Two days left.

Two days for me to get my fill of Twitter and Facebook and blogs.

Two days to wonder how good the cell signal is there.

Two days to wonder if I’ll be able to blog. I’m definitely bringing my journal and notebooks to write in. It’ll be blogging from my phone, if at all, since I’m told there’s no wifi and no Internet.

Two days to get my laundry done and choose 5 sets of clothing that’ll last me a month. Two days to figure out what shirts I’ll take with me.

Two days to squeeze in phone calls.

Two days to figure out what books I want to bring with me. Hell, two days to drop off my library book because I can’t renew it beyond my stay in the inpatient program.

Two days to fill my iPod with music to last me a month.

Two days to enjoy my own bed. Do I bring my own pillow?

Two days to stay up as late as I want. And attempt to sleep in as late as I want (9:30 AM is usually as far as I can get).

Two days of having my schedule be whatever the fuck I want it to be. Eat when I want, test my blood sugar when I want, give myself insulin when I want. Something tells me my schedule will be dictated much differently…in two days.

Two days to wonder if I get a roommate while I’m there. I’m assuming I will, because I can’t believe I’ll be lucky enough not to.

Two days to clear off as many shows from my DVR as possible.

Two days to be thankful that “Lost” finished before this wild psychological experiment. Maybe this is my “sideways timeline.”

Two days until I have to watch what everyone else is watching (Lord, let it not be “Jersey Shore”).

Two days to gather toiletries.

Two days to get a haircut that’ll last me through a month. Considering a crew cut. It’s only gonna get hotter in Florida for the next several months. And a crew cut seems appropriate for scenes that may match “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

Two days to let the anxiety build and fester.

Two days to keep telling myself this is voluntary and I can leave whenever I want. Two days to keep telling myself this may be the only shot I get at an inpatient program, so leaving prematurely would be asinine.

Two days to wonder why asinine only contains one “s.”

Two days to freak the fuck out.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

No SecondHand Radio tonight. Just can’t see how to make it happen with Shannon here. Next week at 10pm.

With everything running off the rails lately, it’s been hard for me to remember the better things in life. Things like laughing and poking fun of strangers in the airport.

I’ve spent weeks preparing for Shannon’s visit and she’s sleeping away as I write this. Finally, now I can just enjoy her company. We both wore our “Prick Buddies Unite” shirts, which garnered a number of odd looks. When you’re wearing a shirt with your picture on it and the word “Prick,” well, you do the math.

We made record time from Orlando…her luggage came out faster than Ricky Martin. Mmm, bad analogy. Glaciers melt faster than Ricky Martin came out. Let’s just say the luggage came out lickety-split.

Driving the space shuttle home, we made it in just 90 minutes. Quickly got her settled into her room and went off to the Blue Lagoon for dinner (and beer).

Showed Shannon the wonder that is corn nuggets, which are like sweet corny bits of crack. And, oh, the fried corn on the cob, which is like corny bits of crack (just on a cob).

The laughs I experience with her around are some of the best I get. She’s infectious that way, and I’ve needed the laughter big-time. Playing “The Price is Right” on the Wii with her last night rocked…she even relinquished the Plinko game to me because she’s sweet that way. SillyBring is Saturday and, yeah, looking forward to it, but I’m glad I get some one-on-one time with the Bubblewench.

This morning, while she still slept away, I went off and got my blood drawn. This afternoon, I have the Matrix Therapist (long overdue…I hate having her every other week when there are moments of crisis popping up every other hour, it seems).

Now Shannon is in my shower – woo hoo! – and we’re about to watch Tuesday night’s episode of “Lost.” At some point, we’re talking about seeing “Kick-Ass” in the theater. May go to Gatorama, too.

It’s a godsend to me that she’s here now to help throw any drama onto the back burner. Oops, here she is now. Time to watch the Smoke Monster.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

This week has been a total write-off as far as exercise is concerned. I’ve been sick for a week now, and even though I’m pretty sure it’s just a cold, it’s been kicking my ass. Major snot factory, coughing, wheezing, headaches, sore throat, etc. (And yes, I’m keenly aware that smoking isn’t helping…that Resolution will come later this year. Not ready for that one yet.)

Being sick isn’t something I do well. It’s a rarity to begin with, perhaps once a year (twice if it’s a bad year). In this case, it’s been over a year since I was last afflicted with anything. Physical, I mean. Mentally, I’m afflicted many times over, of course.

We’re nearly done with March already, but I’m calling the exercise Resolution successful. I’ll start on it again as soon as I’m up to snuff. Let’s take a look at the Resolutions so far, yeah?

January: Diabetes. This is still going strong, mostly. I’ve been a bit lax on checking sugar this past week. Getting on the horse again, though. My sugar this morning (before meds or breakfast) was 211. High, yes, but again…haven’t been great about everything this past week. Sugar the last week has averaged 146.

I’ll be filling my weekly pillboxes when I finish here. Doing really good taking my meds most of the time, too.

February: Work. Meh. Not so great here. Plan to get to work today, as well. Gotta write a story. And I haven’t even begun looking for another writing gig, though I’m totally open to more.

