My So Called Anxiety December 4, 2009

I am doing a smidge of research tonight, mostly about Asperger’s.  I am hoping that if I can better understand my nephew maybe I can be a productive, proactive part of his life instead of someone who wants to scream at him, which is what I want to do now.

Diagnostic Criteria is a blast but there seems to be a lot of documentation on the lack of differences between the symptoms HFA, Autism in general and Asperger’s.  So I skip the deep research for now, this is not what I’m after anyway.

Comorbidity is what I’m really after, neurologically and psychologically.  I can’t find much about anxiety on it’s own but the occurrence of bipolar in people and relatives of people who meet the diagnostic criteria for a PDD is, more often than not, higher than in the normal population.  Interesting and not shocking.  It dawns on me that I don’t know anything about the rates of comorbidity between anxiety and bipolar disorder.  Trying to  look that up just gives me the symptom run around.  Data is telling me that most people who are bipolar have anxiety disorders but whether the anxiety is it’s own disorder or a symptom of the bipolar is up for grabs.  Thanks for nothing.

My last doctor was the first person who brought up my adult brain’s possible preoccupation with What If.  I don’t recall giving him any specific examples, but of course I wouldn’t have since I didn’t realize it was a problem.  At first, he just told me he was concerned about it.  At no point after that (January 2007) did I ask any questions or do any research on it. There is a brief spell of medication research while I sift through a list of possible additions to my cocktail of Could This Make Me Look Any Fucking Crazier*. The two I researched the most were topiramate and gabapentin.  They are highly effective treatments for the prevention of headaches (and the ones I have I think may kill me one day) and are prescribed off-label for bipolar disorder and off-off-label for anxiety and off-off-off label for depression.  He also includes fluoxetine, sertraline, paroxetine and even my final choice, clonazepam.
I notice that everything on the list he has given me is used in the treatment of anxiety.

“Hmmm, ” I say to my retarded self. “I wonder if that’s a coincidence?”

I still didn’t discuss it any further with him, but I didn’t have to because my next appointment was an emergency of sorts wherein I was in a constant state of worry over what would happen when I reached peak dosage at my current medication.  This turned into anxiety about anxiety.

“Maybe I should try minimizing the aggravating effects, like work and relationships.  I think I need a less stressful job, but what job isn’t stressful? Perhaps I should quit my job and move into a cave and sleep all day, everyday.  Why am I so worried about medication?  Does that mean it’s already not working?” Pretty soon I am cleaning the kitchen floor with a tooth brush, singing, pacing and sewing for 10 hours straight while listening to the radio and watching tv.  At night I am consuming mass quantities of Spanish red wine.

I think you see where this is going.  I have my appointment with him and refuse any new drugs and instead up my dose of lamotrigine.  I realize now that he wanted me to take additional medication to treat the anxiety.  At the time I thought it didn’t make sense to add more drugs to treat bipolar.  I go home and do well with the dose increase.  Things are fine until this same thing plays itself out again and again. Finally it gets so severe, so quickly that I don’t have time to do the appointment dance and I have to call his nurse.  It takes them approx. 1 nanosecond to prescribe a highly potent anxiolytic benzodiazepine.  I do a quick read through of it’s side effects, drowsiness, short-term memory loss, dizziness, lack of motivation, liver damage, incontinence, loss of libido.  Whatever. Is one of the side effects death? No? I’ll take it.

It works like a fucking charm.

* In treating mental illness it is not uncommon to take one drug that treats two different issues.

Baker Street November 21, 2009

In this dream I am running across a field of tall dried grass followed by my father and my friend, Dave.  We’re trying to make our way to something which lies just across McLaughlin, a boulevard in Portland but in the true spirit of dreams I am in Florida, or maybe Iowa.
Past the boulevard I can see a ghost town with a pool and spa store.  The roads are dusty and wide, and no cars or horses line them.

My father does not look like he did when he died but he is the pre-Depakote skinny dad. He seems to be much more anxious about this situation than I.  I believe we are trying to straighten something out with someone and that we need to get to the Real Bad Guys before the Kind Of Bad Guys do.  These Kind Of Bad Guys, they don’t understand the gravity of it all and they are screwing around with our lives.

