel. Is my depression really that bad this time? Have I lost THAT much hope? What finally broke and will I get it back? Did the overdose irreversibly damage something?

December Melting -- Day 6: The Crack In The Clouds

12.8.09


The clumsy clouds collide at the window sill. I find some comfort in just staring. The prequel to this whole saga had been months of being unable to sleep in my bed because of the first part -- I kept experiencing large hands grab my small feet and begin to drag me out of bed; then, BLANK. That's it.

I try to go to sleep. The hands. My body shoots out of bed. Eventually, I just started going automatically to the couch. No one knew. No one could help. I was clueless and felt as if Paranormal Activity was occurring.


It was when I spent last night in the "Quiet Room" that the third part hit me -- that SHE knew. The mother knew I was in danger when this was going on in the next room yet she did nothing.


A crack in the cloud that never could can complete.

December Melting -- Day 5: The Effect Of People

12.7.09 (am)


I've hurt people by doing this. It seems like I hurt people allot. For those who have helped to keep me together for so long, I assume it must be discouraging that I can't seem to manage myself better. I can't live without a therapist and I can't live without having such a figure applying glue on a regular basis. I don't know what to do.


12.7.09 (pm)


With the haziness of drugs in my eyes, I sat today in a group of patients where a loud man who seemed to make little sense most of the time periodically seemed to say such extremely meaningful and insightful things that I would not normally hear from the most educated and "civilized" of people. In fact, it was so meaningful that I had to fight to hold back my tears. It is a shame that I was too drugged to retain what was said but the point that always amazes me is how we are no more different and no less the same from one another.

December Melting -- Day 4: Lost Days

12.6.09


It seems that I must have ONLY laid in bed for a couple of hours but I also know that something is not right because these strangers around me keep calling this day Saturday but that would mean that Friday and Saturday are missing. I only remember Thursday. There is a bright yellow "Fall Risk" on my arm and I am to stay in bed. It seems I may have lost two days of my life and that my goal has still not been met. At least, I THINK that I am breathing and this is real. There is no taste of charcoal in my mouth but my arms seem attached to something. Maybe if I sleep it will all go away.

December Melting -- Day 3: Near Death

12.5.09

I swear I don't remember but found it (in my handwriting) on a piece of paper:


"A lady from another floor came to take me to a room. I do not know why. Her words were so alarming that I could not pay attention. She said that she could see 'it' in me and that 'it' is important for me to carry on. After reiterating her own experiences, she went on to explain the steps to her recovery: 'unrelenting, ruthless, unbridled rage.' She 'can tell' that I have not been where I need to go. She says the loss of my therapist must not cause me to give up. She was all foggy so I do not know if she was real."

December Melting -- Day 1: The Initial Break

12.3.09

"It felt like a gun." My phone, my books, my glassware -- all shooting the fireplace. To avoid harming the cats, I tried to redirect myself to boxes in the garage with no success. Something in my psyche had broken. I downed a bottle of benzodiazapines and started in on the heart medicine with the intent to stop my heart and to stop this craziness.


Oddly enough, I proceeded to arrange my belongings and make my bed so that no one else would have such a mess to go through. I had reached a different sense of calm so I curled up on the couch to savor it.


At some point, red and blue lights were flashing in front of my house and people were banging at the door. Still in my etheral state, I opened it.

Nocturnal Chatterings #25

-- i'm so afraid that i think i might be close to terrified.

++ you've had a long day

-- i can't remember when i last slept in my own bed

++ then perhaps you should do something about that

-- i'm past the point of dealing with it. my blood pressure is so high tonight. angina, tachy ... makes me dizzy hot and sweaty when i stand up. i'm terrified at the thought of how i will cope if i have a heart attack or stroke. i'm alone, completely alone.

++ you should not catastrophize. i'm sure there are steps you can take to prevent a cardiovascular event. wait, look, there just happens to be a new treadmill in our living room!

-- smartass

++ ....

-- i tried the relaxation. i tried the tapping

++ you should blog about that

-- i don't want to be alone in a hospital with tubes in my veins and dyes running up my legs to my heart. i'd rather die first

++ i wish you would decide one way or the other

-- i would like to sleep every night of my life for a year and see what happens

++ it seemed to be better

-- for a week ...

++ i'm out of insomnia quips

-- me too. i'm tired of doing this.

-- OH MY F* GOD! LOOK -- I posted this same crap in May of 2008. i can't do this a anymore. it's been going on many more years than that. omg.

My Family Psychosis Debuts on Facebook

So a few months ago I started debating as whether or not to add people from my past to my Facebook account. Plowing further ahead, I added a few; however, somewhere in the process I ended up with three family members. First, there was my nephew -- easy add. Second, was Sister #1 -- ok, possibly easy enough to add. Third, and most recently, my belligerent niece requested an add -- um ... this might be trouble ... but ok I added her.

Now, Sister #1 has requested that I add Sister #2 to my Facebook and this is really eating at me. If Sister #2 wants to add me then why not just add me? Sister #2 is so not trustworthy. Anything she would see about me might be reported back to the parents. Sister #2 is not stable and does not live in reality. She is paranoid that people are watching her day and night. For her Facebook account, she spelled her first and last name differently and I believe this is more evidence of her psychosis -- to believe she must be in hiding. I noticed she also has two other Facebook accounts with different versions of her name.

She records phone calls and displays other paranoid behaviors as well. It kills me to see that. Honestly, it kills me that she lives like that. As if our family could not get any crazier she is living like that and Sister #1 is pulling me back into it for who knows why. God I feel so hopeless. I emailed Sister #1 and asked her about why Sister #2 has multiple accounts and she just responded that she "only knows about one Facebook account." That's all I get from her is one sentence. Sister #2 is psychotic and paranoid but Sister #1 won't see it. I could bear my soul to her and the best I could hope for would be one sentence ... but that is another story entirely.

Finito

I once had a Pachebel dream
Where though the night outside was cold
The table inside was set and warm

In our thick cabled sweaters
We gathered around glowing candles
While Canon In D was deep in our eyes

No need for hope, we had all we needed
Most certainly no ordinary people,
We were adagio and vivace

Now dissipated and diminished to silence,
The dream went away with the people
Who never really were to begin with

Just court notations and paper.

