Requesting Advice

I’ve spoken positively, I think, a few times on this blog about psychiatry and therapy. They’ve been good to me at times, but they’ve also made me feel helpless at times.

Today’s another day where I don’t have many thoughts outside of my own filth. Today started with a trip to see my psychiatrist & that visit ended horribly. First, I was seven minutes late, which meant they couldn’t tell me the results of my EEG that I took two weeks ago. That pissed me off. Also, the doctor was eight minutes late so it didn’t make much sense in the first place.

I didn’t handle that well. I blew up, kinda, in typical me fashion. I have so much disgust for how mental health is treated that I sometimes attack those who work in the space. Again, not fine moments for me. I’m always disappointed in myself when I resort to that style of … problem solving? I don’t know.

Anyway, I need your advice. Today I was prescribed two new medications based off a cotton swab test that checks how well your liver is metabolizing the medication. Funny thing is, the medication I was on was metabolizing just fine & it showed in the test results, however, I never felt any better on the meds.

My psychiatrist told me today that he’s here to “prescribe medication” and “there’s not much else I can do” – it really sucks hearing that. It does. I know it’s the truth, but I wish it wasn’t. I have to wait another 30 days to see if these medications do anything, and there’s no telling if they will or not.

So here’s my question(s), and hopefully someone responds with a tidbit of advice. How do you handle negative feelings towards psychiatrists/therapists? How does switching medication impact you? Have you found any other way outside of medication to help yourself have more & more better moments each day?

I just can’t figure it out. And it’s scary to not know. It really is.

I wish you well. Try not to beat the shit out of yourself.

New Beginnings

Right now I’m sitting outside on my deck thinking back on the past couple of years I’ve lived in this town. Thankfully I’ve been able to step away from work for a few minutes. I’ve had some good moments, I’ve enjoyed the backyard component of my house, but boy am I happy to finally have a way to get out.

This week my debt will be paid off. I’ll be measuring what I need for carpet & hardwood for the upcoming sale of my residence, and I’ll be moving back to my hometown to rent for a few months before deciding what to do next. That’s somewhat based off what job I land next, but who knows what could happen.

All I know is I’m grateful. Throughout the past six to seven months, I’ve been completely lost on the map. Now I’ve seemingly found some direction. I have some plans in place. I’m working towards some goals. That’s a good enough start for me.

Life hasn’t been all that bad here. I’ve learned quite a bit about owning a home, fixing random things (like my sink, my sink always has issues – can’t wait to be rid of that thing), and gardening as I’ve mentioned before. I’ve found passions in things I never thought I’d find passion in, like cooking. I’ve picked up reading again because I haven’t had anything to do socially in this town. There really are many positives that came out of these last two years, but I’m ready to move on. And now it’s becoming real – my next step in life is really unknown, but at least I know I have a next step.

My buddy tries to get me to do a five year plan. I want to, I really do, but I can barely think a week ahead let alone five years. Maybe once the house is sold & I’ve settled into a new place with more friendly faces around, I’ll be able get that plan done. Highly unlikely, but I’d like to see myself do it. My buddy is usually right on what’s important and what’s not – hell, some of the reason I’m still here to this day is because of his advice.

Have I mentioned what I dislike the absolute most about where I live? The mosquitos, the flies. Just now as I’ve typed this, I’ve slapped myself in the face three times trying to swat away whatever’s attacking me. I think I’ve missed the bug every time, but I definitely haven’t missed my face.

What have I loved most about this place? This is what’s important to acknowledge. The independence it brought me. The maturity forced upon me from owning and taking care of a home. I really am proud I got here. I’m a guy that spent many months in jail as a kid, spent almost my entire high school life penned up in a random shelter, lost a brother, my mother suffered a terrible accident, and I was addicted to opiates for almost six years. It’s quite amazing that I’m sitting on my own deck watching my own two dogs eat stuff they aren’t supposed to be eating. It’s the simple things, it really is.

I really am proud of myself, and I couldn’t have done any of this without the people that love & support me. No matter how bad your situation is, I bet you can find one or two positives in it. That’s what’s kept me going, and I hope you start to look for those positives, too.

I wish you well. Try not to beat the shit out of yourself.

Accepting Help

Sometimes you have to let go of your pride, your guilt, & just accept help.

No, I’m not talking to you. I’m talking to myself. This is a hard thing for me to grasp.