We are running through the empty buildings, up staircases and jumping on roofs. Eventually we find what we are looking for in a room with a large above ground pool and  a rubber ducky the size of a human.  The Bad Guys are here, waiting for my fathers breathless explanation.  They are Italian or Albanian and smirking at us while they listen.  I realize, although my father does not, that we are not in any real danger.  They were only trying to teach us a lesson.  I think Dave knew all along.

An Angry Spanish Peacock October 15, 2009

Today I tempted the mercy of the universe by thinking about how long it had been since I’ve had a headache.  I thought that maybe I would mention it out loud to someone but stopped myself.  I thought that if the universe thought I didn’t notice it creeping up on me that maybe it would change it’s mind.
Nothing irritates me more than having a headache and I have one right now.   I have been attempting to feed it into submission but it is quite resistant.  It does not like Peanut Butter Crunch as much as I do.

I am at home, in my room trying to relax.  I am having some coffee in hopes that it will help, I may try to take an allergy pill just to see.

I give up! WHAT DO YOU WANT?

My bedroom door is open because there is homework being done in the living room which requires periodic help.  It’s open because I don’t want anyone to not come in.  Not one single person in this house would be stopped by a closed door but that’s besides the point.

Through this open door I can hear the homework process complete with running dialogue.

“This doesn’t make any sense.”
“How can this be?”
“Oh, 2, 4, 6, 8…16?”

There’s this occasional sound effect that usually follows a period of silence.  I think this would be similar to the sound an agitated Peacock would make if it was working on Algebra in Spain.

Old Letter July 31, 2009

I think this is long enough on it’s own that I’ll have to make my comments on it elsewhere.  The only thing I absolutly must say is that my life would have been so much different if my mother felt this way, or at least said she felt this way.  When I feel like shit, reading this helps.  That and the names have been changed to protect the blah blah blah.

Sometimes I’m better at putting my thoughts down on paper rather than saying them out loud…so I   thought I’d write you this letter to tell you some things I’ve been wanting to say… but can’t seem to find the right words or exactly the right time to say them.

I’m not sure exactly where to begin—so I guess I’ll just start at the very beginning!! I remember when you were born very clearly, even though I was only about eight years old at the time. Dad took me and Sister #2 (who was only 6) to the hospital to see you when you were first born. He was absolutely tickled and beaming… He had a perpetual smile on his face. I remember standing there with him in the hospital, staring down at you laying in the little glass hospital baby bed… all wrapped up in your baby blankets, as pretty a baby that ever was. I think I even got to hold you… It was terribly exciting and we just fell in love with you the minute we saw you.

When you were first born, the three of you lived in the house in Pontiac that had belonged to Aunt and Uncle, and Sister #2 and I visited frequently for that first summer (summer of 1981, I think). It was the one time in my childhood, other than when I lived with you in Chicago, that I saw Dad semi-regularly. I turned 9 that June after you were born, and I remember that I had a little birthday party at the house with you and Dad and your Mom. It was one of the only birthdays I had with Dad in my life. Your mom made me a cake, I think it was strawberry, and it had a little white plastic dove on top of it. I still have the little plastic dove in my jewelry box, although one wing is broken (is that symbolic of something??)

)

I have really fond memories of that summer- of you as a baby and of Dad playing his 12 string guitar in the living room of that house for me and Sister #2. He’d play that guitar and sing Beatles songs and Supertramp songs for us—which we absolutely adored.

I don’t clearly remember how long you lived in that house, but at some point the three of you moved to the apartment that was near Oak Hill Cemetery in Pontiac. I remember visiting you there at least once, and I recall that you were teething, and Dad was explaining to me that you were going to be moving to Chicago. Although I didn’t have a realistic idea of how far away that was, it might as well have been half way across the world. I was really sad because I knew it meant that I wasn’t going to see him or you as much, and deep down I knew already that it meant it would be even longer than Dad said it was going to be.