March: Exercise. Already mentioned. I plan on continuing with this. I’ve seen how it affects (positively) my blood sugar…knocks it down quite a bit. And that’s a good thing. That was part of the idea behind the Year of Resolutions: that they’d interplay in various ways, all to make me feel better physically and mentally.

Now it’s time to think about April. We’re only days away from it and I need to come up with another Resolution. I have it narrowed down to a few ideas, but am open to more suggestions. I’m leaning toward something spiritual at the moment. We’ll see.

I’ll be announcing the winner(s) of the Funniest Sex Story contest tomorrow. Got some really good entries.

Lordy, I need a new computer. Finally fixed my problematic mouse by getting a new wireless mouse. Works fine now…must have been the old mouse’s receiver that was the problem. But my 4-yr-old Dell laptop is just sluggish. Takes nearly 7 or 8 minutes to fully boot. Maxed on RAM, dependent on an external hard drive.

Oh, Apple, why can’t you send me a shiny new MacBook Pro on a scholarship or something?

In the good news department, I’m mending things with a friend, and that feels nice. The last few months have been a whirlwind of a roller coaster ride. The Matrix Therapist noted that I seem “different” at our last session. Not sure what that means, exactly, but she said I seem “mellower.”

The new meds seem to be doing something, I’m just not sure what, exactly. My energy levels seem higher (this past week notwithstanding). My mood? Perhaps better, but not markedly so.

The new 2HT design is coming along. Not on the schedule I was hoping for, but then that’s what happens when your designer has sick kiddos. Fucking priorities…ugh. The development site is up and running. I’m thinking it should only be a couple of weeks, but can’t be sure. In the meantime, the runner-up from the Funniest Sex Story contest is getting a sneak-peek at the new design with a specially-made item from the 2HT store.

Speaking of which, there’s a new shirt for the dudes. I already had a girl’s shirt made up. Now the guys are free to tell it like it is, too.

Seriously, It’s Not Me. It’s You. MEN SHIRT by karlerikson

Naturally, you can customize the color and style of shirt.

Lastly, I decided to end my relationship with my ad network. I love BlogHer, don’t get me wrong. I just got tired of being suspended for the occasionally offensive post, or for running a giveaway. If I was pulling in hundreds of dollars in revenue, that’d be one thing, but I’m not. I barely cover my monthly hosting costs. Just not worth it any more.

So that’s what’s going on with me at the moment. How about you?

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Had a scare yesterday where I didn’t completely read a letter I got from the VA. Thought they were cutting me out of the VA system, but actually, they were denying my emergency room claim from January. Y’know, where I did the faceplant on my kitchen floor?

Paying $170 for the damn E.R. visit is much better than having to switch all of my doctors, I have to say. Lesson learned…read EVERYTHING. Then panic.

Doctor visit this morning. My blood sugar readings are highest in the mornings, generally always above 200. So we’re moving back to an evening dose of long-acting insulin. Just a small dose, so I don’t feel all that panicked. Not too worried about crashing – my sugars are fairly under control. I haven’t had a low-sugar event in a couple of months or so.

I go back in a couple of weeks for another follow-up. New lab tests in a month, right after Shannon gets here.

The YOR exercising? Going well. I’m doing the 5-days-a-week thing. And though I haven’t yet found something that trips my trigger, I’m still sticking with it.  This week, the Zumba class starts, and even though I’m told it will kick my ass, I’m going to try it. I figure if I can get in on the ground floor, maybe I have a shot. Then again, if it kicks my ass the very first class?

There’s other stuff I haven’t yet tried, but am already convinced it’ll be too hard. A Pilates/Yoga class. Belly dancing. Hatha yoga. So far, most of my activity at the Y is treadmill (still). I tried a stationery bike thing yesterday, and that was cool. May go with that one some more. If it weren’t for my iPod, I’d be bored out of my skull. I’m still bored, but at least I have tunes. And sometimes Adam Carolla’s podcast.

Tomorrow, I go to see Ben Folds in concert. Woo hoo! Never seen him live before, and I can’t wait. Tickets were a reasonable $34. Now, if I could just cough up $70 or so to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (with Joe Cocker as an opener!), that’d rock even more.

Poppy recently wrote about filling up the self-worth tank. Good post, great idea, but no surprise, considering the source.

Soooooo, here’s the challenge: Fill up someone else’s self worth tank. Let’s say nice things about how awesome each other is so that we feel like our existence on this planet is not a waste of space, time, and energy. If you’re strong enough to say nice things about yourself, then do that too.

I’m gonna start today with the hardest part…saying nice things about ME. That shit gives me the heebie jeebies, but bear with me. I’m not well-versed at this stuff.

I’m smart. I mentioned this briefly in my 100 Things list, but my I.Q. only rarely manifests in obvious ways. Just because I’m smart doesn’t mean I don’t make plenty of bonehead moves. Oh, right…NICE things. See? Told you I’m not so great at this.

On occasion, my brilliance does shine. Case in point:

When I was a little kid, around 9 or so, my parents were both working. I had a babysitter, of course, who was a teenager and more interested in boys and cranking Queen records than keeping up with my sister and I.