Passenger or Passengers

“There are no passengers on spaceship earth. We are all crew.”*

All the passengers in my head yell and scream. Rare is control. Struggling to get upright again before I am knocked back down. Crash, apply band-aid, repeat. I hate you. There are pills for you so I sleep on the couch. No one wants to help you. Damn bed. Sad bed. Horrific bed. Abandoned bed. Everyone is gone but you. You still stay.

* Will Shriner

PassageWays

If you had the right things to say
then would you say them?

If you had the right things to hear
then would you hear them?

If you had the right things to see
then would you see them?

If you had the right things to know
then would you know me?

Or would you take away any chance I have

to view myself
to hear myself

to see myself

and

to know myself ?

Passages

Around 3am I woke myself up with my yelling and then quickly scanned the couch for snakes. This hasn't happened for a while.

I've been spending allot of nights on the couch. When bedtime comes I suddenly seem short on time and long on things that have to be done immediately. I haven't been bothering with sleep meds either. Bed seems impossible so tricking myself into sleeping on the couch is my best bet. I try to lay down but my body shoots up as if it is tied to a string and I am just a passenger along for the ride.

Maybe I am.

Human Resources

11/09/2009 : 2PM

Placement Firm Manager (PFM): Your interview with "Company B" went well but they decided to go with a different skillset.
Me: Ok, thanks.

11/10/2009 : 10:15AM
PFM: Good news, "Company B" is interested in you for another position and would like to proceed with the next round of interviews after all."
Me: Great, thanks.

11/17/2009 : 1PM
PFM: Looks like you got positive reviews from everyone. "Company B" would like to bring you on as a direct hire and they'll let us know more this week.
Me: Wonderful, thanks.

11/17/2009 : 1:30PM
PFM: "Company B" has determined that they will already have the resources they need for this position so they are going to have to let you go but will contact us know should something open up in January.
Me: Let me go? I haven't been hired yet. They are messed up.
PFM: Yeah, makes us look as if we operate smoothly.
Me: Right ... thanks.

My Not-Last-Day At Work

Manager: Well, today is your last day, huh? I'd like to thank you for the help you have provided us during this difficult situation.

Me: You're welcome.

Manager: Actually, we'd like you to stay on a few more days to help us out if you can.

::: negotiations occur :::

Manager: Good, so now we have until 11/25. Go ahead and start looking over 'Project A' and I'll work on getting you some tasks for Monday.

Me: But I've been working on 'Project B,' it's far from ready, and I'm the only one with the expertise.

Manager: Yes, I know, but technically only the overseas folks can bill that project right now.

Me: So, you're keeping me for a project that is not mine and that you do not have any tasks for?

Manager: Correct. Have a good weekend!

When The Body Attacks Itself: Follow-Up

At first I was just really sleepy (and glad to have hope for sleep); however, when I awoke the next morning, I was hardly able to get out of bed. When I did arise, I had no detectable blood pressure and could not walk straight. After moving around some, I was finally able to get a blood pressure but was not ok for the rest of the day. As I mentioned last time, there has been arguing as to whether or not I should be taking certain prescriptions for the glands that are being destroyed by my immune system. I had decided to hold off and not make any sudden decisions. Unfortunately, I wasn't paying enough attentions when the homeopathic practitioner gave me FIVE different bottles of 'natural' remedies. Despite my knowledge that these chemicals are STILL drugs, I took them. All of them (as recommended). I was too ashamed to phone my regular MD so I phoned the homeopath. By that time my bp had already skyrocketed to stroke level and crashed again. Her solution is to start taking them slowly, one at a time, let my body adjust, and see if one causes an adverse reaction. Who knows what will happen. The bottom line is to be careful when taking anything -- FDA approval or not.

When The Body Attacks Itself

"Autoimmune disorders are diseases caused by the body producing an inappropriate immune response against its own tissues. Sometimes the immune system will cease to recognize one or more of the body’s normal constituents as “self” and will create antibodies that attack its own cells, tissues, and/or organs."
They argue as to what to do with me and try to force me to make decisions I know little about. The traditional doctors say to not take the medicine yet since there is some functioning in my glands and more medicine might worsen my heart and lungs; however, the homeopathic doctor says to take the medicine because this may help my glands and relieve the problems associated with my heart and lungs.

For now, I've decided to do neither. I am going to wait. Lab results show I am so off in so many areas that it is possible that some homeopathic medicines may help significantly but that they may be slow to assist as my heart condition worsens at a quicker pace. I am still going to wait.

The whole autoimmune problem actually makes perfect sense to me. I mean, for the majority of my life my body has been on high-alert and attacked. Also, when there was no outside source doing the attacking then I did plenty of it on my own. I've cut myself ... overdosed myself ... starved myself ... how could this body know any different? The big question is can it be re-taught to not attack itself and if so, then how?

I'd Like To Put Down My Gun Please

Insomnia is back. I haven't been able to make myself go to bed for weeks now. It is not as if I am not tired or sleepy but that I have to practically wrestle myself just to go to bed. I can't lie still. There have been times when I've managed to sneak around the issue by sleeping on the couch but this is not reliable enough. Last night I was up until 4:30am when I finally took myself to bed with my mp3 player -- headphones in ears. I was awoken a couple hours later by a cat chewing on them. I should have known better.

Today is another rare beautiful day and I was hoping to get out and enjoy it for a change but all I can seem to do thus far is cry. I've tried everything: psychotherapy, music, relaxation techniques, warm milk, mega-drugs. Nothing helps lately. For weeks this has been going on.

Selling Out Your Heroes

Today I sit at my desk stewing my blood pressure to greater heights as I listen to management around me dividing up my job duties amongst a list of overseas staff. Often, developers become so entrenched in their products that it becomes very personal. This particular project is personal to me. I put it's insides together, I molded it and I shaped it. It feels as if they may as well be dividing up one of my own cats. "Ok, who gets the thigh and who gets the leg?"

Heartless. It has all been heartless. Management had started pursuing me in March and despite working seventy hours a week under lousy circumstances, I turned them down three times before finally conceding to their alleged ideal working conditions and pay. A week into the job the company was acquired by a larger company (who was later acquired by an even larger company) and it was announced that all developer jobs will go to India. My job was going away.