I remember you and Dad and your Mom coming to visit us in Michigan after that once or twice. One time was up north in Kalkaska before Grandma and Grandpa sold the property. I can remember that it was winter… which was unusual. I think I only went up there one time in my life in the winter, and it was with you and Dad and your Mom. I remember it seemed like there was about 4 feet of snow… I’m sure it was less, and it seemed like more because I was small. I also remember the three of you coming to stay at Judy’s house when you were maybe 1 or 2 years old. I was in fourth grade. It may have been a year or so later (you were about 3, I think) that Dad drove from Chicago with you to visit us and we all went to Greenfield Village. It was just you and Dad at that point, I think your Mom had moved out. It must have been after that when Dad had to move to Florida with you to live next door to Grandma and Grandpa. Sister #2 and I got to visit you that summer when Dad lived in the trailer… Were you 4? Or still 3? I can’t remember now. I remember that summer… I loved visiting with you and Dad tremendously, despite whatever Dad’s idiosyncrasies may have been.

Just like I used to worry about Dad, I used to worry about you. I thought about both of you all the time, and it was extremely upsetting to me to not get to see you and Dad on a regular basis. As you know, he was not good at staying in regular contact… He didn’t call, or write letters, or send birthday cards or anything like that. If I wanted to talk to him, I had to call him. And I did… but it was hard to understand why he couldn’t take the time to pick up the phone, or drop a card in the mail. It really hurt my feelings and I wondered why I wasn’t important enough to him for him to make the effort. Yet, I loved him anyway… and desperately craved his attention and affection. Deep down, I knew he loved me, and I believed he loved me. I told myself he didn’t call or send letters because it was too painful for him, not because he didn’t love me. But it still hurt my feelings.

I’m not sure if I saw you again after that very much at all until I moved to Chicago to live with you and Dad. I had no idea what I was walking into when I decided to do that… I had no idea what it would really be like to live there with Dad. Even still, I’m glad I did it… and even if I could go back and do it over, I wouldn’t change it. All things considered, I have no regrets about moving there… I got to spend time with you, I got to know Dad in a different way than I had ever known him before (which was both good and bad, if you know what I mean!). Also, if I hadn’t gone to Chicago, my kids wouldn’t exist… and I love them more than life!! )

I do have a few regrets, however. I regret that I didn’t do more for you when I lived with you in Chicago. I knew I couldn’t leave you there alone, even if I hated Chicago. I could see that Dad was not doing a very good job of caring for you. It concerned me that he didn’t clean the house; that he didn’t seem to care about doing laundry, etc.

It concerned me that your mother wasn’t doing anything about it either… whether she really knew what was happening, I don’t know.  I know I didn’t do as good a job as I could have… looking back I should have done more.  I guess even though I was older than you, I was still just a kid, too. A selfish teenager, at that. I regret even more not staying in closer contact with you after you moved to Florida. I wish I had called more often, or sent you letters… I did to you what Dad did to me… I thought of you often, but did nothing to let you know that.  I knew that you must have been having a difficult time… and I knew that your entire life had been full of difficulties, on a far greater level than mine had ever been. I knew that. I believed you would be taken better care of in Florida… that you would be better off there than with Dad, and hoped that you might finally get some stability and be able to be part of a semi-normal family.  I knew it would be hard for you either way, whether you were with Dad or in Florida.  I also knew that even if Florida was a better situation for you, it was going to be difficult.

Obviously it was more difficult for you than I could have predicted.  I also had no idea how it must have been for you to live with Aunt or Grandma and Grandpa.  When I listen to you describe what that was like, my heart breaks for you…  I can’t imagine how alone you must have felt… or how helpless.  I wish I could have been there and been able to help you.  I wish I had been able to take you myself.  I’m sure you still would have a difficult time with me, and who knows… maybe I would have totally sucked at helping you through all of the challenges and difficulties that lay ahead for you.  Maybe you’d be in even worse shape now if you’d come to stay with me.  I guess it’s pointless to think about it, since there’s no possibility of changing it now.  In any event, I want you to know how sorry I am that I didn’t stay close with you… that I didn’t call or write regularly, that I didn’t do more for you to let you know you were loved and missed.  I’m sorry I didn’t pay more attention—and that I was so wrapped up in my own world that I didn’t know how bad things were for you.  I wish I had paid more attention…I wish I would have screamed at Aunt and at Grandma and whoever else needed to be screamed at to do a better job with you. As if they would have listened to me… Still, I wish I would have done it.