My father had this amazing smutty magazine collection, which I’d recently been perusing whenever I had the chance. There were a handful of neighborhood kids over at my house and I told them I had something to show them.

We go into my parents’ bedroom and close the door. I slide open the closet door and point to the shelf up top. STACKS and STACKS of mags, each complete with naked women in lots of odd positions with naked men.

Ages of the kids ranged from 14 down to around 6 or 7. Johnny, the teen, pulled down a couple of stacks for us to look through. We all got on my folks’ bed and started paging through the mags.

Oh my God. GROSS! She has his thing in her mouth!

Why would anyone want a thing in their mouth?

Look at this! His thing is in HER thing!

She looks like she’s in a LOT of pain!

Do you think that’s what ALL policemen do with women?

Our burgeoning education of naked things came to a sudden halt, however, when I heard my father’s car pull up in front of the house.

“Oh no! It’s my DAD!”

And five boys started freaking the fuck out, gathering all the dirty magazines in a heartbeat. Most of them ran from my parents’ bedroom, not heeding my pleas for help to restore the bedroom to its proper working order.

My life was flashing before my eyes. I stacked the mags, and shoved them back up onto the closet shelf.

It was then that God decided to have me killed.

The shelf came toppling down inside the closet. And approximately 847,000 porn mags crashed to the floor, spilling everywhere.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaah!

I was dead meat. My father would be coming in at any moment. All my friends had run out the back door, retreating to leave me to my execution.

Then…a flash of brilliance. Little Karl saw what had to be done.

I shoved all the magazines back inside the confines of the closet, grabbed Midnight (my black cat), tossed her inside the closet, and closed the door. And I ran from the bedroom, just in time to greet my father at the front entryway. I was damn proud of that maneuver, proof that I could think fast on my feet and avoid certain death.

I finally admitted to my father that Midnight wasn’t the culprit…y’know, around 20 years later. Naturally, he and my stepmother both laughed and acknowledged what a smart move I’d made.

Perhaps I’m just a porn-savant, I don’t know. But either way, I’m smart.

I even understand why it’s not such a bad experience to have my thing in her mouth. And that the reason why she looks like she’s in such pain when my thing is in HER thing is because I forgot to pack my lubed shoehorn.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/36498826@N02/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Not. Doing. Well.

It’s all in between my fucking ears, as usual. That’s always the problem area with me.

I had a good day yesterday. A friend visited and made my day. Hell, my month. So why are these awesome moments so short-lived in my head? I’m back to miserable today. Overwhelmed. Feeling on the verge of…shit, I don’t know. Not quite a breakdown, but close.

Every task becomes this monumental thing hanging over my head. Checking my blood sugar. Taking meds. A load of laundry. The dishes. Getting Mom another glass of water. Writing a story for work. Answering the phone, texts. Making an appointment for my head CT (Tuesday). I’m waiting for that Final Straw. Surely it’s coming.

And it’s days like this when I tend to cloak myself in one of my sweetest comforts. No, not Guinness. Not even rubbing one out. I’m talking about suicidal thoughts.

Bear me out here. I’m safe. You need to know that.

One of the hardest questions I get asked by shrinks is whether or not I’m suicidal.

“Are you having suicidal thoughts?” they ask.

The short answer is, “Yes.” But if I just drop a “yes” out there with no qualifiers,  I’m sure to wind up in a rubber room somewhere. No key.

Now, any shrink or therapist worth their fees will follow up such an answer with another question.

“Have you made any plans to harm yourself?”

THAT is the REAL question, the important question. Because while I *think* about suicide every day…every hour, even…I would never ACT on those thoughts.

Now that we have that out of the way…

I’ve spoken a little about my inner voice(s). Some might call it my Inner Critic, but that’s not strong enough a term. It’s like an ARMY of Inner Critics. That’s another iffy question for me…”Do you hear voices?” I’ve said, too, that sometimes these inner voices sound as clear to me as a real-live person.

Let’s say I fuck up, something I do routinely. We all do, we’re human.

My inner dialogue might go a little like this:

Gah! You’re a fucking idiot!

I wish I was dead.

Lightning quick, it’s out there in my head, it’s often the very FIRST thought that pops to mind.

I should die.

Everything would be simpler if I were dead. All the problems, the depression, the anxiety, my fucking up all the time, my loneliness, feeling so overwhelmed, so broken. All. Gone. In an instant.

I could get hit by a Mack truck. I could jump in the tub with a plugged-in toaster. I could jump off the Sebring water tower. Hanging is a popular choice. Pills I’m not thrilled with…tried that. Once. Guns. Trains. So many choices.

I often fall asleep thinking about all the ways I could blink myself out of the universe. It’s comforting. Morbid, sick, yes…but comforting. There’s power in knowing I can snuff it all away.

Now, I’m not saying it’s healthy to think like this. It’s not. At all. It’s part of my makeup, though. It’s hard-wired into my brain, these instant (sometimes gruesome) wishes for death.

I’ve come to grips with the myriad of unhealthy things happening in my brain. I know they’ll likely never, ever go away. I also know I’ll never act on the suicidal shit. Why?

