Worry, shmurry

In the course of the hour with the therapist, she asked what I thought of my schedule. I told her I still don't sleep and it's getting on my nerves. I told her I work 12 hours a day (and yet, I blog), plus half-days on Saturday and Sunday. I'm in the process of starting a nonprofit business that I won't go into here, but it's a shitload of work.

The season is changing and that is a very dangerous thing for me--I usually tank in the fall, no matter what drugs I consume. I've been feeling lonely, partially because the friends I have live really far away and nobody seems to be checking email lately. Or, they are checking it and ignoring me.

What the therapist said was that I am balancing on the triggers of brain implosion, dancing with the very circumstances that can make me crash and burn and lose my hard-earned stability. In other words, my brain is lit up like a Christmas tree and the extension cord is getting toasty.

I don't see where I can cut back. I don't want to have a meltdown, but I don't want to be perceived as inadequate, either. What I want is a normal brain with normal wiring that remains unaffected by stress and emotional issues. I want to do what I've been doing. Not being able to work would literally kill me, which would be only almost as bad as having people go back to being disgusted with me and offended by my behavior, should I have a mixed episode. Last time around, I learned that nobody cuts me any slack when I'm sick, and they all think my type of illness is willful and able to be managed through self-discipline. If I could control it, I wouldn't have it at all. BPs are really hard to love, apparently, or maybe just not worth the effort when things go to hell in a hand basket.



The therapist said one of the best things I can do for my brain right now is to get outside and get some fresh air and sunshine everyday; however, I cannot spare the time. What's an over-achiever to do??

Adjectives mean a lot

Today was my coworker's funeral. It was depressing at the start, and I was a bit shocked that the casket was right there in the church lobby, open. I didn't look at Marlene. I didn't want to see her that way. Instead, I walked to the other side of the lobby and took in the photo display that recounted the happy days Marlene had enjoyed in her life.

During the service (and the pastor absolutely rocked), there were many kind words said about Marlene. I would say they were all accurate and sincere, and not made-up, phony funeral crap. As I sat there listening, I thought, "What would people say about me if I were to die tomorrow? The list I came up with is probably pretty close to correct, but it's also unflattering.

When I got home, I made two lists. I had a therapy session today, so I shared the list with my therapist. She found it troubling. She finds my whole life right now to be troubling. Without further ado, (what is ado?)...the lists:

What they will say when I'm gone:
May was...
Stubborn
Negative
Intimidating
A Bitch
Cynical
Unfriendly
Driven
Slob
Good at motivating
Showed initiative
Sad
Irritable
Honest
Direct
Acerbic wit
Hard to know
Short-tempered
Easily frustrated
Good listener
Diplomatic
Scattered
Erratic
Angry
Overly talkative
Distant
Unforgiving
Intolerant
Self-absorbed
She was Bipolar, you know.

Words I wish they would say:
Kind
Compassionate
Caring
Sensitive (in the good way)
Funny
Intelligent
Fun
Articulate
Thoughtful & considerate
Sincere
Generous
Charismatic
Understanding
Open-minded
Dedicated
She tried hard
Loyal
Honest
Self-reliant
Good listener
Wise
Friendly
Self-aware
Undiminished by her illness
Worthwhile as a person, and not just as a person who can do things or get things done

Come drive with me, drive with me

I've been driving quite a bit lately, an activity that is sure to bring me a certain amout of stress. This isn't going to be a rant, but I may be incoherent as I've already taken my medications for the night.

I'll admit I'm a conservative driver, but there are drivers out there operating under some questionable interpretations of standard road rules, at least as I understand them, and it leads me to these questions:

• The Red Light dilemma--stay or go?
• Yellow lights--what's the point again?
• Speed limit--baseline speed, upper limit, or merely a suggestion?
• Shiny glass things that stick out on the sides of the car--why are they such a mystery?
• Horn--just another means of self-expression and stating opinions, or, safety device?
• Stop sign--does it really mean "just slow down?"
• Car interior--phone booth? Snack shack? Home?
• Changing lanes--do you need to look or does the other lane magically clear for you like Moses at the Red Sea just because you put your turn signal on?
• Merging. Am I the only one who understands it?
• Right on red: Should you just go because you heard of a law called "Right On Red?" Who says you can do it only if there's no traffic, no pedestrians, and enough room? If the lanes are all squeezed due to construction, should you wait the ten seconds you need for the left-turn arrow to change? Will ten seconds ruin your ride?

