I Reported My Psych Nurse Practitioner to Her Clinic Director Today…PANIC!

(Sorry to flood post, scumbag brain is working doubletime today.)

If you read this blog at all, then you are aware of my months long issues with the noob psych nurse they assigned me. Initially when she saw me with my prior doctor in attendance, I thought it was going to be a good fit. She was putting on an act, apparently, because with each appointment I started to dread going in more and more. It all culminated at my last appointment which you can read about here. A person can only take so much, especially when in a vulnerable state.

I weighed my options, the consequences, the potential benefit. I railed and ranted and drove the topic into the ground in these posts. I don’t do well with confrontation which is why I am so good with writing versus staying calm during emotionally charged verbal exchanges. Except waiting to hear back on my written submission (which I emailed to the main hospital’s address asking it be forwarded to the psych center director, and he replied within 15 minutes and said it had been done.) Rather than feel any relief or even ‘spork of fortitude pride’ for getting outside my comfort zone of anti-confrontation and speaking up for myself…I just felt flooded with panic manifested in physical symptoms. Pounding heart, sweating, shaky legs, churning stomach, and just… an abject sense of terror at ‘what have I done?”

It should be simple enough to express displeasure at the doctor or nurse or therapist being a bad fit, no fault. But I talked to the receptionist twice and was told they had no doctors (well, they have a clinic director so if she was worth a damn, she’d want to see me herself to make up for this horrible breech in quality of care) so speaking up feels like shooting myself in the foot. True, the risk could have a reward but I had a terrible experience on this matter before and it did not end well for me.

I was seeing a relatively noob female doc (different psych center) who probably had wet ink on her degree and she decided to take all benzos away from all clients and replace it with low dose Seroquel for anxiety. (Fair enough, this was the popular new thinking at the time but has since been debunked ten ways from Sunday and it’s people like me who suffered because of their wishy washy mentality.) I tried to roll with it but every month, I became more strung out, more anxious, more paranoid, more panic ridden. By month 9, I was leaving the house twice a month, too terrified to leave any more often than to pay bills and get groceries. I complained to my therapist, case manager, receptionist, the nurses…I tried talking to this doctor and she would not hear me out, her word was the end of the story. So I reported her to the state professional board.

Week later they dismissed me as a client for their psych services and also deemed I no longer needed counseling or case management. It took 2 years to find a new shrink and even that I didn’t do for myself. I had no home phone or cell and I wasn’t leaving the house due to panic and terror so I begged my sister to make the calls and see if she had any luck. Low and behold, she found me what was one of my shrink’s ever and I flourished both under her med regime as well as how much she supported me in my future wishes to visit a friend in California, meet an on line friend from England, to even one day attempt to become a mother. This is how I know great doctors exist. They are pegacorns but I’ve had two of them so they exist. They just don’t want to work in Satan’s Buttcrack. (Sorry, I heard that on some youtube video and thought it was hilarious and fitting.)

Now I am 2 mg in on Xanax because I was seriously spazzing. I texted Sass and she propped me up and told me good for me and as long as I have proof of the nurse’s med mistake, I should be protected against being called a liar or non compliant. (I do fear retribution because heaven knows what these people type into your chart. Asking for a copy is nixed,too, as it’s ten cents a page and my file is a 15 year span and thick as a collegiate dictionary.) The Xanax is working slowly and I am feeling less rattled and paranoid and fearful but I am sweating buckets in spite of being cold.

I hope I did the right thing speaking up for myself. I suppose I could have been more diplomatic and not mentioned her poor bedside manner and treatment mistakes but I just felt it crucial to let the director know as she is supposed to be overseeing charts, yet she didn’t catch it, either. I meant no malice though the nurse could use some further learning in how not to treat med resistant patients. To be fair, I need to learn how to not become overwhelmed and vicious about things like lowered benzo doses because that may ultimately be the thing to bite me on the ass. “Oh, she’s just mad about our new policy and she can’t get large doses of Xanax now.” I do find it an asinine policy that punishes the responsible people with legit disorders it helps but I was learning to accept it. And I maintain had this nurse or her LPN/RN bothered with a two minute call to give me a head’s up that these changes were being made instead of springing it on me, I’d have had time to process and respond calmly. They seem to consider this basic kindness coddling, though.