I could never do that to the people in my life. Suicide is wrong, period. It’s an act of anger, and it’s the most selfish, heinous thing a person can possibly do. I don’t want to get into debates about how child molesters are far worse, or that people in chronic pain should have the right to assisted suicide. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck if you agree or disagree with me. I know I’m right. I’ve seen suicide, how it affects people.

You want to instantly become the Douchiest Person on Earth? Kill yourself. And if you do, don’t expect me to come to your funeral. I don’t mourn assholes.

What kept me from following through on my one suicide attempt in the mid 90’s was my daughters. Dark living room with a single lit candle, I had the pills all swallowed, my bottle of wine to wash them down with. Only a few minutes passed, and I was in tears. Then my girls popped into my head, and I cried even harder. I realized I was about to become the Douchiest Person on Earth.

Like I hadn’t screwed them up enough already? Now I was going to saddle my girls with a father who committed suicide? Put them through a life of fucked-uppedness? No.

I got up, went to the toilet, shoved fingers into my mouth, and puked all that shit out. No ambulance, no hospital, no further ceremony. I cried myself to sleep, knowing I was so fucked up I couldn’t even take my own life. And that the pain was still very much there.

My girls…that’s a sore subject with me. A topic for another post, maybe. Let’s just say that, in order to protect them from my bottom-of-the-pit depression, I played the neglect card. I thought I was doing the right thing, keeping them from me. I was wrong, perhaps the wrongest I’ve ever been. And that haunts me daily. Those relationships are non-existent now, both of them are fed up with my shit.

But I can say I didn’t pull the trigger, and my girls are the reason why I’m still here today. Sometimes they’re the ONLY reason, and that’s enough. We all need a reason to not be dead, preferably multiple reasons.

So…today. Back to the present. Days like today, when I’m down and overwhelmed and anhedonic, make me think of suicide a lot. Because it’s the hopelessness that convinces me this shit will never EVER end. I will NEVER have relief. Precisely why I watch “Highlander” and shudder at the thought of living forever. Fuck, I dread making it another 20 years on days like today. Living for all of eternity? No fucking thanks.

I got my new meds in the mail today. The Abilify, and the one for the nightmares. I have a lot of concerns, I’ve told you why before. But my need for something better – anything better – is so great that I’m gonna try this shit again.

I’ve already agreed to not leave Mom’s sight for 3 hours after taking the Abilify tomorrow morning. I look inside that vial and see those teeny little pills, and I think, “That little thing could make me or break me. THAT.” They terrify me.

I read through the list of potential side effects. Diabetes is mentioned specifically. Could raise my blood sugar, and mine has been not so great already. Could lower my blood pressure – which is always damn good – and make me faint.

But it could…just maybe…work. I’m not holding my breath, though.

And I’m pretty sure I know how I’ll be falling asleep tonight.

Jumping off an overpass. Barrel in my mouth. Too much insulin. It’s the Parade of Morbidity, and I am the mutherfucking Grand Marshall.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

I’m slacking. I feel it. Losing my momentum is not a feeling I like. The mania has subsided. My brain is much calmer (and dumber), though that’s relative. It’s still busier than most people’s, I get that. But compared to the manic shit? It’s like my brain finally said no to steroids or something.

Tomorrow I have my first real session with the new shrink, via videoconference. Amazing the V.A. even knows such technology exists, but I’m not bitching. If it weren’t for the video thing, I’d have to drive 90 minutes to meet up with her.

I’m not slamming the V.A. in any way. I’ve heard horror stories, but to be fair, I’ve not experienced many problems with the care I’ve received. And I’m very thankful for that. I don’t have regular health care. The jobs I’ve had of late are contracting positions. No bennies provided. Sure, once upon a time, when I got $43/hour for my time, I could afford it. But not now.

I’m already impressed with this new shrink of mine. She called me a few weeks ago, unsolicited, just to check on me and my meds. On a Friday. At 5:15 in the afternoon. That speaks volumes to me.

So we’ll be discussing meds, mostly that the current regime isn’t doing shit. We stepped up the Geodon. I’m now taking twice as much as I was a few weeks ago and…nothing. That’s the bitch with being treatment-resistant. Lots of meds don’t touch me, then there are those that require a much higher dose than what others find effective.

The trial-and-error associated with medication is exhausting and nerve-wracking. I’m far from the most patient man on Earth, and adjusting meds (and trying new ones) pretty much requires patience, and lots of it. That’s how it is, particularly with the meds designed to hit your brain instead of just your body. They take WEEKS to build up efficacy in the body. And if they don’t work, many of them take weeks to get OUT of your body, which is sometimes needed before adding something NEW.

For me, I’ve pretty much always required a Magic Cocktail, a mix of different meds. I wish like hell that there was a pill that did it all, but there’s not. My chemistry is different than yours, which is different than everyone else’s. So, yeah, trial-and-error. With all the technology we have today, that’s still the way it works. I long for the days of Star Trek, when they scan you with a Tricorder and have you fixed up with a simple shot.

