24 September 2013

Journal 7

September 24, 2013. Tuesday. Hypomanic. Giddy.

Social anxiety low, but general anxiety about a 3. Went to GP and took xrays, pain 6ish. Xrays came back clean. Got celebrex samples. I guess I go back when I run out. It doesn't seem to be working. I relaxed enough thatI popped my back and hips. Before I was a ball of tension. Oh the conversations to be had when I'm like this. High and Manic. Extra YAY.

I know that if you go by my blog, facebook posts and journal it seems all I do is dance with Mary Jane. In fact, I smoke at a set time and journal my journey for the day. The words flow with greater ease.

Right now Saturday Night LIve is on and it's a two fat ladies parody. I laughed out loud while Buddy napped on my bed. Sir Yvain just looked at me and went back to whatever cats ponder.

If one were to look at my spine from above would they see curvature that an xray doesn't show? According to my chiropractor, my muscles are pulling portions of my spine out of place, if you will. I hypothesize that the problem is greater in my buttocks (my sacrum and coccyx are out more than not), because the muscles are tighter in my ass. As my massage therapist says, "I can bounce a quarter off of your ass." What it is, a big pain in the ass. I'm sure my coccyx is damaged. I've broken or bruised it severely twice. I was in 7th grade. Both the chiropractor and masseuse have to use pressure points to do their job. Shit I don't know what to do.


I feel more social today. But I don't want to go anywhere. That's why online kind of works for me. Though it's obvious on Facebook and the blog what mood I'm in, what point on the spectrum and how severe.

Why so public, Sarah?

To teach compassion and empathy. To have a living record of my innermost thoughts. To show others they're not alone.

It's also very cathartic to release everything.

Your internet name is scary. Why The Rage Consumed? I only bring this up because the doctors, Sharon, and their lawyer tried to use it against me in court.

#1. I listen to extreme metal. Death metal is about rage, or zombies, or current events, or gross things. I write death metal, and some black metal, lyrics. It's just a pen name.

#2. I came up with The Rage Consumed as a stand against injustice. The Rage has been Consumed through my soul against... whatever ... Mount the horses and draw your swords. I see myself as a knight for certain causes. Sorry I went poetic on you for a second.

#3. My mom was in the hospital while fighting stage IV lung cancer. My truck was broke down. I couldn't see her because nobody would take me. My cousin had the balls to tell me that not only was I not handling the situation correctly, I was stupid for going to school rather than working and moving out. My aunt, his mother, then got online and proceeded to cut me down, then came and got her damned dogs at 1 in the fucking morning. So to say I was pissed is an understatement. I was so pissed that it consumed me in a bad way. The. Rage. Consumed.

For what it's worth I sign my paintings Rage and photographs TRC.

It's an artists name.

Why Boudicca? Google Boudicca - Iceni Revolt.

Gruaim is the root word for the Scottish surname, Graham. One of the meanings is to have a stoic look. I look pretty stoic much of the time.

And for those that don't know, I'm a redhead now. This is Dave's 3rd bout with Lymphoma. For the 8 1/2 years we've been together he's always wanted me to go red. 

I did it just to see him genuinely smile. He did.

I'm not sure what Dave sees in me. Our relationship displeases some, but nobody takes into account our happiness. 

Fuckin' cancer.

Fuckin' diabetes.

Fuckin' meds.

I would like to make love to my boyfriend sometime.

I don't know what a libido is anymore. Or what "regular" means. I probably should subject myself to a pap and consult with a real oB. Pretty sure based on my reaction last time, sedation may be a valid option. Anxiety level 1010 OMG MATH GTFO!

My nice is coming over. I like her visits and the fact she's willing to come over here so I don't have to go out helps.

Jesus Christ my ass hurts.

Maybe I can get Dad to spring for a massage and adjustment. Adjustments don't last long though, like literally minutes after an adjustment I can pop my hip and feel pain in the bottom part of my spine. Car rides suck. Pretty well everything sucks. Standing. Sitting. I can lay with a pillow between my legs and be comfortable. Otherwise 10 mins and I'm in pain. There is honestly pain. But the x ray showed nothing. Sigh.

I'm looking at an e-cig. Maybe I can quit that way. The liquid is cheaper than regular cigarettes.

It's been awhile. A few hours. I'm calm after taking evening meds. Going to take my night meds and call it a night. Hopefully tomorrow's better. 

