There I was, minding my own business an hour or so ago, and Neil Young’s Four Strong Winds came on the radio. It just broke me up.
OK, I know why, and it’s bugger all to do with the song – that was just the trigger – but I can’t go round bursting into tears at the slightest thing, FFS!
I’ve been here before, in the weeks after my divorce, and I’m heading for a breakdown as sure as god made little green apples. That was clear in hospital (to more than me, as it turned out), and I thought I’d be better away from all the stress and aggro. And I was, for a while, but it’s just rolled me under again.
So I’ve taken some DHC, Paracetamol, and Amitryptilline, with a shot of Jack – see if that helps calm things down (antipsychotics would be better, but I have to go with what I’ve got)** – if I don’t chill I don’t like where this is going – not one little bit.
**Seems to be helping somewhat – I feel rather more stable. Don’t knock booze – extremely strong alcohol (paraldehyde), has long been used in psychiatric medicine (and also to treat epilepsy). Its normal-strength cousins can be valuable too, if not abused.
And looking at DHC, I wondered if that’s at least part of the problem? I’ve been addicted to the stuff for years, but because I always took it at the same time every day, it wasn’t a problem unless I stopped. In hospital, though, they dramatically jacked up the dose, and delivery was incredibly erratic. And it is again, now, as I’m trying to wean myself off it or, at least, get back to a lower dose now I’m in less pain.
Or maybe I’m just screwed.
I’ve always known that the words “A ripe old age” had no place in my future, but suddenly being told, out of the blue, “Hey! Better take your library books back,” is an entirely different ball game.
I’m dying, in case you missed the metaphor. I can deal with that. What I can’t deal with, one little bit, is not knowing anything else.
Have I got a week? A year? Two? What? I’d be fuckin’ mortified to die watching yet another repeat of Two and a half Men!!!
If it’s a week, screw it, I may as well go out, get shitfaced, get laid – what’s to lose? And also have the small pleasure of spending every penny of my overdraft facility – suck on that, ya parsimonious pricks! (Not my favourite people right now, having just refused me a loan to buy a powerchair, which meant I had to use all my capital and a chunk of my overdraft, as well as compromise my choice of machine.)
If it’s a year, though, I can plan. Maybe the lifestyle changes I’ve already mentioned will help; maybe we could come up with a drug, or a combination, that might help? And where’s my urgent referral to the heart clinic – don’t I rate one? Doing anything has to be better than doing bugger all. (This isn’t a suicide note, no matter how it might look in parts.)
If all else fails, with a year – or whatever – I can at least arrange to step out of this world on my own terms. I’m an atheist – suicide doesn’t scare me. What would scare me is pulling the plug now (but no, not at this low ebb when I’m not fully in control, it’d be just wrong), when I might yet have some time ahead of me. And maybe something better than this to contribute to this narrative.
(Sorry to dump this on you, by the way – I’ve been dumping on a friend all week and she needs a break! – I’m just hoping against hope that if I can get it out of my system, I might be able to get some focus on the situation.)
What I cannot deal with, on any level at all though, is not knowing.
Y’know, I’m scared to go to sleep which, itself, sure as hell isn’t helping, in case I don’t wake up (and yes, I do know that makes no sense – logic has bugger all to do with any of this). I read til exhaustion takes me down, then two hours later the alarm, goes off for my first meds of the day, and hey – there’s a whole, untouched day waiting to suck me back into an emotional meat-grinder. Oh joy…
I guess what I’m trying to say is this – you simply cannot, not ever, just tell someone they’re dying, walk away and fuckin’ leave them swingin’ in the wind. It’s obscene.
They wouldn’t do that with a terminal cancer patient – so why do it to me?
And how many others are out there, this weekend, lost, desolate, equally fucked over by the medical system and just left to get on with it? And how many won’t make it?
WHERE. IS. THE. GODDAMNED. SUPPORT?
.
A ray of light – I’ve just remembered than one of my
COPD meds can cause depression which I treat with 200mg B6 daily – and I’ve taken none for over a week. So, taken my B6 now – every little helps – and tomorrow I’ll get back into the rest of my supplements, too
There I was, minding my own business an hour or so ago, and Neil Young’s Four Strong Winds came on the radio. It just broke me up.