I read an interesting article last month about a pretty major discovery regarding Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (and yeah, I’ve got that, too). They’ve found a way to definitively diagnose PTSD using pictures of the brain. Remarkable, since the only way to diagnose before was through a series of questionnaires and a laundry list of symptomology.

Unfortunately, this discovery probably won’t lead to helping ME…not for a long time. Not until they can point to a brain scan and say, “Ah, see that squiggle there in Karl’s hippocampus? We need to give him Miracle Drug Alpha for that.” Until they know how to correspond the brain pics with specific forms of treatment? Not gonna do much for me. But it’s hopeful for future PTSD’ers, and I’ll take that.

I started out talking about me losing momentum, and that’s really what I’m feeling right now. A lot of hopelessness, lack of motivation, simply losing my give-a-shit attitude. Depression. An overwhelming sense of, well, being overwhelmed. Yes, I’m still checking my sugar and taking my meds, but I really don’t care about it.

I knew this was going to come, the return to the old me. Trying to find some shrivel of happiness in this mode is daunting, at the very least. I can’t survive in full-blown mania all the time – I’d die from sheer exhaustion, from insanity. But I wish I had a way to harness the motivation, the good attitude, the Happy.

Think I’m treatment-resistant in the attitude department, too.

For now, I’ll just take what little pieces of enjoyment I can get. I like the winter Olympics (tons more than the summer Olympics), even though I’m not a sports guy. I never watch baseball, or football, or basketball, or hockey. None of it. That shit bores me to tears. But the Olympics has something for everyone. Plus, it’s only two weeks long. I’m in, I’m out, I’m done for another 4 years. My fave events, by the way, are figure skating, snowboarding, and the skiing…none of which I’ve ever tried.

I also found some meditation podcasts, thanks to Angel. A friend has offered to help me with meditation – something I’ve never tried before – and I plan to take her up on that offer. But the podcast I listened to yesterday really helped to calm me down. I like that. I say I’ve never tried meditation, but the truth is I’ve probably achieved that “nothingness” mindset on my own many times. I may be wrong, but all the dissociating I’ve done in my life kind of mirrors that calming void sensation in meditation. I suppose there are positives to being a Survivor, after all.

I’m gearing up for 2HT’s redesign, and I am excited about that. Should be happening within the next month or so. My original launch date was going to be April Fool’s Day (seems appropriate), which also happens to be both my Mom’s AND my twin daughters’ birthdays. But it’s going to be sooner than that. Can’t wait to see it all come together.

I’d really like a dog. I think that’d do wonders for me. Mom hasn’t been so keen on getting a pet, though. Her rationale has always been, “If you can’t keep your room clean, how are you going to take care of a dog or a cat?” My rationale has always been, “Those two things aren’t even closely related.”

And yes, I’m 43 and live with my mother. I’m also depressed, anxious as Monk, and unemployed. Put me on “The Bachelor” now, ladies. I’m available. *cough*

Like my brain, this post is all over the board. I’m tired of that, too.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

I wish I could tell you that this month’s Resolution has gone off without a hitch, but it hasn’t. There’s a bit of a fly in the ointment, and I can’t yet say what. Suffice it to say that I’m still working on fulfilling at least half of my Resolution. And when I find out what I’m waiting to find out, you’ll hear about it.

Meantime, I have other news to report.

Mom had her follow-up at the doctor today. It’ll be two weeks since her surgery tomorrow. Things are moving along. She hasn’t had a pain pill since the weekend. X-rays look good. The doc took her staples out today, so now she can actually get her knee wet in the shower (instead of sticking her leg in a big black garbage bag and taping it shut).

No more lounging around in bed all the time, either. Doc says I need to crack the whip, so I will. Up and about as much as possible. Her endurance is shit right now, but that’ll change, too. She’s walking back and forth short distances (with a walker, mostly, but still).

She’ll be in the knee immobilizer for another month, when she goes back for more x-rays. Thumb needs to stay in its own immobilizer, too. Yeah, we forgot to ask about the thumb last time because, well, it’s pretty inconsequential when compared to the broken kneecap.

Should everything look good in a month, it’ll be time for physical therapy. And that’ll be another 6-8 weeks.

That’s all good. Aside from me being locked to the house for a while longer, anyway. But I can get out when I need to…just have to ask for a sitter. Mom doesn’t agree that she needs one, but she does agree that if the shoe were on the other foot, she wouldn’t be leaving ME by myself right now. So there’s progress.

My diabetes is coming under control. My sugars the last few days have mostly been well under 200, mostly under 140, even. I’m not including tonight, of course, because I scored a 222 after three slices of pizza. Oops. Still, I’m getting there.

I ordered a number of herbal and natural supplements to help with my depression and the bipolar disorder. Checked the list with both the Matrix Therapist and my new shrink, of course. I’m still being compliant and very honest with them about…everything, really. I keep no secrets from my medical team. That would just be stupid. No therapy this week because the MT thinks she deserves time off or something.

Whatev.

Got the Natural Calm yesterday and I’ve been taking it twice a day. Still waiting on my other shipment, which will include a multivitamin, as well as l-thiamine and melatonin. I love the InterWebz.

