Boom

A major meltdown visited me this week. Should I blame the new meds? Did I hold off the massive implosion for such a long time that when I could no longer take anymore, my mind went haywire?

My best friend interrupted her routine to come give me a hug and sit with me. I got another PM on FB that cheered me. Thank you for caring.

I cried for the first time in years. The tears seemed to fall without emotion.

What are friends?

Yesterday I learned a lesson most people learn early in life: unless you exhibit cheerfulness and a willingness to help others and their problems, they do not want to hear about yours. Mental illness still carries a stigma that no one wants to be associated with.

In my case, I am still me, but I carry a cloud of darkness that moves over me without warning. One day I am cheerful, the next day I think I would be better off dead. I reach out to "friends" who have an agenda of their own. They do not hear the pain in my voice and knowing I seek professional help, they do not realize they are one of the main sources of healing. I need friends who are willing to stick by me in good and bad times. Unfortunately, those people are few and far between.

I wonder if I deserve this treatment because I have hurt them along the way, therefore making it my fault that I am being ignored when I need it most?

Today I have decided to dig a hole and pull it in after me. I have asked God for help. I have sought medical help. Nothing appears to help.

Somewhere within me the tears lie, but because I have tried to be strong so long, they refuse to fall. The pressure builds and builds and one day soon I will fly completely apart.

In the meantime, putting one foot in front of the other, is the best I can do.

on my mind

Suddenly, or over a period of weeks, I cannot be sure, my attention to my meds falls all over the map. I neglect Tyvaso the most, though I began to take two pills of sildenafil long ago, the Tyvaso joined the I will take it if convenient club.

The oxygen is problematic, too. I am having no luck getting the tanks to work like they should. Let me tell you, walking through the store without o 2 takes a devastating toll on the body.

I awoke at 2 a.m. The day will drag, even with naps.

Yes, but now what

I saw the doctor. After filling out a million pages of I wills and I will nots, the doc himself called me back to his swanky office with a quick stop at the scales. The doc rebuked me for touching the mechanisms as we continued to his office. He told me to sit, I asked where, and he told me.

A beat up keyboard and a screen were the only objects on the desk. He starts banging on the keyboard right after he put a bracelet-style blood pressure cuff on my wrist, talking the whole time and so fast, I missed about half of what he said.

His accent will not be a problem, probably because I will see his assistant more than him. I told him I will need to put on my ears and he ask if I wore hearing aids. I said no, it takes my ears some time to tune into accents and gave lung doc as an example. He chuckled and said he would have to try to slow down.

He gave me 14 pills of a new med, and I think he said to cut them in half. I hope that is what he said, 'cause that is what I plan to do. My next appointment is the first of December. I can fill prescriptions only when I have appointments.

I realize what I write makes some people uncomfortable. I am sorry. I do not need sympathy, I need friends. I am hoping that what I write about will not turn you away, but if it does, then our purpose together is complete. But that is another blog topic.

I miss you, dude.

negative, but the truth

Oh boy, I thought, today I can lie around and feel sorry for myself. I will not answer the phone, no matter who calls.

Nothing remotely occurred like I thought. Brother brought the iron table and chairs from mom's house. The House could sell anytime. I talked to Connie who has a nasty bug. And called to wish mom a happy birthday again.

Since I do not seem to contribute much, I wonder why anyone cares. I spend much of my waking time wishing someone cared. From what my PHriends say, they care. Somehow I cannot convince myself. Former co-workers tell me they care. I do not believe that either.

I do not want to be miserable anymore.

Miss you, dude.

How to have an anxiety attack

I like to surprise people anonymously with little gifts or something I know will make their day. I do not like to venture away from home. So I create a problem for myself -- how do I get the surprise to the suprisee? Sometimes a relative of the surprisee can help out. But nine times out of 10, the idea only causes my anxiety meter to rise past the safe limits. Then the whole surprise idea collapses on itself and I must fret over another method to accomplish what I had intended to be fun and mysterious.

I sometimes agree to do something (for my own good). The closer the time nears for me to act, the more I start looking for excuses to back out. Anxiety rises more than before. When I try to explain why I cannot go do so-and-so, most people believe me. You can hear the disbelief in their voices and see it on their faces. How do you explain to someone my unease when I leave the safety of my house?

I want to have friends and have fun, but most people do not understand. When asked what I am feeling or how you can help, I am unable to tell you. Yet I am lonely.

Let's try this again

OK, I do not know how long this time will last, but with your blessing, here I go.

I have wasted a lot of time sleeping or lying down. Knowing my life could be only minutes longer, I should try my best to enjoy the rest of my time.

To that end, I discovered a need to have what I consider art on my walls. Art, being personal, can mean one thing to me and a bunch of garbage to someone else. I "met" a couple of artists on FB and after some negotiation, I picked up three works for my apartment.

The disparity in styles says this represents me. Two of the works evoke American folk style. Lots of color and do-dads. They have an air of family portraits from the 1600s, yet a modern twist. The vivid colors come from the paint. (You know, I find myself forgetting words more and more. The file cabinet of my brain rusts.) Ah yes, I remember now -- acrylics. Oh yes, the portraits are of cats.

The other piece is pencil, I think. The Marvel comic-type drawing shows a woman with a large hammer. This heroine bears the name Harley Quinn. Harley's size makes the lighting crucial to see the detail. I think the situation calls for one of those museum lights. She has the gold nameplate at the bottom of her frame.

I am talking with a photography artist I know on another piece. I love to buy art from people I know.

· · ·

Somehow yesterday, Pogo locked himself in a lower kitchen cabinet. Sometime after Momo's nap, he wandered into the kitchen. We hear a meow and Momo walks over to the cabinet door, stands on his hind legs (no easy feat for my pudgy one), grabs the top of the door with his claws and walks backward, thus opening the door. Pogo gave Momo a look and ran out of the kitchen. Momo stood there a second or two, then moseyed over to the food dish. Rescue work is hard, you know.

Miss you, dude.