Well, it may mean another 2 year hunt for another doctor (closest is 80 miles away) and dozens of “No, we won’t be taking you on as a patient” which is nothing I haven’t heard before. (Being rejected as a patient stings, man.) But in the end even if I get bounced and blacklisted at least I will know I showed courage in speaking up for myself. Feeling this dark and vulnerable, just the act of speaking up on your own behalf is a huge thing.

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How Employers Fail The Mentally Ill

For those who think it is easy to obtain disability pay for mental health issues, you are very wrong. It is a grueling process that takes years for many of us fighting to get it. During these years, we keep trying to work at positions that trigger our illnesses and worsen our conditions. We burn bridges with out failures, we lose friendships, relationships, rack up bad references and a reputation for being ‘flaky’. No sooner than we hit a solid patch, we can backslide in a few weeks’ time. This DOES make us seem like less worthy candidates for many jobs.

But unlike laws that protect the physically disabled from discrimination and employers are required to accommodate their disabilities, the mentally ill are protected only in theory. In practice, we are often shunned because of our checkered pasts. Instead of an employer seeing a slew of jobs as you continuing to try to support yourself, they just see someone who can’t keep a job. If you fall into depressions and stop bathing (as I have currently) and your only true joy is sleep…You are perceived as weak and lazy. I am anything but. I have been fighting to raise a small child on my own for 7 years while her father gets away with spotty child support that often leaves us in the lurch. I am bounced around my psych practice to providers varying in competence, few of whom are really invested in my mental health. I am constantly facing unexpected expenses and I try to play to my strengths and seek what I perceive as ‘possibly doable’ jobs. Babysitter, dogwalker, light housekeeping, secret shopper, virtual assistant, proof reader. I WANT TO WORK.

At the same time, I can’t deny my limitations and pretend everything is okay. It is not. I can’t even get a good reference from friends and family because they think I am unreliable and they’re not entirely wrong. But since much of my disability stems from trying to interact with my mental illness in situations that I can’t even manage for basic functioning or enjoyment, I am almost doomed from go to fail. People trigger me. Crowds trigger me. My anxiety makes me twitchy and paranoid and sometimes, my brain convinces me that if I don’t cuss and scream, my brain will claw its way out of my skull. I cease rational thought in these situations and it happens over and over. I’ve put in 30 years of counseling. I have tried every med known to man. I bully myself, I pep talk myself. My disability simply isn’t going to go away nor will I ‘snap out of it.’

I accept this. Others do not.

How wasy it is for them to think me lazy or weak. How common to not be given an opportunity to prove yourself because your past is so unstable and you can’t look someone in the eye and say much has changed. You want to work, to earn your keep, but you’ve grown wise enough to know what simply pushes your boundaries and leads to breakdowns. So where does that leave me?

Working from home by computer, ideally. But most of those jobs are scams or require some sort of degree and familiarity with software I can’t even afford, so again…I pawn off what I can, I have fundraisers, I offer to cook a meal or do someone’s dishes. I am TRYING everything I know to makes ends meet. I can’t even get a call back from a place where all I’d have to do is wear a ridiculous costume, stand in the cold, and wave at people. I don’t think I’d be very good at it because I have a perpetual ‘fuck off and die’ look on my face when ‘out there’, it is all terrifying and frightening so the porcupine quills come out whether I want them to or not. But to not even get a call for an interview, Geesh. I know I brought it on myself, but hey, if I had been granted disability sooner, I wouldn’t have burned every employment bridge in this small area.

You have to be given an opportunity to earn your keep. Until that happens…you’re really at the mercy of fate. And no one cares if your intentions and motivations are pure. I would likely flourish working from home in some capacity but those jobs just aren’t plentiful or realistic, I am told. So I keep trying to live in the ‘stable world’ even though I am far from stable and get nowhere in those pursuits. At this point, I’d do creepy fetish porn if I thought someone was paying for it.

So before you dismiss the mentally disabled, before you deem us lazy or weak or unwilling to work…View us as you’d be required, by law, and morality, and decency, to view someone with a physical disability. Someone with a cane is obviously not going to be able to wait tables and move quickly and carry trays of heavy food but they might make a good greeter or sorter or even dishwasher. You just have to be willing to find a position that their disability and limitations don’t exclude.