In an odd burst of motivation today, I went out to the shed and reclaimed some of my journals from my days in group therapy. Took a while, but I found the one I was really searching for. It lists the meds I was taking at the time, some of which were really working. Found tons of stuff in those journals. This stuff is just some of the doodlings between my scribblings.

Hmm. 10 years later and not much has changed from that particular drawing.

My head? It’s…I don’t really know, actually. I’ve had a lot of shit happening (again. still.) and haven’t been taking note of everything. With the journals I found today, I found a blank book I can use. So I’ll start keeping one with all my symptoms/feelings so I can report out to everyone that needs the info.

What I do know is this: I feel more depressed. I’m still likely to tear up if a hummingbird burps the wrong way. Still oddly calm, yet at the same time freaking out from stress. So I suppose I’m still manic, though it’s not nearly as heightened now as it was a week ago.

That Charlie feeling I described? The reversion to Stupid Karl? I feel like it’s happening. I’m not as sharp. Things are a tad foggier. I’m slipping.

I just hope I can hold on to some semblance of a good attitude.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

It’s the end of Month One of YOR. On January 1st, I started off the YOR with this Resolution:

January: Medical

I resolve this month to take all of my medications as directed (including insulin). I resolve to check my blood sugar every day.

This month (and the year to date) has been very rough on me. Mom broke her kneecap just 10 days into this Resolution. The same week, I had major turmoil with friends and relationships, plus two life-threatening low-sugar events. And I came to discover (after that week) that I was in the manic portion of my manic depression. Then *another* episode of near-fainting. And that’s not even everything.

Whew!

Because of the low-sugar incidents, I could not follow the above Resolution to the letter. I had to cut meds until I could meet with my doctor and adjust them. All my weight loss from the past year required lesser dosages. I haven’t been perfect, as I’ve admitted here during this month. I haven’t taken my meds every single time, whether it be because I’m swamped or stressed or whatever.

Nevertheless, I am labeling this first Resolution a SUCCESS. I have been a very good boy (in terms of taking care of my diabetes). Proactive, compliant, asking for help…actually taking an interest in my health (even in the days I really didn’t give a fuck about my health). My meds have been adjusted, I’m officially off long-acting insulin and several other pills…this is all GOOD.

My sugar tonight was 176 two hours after dinner. But my sugar BEFORE dinner was 124. So I’m in much better shape now than I was 30 days ago. We are still working on the control, getting my numbers where they need to be. It’s a process and, again, I knew going into January that this wouldn’t all be done by month-end.

I’m going to continue on with this new habit, as I prepare to move on to Month Two tomorrow. Brand new month, brand new Resolution.

I’m also going to continue with my Prick Buddy. That shit works, and Shannon is doing amazing with her diabetes, as well. I like that. It makes me smile.

Even when I’m not feeling very smiley.

See you tomorrow.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Today is January 30. Already. Shit, where the hell has this month gone? How did we already get 1/12 of the way through 2010?

Tomorrow is the last day of the month, which means it’s the last day for this month’s Resolution. Not that I’m tossing my new habit out the window, mind you. I’m not. And that was the point for the Year of Resolutions – starting 12 new HEALTHY habits.

Thursday night, I had ANOTHER low blood-sugar episode. I’m OK. (I say that because I hate when someone throws out some scary news and then takes 10 minutes to walk you through the whole story before saying, “I’m OK.” No, people. When you say something like, “I got in a car accident,” you follow it up IMMEDIATELY with “Don’t worry, I’m OK.” THEN fill in the rest of the story. Idiots.)

My best bud was here with me when it happened. I felt I was going low, recognized it, said aloud, “I need to eat something NOW. I’m low,” and came inside to do just that. The details aren’t important, really. Suffice it to say that I found myself on the floor again, trying hard not to vomit or pass out, but orange juice did the trick. And my friend was very calming and reassuring the whole time.

She got to help me check my sugar, and that’s a good thing. She’d never had to do that before. Hell, for most of the time I’ve known her, I haven’t been very compliant with my meds. She’s never seen me low before this year, mostly because I haven’t BEEN low…or even close.

Here’s what I’m supposed to do when I’m feeling low: check my blood sugar, then remedy the situation. It’s important to know what your sugar is when you feel low. Again, normal glucose readings are between 80 and 120. I know from recent experience that at 71, I’m still not fading out. So I was probably at 60 or lower.

Here’s the problem with doing what I’m supposed to do when I’m feeling low: I don’t give a fuck what my sugar is…I just want to STOP THAT LOW FEELING, AND NOW. It’s awful, I don’t want to feel nauseous and flushed and sweaty and dizzy and terrified. I just want it to stop and, y’know, not smash my face into the tile floor. I probably have a cracked skull from the first incident a couple weeks back. There’s this weird…shifting… when I push on my forehead now.

I’ve been checking my sugar 4 times a day, like I’m supposed to. And I’ve been taking my meds, especially now that they’ve been adjusted. Because I nearly passed out again (that’s three incredibly bad episodes for me in the last couple of weeks), I reported it to my doctor yesterday. And we’ve adjusted the plan again.

“You’re scaring me,” she said when she called me.

“I’m scaring me, too.” And I am.

