Shoving the Shed

Wallace spent two hours shoving the shed.
Then it dawned on him.
Drag the damned thing with my CR-V.
I don't want to look.

Wedding Day

We had a wonderful time at the wedding.
The one major hitch? The Reverend got the day mixed up and was late. So we had cocktail hour before the ceremony (I wasn't losing all that wonderful food for my guests). I got to see everyone and have a bite to eat to help me calm down.
My grandfather was well enough (hey, he was two weeks away from his 86th birthday) to walk me down the aisle which meant the world to me.
Everyone was surprised at how relaxed my mom was.
Several friends sent us their pictures on CD which is really cool and very sweet of them. Our proofs have arrived. Not a single bad one in the batch.
Unless you count the ones with Robin in them. She didn't smile. At all.
Come to think of it, there was one where one of my friends wanted to take a group shot and we asked her to be in it and she said no. Now being the good bride, I tried to make nice or at least seem to. She grunted and rolled her eyes before humoring me.
I will include the picture of her table in my album for two reasons: (1) it was the table with all of our friends, and (2) it's part of the memories of the day.
Meredith's mother, every time I speak to her when I call Meredith, raves about what a wonderful time she had.
Everyone had a great time. Out of 49 guests, one bad apple will not ruin my memories o fmy very special day.
And my non-bridezillaness will also be a highlight for years to come. Wallace is still surprised at how well I dealt with everything and did not get upset despite the hitches we faced.

A Vague Semblance of Understanding

Right before the wedding, Wallace's friend Robin said to him, "Kudos to you for defending your fiancee. I guess love really is blind; let's hope it stays that way."
This came after a long battle between Robin and me that has been fought between Robin and Wallace.
The first I heard of it (and I believe the first taste Wallace had of it though we suspect it had been brewing) was in July.
Wallace was in London on business and Robin had the audacity to write him a letter claiming that I hate her and was trying to bait her into an argument so that I could get rid of her.
Funny thing is - I would invite her to brunch, to dinner at our house, to walk with me and Pickle, even when Wallace and I weren't feeling our best. And I paid attention to her stories - and it was obvious because I remembered who all the people were.
Robin's problem is paranoia. She thinks everyone wants to hurt her. She takes every little negative comment personally. Even when it's not directed at her in any way whatsoever. It's just her personality.
And that makes her very hard to deal with at times.
I didn't really take issue with it until all this crap came down.
She insisted I hate her despite Wallace's assurances that I didn't and even explained that the days when I was bitchy I was ill (from the manic side of bipolar).
She could not be convinced.
And then came the whole Kudos thing. Wallace then wrote her a long letter detailing why there was so much tension going on. She ignored virtually all of it except for the bit about her not getting along with other women - she said she had female friends.
In the interim was the wedding. I had arranged for Meredith to pick her up at Penn Station and accompany her to Long Island. I even arranged for her to share the hotel room with Meredith to cut down on the cost.
Robin made a big fuss about the cost (why she didn't look into it earlier, I do not know). So she finally (after much hemming and hawing) made other arrangements. She was pissed that I told her I couldn't tell her how to spend her money. Go figure.
She had wanted to use frequent flyer miles but she would have made up the cost in taxi fare from the airport to the hotel.
So she wound up taking the train to Bridgeport, CT and taking the ferry over to LI. And then a cab (which wasn't cheap).
Now the train from Boston to Penn Station runs about $90 each way and then the LIRR would have cost about $11 each way. Instead she paid $71 each way for the train, $40 each way for the ferry, and the taxi.
Wallace and I think she probably planned on riding with us down and back. But Wallace had to arrive on Wednesday so we could go and get our marriage license more than 24 hours before the wedding.
As for the ride back on Sunday, when she asked if we had any plans, I told her we were going to enjoy our new "married-ness."
Hey, I'm entitled to spend my first full day as the Mrs. alone with my husband.
In the end, I did the math - she saved zero money (and I suspect she may have actually spent MORE that the original plan).
Meredith, Martha, Wallace and I managed to avoid her on Friday evening. She was asleep when Meredith got back to the room after dinner.
She also disappeared the morning of the wedding while Meredith was in the bathroom. Meredith was my Maid of Honor and she was avoiding her (we think). Martha became my magic assistant to help with the favors and last minute details while I got ready. She was also using my hair stylist to do her hair.
The latest was that she IMed Wallace a few days after the wedding and asked about wedded bliss. Wallace responded that he was surprised she was asking since the last time they had discussed it she had been mean to him. And it went downhill from there. Wallace called her on her paranoia and she clearly did not want to listen to it or believe it.
It ended with Robin saying "don't write to me anymore, okay."

