The drugs REALLY don’t work

Six (I think) days ago, I was prescribed Celebrex/Celecoxib for my joint pain. Today, I’ve decided to take myself off it, after another sleepless night and a sudden explosion of anxiety, panic, worry, depression and something I can only describe as bordering on psychosis. I’ve had a constant stomach upset, heartburn, swellings all over my body, headaches, vision problems, nightmares, endless sweating, nausea, worse than usual fatigue and a total inability to function. The last few days have been spent almost entirely in bed, alternating between crying and feeling absolutely nothing. I’ve shouted and screamed at my mother for no reason. As I type, I’m rocking back and forth, trying to calm the irrational fear and expend the ridiculous amount of energy I have stored in my  body. I’m too exhausted to make use of the energy – which feels like I’ve overdosed on E without the happy side-effect – and nothing I see or hear makes sense.

Having finally let myself Google personal accounts from people who’ve taken it, I’ve realised that everything I’m feeling can be attributed to the medication. I don’t care that it was starting to help a little with the pain; if I have  to choose between relative sanity and painful joints, I’ll take the sanity please.

Of course, my mother will insist that I get yet another appointment with my GP to discuss it. However, I think if I have to walk into that waiting room one more time, I’ll snap entirely. I’ve been trying so hard to keep my shit together recently, and I don’t want to end up undoing all the hard work. Plus… I don’t think I can face yet another medication which probably won’t work, and might end up making me feel worse. Perhaps I can make it until April (when I’m seeing a rheumatology specialist) and just deal with the pain.

Six days is all it’s taken for me to become a quivering, sweating, angry wreck. I want to punch myself in the face; as barmy as I can be, that’s not normal. The only thing stopping me is knowing I’d have to explain the bruising. It’s difficult to make excuses for an injury when you’ve been bedbound for days.

This is never going to get better, is it? Life’s never going to get better.

 

 

 

The pains of being honest at heart, and the problem of guilt

“Don’t you find it strange, opening up like that? I couldn’t do it”

Tonight, I spoke to my mother about my blog, and how it’s helped me. She’s always known I write this, although I would never in a million years show it to her. She’s always been suspicious of the internet, to the point of obsession over supposed threats social networks could pose to me, regardless of how careful I assure her I am (I’m not; I’m just not interesting enough to be worth stalking, and if someone wants to hack my bank account, go for it; I have a grand total of nothing in it, and it’s been empty for a year now), but she’s recently become quite attached to reading forums. Mostly it’s the same one; a money-saving forum. She tells me about the lives of the various members as though they were close friends, and I actually think it’s nice, and probably good for her. I worry about her total lack of a social life, and I suppose in a way she’s involving herself now, even though she doesn’t ever post.

I sat on the stairs, balancing a mug of light chocolate Ovaltine next to me and hugging my knees while we spoke. We often seem to speak in strange places; we’ve never been that good at expressing our emotions around each other, but we’re starting to, and I like it. Since my diagnosis of Borderline Personality, I’ve become more open with her. She’s done her research on it, and I know there’s no point pretending everything’s fine with me now when I freak out, because she knows exactly why.

I’ve always been a very honest person. I may have lied and twisted facts in the past to make myself sound cool or popular, but when it comes to my emotions, I’ve rarely bothered holding back. I suppose I just don’t see the point in hiding such a huge part of my personality. Sometimes, that honesty has come back to bite me on the arse – not everybody treats the truth with respect – but I’ve always tried to bounce back from the insults and judgements, believing that the best way for me to cope with life is to be honest about who I am and the way I feel.

Tonight, I wanted to be honest in a post, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. It’s the first time I’ve struggled with laying myself bare online in a long time, and I’ve never once held back on this blog. My reasons for holding back were twofold; one, I didn’t want to be seen to be looking for sympathy, and two, I just didn’t think anybody would be interested enough.

I didn’t write the post in the end. It seemed easier to just let it slide, but I’ve been unable to shake it from my mind. It was nothing amazing or groundbreaking – simply explaining how much physical pain I’m in today/tonight – but when I started this blog, I promised myself total honesty, even if I didn’t like what I had to write about myself, and so I now find myself typing away at my laptop, propped up against a V-shaped neck pillow in my little single bed, writing to purge the imagined sins of dishonesty.