But here’s what’s new…I’m not pulling an Ostrich. I’m pushing FORWARD. I’m being proactive, I’m receptive to changes, I’m asking for help, I’m being compliant, I’m checking sugars, recording the numbers, reporting out to those that need to know. All of that is ALIEN territory for me. And new stuff? Is very scary to me. Change…brrr, gives me chills.

But I’m doing it, anyway.

And it’s paying off.

I know now that my nighttime snacks are critical. No matter how fine I feel, a nighttime snack HAS to happen…and sooner rather than later. This was what caused me to fall out Thursday night. Stupid. Again with the stupid. But these things are not happening for naught. I’m LEARNING.

What we’re doing now to fine tune my diabetes control is adding a 3:00 AM sugar check. Yes, even if it requires me setting my alarm. The doc wants to know what’s happening while I’m (supposed to be) in bed. Why?

This is the 2nd incident to happen around 1:30am. That means my sugars are crashing at night (if I don’t have a snack). And that’s kind of weird.

My morning and noon sugars yesterday were high…above 250. But my pre-dinner reading was 176. Two hours after dinner, my sugar was 157. That’s still high, but it’s relatively close to normal for a post-meal reading. At least for me.

The doc’s theory is that my sugars are dropping at  night. My body’s defenses then are inflating my sugars so that I don’t go into a diabetic coma. Thus, high readings in the morning.

MY theory is that I don’t take insulin at night. Plus, Thursday night (after the incident) I had orange juice, and a PBJ, and Doritos, and beer. And THAT’S why those high morning readings happened. Who’s right? I don’t know. We’ll see. Pretty sure it’s me, though. I feel like Einstein’s smarter brother right now.

My first 3:00 AM reading this morning showed my sugar at 257. This morning before breakfast, it was 254. These are bad readings, I know. But again, I’d far rather be high than low any day of the week. And we’re still working it, still grasping to get this shit in control.

It’s a work in progress. I knew going into this Resolution that my diabetes wouldn’t be under control by January 31. That was not the point. The POINT was for me to be compliant in my health care, to take a proactive role, to stop being an Ostrich.

And that’s actually happening.

The doc wants to drop another diabetes med. The brand new med that she just prescribed to me at our recent appointment. The med that has still not arrived in the mail.

“Stop taking the glipizide,” she said.

“I’m not taking it,” I said. “I haven’t gotten it yet.”

“Good. When it comes in the mail, don’t take it.”

Far be it from me to bitch about having one less pill to take.

We have a follow-up appointment in a couple of weeks. I will continue emailing the doctor my glucose readings. I will continue calling her to report anything significant. We will continue to tweak my treatment plan. We WILL get this under control.

I’m in a very unique position right now, having this manic phase (and recognizing it while I’m in the midst of it). I am optimistic, and hopeful, and open to new stuff. That’s not going to last, I know it. I’m dreading the inevitable crash, which will come…and probably very soon. It may already be happening.

I’ll be back to my morose, miserable, pessimistic self. It’s not an attitudinal thing, folks, it’s biochemistry. The euphoria associated with mania is brain chemistry gone amok. It’s not the norm.

So I’m taking advantage of the good attitude while I’ve got it, false or not. And don’t go jumping on me for using the word “false” there. It’s a genuine good attitude, yes, but again…it’s a result of my mania. It’s chemical. Yes, it’s false. In a manner of speaking.

That doesn’t mean I’m not going to use it to my advantage. I am, totally. I’m going to start keeping a paper journal again, to take copious notes on how I’m feeling…physically, mentally. I want to be able to tell the doctors everything, so we can closely monitor what changes I’m experiencing, so we can continue fine-tuning my treatment plan, so that I ultimately feel BETTER.

And when I come down from Mania Mountain, and Poser Pollyanna is gone, and I’m the fucking misanthropic Karl again, I want to be able to look at my blog (and the journal) and attempt to regain the positive attitude I have at this moment. I want to be able to see the cause-and-effect thing. I want to read how my proactive stance is actually making a DIFFERENCE.

I feel very much like Charlie in Flowers for Algernon. In the beginning of the story, Charlie is a janitor with a 68 IQ. He receives experimental surgery that kickstarts his brain and ultimately becomes one of the smartest people on the planet.

The book spends a great deal of time showing Charlie’s emotional changes, as well as his increase in smarts. Suddenly, world leaders are contacting him for help with their problems. Charlie is curing diseases. He’s solving impossibly complex equations. He’s fixing things that nobody has been able to fix before. He’s fallen in love with the woman that began as his tutor, but becomes his lover when she sees the amazing new person Charlie has become. Hell, he’s far SMARTER than the woman now.

But here’s the rub: his new-found genius status is temporary. He slowly starts moving back to good ol’ Charlie with the 68 IQ.

And that’s how I feel when I come down off my mania. I’m super smart right now. My brain is operating far above and beyond its usual state. I actually feel like I have the IQ I supposedly have…y’know, if you even buy into Intelligence Quotients.

