I just posted my rant as I withdraw from my psych meds. There is one thing I meant to say but forgot. I tend to forget...
I have come to consider psych drugs dangerous and not to be trifled with. Why? They are necessary for some.
Selective Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors alter brain chemistry. Most psych meds alter brain chemistry. Pain meds do the same thing: alter brain chemistry. There are times, I suppose, that brain chemistry needs to be altered. If you are of the "buck up and take it like a man" mentale, then I don't expect you to understand the misery of anxiety that can dog you day after day. If someone says they have a way to mediate that anxiety, you certainly will jump at it.
I am not trying to dissuade anyone from taking necessary medication. I am telling you to be aware of what you are taking and how it will affect your brain. If, like me, you are told you may have to take these drugs the rest of your life, please do your research. It could save you some agony.
Depression is a brain condition in which seratonin is depleted. There are thousands of reasons it gets depleted. Mine is caused by chronic stress and anxiety that I have had since I was a child. Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors keep your synapses from releasing too much seratonin. They do this by fooling your brain into thinking there is already enough seratonin going back and forth between the synapses and your symptoms of depression are alleviated. The thing is, you have to keep taking the drug in order for this to happen. It rewires your brain. In order for the rewire to continue, you have to keep taking the pill. Every day. Don't miss a dose ore else there will be a relapse, however large or small.
Benzodiazapines effectively block the norepinephrine synapses so that you are less anxious. They also block dopamine. That's why you can get sleepy on them. They are shutting down your synapses.
If you are taking a drug like Effexor, a norepinephrine and dopamine reuptake inhibitor AND benzos, then you are effectively negating one drug for another. The thing is, norepinephrine and dopamine have a lot to do with motivation and energy level. You take Effexor and your brain thinks it has energy, you feel confident, you do things. Benzodiazapines counteract this effect. The Effexor, though, can build up to a point where you have too much energy that causes anxiety. So you take, say, Xanax, and this counteracts the anxiety. See where I'm going with this? Eventually, I think, the benzos can cause depression.
You take one to offset the other. Is that a good thing? Does it seem like you are chasing your tail? You are!
Your brain rewires itself. It quits making the necessary chemicals because you are introducing them into your system every day. If, for whatever reason, you decide to stop taking these drugs, be aware that there is a price to pay in the form of withdrawal. Your brain and body need these chemicals and since you have been giving them to your brain and body every day, sometimes for years, your body needs you to keep giving them to it.
If you decide to stop taking your meds, do so slowly. Don't be a blockhead like me. I am smart, intelligent, whatever. I know what I've gotten myself into so I figure it is up to me to get myself out. I don't like cold turkey but I know what to expect so I do it. It is a very scary proposition if you don't know what to expect. Even if you know what to expect, it is still scary.
If you decide to go off your meds, be sure to eat properly. Take your vitamins. Drink lots of water. Stay busy. Think positive. That's the hard part. Tell yourself you are a good person over and over. Tell yourself the agony is worth it because you will eventually feel better. Once you feel better, stay healthy. Exercise. You don't have to go to the gym but get some exercise; walk, run, ride your bike, lift weights, swim, rollerblade but stay active. This will help.
If this is your decision, know that others have done it and succeeded. It may take a few tries before you gain success. Safe journey.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Gettin' Low, Not High...
Ok, let's try and get some background here. I have been a psych patient, taking hardcore psych medicines for several years. The original diagnosis was depression in 1992. I had just taken a job teaching in an alternative high school and had good insurance. I decided to pick a GP and go get a physical.
The clinic I go to is set up like a factory. They schedule four patients at the same time and the doctor is supposed to give no more than fifteen minutes to each patient. I got a very religious doctor, probably suffering from "Savior" complex. He kept asking me questions although the physical part of the exam was done. His nurse, ever diligent about the fifteen minute rule, kept coming in to see how we were doing. She came in very upset the last time to tell the good doctor that his patients were stacking up.
What was taking so long? He was telling me I was depressed and that a new set of pharmaceuticals called Selective Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors could alleviate the symptoms. I am naturally skeptical, a result of lack of nurturing, I believe. Somehow, though, I wanted to trust this man. I wanted to trust somebody. I agreed to take the meds especially if they were going to make "every thing alright."
I started with Zoloft. After a year and a half, I was taking 150 mgs a day. Too much the doc says. Switch to Paxil for three weeks. I could have killed someone on that stuff and been pretty sociopathic about it. No mention that this stuff is addicting and you can have withdrawals, severe, emotion-laden withdrawals.
Next up was Prozac, fluoxitine, which I took for probably six or seven years. It worked well but I gained weight, ballooning up to 183lbs and holding. Then, I had a heart attack. (That is a different though connected story for another post.)
I had switched doctors after doctor #1 started proselytizing on me. I went after the doctor with my name. Somehow, I was put on Effexor. Just a word from me about Effexor. If you are in a doctor's office and the doctor mentions putting you on Effexor or any SNRI, calmly get up, put your clothes on if you have to...actually, putting your clothes back on is an option because...you want to get out and away from that doctor as quickly as possible. It is probably the most addictive drug I have ever taken, legally or illicitly, and has the most wretched of all withdrawals. Eight days of sitting on the couch, feeling as if I was falling down a bottomless hole, anxiety eating at every inch of my being. I wanted to die. Honest. It was horrible and horrible doesn't describe it well enough. I was still married at the time and had a youngish family. I hope they never have to witness that again. I will certainly never put myself through that again.
Once I went to my appointment with the doctor with my name and he wasn't there. He was on emergency sabbatical. All of the doctors at this particular medical center are owners of the medical center. They all get a cut of the action. Anyway, he wasn't there and his replacement wanted to know if I was sleeping well yet. I just half-heartedly laughed and said, "Doc, I never sleep well." I still don't. To this day and especially last night. He said, " Well, we have to find out why you are not sleeping." So, here I go again, wanting to trust him and, really, it would be nice to get some sleep. It is important that I get sleep. All sorts of good things happen when I get good sleep.
I was scheduled an appointment with a Psych Nurse Practitioner. I went to the appointment. I went from a diagnosis of clinical depression to a diagnosis of clinical depression, bipolar II disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and Chronic Anxiety. At first I was very relieved. Finally, I thought to myself, someone has told me why I feel like I do most of the time.