As my neighbor behind me plays the national anthem at 7:12 PM CST (no idea why he plays it three times a day), I sit here on a tiny cushion in the middle of my freshly mowed lawn (oh boy do I love a freshly mowed lawn). I don’t want to hear the anthem followed by some talk radio show (again, why? Just why? Listen to it inside, listen to it with headphones, but don’t blare it across the fucking neighborhood), but it’s not that bad. I can still somewhat focus on what I’m writing about, I swear. It’s not like I’ve…

Shit.

Anyway, let’s get back to my problem of accepting help – specifically medical & financial help. It’s hard. I don’t know which one is more difficult for me – medical help means I’m weak (to me) & financial help means I’m weak (to me). However, I’ve been told that some of the deepest regrets come from not accepting a genuine attempt of someone trying to help you (yeah, I confused myself with that sentence, too). I kinda believe it. I also kinda hate the thought of being weak. I mean, I already feel that enough each & every day. Last thing I want to do is add to that feeling.

But maybe I’m just a fucking idiot. And maybe realizing that fact isn’t terrible in this circumstance. Why would my pride, my ego, any guilt be any reason I turn down help right now? I fucking need help. You’re reading this blog, you can tell I’m all over the damn place.

I’m being offered help & my stupid ass was pushing it away. Until I didn’t. I finally said yes. I said the word “yes.” I didn’t say it loudly. I didn’t say it proudly. But I said it. I said it. And I’m grateful not just for the support around me, the help I’m receiving, but also that I came to the right conclusion on this matter. I didn’t let my pride stand in my way for too long.

Never turn down help because you think you’re bigger than that. You aren’t. We’re all small here. That’s a reason we do better when we’re around others. People help people, I’ll say it till I die.

I really have no clue what you’ll pull from this blog. Honestly I don’t. I find myself writing just to write now, which is… refreshing. My buddy always says to end everything with a positive. I think I’ll stop here.

I wish you well. Try not to beat the shit out of yourself.

The Stigma with Mental Health Meds (don’t let it stop you)

Yesterday I had a wet net on my head. After that, a cotton swab rubbed on the left and right side of the inside of my mouth.

No, I wasn’t taken hostage (that would’ve been a massive plot twist in this blog). I had an EEG (An EEG tracks and records brain wave patterns) and a DNA cotton swab test. Why? Well, supposedly they help dwindle down what a psych thinks is best for you in terms of medication. It’s weird. The EEG was really, really weird. You wait to hear the “target tone” and you click a button once you do, but more often than not, they plug other noises in there – such as farts, burps, and babies crying. It really isn’t pleasant.

As for the cotton swab thing? Eh, no big deal. Neither were that big of a deal. But they are helping me figure out something that is a big deal.

I used to be against meds for a couple reasons:
1) I absolutely hated psychiatrists, they just seem like shitty people most of the time.
2) It never made sense how if my family has a history of pancreatic cancer then I should be prescribed Med A, or if my family didn’t, I should be prescribed Med B – you can explain it all you want to me, include scientific facts if you want, it still doesn’t make sense to me.

Then I happened to fall into a very, very dark place and I had nowhere to turn. I had to do what was right for me, what was right for the people around me, and what’s going to keep me going in the future (in a small way).

Meds aren’t all that bad. Actually, since I started taking my depression medication a couple months back, my sex drive actually kicked up. Also, I don’t really know what the fuck the med does, which I think is a good thing? I don’t feel it hovering over my brain, clouding up my thoughts, you know – all the bad shit people tell you meds do to you. Sometimes they don’t, especially if you find the right ones and you somehow find a good psychiatrist. I only had to go through five to find one decent one…

So what the fuck am I saying in this tangent? I’m saying never rule anything out. Yeah, it sucks to admit that you’re on depression medication, anxiety medication, all that, but it sucks even more to suffer heavily from depression and anxiety, doesn’t it? Fuckin’ suck it up. You aren’t bigger than the next person and neither am I. We all need help – maybe meds aren’t for you, but don’t think for a second that this depression will just go away all by itself. This BPD will just magically poof and leave you for good. That anxiety that makes that heart pump? It’s not going away unless you do something.

That’s what we all have to learn. It’s not the meds that help us (well, they do, but that’s not what I mean), it’s not the therapy that helps us (again, it does help us), and it’s not the psychiatrist that helps us (meh, I’ll stick to my hatred with psychiatrists, they just drive me nuts). What helps us is us. Not just you, but your collective group, that support system I’ve talked about, even if it’s just your cute lil’ dog.

My support system told me it was OK to be medicated. They assured me that I’m not fucking stupid and I won’t fucking lose myself if I do take meds. And guess what, they were right.

I wish you well. Try not to beat the shit out of yourself.