Just wondering if I'm not doing it right. Let me clarify: The above list isn't how I drive--it's based on what I see other drivers do on a daily basis. Nyaaaaaaaa. Be afraid out there; be very afraid. (Follow me--I went to driving school!)

Exercise is evil

My body is in betrayal mode again, as I’m gaining weight for no reason whatsoever. It’s frustrating, because I don’t have a bad diet, really, but I’m sure that anyone who looks at me probably thinks I have no self-discipline at all. Of course, that wouldn’t be true of me or I would be unemployed, and half the telephone customer service agents and all the bad drivers in my path would be dead. See? I do have self-discipline.

In an act of spite, I had the fat and cholesterol special for lunch today. I had egg salad on a croissant, Sunchips, and a big, homemade brownie. I had some grapes, too, as a conscience reliever. I figured, if it doesn’t matter how conscientiously I eat, why restrict myself?

In the course of studying up on the latest innovations for insomnia treatments, I kept finding articles that mentioned a healthy diet and daily exercise as a necessity. I can state unequivocally that this simply does not work for me. Protect your heart—exercise! Keep a healthy bowel—exercise! Lower your cholesterol—exercise! Endure true and unrelenting evil—exercise!

Why do people in the medical profession believe that exercise is so great? To me, exercise is just another way to describe extreme discomfort, overheating, heavy breathing, runny nose, the brothers boredom and tedium, possible injury (I had knee surgery) and ultimately, pain. Lots of pain. There is no such thing as fun exercise. Telling me otherwise will make you soar off of my bullshit meter.

I have tried exercise in many forms, oh, how I’ve tried. I swam for awhile, and I’ve taken countless aerobics classes, step classes, and Body Pump classes. I hired personal trainers, and for years, I spent five nights a week at the YMCA working 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer and another hour weight training. I used to ride my bike anywhere from 50-100 miles per week. I walked an hour a day until I took up running an hour a day. I took a yoga class thinking it would help me sleep better, only to find that yoga is actually very, very strenuous and not a great choice for someone on lithium—especially a klutz on lithium.

I think I can say that I really gave exercise a sincere try over the last 20 years, and for what? I never got thin, I never looked toned, I’m no less uncoordinated, and no matter how hard I tried, I still loathed what I was doing, every step of the way. I did not improve my attempts at sleeping, either.

There are health benefits to exercise; I understand that. The thing is, I don’t care. If I’m going to suffer, I want visible results. I couldn’t care less about my blood pressure or heart. Nobody has ever walked up to me on the street and said, “Oh my god, May, your cholesterol looks fabulous! Have you been working out?” The number on my cholesterol test means nothing. It’s the size of my ass that really matters.

I read this article on WebMD about learning to like exercise. Frankly, I found it patronizing. Can you actually learn to like something—especially something deeply unpleasant and physically painful? I think not. Likes and dislikes are inherent to our very sense of self. I could eat okra on a regular basis, and I guarantee you it will still make me gag a year from now. I will never like rap music, no matter how much I’m exposed to it. Telling me that exercise will become something I like is ridiculous. It doesn’t mean I won’t do it; it just means I won’t feel good about having to put myself through the overwhelming effort and discomfort.

Can you imagine if I had to exercise to rap music and then eat okra for dinner?

Not as emotional as I thought

One of my coworkers died this week. This is someone I helped hire. In fact, she was hired to take over my job when I moved into a new position.

You can hear a pin drop in the office today. The staff is stunned—Marlene was only 57 years old, and her death was very sudden.

I sat in a meeting today and watched my coworkers cry, ask questions, and comfort each other. I, on the other hand, just sat there feeling very uncomfortable. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel any sense of loss. I felt…nothing.

I spent the next hour wondering who would pick up Marlene’s workload until a replacement can be hired. I wondered if I would have to train the new person since I’m the one who knows the job the best. I wondered who would be hired to take her place.

I didn’t think about how Marlene’s sons were holding up, or when the funeral would be, or if there was anything I could do to help my boss or colleagues. I am oddly detached.
Maybe the meds are working better than I thought.

Bitchy

I spent most of my life being friendly, polite, and easy to get along with. I did what I was told and only talked back to my family.

In the past few years, though, something has changed because now I not only stand up for myself, I am not afraid to be a bitch. People don't respond to that very well. I like to get my own way, and for the most part, the bitchiness comes up when I am not only not getting what I want, but not getting what is mine.

When I say no, I mean no. When I call to ask the credit card company a question, I want an answer to my question. I do not want to listen to a pitch about any other product or service. When I use the touch-tone to enter my life history, I don't want to have to repeat it all again when my call finally gets picked up.