Ramblings of a Certifiable Nutjob

Buying the house was tremendously stressful. The hardest part was dealing with E-Loan and obtaining the mortgage. Radically simple, my ass.
It needs some interior redecorating. We're convinced that the prior owners were color blind because we refuse to believe that anyone could have such sucky taste in colour combinations. Three different kinds of blue. Not shades, kinds from Robin's Egg to grey-blue. And a fairly energetic blue in the mix, too.
Thankfully the soft butter yellow in the living room is actually very pretty. And they left behind touch up paint for us to fix the scuff marks. They actually marked all of the cans of paint. And even the one that was nearly empty was useable - it had the formula for the colour on the lid. So I got a new gallon for touching up the dining room.
We have already painted most of the second floor hallway walls in a nice taupe which happens to look something like hot chocolate. I also got us some fresh carpet (on sale at Lowe's and it was still damned expensive in the end because of all the square footage and the labor to do the stairs).
One of the bedrooms is in desperate need of repainting, which I haven't gotten to yet. It was sponge-painted - very unevenly or I would find it more liveable. I did repaint the door and the closet doors but the colour did not turn out as I had hoped - a taupe so light that it looks white. I picked that colour when I was planning to do more neutral colours. I was in a hurry to repaint those doors because they were a stunning shade of hooker red, despite this being a child's room.
Our bedroom needs a fresh coat of paint because I'm not fond of white walls and because they did not do a good job painting it.
The third and fourth bedrooms can wait. The fourth is on the third floor which we plan to renovate so it seems senseless to bother repainting it. The third will be third on my list.
I have so many ideas for fixing this place up but I have to choose my battles because of our budget.
Damn, I wish I were rich.

Treatment

Treatment for this is no easy task.
First there's the meds. Which would be easy except that mine tastes HIDEOUS, especially when it gets stuck on the way down the back of my tongue and throat. It takes... Well, I'm not sure what it takes to get the taste out of my mouth because I have yet to find a solution. Just know that it's truly nasty.
Next, I should be exercising at least a half an hour a day. It doesn't necessarily happen. Okay, okay, it's been a good month (maybe two) since I actually kept up with that. I used my dog as an excuse to go walking but I haven't had the time or the energy to deal with walking him. He's a strong puller and we're still working on that in training.
Then, there's the sleeping habits. Which I have succeeded in cleaning up. I go to bed at the same time every night and I consciously decide before bed that everything can wait until morning. It's working.
Finally, there is the immense task of keeping track of my behaviour and doing what I can to control the manic episodes. The depressive episodes are harder, it seems. Or least it seems that way as I write this post.
Perceptions can be misleading.

Naughty

Yes, yes, I'm a terrible blogger. It's been ages since I've posted a word.
Do I have any excuses? Sure. Are they good excuses? I don't know.
I have succeeded in finding a good course of treatment, bought a house, and gotten married.

Diagnosis: Bipolar II

Before we started our first session, Dr. B warned me that it could take anywhere from one to three sessions for him to diagnose me.
Monday came and it was time for my second session. Dr. B had asked me if we could include a family member so that he could get another perspective on my symptoms - things I didn't notice about myself. I immediately nominated Wallace, my fiance, who lives with me (and our dog).
Dr. B thanked J for joining us and helping to shed light on my symptoms so that I could receive proper treatment. We talked at length about my manic symptoms. Wallace notices things more than I do and was more aware of how long things lasted than I am. When Dr. B was done getting information from Wallace, he asked me if I'd feel comfortable having Wallace stay in the room with me while we continued the session. He was aware that some people are not comfortable keeping their spouse or loved one in the room with them.
We talked about some more depression symptoms and I was also asked about any paranoid feelings I had and any possible hallucinations. Paranoia, a bit yes. Sometimes proven to be true (when it comes to peers not liking me and talking behind my back). Hallucinations, no. Except for the time the Ambien made the rug in the bathroom swirl.
When Dr. B had finished asking his questions he told me I had Bipolar II. And he wants me to come back some time during this week or the following for us to discuss the treatment plan.
While I wait for my next appointment I still have to go for that blood test to check my thyroid. It's important to follow that closely as some treatments for bipolar affect the thyroid. And I already have a problem with my thyroid so I don't need more, now do I?