This involved many more pharmaceutical drugs and, as I was to learn much later, much more addictive and dangerous drugs. Thrown into the mix was Lamictal, Lorazapam, my first benzodiazapine, and probably another drug or drugs that I cannot recall. There have been so many that I can only comment on the ones I remember.
I did ok for a while. I thought that taking the drugs would make me "better" so I was all for it. Boom! Off we go...
Then...my psych nurse decided to move to Texas to be closer to her sister. Did I mention my issues of abandonment? That diagnosis came later with cognitive therapy. Anyway, I was shunted off to another psych nurse at the clinic on my side of the river. It gets worse...
My new psych nurse didn't think I was bipolar. She thought I was ADD Without Mention of Hyperactivity. I could sit still but I couldn't focus, I suppose. Different psych meds were showered upon me. I was now taking amphetamine salts, also known to the world as Adderall. I was upgraded to TWO benzodiazapines, clonazapam and Xanax. The idiot that I am, I took them. Anything to get this feeling of despair and hopelessness out of my system, right? Did anyone tell me that they are highly, and I mean highly, take for more than two weeks and you are addicted, addictive? No, they did not even mention it. I suppose the powers that be considered the pills to be at a therapeutic dose. But TWO benzos? Fuck that...
My penis went limp taking all those meds. I don't think my wife minded but I don't remember. Benzos will do that to you. My wife and I did a lot to put some life back into Mr. Penis but he needed much coaxing. Then, once erect, I couldn't ejaculate. Fuck that, again...
There you have it. The background to this yodel. Oh, and I got admitted to a psych ward at Overlake Hospital in Bellevue. You had to be actively suicidal, which I wasn't, but my psych nurse told them I had a plan and I was admitted. Two days later, I had an attack of pancreatitis. The rest of my stay was on the fourth floor in the cardiac unit. Thank God for the psychiatrist at Overlake and I apologize to him for not remembering his name. He said, "Who the hell put you on TWO benzos?!" He promptly took me off Xanax. Thank you, good doctor.
About three years ago, I started having accidents. The first one involved the "Tool of Doom," the reciprocating handsaw, electrically powered. I was sawing out some galvanized piping in an apartment that was in the shop building on the property. I hit the cast iron drain pipe and the saw threw me against the wall and knocked me out for about twenty minutes. I was transported from the ER in Wenatchee to the ER at Harborview Hospital in Seattle. I had a brain bleed. Oh, and a concussion.
The second accident was while kayaking. We were putting the kayaks back on the car when I lost my grip and the nose of the kayak hit the ground and swung the rear of the kayak two feet into my left temple. Boom boom! Out go the lights. Another trip to the ER where, after a CATscan, I refused an MRI but was diagnosed with a concussion.
Then, a few months later, the shit hit the fan when my wife told me she was divorcing me. Yes, we had been in counseling but it was still unexpected. I reacted accordingly. I yowled loudly for months. How to deal with this complete abandonment? Take clonazapam. Sleep, sleep, sleep...I was moved out to the apartment I had been working on. The Mormon Movers came over while I was at work and moved all my stuff into the shop building. Just like that, I was kicked out of the house but still living next door to my family. Fuck. Fuck.
I was totally despondent. I had to go to work. School was about to start for the academic year and, although I did not feel like doing so, I had to go to work. How to cope? Take clonazapam. I wanted to alleviate whatever I was feeling and go on with my life. I took clonazapam to make it so.
Later in the year, I had a little vacation planned for Spring Break. I had booked a room for some days at a resort on a lake. On my way, five miles from my destination, distracted while driving, I rolled the vehicle I was driving. A trip to one ER before being transferred to another in a big city. Diagnosis: concussion.
Months of living in the apartment turned into a year and a half of living in the apartment. I was doing online dating. I met someone online and actually fell in love. As an aside, one thing I know about myself, and this goes back decades, is that I am able to be in love with more than one female at a time. I am not polyamorous but have this innate ability to love more than one woman at a time. It's a curse.
I spent time with my new love and thought things were well but I was fooling myself. I was a sick puppy. I was taking pills that I thought were to my benefit. It took this new love to tell me I was wacko and so was the person prescribing all these meds to me. Yes, yes, yes...I was, am, wacko, especially when taking all those drugs. Still, it wasn't me who told me I was a fool to take the meds. She planted the seed, though, and for the first time, I started to think, wonder...is this a good thing? All these meds and me taking them...was it good for me? To this wonderful person who could see me past all the meds, it was a resounding NO!
To go back to the apartment. It is in the building that I have a pottery studio in. Off the hallway is a small half bath, a sink and a toilet. When things got really bad for me, when the hounds of hell were screaming in my ears, I would go into this bathroom, close the seat on the toilet, turn out the lights and sit. It calmed me. Then, after who knows how many hours, I would turn on the lights and look at myself in the mirror. Once, the person in the mirror looked back at me. I said, "Hey! I still have you." He didn't come back until recently. That's why I am writing.
My wife and I were trying to divorce and I was trying to refinance my house, the one that the family was living in, in my name. The banks were having none of it. One financier even suggested that we stay married to get the loan through. As odd as it sounds, that's exactly what we did. The person I fel in love with and went to see went off to a foreign land and I was left on the shore to contemplate my life.
The loan went through but I was broke and couldn't file for divorce right away. Finally, November 2012, I filed. February 12, 2013, I was officially divorced. Whew!
I went back to online dating, meeting with women I knew I had no attraction for but still needing to prove to myself that I could meet with them and see for myself. A couple were anxious to get something going with me but I didn't want to nor did I want to compromise myself. And yet, I stayed online, am still online but know that I have no need nor want to get a girlfriend that way. And yet, and yet...
A couple of months ago I started having severe anxiety attacks, a panic attack here and there. It was fucking hell. It is fucking hell. I went running to the psych nurse. She put me on an anti anxiety drug that was not a benzo. I still took the benzo, though, at night, for sleep. I had quit taking Celexa, an SSRI, a few months before and was probably having withdrawals but didn't realize it. I didn't think I needed it anymore so I threw them away. I forgot about withdrawals until I was in the midst of them. Fuck.
I had done a ton of research online to find out about anxiety and ADD and all the horseshit that surrounds both. Fuck depression. Yeah, maybe I was depressed. I looked into the best meds for ADD/depression combo. When I got into to see my psych nurse, I told her that Dexedrine and Wellbutrin would probably do it. She said, "I've never prescribed Dexedrine before." Yes, Dexedrine has a bad rep and is said to be extremely abusable and addictive, but it was the first stimulant approved for ADD way back in 1959. It was a single amphetamine molecule rather than the four in Adderall. I hoped it would not make me jittery like Adderall did. It didn't.
I got the scripts for my new meds, got them filled and started taking them as prescribed. I was to start out on a low dose and then, after one week, double it to the therapeutic dose. I started on the initial dose and things were fine. The Dexedrine really helped me focus. The Wellburtrin would take a little longer but at first it was perfect. I woke up with an erection. I was so glad, proud that I almost took a photo of it. It was the first unprovoked erection I had in years. I thought to myself, this will work.
Then the dreaded doubling of the meds came. I was hesitant to double the meds as prescribed as they seemed to be working just fine. Ever the one to follow the doctor's orders, I doubled them. I fucking skyrocketed into deep anxiety. Wellbutrin is an old drug and I requested it for the lack of sexual side effects. Not that I was having sex with anyone but just in case...Wellbutrin is not an SSRI. It is a NDRI, Norepinephrine, Dopamine Reuptake Inhibitor. I need seratonin. I have plenty of Norepinephrine and Dopamine. I have Chronic Anxiety, after all.
I zoomed into a space I was not that familiar with. I was able to work for two days and then, thankfully, the weekend came around. I thought that I could adjust to the mania but I was wrong. Really, really wrong. What a fucking huge mistake on my part. I wouldn't leave the house. I was walking up and down the hallway of my house waving my arms and screaming at myself, asking myself what the fuck was going on? Why do you do this to yourself? What the fuck is this supposed to accomplish? And I started getting angry, very angry and started screaming louder at myself: "What the fuck are you so angry about?" I yelled. My poor dog was as far away from me as he could get in the house. He was in the basement. I opened the front door and he went outside on a run.
I hated myself. I hated the need to medicate myself. I didn't take any clonazapam because I was so fucked up, I forgot I had any. Goddam, it was the end of the world! Flame and fire and I'm going down with the ship and what the hell is that noise in my head and who is screaming and why don't you just jump out of your skin and be through with it? It was the end of the world!
Only...it wasn't. Thank God I am who I am. I don't think a normal person could endure what I was enduring and still have a rational thought. I knew it was the drugs. I knew that I was angry, very angry. Then, in a moment of chaotic anxiety ridden clarity, I knew why I was angry. My fucking wife dumped me and left me with all this fucking shit to deal with. She walked away and I was stuck trying to keep the house and feed myself and pay my bills. She was going to Italy to see our daughter AND take in a Bon Jovi concert in Milan. It was the Facebook posting of hers from about a month ago that triggered this wave of nauseous anxiety. That was the straw...
The realization of the cause of the anger made the anger go away. Once I knew why, I could deal with it. I remembered the clonazapam and took one. In a bit, the swirling dervish of induced anxiety started to subside and I was able to stop shouting and actually sit. Sitting in the recliner, I knew what had to be done and I knew it would be difficult and I had to be diligent and keep track of my thoughts at all times because I was my own worst enemy when it came to negative thinking. I knew that I had to stop taking the drugs and I also knew that I would have awful, awful withdrawals. I did have awful withdrawals. Only those who have been through it can completely understand the despair and hopelessness of withdrawal from addictive drugs. My anxiety was horrible. I was twisted inside and could feel the pangs of anxiety zing through my abdomen every fifteen seconds or so. They were all connected to my brain. And my brain was fried. Fried.
I took small amounts of benzos over a period of time, a couple of days, to calm the anxiety and to get the rest I needed to recover. Keep in mind, none knows what is going on with me other than me. I'm doing this with no net, no support, no one to talk to. It's really fucked up. But it is mine to deal with and that is what I am doing. It is what I must do.
I know that in order to get myself back to who I am, I must quit taking the psych meds. Period. I remember before I met my second wife, I was totally drug and alcohol free. I felt good and in control of my life. I am starting to feel that way again but I know it will be a while before I am to the point I was at 25 years ago. I will get there, though. I promise. It's mostly a promise to myself so that I can love myself once more. I never could taking the psych meds.
The last part of the plan started last night. I did not take any clonazapam for sleep last night. I did take two choco pills, marijuana pills, so that I could sleep. I must be careful as marijuana, at this point in my life, increases my anxiety. I guess it is because I am anxious. Marijuana accentuates the mood you are in when you take it.
Clonazapam has a half life of three days. A half life is the time it takes to process and excrete half of the therapeutic dose of the medication. Three days. A fucking long time in my world now. I'm anxious but am aware of my anxiety and try to control it with thought and activity. Like writing. This is pretty long, eh? I'm anxious.
I want to be me, feel me, be the person who can be in a relationship and have that relationship be successful and I don't have a lot of time. I'm almost 61. Time's a wastin'. I'm in no hurry, though. I need to do this correctly and fully. I have a psych appointment next Tuesday, a week from today. I want to be done with the meds by then. It will be interesting to hear what the Psych NP has to say about that.
I will love me so I can love you.
The clinic I go to is set up like a factory. They schedule four patients at the same time and the doctor is supposed to give no more than fifteen minutes to each patient. I got a very religious doctor, probably suffering from "Savior" complex. He kept asking me questions although the physical part of the exam was done. His nurse, ever diligent about the fifteen minute rule, kept coming in to see how we were doing. She came in very upset the last time to tell the good doctor that his patients were stacking up.
What was taking so long? He was telling me I was depressed and that a new set of pharmaceuticals called Selective Seratonin Reuptake Inhibitors could alleviate the symptoms. I am naturally skeptical, a result of lack of nurturing, I believe. Somehow, though, I wanted to trust this man. I wanted to trust somebody. I agreed to take the meds especially if they were going to make "every thing alright."
I started with Zoloft. After a year and a half, I was taking 150 mgs a day. Too much the doc says. Switch to Paxil for three weeks. I could have killed someone on that stuff and been pretty sociopathic about it. No mention that this stuff is addicting and you can have withdrawals, severe, emotion-laden withdrawals.
Next up was Prozac, fluoxitine, which I took for probably six or seven years. It worked well but I gained weight, ballooning up to 183lbs and holding. Then, I had a heart attack. (That is a different though connected story for another post.)
I had switched doctors after doctor #1 started proselytizing on me. I went after the doctor with my name. Somehow, I was put on Effexor. Just a word from me about Effexor. If you are in a doctor's office and the doctor mentions putting you on Effexor or any SNRI, calmly get up, put your clothes on if you have to...actually, putting your clothes back on is an option because...you want to get out and away from that doctor as quickly as possible. It is probably the most addictive drug I have ever taken, legally or illicitly, and has the most wretched of all withdrawals. Eight days of sitting on the couch, feeling as if I was falling down a bottomless hole, anxiety eating at every inch of my being. I wanted to die. Honest. It was horrible and horrible doesn't describe it well enough. I was still married at the time and had a youngish family. I hope they never have to witness that again. I will certainly never put myself through that again.
Once I went to my appointment with the doctor with my name and he wasn't there. He was on emergency sabbatical. All of the doctors at this particular medical center are owners of the medical center. They all get a cut of the action. Anyway, he wasn't there and his replacement wanted to know if I was sleeping well yet. I just half-heartedly laughed and said, "Doc, I never sleep well." I still don't. To this day and especially last night. He said, " Well, we have to find out why you are not sleeping." So, here I go again, wanting to trust him and, really, it would be nice to get some sleep. It is important that I get sleep. All sorts of good things happen when I get good sleep.
I was scheduled an appointment with a Psych Nurse Practitioner. I went to the appointment. I went from a diagnosis of clinical depression to a diagnosis of clinical depression, bipolar II disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome and Chronic Anxiety. At first I was very relieved. Finally, I thought to myself, someone has told me why I feel like I do most of the time.
This involved many more pharmaceutical drugs and, as I was to learn much later, much more addictive and dangerous drugs. Thrown into the mix was Lamictal, Lorazapam, my first benzodiazapine, and probably another drug or drugs that I cannot recall. There have been so many that I can only comment on the ones I remember.
I did ok for a while. I thought that taking the drugs would make me "better" so I was all for it. Boom! Off we go...
Then...my psych nurse decided to move to Texas to be closer to her sister. Did I mention my issues of abandonment? That diagnosis came later with cognitive therapy. Anyway, I was shunted off to another psych nurse at the clinic on my side of the river. It gets worse...
My new psych nurse didn't think I was bipolar. She thought I was ADD Without Mention of Hyperactivity. I could sit still but I couldn't focus, I suppose. Different psych meds were showered upon me. I was now taking amphetamine salts, also known to the world as Adderall. I was upgraded to TWO benzodiazapines, clonazapam and Xanax. The idiot that I am, I took them. Anything to get this feeling of despair and hopelessness out of my system, right? Did anyone tell me that they are highly, and I mean highly, take for more than two weeks and you are addicted, addictive? No, they did not even mention it. I suppose the powers that be considered the pills to be at a therapeutic dose. But TWO benzos? Fuck that...
My penis went limp taking all those meds. I don't think my wife minded but I don't remember. Benzos will do that to you. My wife and I did a lot to put some life back into Mr. Penis but he needed much coaxing. Then, once erect, I couldn't ejaculate. Fuck that, again...
There you have it. The background to this yodel. Oh, and I got admitted to a psych ward at Overlake Hospital in Bellevue. You had to be actively suicidal, which I wasn't, but my psych nurse told them I had a plan and I was admitted. Two days later, I had an attack of pancreatitis. The rest of my stay was on the fourth floor in the cardiac unit. Thank God for the psychiatrist at Overlake and I apologize to him for not remembering his name. He said, "Who the hell put you on TWO benzos?!" He promptly took me off Xanax. Thank you, good doctor.
About three years ago, I started having accidents. The first one involved the "Tool of Doom," the reciprocating handsaw, electrically powered. I was sawing out some galvanized piping in an apartment that was in the shop building on the property. I hit the cast iron drain pipe and the saw threw me against the wall and knocked me out for about twenty minutes. I was transported from the ER in Wenatchee to the ER at Harborview Hospital in Seattle. I had a brain bleed. Oh, and a concussion.
The second accident was while kayaking. We were putting the kayaks back on the car when I lost my grip and the nose of the kayak hit the ground and swung the rear of the kayak two feet into my left temple. Boom boom! Out go the lights. Another trip to the ER where, after a CATscan, I refused an MRI but was diagnosed with a concussion.
Then, a few months later, the shit hit the fan when my wife told me she was divorcing me. Yes, we had been in counseling but it was still unexpected. I reacted accordingly. I yowled loudly for months. How to deal with this complete abandonment? Take clonazapam. Sleep, sleep, sleep...I was moved out to the apartment I had been working on. The Mormon Movers came over while I was at work and moved all my stuff into the shop building. Just like that, I was kicked out of the house but still living next door to my family. Fuck. Fuck.
I was totally despondent. I had to go to work. School was about to start for the academic year and, although I did not feel like doing so, I had to go to work. How to cope? Take clonazapam. I wanted to alleviate whatever I was feeling and go on with my life. I took clonazapam to make it so.
Later in the year, I had a little vacation planned for Spring Break. I had booked a room for some days at a resort on a lake. On my way, five miles from my destination, distracted while driving, I rolled the vehicle I was driving. A trip to one ER before being transferred to another in a big city. Diagnosis: concussion.
Months of living in the apartment turned into a year and a half of living in the apartment. I was doing online dating. I met someone online and actually fell in love. As an aside, one thing I know about myself, and this goes back decades, is that I am able to be in love with more than one female at a time. I am not polyamorous but have this innate ability to love more than one woman at a time. It's a curse.
I spent time with my new love and thought things were well but I was fooling myself. I was a sick puppy. I was taking pills that I thought were to my benefit. It took this new love to tell me I was wacko and so was the person prescribing all these meds to me. Yes, yes, yes...I was, am, wacko, especially when taking all those drugs. Still, it wasn't me who told me I was a fool to take the meds. She planted the seed, though, and for the first time, I started to think, wonder...is this a good thing? All these meds and me taking them...was it good for me? To this wonderful person who could see me past all the meds, it was a resounding NO!
To go back to the apartment. It is in the building that I have a pottery studio in. Off the hallway is a small half bath, a sink and a toilet. When things got really bad for me, when the hounds of hell were screaming in my ears, I would go into this bathroom, close the seat on the toilet, turn out the lights and sit. It calmed me. Then, after who knows how many hours, I would turn on the lights and look at myself in the mirror. Once, the person in the mirror looked back at me. I said, "Hey! I still have you." He didn't come back until recently. That's why I am writing.
My wife and I were trying to divorce and I was trying to refinance my house, the one that the family was living in, in my name. The banks were having none of it. One financier even suggested that we stay married to get the loan through. As odd as it sounds, that's exactly what we did. The person I fel in love with and went to see went off to a foreign land and I was left on the shore to contemplate my life.
The loan went through but I was broke and couldn't file for divorce right away. Finally, November 2012, I filed. February 12, 2013, I was officially divorced. Whew!
I went back to online dating, meeting with women I knew I had no attraction for but still needing to prove to myself that I could meet with them and see for myself. A couple were anxious to get something going with me but I didn't want to nor did I want to compromise myself. And yet, I stayed online, am still online but know that I have no need nor want to get a girlfriend that way. And yet, and yet...
A couple of months ago I started having severe anxiety attacks, a panic attack here and there. It was fucking hell. It is fucking hell. I went running to the psych nurse. She put me on an anti anxiety drug that was not a benzo. I still took the benzo, though, at night, for sleep. I had quit taking Celexa, an SSRI, a few months before and was probably having withdrawals but didn't realize it. I didn't think I needed it anymore so I threw them away. I forgot about withdrawals until I was in the midst of them. Fuck.
I had done a ton of research online to find out about anxiety and ADD and all the horseshit that surrounds both. Fuck depression. Yeah, maybe I was depressed. I looked into the best meds for ADD/depression combo. When I got into to see my psych nurse, I told her that Dexedrine and Wellbutrin would probably do it. She said, "I've never prescribed Dexedrine before." Yes, Dexedrine has a bad rep and is said to be extremely abusable and addictive, but it was the first stimulant approved for ADD way back in 1959. It was a single amphetamine molecule rather than the four in Adderall. I hoped it would not make me jittery like Adderall did. It didn't.
I got the scripts for my new meds, got them filled and started taking them as prescribed. I was to start out on a low dose and then, after one week, double it to the therapeutic dose. I started on the initial dose and things were fine. The Dexedrine really helped me focus. The Wellburtrin would take a little longer but at first it was perfect. I woke up with an erection. I was so glad, proud that I almost took a photo of it. It was the first unprovoked erection I had in years. I thought to myself, this will work.
Then the dreaded doubling of the meds came. I was hesitant to double the meds as prescribed as they seemed to be working just fine. Ever the one to follow the doctor's orders, I doubled them. I fucking skyrocketed into deep anxiety. Wellbutrin is an old drug and I requested it for the lack of sexual side effects. Not that I was having sex with anyone but just in case...Wellbutrin is not an SSRI. It is a NDRI, Norepinephrine, Dopamine Reuptake Inhibitor. I need seratonin. I have plenty of Norepinephrine and Dopamine. I have Chronic Anxiety, after all.
I zoomed into a space I was not that familiar with. I was able to work for two days and then, thankfully, the weekend came around. I thought that I could adjust to the mania but I was wrong. Really, really wrong. What a fucking huge mistake on my part. I wouldn't leave the house. I was walking up and down the hallway of my house waving my arms and screaming at myself, asking myself what the fuck was going on? Why do you do this to yourself? What the fuck is this supposed to accomplish? And I started getting angry, very angry and started screaming louder at myself: "What the fuck are you so angry about?" I yelled. My poor dog was as far away from me as he could get in the house. He was in the basement. I opened the front door and he went outside on a run.
I hated myself. I hated the need to medicate myself. I didn't take any clonazapam because I was so fucked up, I forgot I had any. Goddam, it was the end of the world! Flame and fire and I'm going down with the ship and what the hell is that noise in my head and who is screaming and why don't you just jump out of your skin and be through with it? It was the end of the world!
Only...it wasn't. Thank God I am who I am. I don't think a normal person could endure what I was enduring and still have a rational thought. I knew it was the drugs. I knew that I was angry, very angry. Then, in a moment of chaotic anxiety ridden clarity, I knew why I was angry. My fucking wife dumped me and left me with all this fucking shit to deal with. She walked away and I was stuck trying to keep the house and feed myself and pay my bills. She was going to Italy to see our daughter AND take in a Bon Jovi concert in Milan. It was the Facebook posting of hers from about a month ago that triggered this wave of nauseous anxiety. That was the straw...
The realization of the cause of the anger made the anger go away. Once I knew why, I could deal with it. I remembered the clonazapam and took one. In a bit, the swirling dervish of induced anxiety started to subside and I was able to stop shouting and actually sit. Sitting in the recliner, I knew what had to be done and I knew it would be difficult and I had to be diligent and keep track of my thoughts at all times because I was my own worst enemy when it came to negative thinking. I knew that I had to stop taking the drugs and I also knew that I would have awful, awful withdrawals. I did have awful withdrawals. Only those who have been through it can completely understand the despair and hopelessness of withdrawal from addictive drugs. My anxiety was horrible. I was twisted inside and could feel the pangs of anxiety zing through my abdomen every fifteen seconds or so. They were all connected to my brain. And my brain was fried. Fried.
I took small amounts of benzos over a period of time, a couple of days, to calm the anxiety and to get the rest I needed to recover. Keep in mind, none knows what is going on with me other than me. I'm doing this with no net, no support, no one to talk to. It's really fucked up. But it is mine to deal with and that is what I am doing. It is what I must do.
I know that in order to get myself back to who I am, I must quit taking the psych meds. Period. I remember before I met my second wife, I was totally drug and alcohol free. I felt good and in control of my life. I am starting to feel that way again but I know it will be a while before I am to the point I was at 25 years ago. I will get there, though. I promise. It's mostly a promise to myself so that I can love myself once more. I never could taking the psych meds.