My bullshit tolerance has definitely a new low. I'm a bitch. Look out world. Snap, snap, snap.

Sca-roo Yooo

Dr. L:

I received your separation letter. Sorry it didn’t work out. All things considered, and I do realize you disagree, I do not believe that consumers should be bullied or badgered into submitting to procedures they do not wish to have, nor should they be forced to spend money that is earmarked for other—much more critical—expenses. I work incredibly hard in the course of my 60-70-hour work week; taking that into consideration, I believe I should be the one who controls how and where my carefully budgeted time and very hard-earned money are spent. This should never be dictated by someone else, especially someone who has no insight at all into my financial or professional situations. We’ll have to concede that our respective views on these points constitute a difference of philosophy that makes us incompatible as care provider and client. (See? I do get it.)

Since my insurance company tells me they actually don’t have any Primary Care Provider requirement for my plan, I see no need to hire a new physician at this time. Given that, I certainly understand that you may not wish to store my patient records indefinitely. If that is the case, feel free to send them to me for safe-keeping and I’ll pass the records along, should I someday require the services of a doctor. Otherwise, I’ll assume your office will hold onto the records until some future health care provider requests them.

Finally, I’ve included two articles I came across just this week—they seemed timely, all things considered. One summarizes recently-published study findings regarding regular check-ups; the other is about how doctors and women just can’t communicate with each other. I hope you find them somewhat insightful. I certainly did.

Sincerely,

Ms. May Voirrey

Icky

It has occurred to me recently that I really need to get better about housework. I can't stand it and I try to be immune to the obvious, but it's catching up with me.

We have pets and that means hair. At this point, though, we have friggin' tumble-fur rolling down the hallway. It's quite impressive, actually. However, if we ever have drop-in company (no! no! no!), they're going to be appalled at the lack of housekeeping around here.

The bathroom is a little scary, but nothing that would upset the Department of Health at this point. The kitchen is good, but only because my husband takes care of that. We haven't had a dishwasher for two weeks, ever since our 2-year-old Kenmore, oh, caught on fire. We decided to spring for a Bosch, and it's taking so long to come in that, I swear to God, Sears is having it built for us and imported from Germany. There is no way in Hell I am going to wash dishes by hand (it's all I can do to put my dinner plate in the dishwasher), so my poor husband has had to abandon other tasks to manage the kitchen. The counter is always stacked with paper clutter--most of it mine. The only thing I hate more than cleaning is filing.

Anyway, this all occurred to me because I've been having to pull pet hair out from between the keys of my laptop--every day. If I can motivate myself to manage all of the clutter, maybe I'll vacuum tomorrow. That's maybe with a really big capital M.

Furthermore

My husband is getting annoyed with the blogging. He doesn't really know what it is, but he does realize that total stangers on the Internet know more about me than the 3-dimensional people here. As the New Yorker cartoon so profoundly stated, "On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog." Dog, of course, being a metaphor for whatever it is that causes you to feel inadequate.

My husband asked me what kinds of things I'm tapping off into cyberspace, so I said, "You know, random facts about my life." If he wants to know the truth, he has the link. He just hates to read.

Am I incoherent yet? Last night was another 4-hour sleep night, yet here it is 11:02 (58 minutes to payday), the Ambien isn't taking effect, and I'm wide awake. While I start to drift into quasi-consciousness, some facts to ponder...

• I am the telephone customer service person's nightmare


• I can competently fly a hot air balloon, but I don't do it anymore
  
• I believe that religion makes people lose all sense of logic and taken in large doses, can cause a complete loss of rational thought. Kool-Aid is a whole other issue.
  
• I swear so much when I drive, it sounds like I have Tourrette's Syndrome.
• My mother's gifts baffle me.

My mom has this habit of catalog shopping and having things shipped here. The problem is, it's usually a knick-knack. We tried to gently and politely let her know to just stop the parade of useless Chinese crap. She didn't listen, so we took all of it and put in the guest room so she could enjoy it when she visits. She's getting the point. Well, we thought so. Today we got a fake-copper beverage tub on a stand. You know--for the entertaining we never do. I told my mom that we love her and we love the fact that she thinks of us, but it would be OK if she just sent us the page from the catalog. A picture is worth a thousand words and several feet of unused floor space. At least the tub is useful and it is not a knick knack.

Laptop sliding off my lap. Time for psuedo-sleeping to commence.

TGI(A)F

Almost Friday. Only 65 minutes until payday. I always have too much month and not enough paycheck.