For me, anything outside my safe space is at the moment beyond my capabilities and still, I am making the effort to try and get one of those jobs. Yet if someone would give me the opportunity to do some sort of work from my safe space, at my own pace…I’d probably excel and flourish instead of languish or crash and burn.

I just need a chance.

Employers need to stop, intentionally or unintentionally, counting out the mentally ill when in fact, we’re capable of quite a bit if you play to our strengths instead of expecting us to suddenly overcome lifelong limitations.

Finding a way to support yourself that does not drive you to a breakdown shouldn’t be a luxury or lottery winning. It should be common sense. And there should be far more employers out there offering this type of work for the mentally disabled.

You want to preach about teaching men to fish as opposed to just giving them a fish, but you don’t want to give lessons. That is illogical to a degree even I can discern.

No Withdrawal From Cold Turkeying Prozac,my ass

Forgive me, those who come here for written posts. I can’t make my fingers land on the proper keys due to brain zaps from coming off Prozac abruptly-and my psych nurse told me there would be no withdrawal as long as I started taking the Celexa immediately. LIES!!!! I am impaired to the degree I may as well be drunk. So bear with me and watch my vlog, it’s under 15 minutes, NSFW cos I swear a lot, and if you think my writing is fucked up…

You ain’t seen nothing yet, withdrawal from Xanax isn’t this bad. Though the abrupt halving on the dose certainly has left me climbing walls along with the brain zapping stumbling shamble. Ass trash.

Fresh Hell, Served Stale

I did not have a good night. My kid started in on me, being uncooperative and I stewed over the ‘mandated Xanax dose lowering’ because part of my routine is 2 mg at bedtime…Now I don’t even get that for the entire damn day. And I feel bad cos M. is just a practitioner and she can’t control what this Dr. Dictator hands down as practice wide edicts. At the same time, I don’t feel connected to this nurse and I don’t dislike her, but she does not give me good signs on being supportive of my limitations. You know when you’ve got a pro that is all “Team you!” M, perhaps newness to the job or area, she’s not unpleasant but…I also don’t think she’d go to bat for me in a review on my disability claim. Not that unsupportive psychs have ever stopped me from fighting for myself.

I took 12 mg melatonin, 200 mg antihistamine, and 0.5 mg Xanax around 7 p.m.

I figured I would zonk out while watching the ABC special on the final days of JFK Jr (and I don’t even know why I watched that other than promos hyping it up, that whole Kennedy thing was my mom’s spiel but I guess repeats get old and new is new). Ten p.m came around and I still wasn’t sleepy. I was agitated, tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable, in severe menstrual pain. The cats were fighting and the neighbors had an ambulance in the drive and visitors parked on my lot, engines running, til almost midnight. It was nerve wracking, and while I tried to be empathatic more than nosey or irate about whatever they had going on…

I could not even get my number counting bedtime routine down, my heartbeat was as deafening as the beep beep beep of the ambulance backing into their drive and the slam of all the visitor’s car doors. I got through Perry Mason (yeah, the old black and white ones, I like a good mystery) and then an episode of Hitchcock Presents (sooo need a digital antenna that pulls stations in from more than 30 miles away) and another episode of Chicago P.D. but I was getting more agitated and finally said fuck it and took a 1mg Xanax. I still have some left from before Dr Dictator’s edict but now they are precious precious little things to be treasured and hoarded. The stress of having this limitation slapped on me, without them even calling to explain it to me, and it coming from a doctor who has not once ever seen me…I was livid, furious, depressed, stressed.

Maybe it’s rebellious me having a knee jerk reaction to being told ‘you can’t do X anymore, you have to do Y.” But arbitrary rebellion tantrums were over in my thirties, I realized it is great to rebel as long as you do it for the right reasons and it doesn’t hurt yourself or others more than the principle is worth.

It was after 3 a.m. last I knew when finally I started getting sleepy (and another 3 mg melatonin) and I was in pain and knowing that soon the alarm would go off, with the fear that getting too sleep so late and getting so little sleep could cause me to sleep through the alarm…Dr. Dictator and her nurse minion really put me into a fresh hell, only they served it stale because I’ve been battling idget professionals like that my whole life. They don’t care who you are as an individual, it’s one size fits all medicine and it’s borderline malpractice to not at least taper me down dose wise. I’m super salty toward them now and it’s suckage cos I thought, hey, finally they got a staff member to stay more than a month, she’s seemingly competent and I don’t dislike her…I should have known the other shoe would drop and it’d be made of concrete and land on my damn head.