Next Friday the thirteenth will be my last day. I am the only developer left and then there will be none. I do not have to say that now is not a good time to be unemployed but that is not what bothers me the most. What eats away at me is that they knowingly lied to lure me from a permanent job to one that would be gone. There is no doubt upper management knew my fate but proceeded anyway just to get a couple projects out the door a little faster.

So here I sit listening to them. With the profit they are making, they do not care. There are 50 developers in India that are replacing the six in this office alone. I can't imagine how that is possible. I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't met them on the phone. I've been patient and professional but, sitting here now ... my rage has not only sprouted but multiplied into a monster living in my chest.

I open up the command prompt and remember a developer who simply deleted his entire hard drive, picked up his stuff, and walked out the door. He had helped make this company from it's first day of existence and was devastated. I listen to the suits, then look at the blinking prompt waiting my next move ... I ponder ... then I debate some more ... but finally, I type 'exit' and the window closes. Picking up my backpack, I tell myself that I just won't come back -- leave their product hanging undone -- but I think of the customer and I know I won't.

Washed Underneath Into Cold

One minute here, a few hours later there. Wind causes a scraping sound, a numbness begins to settle within my eyes, the fog appears inside my head, I lose my breath as my chest begins to pound. Not a good year for pounding. I used to fight it, "no", I'd say, but I've been so tired with no sleep and everything becomes like a movie happening to someone else and at any time I will be pulled underneath the cold current and washed away to a place I do not remember so that I do not care. The smell of fresh damp soil and BANG a slow-motion movie playing in my head and bang I am somewhere else yet again.

I am not stupid. I am not completely psychotic. I am CoNSISTENt:

http://the-war-within.blogspot.com/2007/08/haunted-in-august.html

http://the-war-within.blogspot.com/2007/08/haunted-in-august-ii.html

http://the-war-within.blogspot.com/2007/08/haunted-in-august-iii.html

http://the-war-within.blogspot.com/2007/10/haunted-in-october.html

http://the-war-within.blogspot.com/2007/10/chase-run.html

http://the-war-within.blogspot.com/2009/10/haunted.html

Haunted

it appears each year - I look back on these posts
pervading darkness sweeping me away

lost
one minute here, next minute there
same danger
same dark
same cold
same soil
same terror


*"Can you tell me where I am
Won't you say something
I need to get my bearings
I'm lost
And the shadows keep on changing

I'm haunted
By the lives that I have loved
And actions I have hated
I'm haunted
By the lives that wove the web
Inside my haunted head"

*Poe

spewing rem

jaw & shoulders clenching
all hold buckled crackles
plaster starts to wrench
reluctant from it's wall

blood struggles, churns, and boils
pressurized beyond control
air imprisoned, clogged, and wheezing
reluctant hope falls

darkened doors open slightly
nightmares rake the spine and soul
milligrams beckon free is near
reluctant back to hell i crawl

Heros = Cons

Green Day - "21st Century Breakdown"

|

Disease Postmarked In The Mail: A Follow-Up

Today I phoned the office of my primary care physician (PCP) and informed them of the findings and the script for Synthroid. Though they were glad to know this information, there was a very firm response against having two PCP-type doctors writing scripts for me and it was made clear that I would have to choose one over the other.

One one hand, I firmly agree. Especially with me, there can't be different doctors writing scripts -- especially when they are in different networks so that they cannot view what the other is doing. But on the other hand, I do not understand why they can't work together. The finding by the homeopath's staff speaks for itself. I'd feel guilty NOT giving them my business.

The only way around this seems to be the fact that I don't actually see the MD who works the homeopathic office. Instead, I see someone who is a naturopath. I learned allot about naturopaths today, especially this one in particular.

Apparently, they cannot practice in the state of Missouri. I think the number of states they can get licensed in is something in the teens. This makes me very sad because it is obvious that this girl is very talented. She took my medical records from the past few years, found a discrepancy, followed up on it, and made a discovery that may completely change my life if treated. How can anyone ignore that or claim it is not credible? I can also tell that she has experienced allot of discrediting of her talent and has been discouraged. In any event, I can't just stop seeing her if it turns out that she radically improves the quality of my life. That would be more than any MD has done.

Disease Postmarked In The Mail

It is 1:30am. I cannot sleep. I did not sleep last night due to nightmares.

I went to psychiatrist today and he gave me a bag of pills as a remedy to my most recent problems. My memory loss / dissociation and depression are worse. Tired and having no desire to do anything on a beautiful day made it all the more depressing.

I cursed myself throughout the day wondering why i could not just make myself get up and go. I could have blamed the anti-biotics I suppose.

Then I discovered an envelope from the homeopathic doctor I had seen for the purpose of getting a more holistic view of my health situation. She had requested my records from my primary doctor and noted that in 2006 I had a somewhat elevated thyroid level that was never followed up on so she decided to follow up on it. I received the results in the mail late this afternoon. Something called my "thyroid peroxidase antibodies" are >1000 with <35 being normal and this is apparently indicative of Hashimoto's Hypothyroidism. I can't tell you what this means for me exactly since all I received was a note attached to a prescription for thyroid medication via the postal service.

I am so confused. My primary care doctor has been very good to me. I get blood tests done every six months. My health problems seemed to have started in 2006. They've only gotten worse. Who do I trust? My doctor who supposedly has been caring for me for years or a doctor who sends frightening diagnoses and drug scripts in the mail? I don't think there is anyone to trust anymore.

Fecal Debilification

My regular appointment today with the psych was very discouraging. Though not much of a liar, I probably should have at least withheld the truth. He's not a bad doctor by any means but the science of drugs is in their belief system and this is what they do.

Old emerging behaviors that had been previously extinguished seem to indicate that I'm not done well with my losses lately. I'm losing small chunks of time -- not remembering what I've been doing. I have flashbacks, nightmares, no appetite, and today is a beautiful day yet I don't want to go out. So, he hands me a bag of samples and shuttles me along my way.

I don't want to take anymore pills. I'm already on a medication roller coaster trying to control my heart and my lungs -- a problem that (in case I have NOT made clear) I believe is rooted in long-term effects of being in so many psych meds in the first place.