Now I lay me down to, oh, screw it

I should just repost Sleep is Highly Underrated.

I'm beginning to wonder at what point my brain will pop if I continue to get only four hours of interrupted sleep every night. My pdoc keeps saying my brain can't sustain this level of activity. Oh, yeah? I'm working 12 hours a day or more plus most of the weekend ever since I unintentionally started a nonprofit last month. I was already overwhelmed. What the hell was I thinking?

My only hope is to slip into a chemically-induced coma at a socially appropriate bedtime. It doesn't always work, but I am persistent if nothing else.


If this continues, maybe I'll start hallucinating. Cool. I've never had a hallucination in my life, even though I have all of the fixin's to create one, right in my kitchen cabinet of pharmaceutical delights. Oh. Wait. I shouldn't blow through all of the fun drugs now that I've been abandoned and rejected by my primary care physician. Asshole.

Why, it's medical tyranny, I tell ya!

I'm not saying that my life is mundane, but getting"real" mail is the highlight of my day. Usually. Yesterday was an exception as I got a letter from my primary care doctor--the very one who told me I'm fat and that my weight is the root of all medical evil.

It was a Dear John letter informing me that I am no longer welcome there as a patient. In fact, I am no longer a patient there at all. Now, what egregiously bad behavior could prompt a doctor to make this decision? Apparently, it was my unwillingness to submit to a wellness physical. Seriously.

It seems that he is adamant that all patients undergo an annual check-up exam. After my appointment a couple of weeks ago, I got a call from the office manager at the practice. This woman was beyond pushy about scheduling the physical.--a tenacious terrier who just wouldn't let it go. I finally had to say that I just wasn't coming in for an unnecessary roster of tests. She got snippy and said that it was a requirement.

Requirement? Wait a minute. Aren't I the customer in this scenario? Doesn't the doctor get paid to perform a service for me? I work incredibly hard for my money and I believe that I should get to say how and when I spend my hard-earned pay. I explained that I already have an annual exam at the gynecologist, something I can barely tolerate. While I'm there, they check my blood pressure, squeeze my boobs, take my temperature, and chat with me at length about my overall health.

In addition to this fun, I had the pleasure of having not one but two mammograms within the past six months. I have had blood drawn six times in the past 18 months (office manager: "Well, those tests don't include cholesterol." So? I'm a vegetarian.). The result of all of this medical attention has been: Nothing. I am fine. I am always fine. I have no reason to believe that tests with no specific diagnostic purpose are worth my time or money. There is no history of heart disease, stroke, cancer, or diabetes in my family. Come to think of it, I have no symptoms of any of those things. The only thing that seems to have been consistent is a certain degree of mental instability, and I won the genetic lottery on that issue.

I'm really not fond of going to the doctor. I don't even go when I'm sick, so why in the world would I go when there's nothing wrong? I don't understand this philosophy of arbitrarily poking around looking for illness when finding it is, at best, an improbability.

Oh. Wait. You don't suppose the doctor does this to generate income, do you? Golly, would they do that? Especially knowing that most insurance companies accept the charges without question? Oh, no way. That would be unethical.

In a timely bit of publishing, the JAMA/Archives of Internal Medicine released the results of a study regarding this very topic of annual physicals. As it turns out, there is no conclusive evidence to back up my doctor's tyrannical demand that I and his other patients indulge his curiosity. I have actually printed out this article and I will mail it to the doctor tomorrow to help educate him. I'm sure he's been so busy giving unnecessary check-ups that he hasn't had time to catch up on his professional reading.

What is it about some doctors that makes them so arrogant and unwilling to trust their patients? My now-ex-doctor always showed obvious annoyance any time I said I had read about something or researched my already-known condition or even looked up my meds to see if discomfort I was experiencing was possibly a side effect, serious or benign. What is so wrong about a patient being educated and deciding which level of his or her own discomfort justifies spending time and money on a medical exam? I would think that anything that keeps well people out of the doctor's office is a good thing, not something to be sneered at.

There are enough alarmist hypochondriacs in the world, many of whom have been set into a state of panic by all of the information on the Internet. Not everyone can discern between, say, information from the National Institutes for Health and Joe-Bob's Big Medicinal Web Site of Holistic Healin'. More of us, though, have actually developed some sort of critical thinking skills and I believe we should be appreciated for that.

Now I must find a new doctor, but I'm in no hurry. I think I'd like to lose 50-60 pounds before I submit to the humiliation of another insensitive physician's scrutiny. Personally, I think the doctors should have to interview for the job. I wonder if they read Craig's List?