I mean, I wasn’t even dishonest. I simply omitted to mention something, which in itself is no biggie and certainly won’t cause any major disasters to happen. In the comments of my last post, people said I should stop being so hard on myself, and they’re right. Guilt consumes so much of my life that sometimes it’s all I can feel.

The truth? I’m in pain. A lot of pain, all through my body. I’ve hardly moved today, although I’ve tried to force myself. My fingers and wrists ache, my ankle is bruised and swollen (it’s been that way for months), my neck feels as though I’m carrying a concrete slab on my head, and my skulls feels like it may explode. Earlier, I had earache, probably caused by a swollen gland on the left side of my neck. My knees hurt. My jaw hurts. Even my eyes seem to hurt.

The Celebrex is doing nothing except scrambling my already jumbled brain. Naproxen helps, but I can’t take both and I need to stay on the Celebrex until I see the rheumatologist. I haven’t had any weed for a couple of weeks now, so that’s not an option. Staying in bed doesn’t help and neither does moving around. Hot baths don’t touch the pain in my neck and head at all. Heat does nothing. Cold does even less. So the only thing I have is fucking codeine. How can I deal with an addiction if I need that substance to even begin to function?

I’ve tried to behave and stick to the correct dosage, but I’ve slipped a few times. Last night I took seven caplets, in an attempt to sleep. I’ve only had two today so far, but the effects wore off hours ago. I feel like I should be apologising to my liver.

I can’t help feeling cheated by life. I suppose being sick is a lot like grief; I’m going through the stages.

The stages, popularly known by the acronym DABDA, include:^[2]

1. Denial — “I feel fine.”; “This can’t be happening, not to me.”
   Denial is usually only a temporary defense for the individual. This feeling is generally replaced with anger
2. Anger — “Why me? It’s not fair!”; “How can this happen to me?”; ‘”Who is to blame?”
   Once in the second stage, the individual recognizes that denial cannot continue. Because of anger, the person is very difficult to care for due to misplaced feelings of rage and envy.
3. Bargaining — “I’ll do anything for a few more years.”; “I will give my life savings if…”
   The third stage involves the hope that the individual can somehow postpone or delay death. Usually, the negotiation for an extended life is made with a higher power in exchange for a reformed lifestyle. Psychologically, the individual is saying, “I understand I will die, but if I could just do something to buy more time…”
4. Depression — “I’m so sad, why bother with anything?”; “I’m going to die soon so what’s the point… What’s the point?”; “I miss my loved one, why go on?”
   During the fourth stage, the dying person begins to understand the certainty of death. Because of this, the individual may become silent, refuse visitors and spend much of the time crying and grieving. This process allows the dying person to disconnect from things of love and affection. It is not recommended to attempt to cheer up an individual who is in this stage. It is an important time for grieving that must be processed.
5. Acceptance — “It’s going to be okay.”; “I can’t fight it, I may as well prepare for it.”
   In this last stage, individuals begin to come to terms with their mortality, or that of a loved one, or other tragic event.

Wikipedia link

Only, I keep flipping back and forth between anger and depression. I seem to be stuck between them. Some days I can almost accept it, but then something happens – I drop a cup or wake up unable to move my neck – and I’m right back to being frustrated and furious, or depressed and convinced I may as well just give up because life can’t ever get any better.

Denial was the best stage. It lasted a long time. I don’t know when things changed.

 

One step away from crazy

I haven’t felt up to doing much today. A sewing project was abandoned – I was making a Russian Doll keyring but became too frustrated when I constantly dropped the needle and lost control of the thread – and I’m feeling too spaced-out to watch the usual few episodes of House or read. Sleep is an appealing prospect, but I’ve come so far in sorting out my sleeping patterns and I don’t want to ruin it now. So I spent some time reading Nicole’s blog, and came across a post called “I freaked out on the Starbucks girl“.