I think I've already been here before. In fact, I've probably blogged about it so perhaps I should just look at old posts. I don't know.

Bloody Throats and V-Codes

I'm up early today. Last night I was really sick and fell asleep on the couch. The pulmonologist forgot to phone in for some mouthwash that I was apparently supposed to use with the inhaler so that now it seems I have nasty thrush-stuff in my throat with a fever. It is a bloody ugly painful mess. I hate them all. They forget, they don't return calls, they are careless. And now I can't even use the inhaler without feeling chemical burn on my tongue and in my throat. I hate them all.

Last week I got a requisition with some diagnostic codes from the psychiatrist. One of them had the diagnosis for "Long term use of medications." I don't recall the code and don't feel like looking for it right now but maybe later. In essence, I'm going to that doctor to get pills that will help me cope from having taken pills. Here is the description from the DSM (which apparently few doctor's read):

"Substances can produce most of the psychopathology known to humankind. ...this may include delirium, memory impairment, mood disturbance, anxiety, sleep disorders ... Perhaps the most common of these are dissociative symptoms of depersonalization and derealization..."

I hate them.

Getting Paid To Be Sick - A De-Evolutionary Idea In Healthcare

While discussing a former employer, an older fellow explained to me how healthcare was handled "back in the day":

"All the employees put money in a jar for the doctor to come around and see them regularly. If an employee was sick, then THAT employee did NOT have to put money in the jar. The doctors were paid to keep us healthy. You see, today doctors, etc., are only paid when we are sick. They are not paid when we are healthy. Somehow we have went backwards and this is the problem with healthcare."

Prerogative Of The Brave*

"A coward is incapable of exhibiting love"*

You leach upon my existence so that you may avoid your own.
You tether me to you in the hope that you will go where I may
(without paying the toll.)

OR

You turn quickly away to avoid any reflection of yourself.
You panic and throw hate at me to avoid your unrealistic shame.

Either way, I pick you off and toss you down.

* Mahatma Gandhi

Unfounded Mysteries & Lost Chances (Or PsychoTherapy)

"They tell you where you need to go
They tell you when you'll need to leave
They tell you what you need to know
They tell you who you need to be

But everything inside you knows
There's more than what you've heard
There's so much more than empty conversations
Filled with empty words
Burning at these mysteries

Give me one more time around
Give me one more chance to see
Give me everything You are
Give me one more chance to be... (near You)

Cause everything inside me looks like
Everything I hate
You are the hope I have for change
You are the only chance I'll take

I'm standing on the edge of me
I'm standing on the edge of everything I've never been before.
And i've been standing on the edge of me
Standing on the edge"

I'm Not Going To Eat Ham Either

I'm trying not to panic over the swine ... um, I mean, the H1N1 flu. It's just a flu, right? It's breaking out around here. Someone in our corporate office has it and a lady was coughing all over my desk today. It terrifies me. I bought Airbourne, Germ-gel, and am trying to find someone to sanitize my house. I know I sound like a germ-a-phobe but I can't bear to be sick from ANY OTHER thing.

I'm vulnerable now. Last week I had to get a pneumonia and a flu shot. I'm waiting for the vaccine and fear I won't be able to get it. I fear going to the drug-store, the grocery store, and generally think I should stay away from the public as much as possible. I notice things I've never noticed before; like, using my wet hands to turn the garbage disposal on and off or eating a taco with my hands in a restaurant. I have regular appointments with my doctor to monitor my condition but I'm going to try and phone in as much as possible. Horrible.

The Speed of Nothing

I want to slow down. No time to eat. No time for groceries. No time to fold laundry. Bills unpaid. No time to clean house. Living by the seat of my pants. That's what I do. I have nothing external that sucks away my time. I don't have a million meetings to attend. I don't have soccer games to go to. I'm not even putting extra hours in at work. Muscles clenched, jaw aching, my temper on a razor blade I can't find to stop this chaos. I just can't slow down my mind enough to focus on a goddamn thing.

The Jagged Loss of My Time

Half a day here then the rest of another day later I am baffled and confused. Oddly enough, I used to deal with it better when the loss of time was longer - like weeks or months. It wasn't such a problem then.

Survival mode kicking in, I picked up and kept on moving ahead. It's probably somewhere between the discouragement that bothers me now and the fear that I will slip back to missing months that puts me on edge.

They tell me it's just the Metoprolol. Oh m*f* God, could I just STOP having a reason to blog over Metoprolol? Does it even f*cking matter WHY it happens but that it just happens is reason enough?

I DON'T WANT TO HEAR FROM PEOPLE I DON'T KNOW REGARDING STUFF I DO NOT REMEMBER. I DON'T WANT TO BE EMBARRASSED WHEN SOMEONE THAT I DO KNOW ASKS ME ABOUT SOME ACT I COMMITTED BUT DO NOT REMEMBER.

I'm past it. ... I WAS PAST IT.

My Facebook Voyeurism

For months now I've been snooping around on Facebook to get a glance at people I knew "back when." I purposely have not added my maiden name or high school affiliation to my own Facebook account so that no one can easily find me.

I've gone out, looked up someone then clicked each of their friends to see who they are friends with, and from there I've worked myself around the tree.

At some point I came across a couple of people from my high school and became interested in adding them to my friends list but I haven't been able to follow through. In fact, it's become somewhat of a bizarre rut.

During some of my most loneliest nights when I can't sleep, I've logged onto Facebook only to sit staring for hours at the "Add as Friend" button for these people.

Should I click it? I weigh the pros and cons. What about the time this person was mean to me in seventh grade? What if this person has evolved into a more mature person? After all, some of us do grow up. But, do i want people to know that I have no family or home to show for my life? Will they criticize my hair or clothes like back in the day? The endless debate continues and I drag myself back to bed.

Swallowing Arsenic

Since traditional western medicine has failed to relieve my heart troubles, I go to see a doctor who specializes in homeopathic / alternative medicine. I refuse to have my ear candled or wear a magic crystal but since I don't really have much to lose at this point, I try to keep an open mind.

They ask 45-minutes worth of questions ranging from early childhood to what types of food do I crave and do I keep my belongings in order. God, I cannot even imagine my primary care physician asking me how satisfied I am with my sock drawer.

Oh, they also feel-up my ankles. Everyone wants to feel my ankles. I now have nightmares about people feeling my ankles so that if they ever do swell I will no doubt combust in a second.

In any event, by the time I am through they take six tubes of blood and this (due to my Metoprolol-pressurized blood) takes another thirty minutes.

We make all sorts of deals along the way. If I pay $129 then the $1000 food-sensitivity test will be covered even if my insurance denies it. If I pay $59 then the $250 test will be covered if my insurance denies it. I will have to pay $142 for the third test regardless. Likewise, please pay $8 to dissolve four pills of arsenicum album under my tongue twice daily.

Otherwise, we will have to wait for test results to determine if I am within reason of a reversal of symptoms. There is not much I can say about that. My decline has plateaued but I cannot wait until the next down to take action. The Metoprolol may help my heart but is eating away what little personality and psyche I have left.

Foundation : Gone.

daughter:
i can hear myself;
i'm somewhere in
there..

mother:
nobody's
home...nobody's
home....

s'en allait tout simplement
routier pauvre et chantant
en tous chemins, en tous lieux
il ne parle que du bon dieu
il ne parle que du bon dieu*


There was a hole in the floor and my foot went right through it. I had not noticed that for some time now the foundation of the house I live in is missing. There are wooden frames, some wire mesh, but no foundation and most certainly nothing reliable to stand upon. I suspect the disappearance began around the time of my divorce and the thievery has continued in the form of my health decline and crawls on knocking out any others in it's path.

Now, I see cracks around the floorboard, cracks in the cement patio, a leak above the non-working fireplace. Cracks ... as if the rest of the house will fall as well.

*http://www.poe.org

Coughing A Sigh Of Relief

Asthma - mostly of the exercise-induced variety. That seems to be what I have. No congestive heart failure appears to be on the horizon. After three months of worrying how I will be able to take care of myself in the event that I drown slowly in my own bodily fluids, I am glad to have asthma.

After today's pulmonary stress functioning test, I collapsed into a fit of coughing and wheezing resulting in another breathing treatment. My little heart had tugged along well despite the undertow of increased Metoprolol and was not deemed as culprit of my bronchospasms.

Today, and maybe tomorrow too ... maybe even the next day ... , I won't complain about the problems I endured in the medical system these past three months. I will probably get to it soon enough. But, for today, I'm going to bed in hopes of a good sleep. My face looks kind of like this -- :D

I Want The Sunshine

"Sunshine, won't you be my mother
Sunshine, come and help me sing
My heart is darker than these oceans
My heart is broken underneath"

It's been almost two months since the bicycle exercise that sent me into that familiar fit of coughing accompanied by a metallic taste of blood. Supposedly, it is probably just exercise-induced asthma but now the coughing finds new ways to appear. I've been waiting two months for the test that would allegedly allow me to be treated properly.

No one notices me lying on the ER bed that has been triaged into the pale hallway. The air-conditioner is cranking out freezing air and this instigates another fit of coughing. When the heart monitor begins to sound it's alarm again, I notice my blood pressure of 150/100 and heart rate of 136.

I was just supposed to get another EKG and then go home. I can't do this anymore. For the past three years, I've had declining health with no explanations. Panic ensues followed by hyperventilation as they give me a shot of Ativan and begin a breathing treatment. After three tries, they finally get my arterial blood gas and I again get the "look" I don't like. Apparently, patients with asthma do not have 110% oxygen in their blood -- especially after an asthma attack. I want to know what is happening to my body. It hasn't even quite hit middle age yet.

Batteries Not Included

"All I want to know is a God-damned thing
Not what's in the medicine.
All I want to do is I want to BREATHE
But batteries not included"

Lying in bed at night, I hold my index finger on my radial artery to make sure that my heart is still beating. Sometimes, my blood pressure gets so low at night, I worry that my heart will stop beating in my sleep and that no one will find me for days. Unless it is a work day, no one would notice. Even if it is a work day, then who would my employer phone? The cats would be stuck with my corpse for who knows how long. These are my thoughts in the night as I fear that their pills that are suppose to keep my tachycardic heart safe from out-of-control rising blood pressure will -- instead -- stop it completely. I've tried to tell them that my heart does not always race. Instead, sometimes stalls ... but they give me the look I fear, check my ankles, and have no advice.

9/11: Always Honor, Never Forget

Green Day + NRDC: The Clean Energy Revolution

An Obama Witch-Hunt For Fascism

Tired of hearing the continual assaults on President Barack Obama, I've concluded that many Americans are on a witch hunt for fascism. I’m not trying to be pro- or anti- Obama, but everything is being taken out of context. A health care proposal has been turned into a death panel. A speech to encourage children to stay in school is being touted as 'communist' and 'brainwashing'. What is the real problem here?

Red alert is the color of panic
Elevated to the point of static
Beating into the hearts of the fanatics
And the neighborhood's a loaded gun
Idle thought leads to full-throttle screaming
And the welfare is asphyxiating
Mass confusion is all the new rage
And it's creating a feeding ground
For the bottom feeders of hysteria

The Music In My Life: Part IX -- Conclusion

Unable to view my psyche as able to tolerate the life of a professional musician, I did not graduate with music as my major. I am either a musician or not. A university may give me a piece of paper reading that I can teach or perform but it can never teach me to play. My rival does well teaching band at a small high school a few hours away and Nike-guy has disappeared completely.

Regarding myself, I continued to perform in small bands on and off campus and kept playing sporadically until at least five years ago or so ... about the time my marriage started really falling apart … but … music has never left me. I believe it was in me before I was born. It is not a past-time for me but; instead, it IS me. Not a day passes without an MP3 player in my pocket. I do not listen to Johnny Cash or René Joly but Green :Day is almost every day that I am able.

I cannot express the profound effect that music can have on me. Lately, just thinking of a 21st Century Breakdown lyric pushes me to tears because it is so reflective of myself that I cannot tolerate it.

I have wondered if my father realizes the irony of keeping me in that prison with his music but buying me the saxophone that I used to escape.

Likewise, as far as my saxophone goes, I’ll say that it has been located, dusted off, and the mouthpiece sits in disinfectant as I type.