I’m going to slip back to Stupid Karl very soon. And like Charlie, who had a good long taste of a super-charged mind, it’s almost better to have never experienced my brain the way it is now. Because knowing things can be so good is godawful when I’m beginning the maddening decline to the way I was before. It’s the cruelest bait-and-switch I know of. Contemplating this inevitability brings me to tears.

I feel this crazy need to blurt out everything in my head right now, to get it all onto paper before I lose it. I’m making abstract connections that I can’t normally make. My intuition is so advanced and well-honed right now that I feel almost psychic. I’m coming up with brilliant ideas. I’m creative as fuck.

And it’s all going to slip away.

It’s far easier to survive day-to-day when you’re used to being miserable. The expectations are low, so it’s hard to be disappointed. Knowing that there’s another way to see life – EXPERIENCING that other way – is bittersweet. It feels wonderful now (despite all of the BAD shit associated with mania).

But like most things in life, it’s not going to last.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

So the skinny on my doctor visit Monday, which I mentioned on Twitter and Facebook:

• Check my sugar 4 times a day. Before every meal, and two hours after dinner. This helps provide a good picture of my sugars throughout the day. Which, in turn, helps to know where (and what time of day) we need to adjust meds.
• No long-acting insulin till further notice. We may not even get me back on that at all.
• One of my diabetes meds only, the others are dropped.
• 5 units of regular insulin before every meal. I suppose that’s for coverage.
• My A1C is 9.2. Ideally, these days the American Diabetic Association says your A1C should be below 6.5. For those of you that don’t have to know what the fuck Hemoglobin A1C is, here ya go. It’s the 3-month average of your blood sugar readings. When I prick my finger (4x a day) to check my sugar, that gives me my sugar for that particular moment in time. But just because I get a 294 on the meter (80-120 is normal), doesn’t mean I’m that high all the time. That’s where the A1C reading comes in. It shows a truer picture, because it lets them know what my OVERALL sugar has been over the last 3 months. I could explain how it works and shit, but it’s not important. Hell, all this right here probably wasn’t important. Unless you’re diabetic. And me.
• My cholesterol, remarkably, is 118. I haven’t seen numbers below 200 since my 20’s. So there’s that.
• She wants me to email my numbers to her weekly.
• We have a follow-up appointment in 3 weeks. More adjustments from there, as needed. Unless I need her sooner.

But I don’t think I will. I think I’m getting it. Yes, I’m not perfect. Today, for instance, I took most of my meds, but then went out for dinner (thank God for Tuesday nights). Didn’t check my sugar before leaving the house, or take my dinner meds. But I get back on the horse. I’ll take my bedtime meds and start all over tomorrow.

Lather, rinse, repeat. Ad nauseum.

My body has been in such pain. I ache everywhere. The trouble with only sleeping 3-4 hours a night for a few weeks straight (save a couple nights here or there) is that your body is vertical that much more. That puts a lot more stress on the bones and joints. Heh, I said joints.

So my neck, shoulders, and ESPECIALLY my lower back have been killing me. All this extra activity I’m experiencing in order to take care of Mom exacerbates it. Or maybe it’s the non-sleep that exacerbates the activity. I dunno. The point is, I’ve been miserable physically, as well as mentally.

Today I went and got a 90-minute massage. And it made an enormous difference. I fell asleep twice on the table, and was told that’s the highest compliment you can give a masseuse. She’s good. And I didn’t even get a Happy Ending. Bigger shock? I didn’t even care.

I just wanted relief. I got it. And perhaps the best part? My masseuse’s name is Cher. I so wanted to ask her if she was a Cherokee, but she was even whiter than me, so it’s unlikely. Amazing hands, though. I pretty much melted into that table, let me tell you.

The REAL best part is that my head is quieter. No, not quieter, that’s not right. It’s more unified. There’s still way too much shit going on between my ears, but I feel calmer now. The racing thoughts are not back down to normal level, but they don’t feel like they’re where they were last night at this time.

Which, by the way, was a really bad time for me. It’s like being able to view all the alternate universes at one time. I mull over every single possibility, every single outcome…dozens…hundreds of times. Even the ridiculous possibilities. And even those crazy-ass potential outcomes seem reasonable, which only serves to freak me the hell out even more.

I’m insecure enough, but my manic brain makes me paranoid like you wouldn’t believe. Thank fucking God I have my logic. Somehow I manage to talk myself out of my most ludicrous insecurities. Well, I talk myself out of ACTING on them, at any rate. And that’s enough. Mostly. Still torturous, and the self-restraint manacles are getting mighty frayed, but I’m doing it.

And I’m trying to acknowledge that I’m doing it. Because in my mind, what I hear when someone says, “I’m proud of you Karl, you’re making it happen” is this: “What other option do I have?” Dismissing the positive. That freaking Permeable Teflon skin of mine…damn tough. It’s how I describe myself, Permeable Teflon. The bad goes in, but the good slides off…

I’ve talked about the downside of bipolar disorder. It’s bad, yeah. But that’s not the whole picture. There IS an upside…a lot of upside. I think I’ll save that for next time.

I’m actually tired. And I want to take advantage of that.

Mom’s follow-up appointment (first one post surgery) is in the morning. I need some sleep. A LOT of sleep.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan