pharmaceuticals suck. or they’re great. when i figure it out I’ll let you know.

I’ve always been okay with meds for my bipolar & anxiety. Before my diagnosis, I was like a bee in a really big bottle. Buzz, thud. Buzz, thud. Buzz, thud. I didn’t know what was going on, so I sought help, got a diagnosis, and was introduced to the wide world of pharmaceuticals. I will say, it took me awhile to get to pharmaceuticals, because I was against them, so I tried homeopathy, shiatsu, aura analysis, crystal healing, chakra balancing, acupuncture, reflexology, and naturopathy. My final, desperate attempt at avoidance of medications included smudging my entire house at the suggestion of my therapist-turned-shaman. Needless to say, pharmaceuticals won.

Getting stable depended entirely on figuring out which combination of the bazillion available medications was going to work with my personal (and often stubborn) body chemistry. It was a long, frustrating, and exhausting journey getting to the point where I could function at a high level. But, I made it. And I’m meds compliant. And I go for meds checks. And I handle the minor adjustments here and there, because I pay attention to how I’m feeling and what I’m doing. I’m meds compliant, I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I eat my veggies, and I exercise fairly regularly. I mostly do everything I’m supposed to.


Medication Count: 5 – 3 for bipolar/anxiety. 2 for high blood pressure to handle the side effects from my bipolar meds.
BAM!!! I’m injured. Add two more medications for pain (non-narcotic). Oops, more side effects, another medication to offset those side effects.
New Medication Count: 8

I feel like I’m too young to be on so many medications. They cause side effects which may or may not be permanent. But, they allow me to function. So, they suck, and they’re great. I am no help whatsoever!

Lists and spreadsheets and logs and journals!!!

I really should be making a list of lists of things I should be doing daily, lists of things I should be doing weekly, and lists of things I should be doing monthly. Lists of things I need to remember, lists of things to cross off so I can forget. Lists. They make me feel organized when they are, in fact, reminders of how disorganized I actually feel. Though I should be making that list, I’m writing about the list instead.

I know I touched on this before – I think it was in a post about New Year’s Resolutions. Clearly it’s still an issue. ‘Lists’ of ‘tasks’ suck. I could come up with a witty description that eliminates the word ‘suck’, but why? It’s clear and to the point. True, there are some things that need to be written down so I don’t forget; but what about the list I make AFTER I’ve already completed the tasks JUST so I can cross them off? That’s more of a log than a list. Oh crap, should I be writing lists AND logs???

Okay, so now that I’ve realized I need lists AND logs, I’m thinking that if I create a spreadsheet, I can kill two birds with one stone. I can make a monthly spreadsheet, indicate the frequency of the task, and allow space to check each item off! Unfortunately, the page is only so big, and I may need more space for comments and additional items, right? Good lord, now I need to create spreadsheets to eliminate lists and logs AS WELL AS a journal to make note of anything else of importance.

I’m the type who needs a fresh notebook every time I decide to get organized. I’m okay with ripping pages out of an old one if it happens to be spiral bound or perforated legal pad, but feel I should either file or shred the (now obsolete) removed pages. I’m all set, though. I’ve got my spreadsheet of lists and logs AND my journal. HOWEVER. I now have a spreadsheet and a journal, but I need them to be in the same place so I can refer to them both at the same time, right? So… if I put them in a file folder, I’m in good shape.

So I’ve got the file folder for my spreadsheet (lists and logs) and journal created. I can move forward in an orderly fashion once I hit the print key.

My printer is out of paper.

I’m going back to bed.

The Seamy Underbelly

I repeat, The Seamy Underbelly. That’s the first description that popped into my head with regard to the general atmosphere of the doctor’s office I walked into recently. Against my better judgement, I stayed. Simply put, it was an appointment I had to keep due to an unfortunate work-related injury. I assumed the scheduler would be interested in getting people healthy and back to work. I can only imagine they weren’t aware of the conditions.

It’s partly my fault – I ignored every instinct urging me to flee. The red flags were whipping wildly like the scarves on runners in Pamplona after the bulls have been released.

I disregarded the hastily scrawled, handwritten sign on the door indicating there were no narcotic pain medications on site. I trudged my way across the tacky (in both appearance and viscosity) carpet to sign in at the front desk. I barely flickered an eyelash as the disheveled receptionist emerged from the cavernous landscape of patient files perched precariously on every flat surface. I checked in, filled out the new patient paperwork, took advantage of the economy-sized bottle of hand sanitizer on the counter, and prepared myself for the wait.

I settled into a chair in the waiting room, and ran my fingers over the jagged edges of fresh graffiti gouged into the wood. I scanned the outdated magazines that were lounging listlessly on the veneer-shedding credenza. I glanced at the three other patients in the waiting room. I checked email, sent out a few witty text messages & played some Trivia Crack.

At 15 minutes past my appointment time, I was a bit irritated, but patients were being called back for treatment at a pretty reasonable pace. The staff members were bustling to and fro, files in hand, smiling pleasantly. New patients were checking in, finding their seats, and settling in. I noticed that several people went to the counter, then left shortly after, prescription bottles in hand.

At 30 minutes past my appointment time, I was fast approaching annoyed. The pace of patients being called back slowed. The staff members seemed to be bustling aimlessly. New patients were still checking in. Prescription bottles were flying out. I eavesdropped on a boring conversation between two drug reps waiting to see the doctor.

At 45 minutes past my appointment time, I was thoroughly disgruntled. The pace of patients being called back came to a screeching halt. The staff huddled around containers of Chinese food the drug reps had ordered for them. New patients were still checking in. The drug reps were engaged in a lively discussion on the mechanics of bone drills. It was then I noticed that the second-hand on the clock was jumping, but not advancing.

At 47 minutes past my appointment time, one of the drug reps approached the receptionist to ask when the doctor would be available.  She explained that he was ‘flying solo’, but would be with them soon. There were no longer any seats available in the waiting room. It was then I realized I had not seen a single patient leave the treatment area to check out. I surfed social media for a few minutes, then heard the receptionist beckon the drug reps to the office area.

At 49 minutes past my appointment time, I approached the receptionist to ask when I would be seen.  She took a look at the pile of files, located mine, and indicated there were 3 patients ahead of me. I simmered with hostility.  I returned to my seat to discover half of it had been claimed by another patient. There were no other seats available, so I wedged myself in, buoyed by the hope I would be called back soon. I glared at the clock, and its jumping second-hand. I watched as the queue for painkillers snaked out the door.

At one hour past my appointment time, it became clear that the situation had gone from bad to worse. Patients were still streaming in, the drug reps were still schmoozing the sole doctor, the second-hand was still jumping, the staff members were sluggishly recovering from lunch, and I couldn’t get in contact with the person who had set up the appointment for me. As I looked around, I realized I was overdressed in my jeans and t-shirt. The woman next to me (with curlers in her hair and slippers on her feet) mentioned that it wasn’t out of the ordinary to wait up to 3 hours to see the doctor. She waggled her eyebrows, shook her prescription bottle, and confided that the payout makes it worthwhile.

At one hour and 15 minutes past my appointment time, the drug reps left. The second-hand jumped. My seatmate wiggled, thumped her cane against my knee, and gained even more real estate on my side of the chair. I watched as an unpleasantly-Rubenesque woman (sporting low-rise yoga pants strained to the limits of their elasticity) shimmied to the ladies room, revealing a flash of butt cleavage and a tramp stamp. I accidentally made eye contact with a man admiring her progress (clutching a Mountain Dew bottle in his nicotine-stained fingers), and was rewarded with a leering, toothless grin. I tuned out the screeching siblings fighting for their turn on a video game, and realized their mother likely wouldn’t intercede until blood was shed. As I inhaled the miasma of desperation, resignation, greed, and egg rolls, I couldn’t help but think ‘these are not my people’.

At one and a half hours past my appointment time, I was finally given the green light to leave by the appointment-maker. I gathered my things, pried myself out of the chair, slogged across the sticky carpet and pushed my way through the crowd jockeying for position to claim my vacated half-seat.

At one hour and 45 minutes past my appointment time, I finally reached the door. I pushed it open and stumbled out, breaking up the circle of staff members smoking their post-meal cigarettes. Elated at my freedom, I took one last peek over my shoulder and caught a final glimpse of the jumping second-hand…



Sell both your kidneys on the internet!

I have inexplicably bad days. I didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I didn’t forget to set my alarm. I didn’t have trouble sleeping. I have clean underwear. My hair looks great. I’m not worried about the things I have to get done that day. It’s not my ‘time of month’. I’m not running late. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. It’s baffling. Yet, there it is. Bad Day.

I refrain from unnecessary interaction with society on my mystifyingly bad days. I don’t make eye contact. I put in headphones to deter polite conversation. I brace myself to resist an unquenchable thirst for the souls of the joyful. I curb the overwhelming need to choke others with the fetid stench of my hostility. I paste a saccharine smile on my face when an unsuspecting victim cheerfully chirps their hopes for me to enjoy my day, whilst I reel in the threads of inky blacks and oily greys straining to darken theirs.

Then someone re-posts something slightly offensive and mildly shocking that I enjoyed with gusto. You’re welcome.


Awesome things i did this morning before 9am

Woke up with the Narwhal song in my head.

Put on 2 pairs of underwear (you can never be too prepared!). Edit: One after the other, in underwear layers, not due to any physical ‘incidents’. Really.

Decided to trim a pair of workout pants that were too long. Cut off a half inch too much. Made them too short for normal pants, too long for capris. Trimmed in 1/8th inch increments until they were acceptable capri length.

Carried scissors used for above seamstress-ish project from room to room, finally setting them down on the kitchen counter. Realized I needed to return said scissors to my desk mere seconds after walking downstairs and settling into my desk chair. Walked back upstairs to retrieve them. Got distracted by something shiny. Walked back downstairs to my desk. Settled into desk chair. Realized I left the scissors upstairs again. Walked up to retrieve them. Got a drink of water. Took my morning medications. Started back to my desk. Realized halfway down that I almost forgot the scissors yet again. Went back up the half flight of steps. Got the scissors. Went back to my desk.

Attempted to make the adorable sock bunny below, but my scissors were too dull. Realized the socks I chose were too thick. Spilled rice on the floor. Ended up making a freak show bunny that looked like it had been caught under the lawnmower.

DIY Sock BunnyDIY Sock Bunny (No Sew) This is the perfect craft for spring and Easter. Credit: Handimania

Posted by DIY & Crochet Addict on Thursday, March 17, 2016

Decided I should definitely sleep a little later.