The last part of the plan started last night. I did not take any clonazapam for sleep last night. I did take two choco pills, marijuana pills, so that I could sleep. I must be careful as marijuana, at this point in my life, increases my anxiety. I guess it is because I am anxious. Marijuana accentuates the mood you are in when you take it.
Clonazapam has a half life of three days. A half life is the time it takes to process and excrete half of the therapeutic dose of the medication. Three days. A fucking long time in my world now. I'm anxious but am aware of my anxiety and try to control it with thought and activity. Like writing. This is pretty long, eh? I'm anxious.
I want to be me, feel me, be the person who can be in a relationship and have that relationship be successful and I don't have a lot of time. I'm almost 61. Time's a wastin'. I'm in no hurry, though. I need to do this correctly and fully. I have a psych appointment next Tuesday, a week from today. I want to be done with the meds by then. It will be interesting to hear what the Psych NP has to say about that.
I will love me so I can love you.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Que vais-je devenir?
Je tire sur un esprit profond virage qui m'a eu la mendicité à la mort, une façon de mettre fin à la misère dans mon esprit. Je n'avais aucun contrôle sur mon esprit. Elle opérait sur sa propre et j'ai été regarder. Il a rendu mon corps se sent horrible, je pouvais sentir l'agonie dans mon cerveau comme il était dans mon corps. J'ai senti la panique, la misère, le désespoir, tout était deux dimension et plat. C'était comme si j'étais dans une immense peinture aux teintes marron sur une toile sans fin.
Je savais que j'allais aller mieux mais il a fallu environ un mois. Je ne peux pas composer avec le stress. Je dois devenir un gitan et parcourir le monde avec rien, mais moi-même. Je ne dois pas être seul. Je ne dois pas être seul. Je dois être connecté. Je suis fragile, un artiste, celui qui se sent et voit ce que les autres ne peuvent pas.
Que vais-je devenir? Est-ce que quelqu'un s'en préoccupe?
Happy I Was
Happy I was
When I was young.
Happy I was
When my heart could still run.
Now I'm older,
My eyes looking back,
To the days when life
Seemed to run off the track.
Happy I was
When I could still play.
Happy I was
Drummin' to eat.
Older each day
My hands getting stiff,
I drop the sticks
While playing a riff.
They say if you're lucky
Some day you'll grow old.
Now that I'm here,
I don't feel so bold.
You live hard, you work hard,
It's supposed to pay off
But each day I wake up
Incredibly lost.
Happy I was
When I learned how to teach.
Happy I was
When all was in reach.
One day I reached out
And the branches all broke
As I fell down the air
I laughed at the joke.
They say if you're lucky
Some day you'll grow old.
Now that I'm here,
I don't feel so bold.
You live hard, you work hard,
It's supposed to pay off
But each day I wake up
Incredibly lost.
Happy I was
To just sit and watch,
Happy I was
Until it all stopped.
The feeling it
When I was young.
Happy I was
When my heart could still run.
Now I'm older,
My eyes looking back,
To the days when life
Seemed to run off the track.
Happy I was
When I could still play.
Happy I was
Drummin' to eat.
Older each day
My hands getting stiff,
I drop the sticks
While playing a riff.
They say if you're lucky
Some day you'll grow old.
Now that I'm here,
I don't feel so bold.
You live hard, you work hard,
It's supposed to pay off
But each day I wake up
Incredibly lost.
Happy I was
When I learned how to teach.
Happy I was
When all was in reach.
One day I reached out
And the branches all broke
As I fell down the air
I laughed at the joke.
They say if you're lucky
Some day you'll grow old.
Now that I'm here,
I don't feel so bold.
You live hard, you work hard,
It's supposed to pay off
But each day I wake up
Incredibly lost.
Happy I was
To just sit and watch,
Happy I was
Until it all stopped.
The feeling it
Friday, April 5, 2013
Time Lost
Water will not melt you.
It will only get so hot
And then it turns to steam.
I filled the porcelain tub
With the hot water faucet
All open, a plug in the drain.
I'm taking a hot bath
For the first time in three years.
Things change like they are
Invisible. You can't really see
The change, but you feel it.
The longest of any of the
Days of my life. Three
Years. I will not melt.
I will evaporate into the
Whisp of wind through
The gaping window, close
My eyes and float along
With the whisp. In a tub
Of very hot water.
It will only get so hot
And then it turns to steam.
I filled the porcelain tub
With the hot water faucet
All open, a plug in the drain.
I'm taking a hot bath
For the first time in three years.
Things change like they are
Invisible. You can't really see
The change, but you feel it.
The longest of any of the
Days of my life. Three
Years. I will not melt.
I will evaporate into the
Whisp of wind through
The gaping window, close
My eyes and float along
With the whisp. In a tub
Of very hot water.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Today was made for today...
The singularity of nowness has descended upon my shoulders. I awoke at 6:30AM and actually swung my feet around and onto the floor and stood up. Previously in my life, like last night, I had been productive in the studio. I had thrown some bowls intended to end up as knitting bowls and trimmed and decorated one of the dryer ones. This particular clay is a very wet porcelain that needs a deft, tough touch to get to shape. Once you have the thickness, you can run your finger up and down the inside of the bowl to give it definition and shape; a chance to make it unique. Depending on the humidity, it is raining today, the pots will dry enough to trim and handle overnight. I am glad for the rain and humidity. It slows the evaporation which lessens the chance for distortion when shrinking. It's a problem in the summer when you can throw a pot in the morning and have to trim in the afternoon. Actually, it does make a good routine and I do get a lot done during the fast drying months. If needed, I can cover the pots in thick plastic to slow the drying.
Being awake, and I mean wide awake, at 6:30AM was a totally different way to start the day. I remembered to eat breakfast, made a pot of coffee, put on the shorts and shoes I had on the night before, grabbed a ginormous cup of coffee, and headed to the studio to see what needed to be done. At the least there would be trimming. At the most, the completion of the bowl to its purpose. In this case, a knitting bowl.
I was very glad to have something to do as long as I was going to be awake.