Journal 6

September 23, 2013. Monday. Dad was pissed. I doubled buspar and took a klonopin. Dad set me off but wouldn't listen when I told him he was doing so. Day started out Depression 8 anxiety 10.

I went to St. Joseph to apply to appeal my Medicaid termination. It turns out they didn't receive my bank statement so I faxed it again and they said I was good to go.

I took my evening meds (Buspar 15, Risperidone 3, Wellbutrin xr 300) and my favorite antidepressant. I can still feel depression but it's maybe a 3.

Dogs are chillin' with me. Buddy's demanding scratches while Cherry hogs the bed.

Talked to Dave a little bit, but his phone screwed up. That's what sucks about a relationship with him, he's always at a distance. He doesn't see the fight I put up all day every day.

I'd much rather sleep than do anything, though. I have to go to the doctor tomorrow to complain of my pain. I hope he orders xrays or an MRI. I just want the shit to go smoothly tomorrow.

I find myself missing Mom a lot.

Journal 5

September 22, 2013. Sunday. Depression and anxiety bouncing around. Went to Casey's and about spazzed because there were so many people. I got my lighter and the hell out.

I'd say right this minute my depression would rate a 5. I slept a lot today, didn't take any klonopin though.

My aunt said she'd be a witness for my medicaid appeal.

I still can't believe the state's doing that. I don't think I want to know what my prescriptions cost at full price. Then there's the cost of mandatory doctor appointments.

Anyway, slept and watched football. Not as excited about it as usual. I guess i'm in that stage of depression. Don't give a shit.

Apparently dad's stick fell out of his ass.

My dogs seem to sense something's up. Today I've had one or the other or both of my dogs at my side. Right now it's Buddy.

21 September 2013

Journal 4

September 21, 2013. Depression 7. Anxiety 9.

Bird died.

Dad's being a dick.

I really just want to be left alone. Took 2 klonopin so far today. Went grocery shopping. Ugh.

Really wondering how the hell I'm supposed to take care of myself without insurance? It's like they're trying to sentence me, punish me with my own disease. If I don' have my meds, life is 20x worse. Lots of mixed episodes and extreme ends of the spectrum. I could cycle several times a day.

I had to quit Chantix. Bad for me apparently. Smoking a pack or more. 

I did what a friend told me to, and smiled at a complete stranger, through the anxiety. She smiled back, but if she knew me and the battle I fight, would she still smile, or would she clutch her purse? Would she stare in fear and disgust? Would she be accepting of me, her neighbor, "The least of them."

It's like the more I try to be me, the less understanding and tolerant people are. The only time I feel at home is at death metal concerts. I'm a true metalhead. I fit in there.

I could use a hug from Dave.

Journal 3

September 20, 2013. Saturday. Depression 8. Anxiety 9. Took Klonopin. Slept for a few hours. Naturally, the problem didn't go away.

I now have to fight to keep Medicaid. I lose my insurance on the 30th, because, you guessed it, I'm not disabled enough for it.

Nobody will listen to me. I really cannot work. I can barely function on an even basis. Who am I kidding? I can't even do that.

I live my life on a minute to minute, day by day basis. I have to. Being bipolar taught me that. Being abused in every way imaginable taught me that. It is the best way to survive. Having no plans in stone is better, too. Less room for failure.

I've failed at life. I'm almost 33. I live with and off of Dad. I can't get a job, let alone keep one. Stress sets off my bipolar something fierce. I cycle almost daily when under extreme stress, then I collapse into a catatonic state.

I've already noted that my family sucks, on both sides. All they see is a kid when they look at me. And damaged goods. And treat me as such. It really pisses me off, everyone playing mind games with their passive aggressive emotional blackmail. Then they all try to intrude and act like they're my mother. They don't realize that Mom was on my side.

Anyway, this bipolar I have? Yeah, you could say it interferes with my life. I was forced out of college. I couldn't handle the stress of a full load of upper level literature and history classes. I'd go real manic at the beginning of the semester and as the work got more tedious I would cycle down, missing classes, failing tests, writing shitty papers because I couldn't spare the energy to do anything up to my standards. I even have a medical withdrawal one semester because the bipolar was eating my soul.

And today...

Stressful as well. Money, loans, medicine, this doctor, that doctor. Is anything really helping? They fucking know that I'm bipolar and they rip my insurance, leaving Dad to pay for everything. He can't afford it. He should be retired. He can't. Because of me.

For the most part, leaving the house is a chore. Too many people. The only place I'm comfortable out there is the lake. I force myself to call, text or visit with anyone right now. I just want to sleep and hide from the bullshit for awhile. But I force myself to be up, running around, so the depression doesn't devour me. I do know that if I didn't have these meds life would suck more. So they're working.

Maybe I'll write a book about bipolar: The Cycles of Life or some such cliche.

7pm Depresson 4, anxiety 5.

19 September 2013

Journal 2

You're probably wondering why resurrect a dead blog? Well, because I want to journal every day to capture just how much I cycle, what way, when. You get the drift. Plus I got shit I wanna get off of my chest.

Depression level 4, a little less than yesterday.

Anxiety right now, none.

September 19, 2013. Thursday. 1 year since I got locked up, lost my freedom. As I've said, it was politics that got me locked up. A relative was assaulted by another relative's husband. As I've said before, I was abused by Mike from 8-13.

I wrote a book after Mom died, detailing everything I had suffered. Chapter 8 was about the sex abuse I endured. I had never laid it all out in one place before I wrote that chapter. The damage it did, the fears it instilled in me, everything. Family reunion 2012. Sept. 16. I handed copies of that chapter to relatives that I thought would give a shit about me.

I also gave copies to Marsha, Jennifer and Mike. Included in Marsha and Jennifer's envelopes was a letter to them. I explained sex offenders to them, I tried to point out the victim's side. I cursed at them. I called them out on the war they ignited because of the husband's actions. I told them to knock their shit off.

I gave a copy of this letter to her boss as I ask for my medical records, give notice as to who is allowed to touch them, tell her about the HIPAA violations going on under her nose, and to question the bullshit psych referral they gave me. The nurse honestly told me to Google this apparent Dr. Khan. There's no Khan or Kahn in Cameron. I also gave her a copy of my actives and motives.

I threatened malpractice because they did nothing to help me when I was in duress because the Effexor was killing me. Dr. Vineyard wouldn't treat my psychiatric problems beyond Sept. 4, 2012. I was doctorless and psychless while taking a very negative medicine prescribed by the very doctor that dropped my care. They didn't make sure I was covered until I could find appropriate psychiatric help. That was Thursday. Friday, I tried to get them to tell me what to expect because if they weren't going to help me, I was stopping the Effexor cold turkey.

I had weed and klonopin. I was prepared, I thought, until the heroin withdrawal symptoms hit 3 days into it. I guess deep down I knew I was uncontrollably manic, I just didn't know how to say it I guess. But I did ask for help.

I got a new GP that told me how to taper down with what I had and convinced me that I wasn't dying, in spite of the 141 heart rate. That I'd had for a week. And his office set me up with my current psych.

Before the hospitalization. I was set up to go and my feet were on the ground. I just had to make it until October 16 and the new psych could clear all that shit up for me. (Yeah she just had me thrust into her face. Poor thing lol).

The affidavit that the sheriff used against me was 2 weeks after I had written those letters. It says that family members were concerned that I was a threat to everyone's safety. On it was my Grandmother (that still doesn't know me or my demons) and an aunt I was estranged from at the time. The sheriff refused to call my father, the person I live with. My family member helped get me locked up due to her ignorance and bigotry, said she feared I was going to kill my father in his sleep.

Just. Because. I'm. Bipolar. Turns out Marsha and Jennifer had been filling her head (as well as the heads of the Maysville Doctors) with "Sarah's scary, violent, mean" you get the picture. It was Jennifer that told the doctors I had used Facebook to threaten to shoot named people in the head. This was verified by the victim advocate. She flat said that it was Jennifer. The only problem with all of that is... I didn't bloody well do it. I've already said what I did.

So I got locked up, handcuffed like a criminal and paraded around the ER desk. People actually grabbed their kids and stared at me. My treatment by the person doing the psych triage was disrespectful, rude, threatened me, and was in general a big fucking bitch. And she lied to me. Everybody lied to me. From the sheriff down to the nurses on duty until night shift.

I was wrongly diagnosed as having schizoaffective disorder and was told I was delusional. Nobody would listen to me. I was denied a patient advocate of my choosing, or one at all. I was treated as a pathetic lunatic rather than an intelligent, non-delusional human being.

$250 to name POA's that will go into effect should I ever be hospitalized again, will take care of that little patient advocate problem.

By the way, the ex parte orders were dismissed when I finally went to court. That didn't stop the judge from ignorantly cutting me down in his statement. Yes my behavior can be atrocious. And the weed and klonopin got me through, Sir. HA!

Anyway after I was released, I was paranoid. Every car was them trying to start shit. I went as far as cleaning the shotgun so I'd be prepared. The only reason the house is even open right now is because I like the sounds of nature. Otherwise it'd be dark and I'd rarely emerge. Hell I'm a recluse now even with the house open.

I got another dog for the purposes of alarm and protection. It's because of my dogs I feel safe.

Oh and I sometimes sleep with a knife.

So really, hospitalization did more damage than good for me. And made your job that much more difficult.

Until Tomorrow.

18 September 2013

*updated* Mom's Birthday

September 18, 2013. Wednesday. Mom's birthday. Depressed, moreso than yesterday at psych office. Smoking heavy. Tomorrow's anniversary of getting locked up. Still pissed. Miss Mom. I feel she's the only person, aside from Rachel, to understand me and my bipolar. I'm even an enigma to Dave. I guess at least he loves me. Pissed I have to have bipolar to such a degree that I have 6 medicines to take, plus marijuana to keep it remotely under control. I still cycle, a lot, but I don't feel right if I were to call at every swing. That'd be like every week or so. All I can expect from medicine is to lessen the severity of active symptoms. The anxiety never completely goes away. It ebbs and flows. Some days I can handle being around 2 people, others I'm a recluse, like today. I don't want another hospital stay, ever. But I know that's an impossible goal. I'm a severe bipolar. It's going to happen. Just a matter of when. My guess? When this cocktail loses potency. I showed everybody, though. I stayed out of the hospital for a year. HA!! I still have my advocacy/reform goals. Still penning Nyla. Still continuing life. It'd be great if SSI would come through. Going to Mom's ashes to smoke a joint and meditate with quartz and petrified wood. Maybe I'll get a visit.

Mom's grave.

Who was your mother? 

Mine was my rock in a very hard life. She was in an accident in '01. It almost killed her. I was an off duty EMT in the county she wrecked in. I almost went. My gut told me to keep playing video games. It's nasty out, they don't need to pick you up too. Soon dispatch called on the radio for me to call my boss at Cameron Hospital. What I heard next from a friendly voice scared the life out of me. "Sarah, your mom's been in an accident. She's hurt pretty bad, you should come."

She was gorked out on morphine with a shattered pelvis. Shattered. The x-ray looked like a jigsaw puzzle. She also broke her foot almost in half. She was fucked up.

Before that moment, Mom was just an abusive bitch out to ruin my life.

After that moment, she was a person. For the first time in my life, Mom was a person, not a monster. And around that time I became a human to her.

I visited her at the hospital and when she came home on bedrest. We chatted. We played games (always killed me in Scrabble). Watched TV (Dr. Reid or Ageng Hotchner arguments ensued when Criminal Minds came out). I cooked for her, cleaned her, helped her to the commode.

I mothered her.

We grew to know one another. We grew to love one another.

She stood helpless as the bipolar began to take over my life like a cancer. She stood helpless staring at the cuts on my arms. I wanted it known. I was at the edge of suicide.

She stood in my thoughts as I contemplated, even attempted suicide. She stood helpless as I fought the fiercest demons for my life, not knowing what was going on, let alone how to fight.

I wasn't diagnosed with Bipolar until I was 24. I blindly fought for years before then. That confirmed my suspicions that I was indeed fucking crazy. Neither one of us knew what. the. fuck. we were in for. Once we had a diagnosis, we researched. She learned my patterns. Oh the arguments we would have after she shot down my mania. She armed herself with knowledge.

Together we fought it tooth and nail. It wasn't controlled, however. Nothing worked medicinewise and I was too caught up to consciously realize I was out of control.

The day Mom was diagnosed with Stage IV Lung Cancer is the day I began to die. I was just getting to know her, she couldn't leave already. She wasn't allowed to. I was her primary caregiver as she slowly wasted away. She declined treatment, which pissed me off. I couldn't lose the woman that became my best friend.

She stood by me as I stood by her, protectively. Through long conversations and countless hours at the computer researching bipolar we figured out that she was likely bipolar too. We fought the same demons, just by different names. Though I can't prove she was bipolar, we bonded, we understood, we knew.

She knew so well that she got me a grief counselor while she was hospitalized the final time. She even tried to educate and prepare Dad for the whirlwind that is me.

Who was Mom? A human being. A friend. A companion. A cheerleader. A mother.