The Music In My Life: Part VIII

She calls me after-hours: “What the hell is going on with you? You need to get down here RIGHT NOW.”

When I arrive, she is livid. The dean has somehow found out about the post-concert suicide pact. My assigned counselor and I had already been through similar scenarios with the dean and promised that such situations would no longer occur. “It is a public-relations nightmare -- not to mention the effect it would have on other students.”

I do what is right -- I lie. “Yes-mam’s and No-mam’s” tumble out of my mouth automatically without thought. After finding out what she sent me “home” to after my last forced “time off,” the dean's reluctance and remorse trickle slightly outward. I'd forgotten the risk she had taken when allowing me back. Most students either hate or fear our dean. I hated her also at one point ... but now I am filled with respect and awe at the steel demeanor of her exterior since I know she is secretly kind inside.

That evening, in the dimly lit auditorium, the final concert seems flawless and leaves me, for a moment, not with the heaviness I had dreaded, but with a familiar tingle down my spine. I later run back to my dorm, secretly vomit in the empty restrooms, and dive into bed. Visions of the dean standing on the bridge barge through my mind as I debate what to do with myself. Damp palms and a cramping stomach cause me to succumb to fetal position. I recall David Helfgott. I slip into a depression and sleep throughout most of the next week. I have to figure out a way to keep my music as MY music -- not something that can be taken away again.

The Music In My Life: Part VII

It kills me to hear “Kurt Cobain-with-Nikes” play MY soprano solos. I’m humiliated to be in the clarinet section. I suspect others see it in my eyes. I’ve taken on a number of students for private saxophone instruction and now the university is sending me clarinet referrals as well. When we go on tour, I am to teach master classes for the alto clarinet – NOT saxophone.


The whole scenario would not be so bad if the new guy weren’t so good. He’s had the best education, knows much more than the proper name of notes, has the maestro as his father … nagging insecurities scratch at my stomach as I remember the small illiterate town where I am from. Berlioz on a saxophone – what was I thinking?


Despite my bitterness and shame, René Joly’s creation of “The Lord of The Rings” sweeps me away to another world and I forget all else. “Sweep” is not even the right word. I am engulfed, consumed, submerged, and soon nothing else exists. The whole work probably lasts just a little over an hour but it seems much longer. Easily, I am lost in what solos I have and though the sax solos are not mine, I feel them in my being as if they were.

It is now to the point that there is nothing else that exists in this world and I do not know what I will do when this tour is over and we no longer perform this piece. It has become who I am, what I live for, and the desperation of losing it drives me to craziness. What I will do with myself once we finish performing this? I cannot live without this music so the solution seems clear. When we arrive home and perform our final concert, I will take the whole lot of the pills the Indian doctor gives me, go downtown to the bridge, and jump into the Mississippi.

I Fray

Belongings are getting out of control again. They are beginning to take over my environment. My mind is frayed so that I can’t seem to focus on these things for very long. I start but do not finish. I end up doing something else and I do not know how it happened or what I am doing. I am only one person. There may be different parts of my mind but there is only one body here and it can only do so many things at once. I already have enough things to try and keep order of so how can I possibly order my environment? Am I dying or am I not dying and how may times does a person have to arrive at this point in a lifetime?

I’ve started to throw things away again. If I don’t know what to do with some clothes or books then out they go to the trash. Goodwill or used book store? No – there is no time for that. These things have to go NOW because I can’t control them. So the cleansing begins. Trash.

Bills pile, financial matters waiting to be attended to. The hospital is threatening to send me to debt collection again. I fray.

I do not know what to do. There are so many things that I should be concerned about but I am not. Bills, finding a job, managing my dwindling money – these things I just let slide away. I try to feed myself, I try to rest myself, I try to bathe myself, I try to monitor my blood pressure, I try not to cough, I try to care for the cats, I try to make it to work and back each day as I wait.

The Music In My Life: Part VI

He is very tall with long stringy blonde hair and rises up from the pair of neon yellow Agassi shoes that I have been coveting for weeks at the mall (they only come in men’s so I can't get a pair.) The group around him seems to know him but since I do not, I weave through and into the practice room.

We are to start practice on René Joly's “Lord of The Rings” today and I am excited. Since I am currently lead, I will get the soprano sax solo representing Smeagol. My first solo on soprano, I will be the one wailing that dreadful cry by smearing two eerie octaves into one long dissonant descent created by my very own embouchure.

My diva-dreams are interrupted when Nike-guy slides himself into the chair where my rival has usually perched himself and honors me with an introduction. It turns out that this is our fine conductor's eldest from which rumors of being suspended from (famous school) for cocaine use had already predicated.

It only takes a week before I am back on second part. I would not worry so much but there are only two alto parts in the ensemble and my rival will be eligible to challenge me in just a couple of weeks. Also, I know that the clarinet section is hurting for an alto clarinet player and I had already been filling in during quartet practices so chances of the maestro moving me down to clarinet are rising.

The Music In My Life: Part V

They keep throwing threats at me to either participate in marching band (MB) but just the thought of putting on another thick, hot marching uniform crammed between tubas and clarinets annihilates my stomach contents. In high school, it was either march or don’t play music at all. I cannot continue to have my music threatened by some administration’s desperate need for bodies to support whatever cause the band is marching for.

Never will I be able to rid my ears of the maniacal voice of my high school music director. A loud whistle would slice through all instruments and would conclude with his voice “STOP – STOP - STOP!” I knew what would follow:

“G*DDAMMIT (MY LAST NAME)!!! WHAT ARE WE GOING TO HAVE TO DO TO TEACH YOU HOW TO TIE YOUR SHOES?!? HOW OLD ARE YOU!?! EVERYONE – LET’S STOP WHILE WE WAIT FOR (MY LAST NAME) TO GET HER DAMN SHOES TIED – AGAIN!”

I don’t know why I could never keep them tied. To this day, I still cannot. It seems as if they are controlled by a force beyond my control and that I have too many other things to keep track of.

Almost as bad, were those trips on that lousy bus that reeked of a mixture of locker room and cheap perfume. Since our town was so small, there was no such thing as band geeks. Since most of the members were extraverted jocks and cheerleaders, what few geeks there were ran in the other direction. I hated sitting in that bus – the only person occupying a seat to herself. I quietly endured the periodic harassment, prayed for my escape, and wondered why could they not just let me play how I want?