OK, I know why, and it’s bugger all to do with the song – that was just the trigger – but I can’t go round bursting into tears at the slightest thing, FFS!
I’ve been here before, in the weeks after my divorce, and I’m heading for a breakdown as sure as god made little green apples. That was clear in hospital (to more than me, as it turned out), and I thought I’d be better away from all the stress and aggro. And I was, for a while, but it’s just rolled me under again.
So I’ve taken some DHC, Paracetamol, and Amitryptilline, with a shot of Jack – see if that helps calm things down (antipsychotics would be better, but I have to go with what I’ve got)** – if I don’t chill I don’t like where this is going – not one little bit.
**Seems to be helping somewhat – I feel rather more stable. Don’t knock booze – extremely strong alcohol (paraldehyde), has long been used in psychiatric medicine (and also to treat epilepsy). Its normal-strength cousins can be valuable too, if not abused.
And looking at DHC, I wondered if that’s at least part of the problem? I’ve been addicted to the stuff for years, but because I always took it at the same time every day, it wasn’t a problem unless I stopped. In hospital, though, they dramatically jacked up the dose, and delivery was incredibly erratic. And it is again, now, as I’m trying to wean myself off it or, at least, get back to a lower dose now I’m in less pain.
Or maybe I’m just screwed.
I’ve always known that the words “A ripe old age” had no place in my future, but suddenly being told, out of the blue, “Hey! Better take your library books back,” is an entirely different ball game.
I’m dying, in case you missed the metaphor. I can deal with that. What I can’t deal with, one little bit, is not knowing anything else.
Have I got a week? A year? Two? What? I’d be fuckin’ mortified to die watching yet another repeat of Two and a half Men!!!
If it’s a week, screw it, I may as well go out, get shitfaced, get laid – what’s to lose? And also have the small pleasure of spending every penny of my overdraft facility – suck on that, ya parsimonious pricks! (Not my favourite people right now, having just refused me a loan to buy a powerchair, which meant I had to use all my capital and a chunk of my overdraft, as well as compromise my choice of machine.)
If it’s a year, though, I can plan. Maybe the lifestyle changes I’ve already mentioned will help; maybe we could come up with a drug, or a combination, that might help? And where’s my urgent referral to the heart clinic – don’t I rate one? Doing anything has to be better than doing bugger all. (This isn’t a suicide note, no matter how it might look in parts.)
If all else fails, with a year – or whatever – I can at least arrange to step out of this world on my own terms. I’m an atheist – suicide doesn’t scare me. What would scare me is pulling the plug now (but no, not at this low ebb when I’m not fully in control, it’d be just wrong), when I might yet have some time ahead of me. And maybe something better than this to contribute to this narrative.
(Sorry to dump this on you, by the way – I’ve been dumping on a friend all week and she needs a break! – I’m just hoping against hope that if I can get it out of my system, I might be able to get some focus on the situation.)
What I cannot deal with, on any level at all though, is not knowing.
Y’know, I’m scared to go to sleep which, itself, sure as hell isn’t helping, in case I don’t wake up (and yes, I do know that makes no sense – logic has bugger all to do with any of this). I read til exhaustion takes me down, then two hours later the alarm, goes off for my first meds of the day, and hey – there’s a whole, untouched day waiting to suck me back into an emotional meat-grinder. Oh joy…
I guess what I’m trying to say is this – you simply cannot, not ever, just tell someone they’re dying, walk away and fuckin’ leave them swingin’ in the wind. It’s obscene.
They wouldn’t do that with a terminal cancer patient – so why do it to me?
And how many others are out there, this weekend, lost, desolate, equally fucked over by the medical system and just left to get on with it? And how many won’t make it?
WHERE. IS. THE. GODDAMNED. SUPPORT? . A ray of light – I’ve just remembered than one of my COPD meds can cause depression which I treat with 200mg B6 daily – and I’ve taken none for over a week. So, taken my B6 now – every little helps – and tomorrow I’ll get back into the rest of my supplements, too