So I guess I got about 4 hours of sleep, off and on, cos I can’t get physically comfortable even with painkillers and my brain is rioting. I took my first Celexa this morning, by itself, because I want to see if it alone makes me sleepy or hyper or sick, before I take it with the Wellbutrin. I got my kid off to school, and now I am watching the morning Perry Mason, super pissed cos I can’t even do videos on my phone due to the failed micro sd card so it just feels like nothing is going right so why shouldn’t I be depressed and give in to all the dark thoughts? NOt like my providers really give a fuck.

Three more months of winter and maybe just maybe the horizon will look less like a mushroom cloud. UNtil then…this is what I am stuck with and I do not like it one bit. I feel betrayed by Dr Dictator, unsupported by nurse M, and surrounded by nothing but fucking suckage.

Everyone says depression doesn’t kill. People just ‘take the easy way out’ and commit suicide.

They’re full of shit, there’s nothing easy about coming to the point where you feel there’s no wiggle room, ever.

Depression kills, they just don’t have a nice little ‘murdered by mental illness’ box to check on their death forms.

Happy fucking new year.

Have Yourself A Scary Little Cryptmas-video version

Mourge+Spook = Spookticia…mommy daughter Christmas Day awkwardness,

Like Button Whore

7 years ago when the donor walked out with just a 30 second phone call to say “I can’t do this anymore”…and he didn’t just mean our relationship, he also abandoned our 2 year old daughter…Well, all I could think about was spewing all this internal mental venom before it poisoned. And the bonus was the donor once having scoffed at my idea of a mental health blog because no one wants to hear about your depression…Doing what felt right and natural for me, and spiting him? WIN WIN WIN WIN.

I gave my link to one person.

Now I have 1000 plus followers.

Which in internet speak means maybe 3 regularly read my writing, but I know for the most part…they’re still decent people. They are just busy living their lives. At least if they don’t have time to comment positively, they also aren’t making the time to troll me in a toxic manner.

You take the small wins when you can.

Oddly, the donor was totally anti social networking back when I was on myspace- but he posted something on Facebook years later that resulted in him being fired from a $15 an hour job cos, hey, he is that much of an uppity person. Odd how it was stupid and shallow when I did it yet it didn’t make me get fired or call into question my devotion to my child.

People who have one set of rules for themselves and another set for others are what I call the donor, or the donor’s progeny. If I am hard on others, it is but a fraction of how harsh I am on myself. I’d say the rules may be uneven there but in a way favorable to everyone but me. As opposed to ya know, “I get to be this way cos mommy didn’t love me but you can’t cos you had a mom who loves you’. All I ever wanted was a fair playing field and it’s the one thing I was never going to get.

Dear God in heaven, my kingdom for some bloody Focalin so I might stop wandering off topic…And while I will own being scatterbrained, I also know Focalin fixes it but insurance won’t pay for the script so again…fuckest thou and the steed they galloped in upon.

All I ever wanted to do with this blog was vent all the toxins that make my brain wonkier than it was to begin with. I just wanted to spew it, vent it, maybe even occasionally encounter someone who thought WHOA, I FEEL LIKE THAT TOO SOMETIMES, I AM NOT TOTALLY ALONE!

Thanks to Twatter and Fuckfacebook making even restaurant chains around for 50 years little more than victims of ‘are we popular this week or not”…

I’ve become a needy bitch why craves the occasional few people who care enough to click that insipid like button.

What’s sadder still is, I know the people who read my blog and maybe can’t manage to read every post or click like or comment…but they are there, and they have shown my daughter and I so much kindness and acceptance in ways far more meaningful than any like button…So why do I still feel outraged when I see some vapid post about eyebrow waxing that got 3000 likes yet I write a wondermous post about heartfelt gratitude and am lucky to get 6 likes?

I love my technology but a few days a week I look at how difficult and stressful that same tech has made our existence…and I have to wonder, at what price?

And if you have never asked that of yourself…

Well, doesn’t that say a lot about you. No need to click like. I LIKE THIS POST enough for all of us cos it is ugly, it is brutal, it is…ermagod…

HONEST.