During my junior year I was ranked first in the state and was to provide lead saxophone in a state-wide honors band that would open opportunities for me but the school would not promote an activity for just me. Instead, they spent their money on the girls’ volleyball team by sending them to watch state finals after they had failed to place locally. They had rather spend their money on a whole group of losers than one winner.

Anyway, the most amazing discovery I’ve made since arriving on campus has been the realization that I DON’T HAVE to go to “their dance” or “their party” and I most certainly do not have to go their “band trip.”

The Music In My Life: Part IV

Through his wiry moustache and beard, the aural skills instructor asks us to start at the eighth note in the ninth measure. Measures I can count but I have to lean over to the girl next to me to ask which one is the eighth note. She looks at me as if I am insane and asks how do I play if I cannot read music? I ask her how our instructor can play the flute with so much facial hair.

Of course I can read music. Though I can usually sense how each note fits in with the others by its appearance; I cannot call upon them by proper name. My memory fails me. Proper names seem silly. I wonder if it has to do with the fact that I've had my nose pushed into a hymnal from age week one. I always ended up staring intensely, week after week, at all those little dancing decorative notations while silently moving my lips along with the rhythmic lines.

It seems something about the music has embedded itself into my being. Perhaps this is why I do not play jazz well since such notes are those of interpretation and do not fit together in a tidy mathematical sensory pattern. I HAVE to have a pattern.

Despite my ignorance, I do find the music theory classes to be interesting. The endless practicing, rehearsing, and competition to maintain my first chair in symphonic ensemble is much more stressful than I’d anticipated. One of the other sax players resents me since I am a freshman – especially since I have not yet declared music as my major. Every chance he gets, he files a challenge to topple my status. Continuing to choose French pieces filled with … the fast notes … he never realizes that these pieces are my strength. Though the notes are smashed together in very small measures, my fingers feed and float around such pieces. If he would choose a piece with frequent time changes and strange notes then my mind would overpower my fingers and he would undoubtedly topple me over but I do not tell him this. His antagonism drives me further into my quest to not only catch-up on but master all of these new intriguing concepts.

My typical schedule starts at 9am in the music building and ends around 11pm in the same building. I am assigned protégée to a recovering alcoholic but brilliant woodwind professor for private tutelage. Week after week, we sit in his small office. The smell of his stale tobacco accompanies us as he drives me to break all of the “bad” habits that I had acquired through my own learning. I am both offended to have MY territory; MY music threatened but, at the same time, I am challenged to leap through any hoop he asks me to jump through. Periodically, he re-hashes the story of my initial Berlioz audition and it gives him a chuckle. I never see any sign of the raging temper reported by his other pupils and instead become attached to the old man.

Unfortunately, or not, I sense that all this will have to come to an end.

The Music In My Life: Part III

I first hear Hector Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique while watching 'Sleeping With The Enemy.' For some reason, I find the dark, forceful melodies vacillating with a dreadful torment and sadness oddly familiar so I mostly extract portions from movements one and five into one piece while assuring that all my strengths are touched upon. This is what I use for my audition with the university.

It seems that I perform it ok but I am met with silence from the three bearded and disheveled professors who sit before me. This committee asks me where I had found this piece? Lying, I tell them that I had heard on the radio. I do not know why I lied but it slipped out too quickly for me and I could not reel it back in.

They ask to see my manuscript and I explain to them that the music is in my head. They appear confused and ask me to sight-read more material. I begin to worry that I should have used the plain sheet music my high school band director had given me but I seem to read the unfamiliar notes fairly well. They thank me, respond that the audition is over, and I am free to leave.

The Music In My Life - Part II

A dark brown swirl of hair swirls around her head like nothing I've ever seen. The raspy smoker's voice and non-conventional slacks made the band director stand out in our rural, factory-abandoned, and fundamentalist town.

Anyone in the fifth grade has the option of signing up for beginner's band. I have already been playing my neighbor's alto sax & hope that I will be selected for the one sax position available. Almost everyone who has signed up for beginning band wants to play the sax. It seems unfair that only one person will be chosen. Why can't everyone play the sax if they want?

Regardless, I want it very badly. I had been able to improvise tunes since the first time I picked it up, cannot get feel of the pearly keys out of my fingertips, and frequently daydream about it during class. Finally, the director says that she sees something in me that is different from the others. I feel lucky because any other teacher might have picked one of the brighter students.

The smallest in my class, the sax probably weighs more than I and takes both hands to carry in the large black case. My stomach starts to ache every day before the 3pm school bell when I fear that no one will be in the parking lot to take me home but I'm proud to have it and drag it all the way home if I have to. We were all given" practice cards" for the required 30-minute-daily practice routine but I usually practice AT LEAST an hour. I can't say exactly why I am so driven to play except there seems to be some instinctual drive that overpowers me.


I won't go into the trials I endure to eventually get to the level of playing I achieve by the time I finish high school but the effort pays off. Though class Salutatorian, my grades are barely above mediocre for college. However, thanks to my musical achievements, I am offered multiple full scholarships as well as an audition to Julliard.

In sum, it feels as if I raped the music that had participated in the rape of my own life, left shit-town, and never returned to stay. I do not know where I will go from here though.

The Music In My Life: Part I

Our cheap laminate floors were always hard and cold in the winter. I walked down the hallway one day soon after Christmas when suddenly there was a commotion and my parents rushed me out of the room – instructing me to go to my bedroom and close my eyes. Supposedly, “Santa” was visiting yet again because he had forgotten one of my presents. Excited, I ran to the bedroom, covered my eyes, and used all my wits to NOT look out the bedroom window in hopes of catching a glimpse of Santa. Minutes later, I was told that Santa had left and that I could come and get my present.

A large package was wrapped and sitting on the couch just for me. My tiny hands eagerly unwrapped it to discover a real record player with denim covering. It was the type that played the black records that my sisters listened to. I already had a “record player” that played “special” records. They were plastic, much prettier, and I liked to run my fingers around the edges. The music from those records was much better than those of my sisters but it seemed to be such a big event for me to have one that I got caught up in the excitements.