I unlatched and threw open the huge shop door to let the air in and the clay dust out. As it is garbage day, I threw the studio refuse container onto the hand truck for the bumpy trip to the street where the 90 gallon plastic container barely half full sat, waiting for the truck to come and squeeze its guts like mustard onto a Polish dog on top of the kraut.
What I ignore time after time is that the studio refuse container can get too heavy to lift into the 90 gallon plastic container. Today, in fact, I had to unload about 1/3 of the load by hand before it was light enough to lift onto my shoulder and dump in to the 90 gallon plastic container. Now the container was 3/4 full and heavy. Call me paranoid, but I think they weigh my garbage. Then again, they probably weigh everyone's garbage so they know when their trucks are full. Whatever.
Making the knitting bowl should be a delicate process. Undue, unnatural force is being used with a semi-fragile substance with leather hard clay. It is malleable enough to work with but dry enough to hold its shape. The possibility of distortion is a given. In a perfect world...
I trim the bottom of the bowl first. Before turning the bowl upside down on the wheel, I turn it in my hands, learning it, seeing where it needs to be trimmed, feeling the bottom to see how deep of a foot ring can be made. I like to make a definitive foot ring but sometimes do not leave enough clay at the bottom to do so.
I place the bowl upside down on the wheel and center it then secure it. I start the wheel and take a larger trimming tool to take the rough edges off first. Once that is done and everything is uniform, I go to smaller, more detail oriented tools for the personal touch. I work on the belly and the body first, scraping the body smooth with my finger amputating metal rib. This takes the throw lines off and the body becomes smooth. A smooth porcelain body becomes a canvas for beyond imagination design. You can create emotion with color. I love to create.
Once I have the belly trimmed, the foot ring, if there is one, is trimmed. When everything is trimmed to satisfaction, I take a damp sponge and wipe every thing down with the wheel spinning at what ever speed you like. This leaves the bottom wet for a minute or two so I don't handle them at all. I stare at the wall for two minutes or until I think the pot is dry enough to sign. I have a metal scribe a student made for me that I sign my name with on the bottom of the pot. Then, if there is carving or decorating to be done, for example, put a bird on it, this is when it would be done. Each piece is usually worked on until it is done then the next goes through the same process. Then they are set on a drying rack to completely air dry in order to be bisque fired.
The production of a knitting bowl requires a quiet mind. I admit that I had headphones plugged into my iPhone and was signing loudly and rocking out last night in the studio. I was wedging the clay, kneading it as if I were making bread. This is a physical effort to which I attribute the definition of my shoulders. That's why I had the tattoos put there. Hardly any sagging. :)
With the wedging and the rocking out out of the way, it was time to take off the headphones and to center myself and listen to the clay. Sometimes it is a dance between hands and particles of clay that seem to have a mind of their own. Porcelain is a thirsty clay meaning it needs a lot of lubrication. Water. That's where delicate balance comes in. Too much water, the clay will become saturated and unable to hold itself up. It slumps. Not enough water and you get caught on a dry spot that catches your finger if only for a second but long enough to produce a wub in the pot. Very hard to fix and not really worth the time. Just make another.
The way I do it is to keep the water going in and out. That way there is very little standing water at any time in the pot. When pulling, I will sponge out the water before a pull, then squeeze water from the sponge onto my fingers that are running along the rim of the pot. That puts the water evenly on the outside and the inside and not to much on the bottom. Then I pull. When finished pulling and shaping at each stage I sponge the water off the whole pot. At times, I will grab the amputating metal rib and scrape the water off the outside of the pot while using the spong e to remove water from the inside of the pot. Okay, was that redundant enough?
Once the pot is thrown, its been shaped and sponged off, I take a piece of chamois cloth, completely soaked, and run it on the rim of the pot, pressing slightly to compress the rim. This lessens the chance of a chip later in its life.
And after all that, and the trimming and decorating comes the quiet mind part. I will carve a channel into this bowl, taking a piece of it out of the pot. Do not think doom and gloom. Think: if this part of the process goes well, a very useful tool, a knitting bowl, will emerge. Also Think: by carving a channel into a round object and removing a piece thereby disrupting the symmetry, the bowl itself will react uniquely in the drying process.
I start with a French Curve and trace two arched lines for the path of the cut. I determine where the notch the yarn comes out of and take a 1/4 inch drill bit and drill a hole. I take a little brush tool, kind of like a baby bottle brush only really small, and clean out the hole. Then I pick up the fettling knife that I have sharpened. Fettling knives are supposed to be kind of dull so you can't cut yourself. Yes, I'm typing this with tape wrapped around a finger that was the victim of the sharpened fettling knife. Never mind about that.
I insert the knife in the drilled hole and press slightly, following the line I traced. The bowl is sitting sideways on my lap and I am pressing down on it. This is where I could lose the bowl with a cracked rim from too much or uneven pressure.
My fingers are supporting the clay as I move the knife along the line. If the clay is too dry, it could crack and a chunk would come off and the knitting bowl becomes yard art. I stop, pull the knife out of the clay, and start to move the knife back and forth in a sawing motion on the rim where the lines for the opening are. This is to prevent a big chunk of clay from separating from the rim. It's not surefire but it's the best I've got.
If all goes well, you've just cut a j shaped notch
into your bowl defining its future use. From this dy forward, this is a knitting bowl. Soup will never work. If you don't believe that, just try it.
No matter what I decide to do to the bowl before or after, once the notch is cut, you have a one of a kind dedicated use item. It's a beautiful thing.
They are set on a wooden shelf to dry. When bone dry, I load them into the kiln for the first firing, the bisque firing.
This day is just that. Spring rain has slammed into the ground. It figures. They just sprayed the orchard yesterday. Now they have to do it again. It is nothing more than kaolin, a fine clay that covers the bark and prevent the piranha from carving away at tree flesh. The rain has dictated this day from demeanor to transaction. It is totally zen. This one day. This now. This this. Pretty dang cool.
Being awake, and I mean wide awake, at 6:30AM was a totally different way to start the day. I remembered to eat breakfast, made a pot of coffee, put on the shorts and shoes I had on the night before, grabbed a ginormous cup of coffee, and headed to the studio to see what needed to be done. At the least there would be trimming. At the most, the completion of the bowl to its purpose. In this case, a knitting bowl.