My Fuckitol Doseage Needs Increased

One would think after the year Spook and I have had (you can read about it here, where someone commented ‘this is really your life?” ha ha, I wish it was a bad soap opera.) that I’d be too beaten down and defeated to still give a damn about much of anything. This is not to diminish, by any means, the acts of kindness that people have bestowed upon us during what has been our worst year since the donor walked out 7 years ago. But anyone who battles depression and anxiety also knows that it doesn’t matter if you’re rich or beautiful or a rocket scientist. Your mind just goes to a dark place and only by making jokes about stuff like ‘fuckitol’ pills can you ride out months of misery.

I’m a single mom, of course, I want to say fuck it all, I think it all the time especially when being told I’m a terrible mom cos I can’t afford to buy her the awesome $80 toy that six of the kids in her class have…But being a mom, I really do care. Maybe not about asinine stuff like politics or even my family’s backstabbery, but I care about my daughter, I care about my cats, I care about keeping us sheltered, warm, and fed. It’d probably be easier if I didn’t care. If you fail but didn’t care anyway, it doesn’t sting, let alone cripple your self esteem. But when you care and you try your absolute best and still end up on the failing side…it stings like lemon juice and salt poured into a raw gaping wound.

So I think I need my Fuckitol dose increased. Caring too much is getting me nowhere. Except my mom accusing me of not caring enough and my dad saying I am teaching my kid to be too wimpy and emotional (I think a 9 year old saying, “Can we just talk and not yell at each other?” is pretty damn intelligent, not wimpy). Some of my happiest years, well not happy, but least stressful were when I hit rock bottom around 2003 following the death of a friend and I started doing bad things and decided if people were going to assume I was bad anyway (because here, depression is called being ‘stuck up’) so I was just gonna roll with the bad.

I’ve spent the last 12 years trying to clean up my messes and live down my mistakes. At the time, I thought being jailed or hospitalized would let me get some needed rest and I wouldn’t have to make decisions or juggle too many bills with too little income or worry about family infighting….Yeah, I was a step below rock bottom, mixing whiskey and cola with meds like Seroquel and Trazadone…I had really stopped caring about everything, including myself. My only saving grace was my cat at the time, I knew I had to be there for her. I didn’t think about this until after I already damaged my own reputation and worsened my situation, but…I did come around eventually. (Anyone who says misdemeanor charges can be shaken off doesn’t live in this state, even my sister’s juvenile charges come up on a computer search and while legally maybe they can’t hold it against you…they use it to judge your character so no matter how many years later it is…you’re still paying for your bad choices.)

Now I am trying so hard to blaze a new path so the past seems dimmed, I fear my self esteem and inability to ‘kick’ the depression are going to lead me to rock bottom all over again. One does not need drugs or booze or sex or credit cards for a bipolar backslide. Personally, I could turn ‘kale abuse’ into an actual thing even if I can’t stand the stuff, just saying, going overboard is a bipolar characteristic) Every day is a struggle to get out of bed, to stay out of bed, to accomplish even the tiniest things and the ‘fuckitol’ is doing a fantabulous job making me think “Oh, well, if they deem the house unfit for my kid, she can go live with someone who can buy her love”. Yet on idioctic bullshit like my parents insulting me, as they always have, fuckitol doesn’t work at all.

Ya know, I had hope for awhile, my writing seemed less rambling and a little more coherent. Now…back to blathering on like an imbecile. A good hearted imbecile. Who woke six times last night so the longest stretch of sleep I got was 2.5 hours. If I could step outside my own mind, I would see that this pattern of sleeping in spurts for the last year, has really taken a toll and no wonder I am tired before I do a damn thing.

But like the migraine commercials, you can’t escape your own mind. You’re trapped. Odd that I can’t see a migraine, yet it’s more legitimate than mental illness. Huh? (I get migraines from time to time, need blackened room, silence, and to suffer through it.) Just saying, when is society going to remove its collective head from its collective ass and face that mental health issues are not escapable any more than migraines are.

Different being, migraines don’t leave you feeling weak, lazy, and ashamed.

We should change that.

Or up my dose of Fuckitol.

I often wish I’d been born a psychopath. Caring about…stuff…hurts too much.