Soon after, my father called me into the dining room to play the record player. I crawled up into the big chair as his large rough hands began to load some records onto the player. The one I remember most was Johnny Cash’s “Cry, Cry, Cry.” It was carefully explained to me that if I were to tell anyone about the stuff going on in the house then I would end up all alone. I would have no father, no mother, and no sisters. It would be me who would be the one to “cry, cry, cry.”

My sisters must not have known the real meaning of that song because they played it quite a bit and tended to tease me because it made me cry so hard. My parents got so aggravated that they would scold them to stop.

I wish so much that I could express how that musical threat branded itself into every ounce of my being and dominated my every action. Music has played such an intricate role in my life, threading in and out through most aspects of my being. There are no words. He knew a most sensitive place to strike and used that to his advantage. I never told anyone.

Twelve Hours

10am: It's hard to believe that the crunch of an apple could be so loud; or, even the quiet guy on the phone who sits all the way across the large loft office. My nerves scream in pain so I poke in my earbuds and crank up The Mozart Sessions in the hopes that the 55 beats-per-minute will prevent me from screaming.

2pm: God, I think I'm going to be sick. A tremor starts in my hands so I head to the restroom. Sickness. Vile sickness. Water cooler, food, unwashed coffee mug? My heart races so I take a Metoprolol and an Immodium.

6pm: I can't believe I just raised my fist to one of the cats. Just a raised fist -- but still. I'm so stressed that I can't stop shaking and my stomach makes noises as it churns. I try to sit with the cats to give them one-on-one time and make up for my crankiness.

7pm: Now that the cats have my attention, they want nothing from me so I decide to finish my WordPress theme. PHP is frustrating enough as it is and now the cats are back jumping on me. I refresh the page after an FTP only to see a the white-screen-of-death. Starting to panic, I hastily search for my backups only to find that they are gone.

8pm: There is a crashing in my head. First, the remote flies across the room and shatters along with other items off the mantle. Within seconds, anything that I can get my hands on goes sailing. I end up in the garage to protect the cats from myself and attempt to slice tennis balls from the ball hopper but with my bad throw I miss and this makes me more angry. As I continue along my path of destruction it hits me: HALF. Three days ago, Dr. cut the Nortriptyline in HALF. I knew something wasn't right about that -- NO ONE CAN EVER cut my medicines in HALF at one time.

9pm Realizing not only the medical foolishness but my own for having NOT prevented it I begin to curse god. I call God names I've never called anyone. I think back to the community mental health center where it all began - where they all started pushing drugs down my throat. If only they had LISTENED TO ME. WHY DIDN'T ANYONE LISTEN INSTEAD OF STUFFING PILLS DOWN MY THROAT?!?

10pm: I re-enter the house and view the remnants of my destruction with the cats are purring(?) for food. I feed them and take a WHOLE dose of the pills.

Post-PharmaceuticaloShock-Trauma-Syndrome

sunday school teacher
community girl scout leader
she kept me locked away
beaten, used, and bruised

respected dutiful police officer
honorable city alderman
he kept me numb and bound
no noise hit the ground

i was crazy
they were not
drugged and locked away
is what they sought and bought

now i'm here and they are old
i am evil is what they told
broken body, broken mind
soul is dead, everyone is blind

BEFORE THE LOBOTOMY (LIVE)

Divorce Takes Health Toll

The Person In Back

" ... every so often, I have lifted my head from a page and have seen a familiar face at the back of a crowd. I know who she is yet I am always surprised to see her. Often, she has opened her mouth to speak but for decades she was too far away to be heard, and besides, as soon as I became aware of her presence, I would avert my gaze and pretend I hadn't seen her.

The day came when I finished the final draft of my final book. I knew what was coming. The pen slipped from my hand and I closed my eyes. 'So’, I heard her say, or perhaps it was me, 'its just the two of us now.' I argued with her for a bit. 'It will never work, it was too long ago, I was only a child, I've forgotten.’

‘But I haven’t forgotten,’ she says. ‘Remember when … ‘

‘ ... Even I know the inevitable when I see it. I do remember’ " *

Setterfield, Diane. The Thirteenth Tale. New York: Washington Square Press, 2006.

Do you know what is worth fighting for when it's not worth dying for?

Well -- How do you know what's worth dying for?
...or is there even a difference?

Sweatshops And Health Insurance

In the past few months, I've had one sick day. Since that day, I have received an e-mail or phone call from my firm discouraging this behavior.

Since then, I've made a point of scheduling any medical appointments at early morning or lunch times so that work will not be missed.

This morning, I went to the doctor and was told that I have a mass in my chest. This is most likely a cyst since those run in my biological family but given the recent pulmonary and cardiovascular problems I've had, though not in high distress, I have been concerned.

However, this afternoon I get ANOTHER e-mail from my employer reading to have no sick days "unless I am on death's door." I find out that something is growing in my chest and then I have to come in to this behavior. I have tests scheduled early on two different days later this week. I do not know what I am to do.

It is obvious that I have to go have these tests but I am so very incredibly offended at the inappropriate remarks and harassing behavior that I have to put up with.

This is the SECOND company I have been with that has asked their employees to NOT take sick days and/or NOT go to see a doctor. If they are not going to let employees use the benefits, then they should not offer them and ship the damn jobs overseas to begin with.

Last week, I found out that my previous employer is having all employees pay out-of-pocket for their health insurance on unpaid days that they miss. Given certain circumstance, I might almost understand this but let me give you a typical scenario. This company requires that their staff work 60 - 80 salaried hours a week, requests that they do not go to the doctor, and gives their employees a high-deductible-health-plan.

For example, my friend who works there has a $6,000 deductible and has already spent a couple of weeks in a cardiovascular hospital this year. This same person will need to take maternity leave soon, which means, that ALL medical expenses will have to be personally covered. These technology companies are running sweat-shops by creating hazardous working environments in addition to making constant threats that if ridiculous conditions are not met then jobs will be sent overseas.

I'm completely appalled. It is not as if I can go to my employer and say "... remember that condition about being 'at death's door'? ... well, that might be where I'm at." If I were to say that then I guarantee you they will find some way to get me unemployed. Heartless.

I may as well be living in a Dicken's novel instead of modern America.