Treatment: Take Two

So I went back to the drawing board and dug up the name and number of Doc No. 2 who'd been on vacation when I'd first called.
He was taking new patients and could meet with me. Okay. Great.
Luck of the draw the week before my appointment the receptionist called to say that there were some cancellations so I could come in sooner. Like, tomorrow. Oooookkkkaaaaaaaay. Sure. That'd be great.
Despite that last bit of sarcastic sounding commentary, I was actually happy. I'd been deeply depressed for days and was desperate for something that resembled the road to recovery.
I had already received the papers to fill out for the first meeting. All kinds of questions about medications I was taking, medical history, and an inventory of depressed symptoms. This seemed, to me, much more serious than that joker, Dr. Evil. In fact I'd done them that morning before the phone call came through moving up my appointment. A veritable good sign, I thought to myself.
And it was. I met with Dr. B for 45 minutes. Those 45 minutes focused on my medical history, not my employment history (though he did ask - it was to see if my illness interfered with my ability to keep my job), my family medical history, and some of my manic symptoms. At the end of the session, he described all the things he'd like to talk about at our next session, which would be within the week, and asked if I would mind if he talked to a family member who knows me well who could discuss my symptoms. I immediately named my fiance, Wallace. And said we could call my mother for more family background.
I made the appointment (it was Thursday) for Monday.

Dr. Evil

I finally went through the aggravating process (details of which I will spare you) of calling my insurance company for preapproval for mental health services.

Why do they make it so hard for people already facing the need for mental help to get that help? (Stepping off my soapbox... For now.)

They gave me a bunch of names. The first had no room in her practice. The second was on vacation. Third time's the charm, right?

Uh. No.

Drugs with frickin' laser beams attached to their heads
I met with Dr. Evil for about 45 minutes. He spent the better part of that asking me about my work history - was he giving me a job? Seriously, he was all about when I worked where, etc. He didn't ask me about when I'd started feeling depressed. In fact, he implied that I was having a depressed mood, and did not have clinical depression. I think he was convinced of that from the moment I walked into his office.
He even overlooked a crass remark I made about wanting to drown myself in the bathtub. Did not ask me one single follow-up question about it. Did not ask if I'd ever felt that way before. Did not ask if I'd ever acted on any of these feelings.
He did attempt to explain that some people have depressed moods (he nodded at me) and some people have clinical depression. Duh.
He also told me that no panic attack lasts longer than fifteen minutes so I should learn to excuse myself at work and go to the bathroom to breathe.
At the end of our "session" he gave me a prescription for Celexa (which he claimed I could control) and told me to come back in a month. I tried to picture myself in the mornings: should I take an extra couple of milligrams (or whatever) this morning to make sure I'm perky?
I was fuming. I knew this wasn't the answer. And to validate my feelings, I did a little research. I went to celexa.com.
The first thing I saw, before any descriptions, warnings, anything, was an advertisement for Lexapro. A drug I'd taken before and that I had told him gave me some relief that did not last and I never had again with any other drug I tried.
Enough guinea pigging. I went back to the car where J was waiting. He fumed when I told him.
I hadn't been heard. Not at all.

Lexapro - More like LexaNO

My adventures in mental health started long before I even knew about it. I really can't remember when any particular symptom started.

Sometime in 1996, I think, I noticed depressed feelings. Depressed feelings that were incredibly strong.

Years later, I realized I had clinical depression. It was the only way to explain why this horrendous feeling kept returning. I felt like I couldn't win. Just when things felt better - WHAM! Not anymore.

A little over a year ago, I agreed to start taking anti-depressants. I was starting a new, highly stressful job, planning my wedding, and I had had problems with depression and anxiety for too long.

Initially, Lexapro was fabulous. Everything had been so bleak - the smallest confrontation or tough task felt insurmountable and overwhelming. Suddenly the bleakness was gone. I could handle things. I still could feel bad, sad, and other feelings, but I could handle life better.

Then it seemed to wear off. Like it stopped working. So we upped the dose. That didn't make a dent. I stopped taking it.

I tried Zoloft. Not much better. No feelings of relief of any kind. And the suicidal ideation was painful. I'd dwell on not wanting to exist. Therefore, the Zoloft could not possibly be working. So I stopped that one too. Sometime last summer.

I took a few months off, thinking that maybe I could handle life without the pills. I couldn't. By November, I had looked into information about different drugs for depression. I asked my physician about Wellbutrin. It is different from Lexapro and Zoloft because it is not an SSRI. I thought maybe it would work better because it was a different approach.

Nope.

In fact, it made me so dizzy, lightheaded, confused, and nauseous, that within a month I was throwing up regularly. And I was having raging fits over almost nothing. Like my dog pulling on his leash. I wanted to throttle the poor little guy. Though thankfully, I never have. Despite repeated temptations. After spending a whole day in the bathroom praying to the porcelain God, I called my doctor and threw in the towel. I had had enough.

I wanted no more of this. Ever.

But of course, that was not an option.

Soon, I spiraled downward. I came to the swift realization I could not do without treatment. And my fiance and I started talking. He'd heard from his sister that she thought I sounded an awful lot like someone with bipolar disorder.

That sounded frightening. Worse than depression, certainly. The taboo was ridiculous. Apparently, I'm a bit paranoid when it comes to what others think of me. Oh well.

So, here we begin.