I was very glad to have something to do as long as I was going to be awake.
I unlatched and threw open the huge shop door to let the air in and the clay dust out. As it is garbage day, I threw the studio refuse container onto the hand truck for the bumpy trip to the street where the 90 gallon plastic container barely half full sat, waiting for the truck to come and squeeze its guts like mustard onto a Polish dog on top of the kraut.
What I ignore time after time is that the studio refuse container can get too heavy to lift into the 90 gallon plastic container. Today, in fact, I had to unload about 1/3 of the load by hand before it was light enough to lift onto my shoulder and dump in to the 90 gallon plastic container. Now the container was 3/4 full and heavy. Call me paranoid, but I think they weigh my garbage. Then again, they probably weigh everyone's garbage so they know when their trucks are full. Whatever.
Making the knitting bowl should be a delicate process. Undue, unnatural force is being used with a semi-fragile substance with leather hard clay. It is malleable enough to work with but dry enough to hold its shape. The possibility of distortion is a given. In a perfect world...
I trim the bottom of the bowl first. Before turning the bowl upside down on the wheel, I turn it in my hands, learning it, seeing where it needs to be trimmed, feeling the bottom to see how deep of a foot ring can be made. I like to make a definitive foot ring but sometimes do not leave enough clay at the bottom to do so.
I place the bowl upside down on the wheel and center it then secure it. I start the wheel and take a larger trimming tool to take the rough edges off first. Once that is done and everything is uniform, I go to smaller, more detail oriented tools for the personal touch. I work on the belly and the body first, scraping the body smooth with my finger amputating metal rib. This takes the throw lines off and the body becomes smooth. A smooth porcelain body becomes a canvas for beyond imagination design. You can create emotion with color. I love to create.
Once I have the belly trimmed, the foot ring, if there is one, is trimmed. When everything is trimmed to satisfaction, I take a damp sponge and wipe every thing down with the wheel spinning at what ever speed you like. This leaves the bottom wet for a minute or two so I don't handle them at all. I stare at the wall for two minutes or until I think the pot is dry enough to sign. I have a metal scribe a student made for me that I sign my name with on the bottom of the pot. Then, if there is carving or decorating to be done, for example, put a bird on it, this is when it would be done. Each piece is usually worked on until it is done then the next goes through the same process. Then they are set on a drying rack to completely air dry in order to be bisque fired.
The production of a knitting bowl requires a quiet mind. I admit that I had headphones plugged into my iPhone and was signing loudly and rocking out last night in the studio. I was wedging the clay, kneading it as if I were making bread. This is a physical effort to which I attribute the definition of my shoulders. That's why I had the tattoos put there. Hardly any sagging. :)
With the wedging and the rocking out out of the way, it was time to take off the headphones and to center myself and listen to the clay. Sometimes it is a dance between hands and particles of clay that seem to have a mind of their own. Porcelain is a thirsty clay meaning it needs a lot of lubrication. Water. That's where delicate balance comes in. Too much water, the clay will become saturated and unable to hold itself up. It slumps. Not enough water and you get caught on a dry spot that catches your finger if only for a second but long enough to produce a wub in the pot. Very hard to fix and not really worth the time. Just make another.
The way I do it is to keep the water going in and out. That way there is very little standing water at any time in the pot. When pulling, I will sponge out the water before a pull, then squeeze water from the sponge onto my fingers that are running along the rim of the pot. That puts the water evenly on the outside and the inside and not to much on the bottom. Then I pull. When finished pulling and shaping at each stage I sponge the water off the whole pot. At times, I will grab the amputating metal rib and scrape the water off the outside of the pot while using the spong e to remove water from the inside of the pot. Okay, was that redundant enough?
Once the pot is thrown, its been shaped and sponged off, I take a piece of chamois cloth, completely soaked, and run it on the rim of the pot, pressing slightly to compress the rim. This lessens the chance of a chip later in its life.
And after all that, and the trimming and decorating comes the quiet mind part. I will carve a channel into this bowl, taking a piece of it out of the pot. Do not think doom and gloom. Think: if this part of the process goes well, a very useful tool, a knitting bowl, will emerge. Also Think: by carving a channel into a round object and removing a piece thereby disrupting the symmetry, the bowl itself will react uniquely in the drying process.
I start with a French Curve and trace two arched lines for the path of the cut. I determine where the notch the yarn comes out of and take a 1/4 inch drill bit and drill a hole. I take a little brush tool, kind of like a baby bottle brush only really small, and clean out the hole. Then I pick up the fettling knife that I have sharpened. Fettling knives are supposed to be kind of dull so you can't cut yourself. Yes, I'm typing this with tape wrapped around a finger that was the victim of the sharpened fettling knife. Never mind about that.
I insert the knife in the drilled hole and press slightly, following the line I traced. The bowl is sitting sideways on my lap and I am pressing down on it. This is where I could lose the bowl with a cracked rim from too much or uneven pressure.
My fingers are supporting the clay as I move the knife along the line. If the clay is too dry, it could crack and a chunk would come off and the knitting bowl becomes yard art. I stop, pull the knife out of the clay, and start to move the knife back and forth in a sawing motion on the rim where the lines for the opening are. This is to prevent a big chunk of clay from separating from the rim. It's not surefire but it's the best I've got.
If all goes well, you've just cut a j shaped notch
No matter what I decide to do to the bowl before or after, once the notch is cut, you have a one of a kind dedicated use item. It's a beautiful thing.
They are set on a wooden shelf to dry. When bone dry, I load them into the kiln for the first firing, the bisque firing.
This day is just that. Spring rain has slammed into the ground. It figures. They just sprayed the orchard yesterday. Now they have to do it again. It is nothing more than kaolin, a fine clay that covers the bark and prevent the piranha from carving away at tree flesh. The rain has dictated this day from demeanor to transaction. It is totally zen. This one day. This now. This this. Pretty dang cool.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Take You There
Abstruse to me
When the music
Induces inspiration
Without affectation.
Dance with me
To the din
From sound projecting
Cones encased in wood
Until we are Sufi
And one with God
In music. Listen,
It is my philosophy,
My mantra,
My truth,
One
Song
At
A
Time.
Praise the people
Whose souls suffer
So that
We
May
Dance.
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