After you were sent back to Chicago, I had absolutely no clue (even less of a clue than ever) how difficult things were, or how much worse they were going to get for you. I can’t imagine how it must have been for you. Thank God (literally) that you were smart enough to seek out the help you needed, and that you have held on through your most difficult days. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you, and how much I admire your strength and courage.  I am just so, so sorry that I lost contact with you for so long, and that I wasn’t there for you throughout your darkest days, when you most needed the love and support of your family.  I am amazed that you have come through all of the unbelievable challenges and difficulties and CRAP that has been given to you the way you have… Honestly, it is utterly amazing to me.  You are an amazing, beautiful, brave, incredible woman.  You are a delight to me… and I feel lucky to know you.

You have special gifts to share with the world… One of them could be sharing your experiences and unique perspectives with other people…  Your experiences could inspire other people to hang on and keep going, even when it feels impossible. Maybe someday you will write your story… and it will be a best seller, and help lots of people, and you will be a bajillionaire… )   Seriously, sharing your story with others, whether in a book, or just in your daily interactions with the people you meet and know in your everyday life (your sisters, your mom, the people in the support group, or whomever!) will touch and inspire other people.

I know you have touched and inspired me

I do think that regret is a useless emotion, unless it is used as motivation to do something different going forward. For me, that means making sure that forever forward, you know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I love you dearly, and that I am here for you always, always, always… and that you know that you are never alone… even though you may be halfway across the world from me.  You can call me anytime, day or night… I will do whatever I can for you.  Even if it’s 3 a.m., and you just need a person to talk to, you can call me!  You don’t get to pick your family… I just got lucky that God gave me you for a sister.  I am so thankful for that, my insert weird family nickname here.

Love forever and ever, Sister #1

Anniversary July 24, 2009

11 JUL 1954 – 06 JUL 1996

This month would have been my father’s 55^th birthday and it is also the 13^th anniversary of his death.  I can’t help but wonder if he was feeling good about his upcoming 42^nd birthday or if he was depressed about it.  It had been almost two years since any suicide attempts, which seems like an eternity in his life.  His actions during that final week were those of a drug addict and nothing else.  Although he did leave me a bus token which was out of character.  Since when would he let one single dime out of his clutches let alone leave it on his desk with a note and directions?  It was as strange as everything else going on during that time.  I was struggling to be alive everyday and working hard to find a reason to keep going.  I was really worried that someone would have to take responsibility for my death and I could not stomach of my non-mother putting my life together in her head.   I was worried that my whole life would be like this and I was just fucked.  I still feel that way most of the time.

I could not figure out what my next move was and what I was supposed to do to keep coping.  I could not figure it out but someone already had.  Who knew drugs could be stronger than mental illness? I don’t know why he left me the directions to the apartment and the bus token; I had lived there recently.  He was sharing a place with an ex of my mothers and he must’ve moved in right after we left.  I am trying to arrange a nice chart in my head for all these places we lived in Chicago in the small timespan we were a family of sorts.  At least it was the only time I can remember us all being in the same city.  The chart is messy and I can’t get the times right.  It seems like there was a lot of time where I just did not come home.  How helpful Chicago was when we wanted to hide from each other, ourselves.   Why my parents decided to make the move to Chicago I shall never know!  When they arrived in Chicago in 1983 or so they rented an apartment from this man who my father was living with when he died.  So in 1996 they still all knew each other.  That’s a long time to be friends with such a bastard.   I hope he’s not dead, I hope he’s suffering somewhere, or better yet, having to come to terms with what he has done to the lives of all his old friends.  I don’t know enough about the relationships between men to even guess what theirs was like.  As much as I can remember he only had one friend at a time.  Most memorable was this old drunk Irishman who periodically stumbled into our apartment pointing fingers and waving his arms around declaring himself the longest suffering man on earth, so like my father but irish.  Part of my confusion at the possibility of his having any friends, be they cursed or be they sober is that he had no time for me.  How could he have time for anyone else?  I understand his relationships with women, partly because I am such an asshole about that myself but I cannot understand the rest of it.

I think he was proud of living in Chicago but I wonder if he was a normal person would he have moved at any other time?  I think it was his job that kept him.  I know my mother was always on the go and spent much of her life searching so something she didn’t know she was looking for.  Maybe she did know but she doesn’t anymore.  She had been here for 8 years which is quite a stretch for her.  I found out recently that she lived in Wisconsin for a smidge, for a boyfriend no doubt.

It almost doesn’t matter that I want to be my own person, does it?  I can’t shake these people.