 

“what the f*ck!” i screamed.  jamming on my gas pedal, driving in reverse, i returned to the window.

me: “excuse me, but i tasted SUGAR in my beverage.”

barista: “yes, it’s an iced coffee.”

me: “i’m sorry, i don’t understand your response.”

she repeated the original response.

me: “if a person orders a BLACK iced coffee, then what does that mean?”

barista: “it means without cream.”

me: “is sugar black?”

barista: “no, it’s white.”

me: “then how does this drink reflect my order of BLACK?”

barista: “well, it’s just syrup.”

at this point, i’m freaking out in my head.  *i drank syrup?!  it’s not even pure cane sugar?!  i need to vomit.  oh my god.  no, wait, i don’t do that anymore.*

 

It struck a painful chord with me. Both anorexia and bulimia turned me into a horrible person, and in some respects I think that’s the most cruel aspect of an eating disorder. Lack of essential nutrients, anxiety and the pure terror of calories you hadn’t factored into your day can flip a switch which, for want of a better term, let’s call the Crazy Trigger.

Even though I consider myself to be treading the fine line between ED and being okay, I still have that Crazy Trigger, and I despise it. I hate it because it brings a feeling of total loss of control. I hate it because it drives people away, because who would believe that somebody can freak out over a few grains of sugar or a tiny bit of butter? I do. Sometimes I do, even though I’m no longer as bad as I used to be.

When my anorexia was at its height (at the age of thirteen), I turned into a total monster. I went from a quiet, shy, timid girl, to a raging monster with no self-control or shame. I’d scream at innocent bystanders holding sandwiches (why should they get to eat and not get fat?) and threaten violence against the poor food sample lady in Tesco, convinced she was part of some bizarre conspiracy to make me gain weight. Although I no longer abuse innocent people in the street, I still shout at my mother sometimes if she makes a comment like, “have you eaten anything today?” or, “that pie needs eating before it goes out of date”. The Crazy Trigger slips into the front of my mind, unnoticed and sneaky, and starts pushing everybody away with threats and curses. It’s a part of myself I truly despise, and although I’ve beaten it somewhat into submission, sometimes I just seem unable to control myself at all. And that scares me more than anything.

Today, my mother asked if I was going to eat anything. A simple question, an entirely innocent one… yet it set off a chain of events in my head.

If I eat… will she judge me? Will other people judge me? Am I just faking this fear? If I don’t eat, she’ll think I’m crazy and lock me away again. Oh god, what do I do? Do I eat? Maybe just a sandwich? That’ll be okay. Why am I worrying about this? I’m fat anyway.

Sometimes I suspect that no matter how much I feel okay with myself, I’ll always be one step away from crazy.

 

 

 

Apathy

I never expected to feel so much frustration when life dictates that I can’t write. Well, not can’t… just the feeling that I have nothing worthwhile to say. I never expected to feel angry at myself when I feel unable to reply to comments on my blog, or respond to advice. Heck, I never even expected to get comments. I feel like I should apologise for seeming aloof or unresponsive.

It’s not that I’m depressed (I’m not) or particularly stressed out (again, I’m not); I’m just tired. Tiredness is a strange thing. We all experience it, so you’d think that carrying on as normal wouldn’t be that difficult. Still, the overwhelming sense of fatigue has flipped a switch somewhere in my brain and triggered an apathy I can’t seem to shake.

Of course, putting off writing makes things even more difficult, because I now feel a sense of responsibility to myself to put everything down on screen; and I have a lot to write about. Sure, I have nothing worthwhile to do today so I have plenty of time… but part of me just wants to curl up in bed with a cup of coffee and read, rather than have to think about things.

I saw my GP this morning. I woke fifteen minutes before my alarm went off, but still managed to be five minutes late even though the surgery is only around the corner. I just couldn’t motivate myself. Luckily, appointments were running behind anyway, so although I had a small panic it didn’t turn into a full-force freak out. As I sat in the waiting room I thought about how often I’d seen those same plastic chairs, the same Comic-Sans printed signs advising on chlamydia testing, and the same slightly scuffed carpet. I thought about how so much of my life has been spent in GP waiting rooms and hospitals, and realised that it was a depressingly large amount of time. As a result, I found myself apologising to my doctor for taking up so much of his time. He said there was no need to be sorry, but I still felt guilty. He must be sick of seeing my face.

I told him how unhappy I was with the neurology appointment. Although the anger has long gone, I’m still upset that I wasn’t taken seriously. Of course that’s nothing new, but I’m growing tired of having everything blamed on my age, or being told that people my age can’t possibly have anything wrong with them. How old do I have to be before I’m listened to?

My GP agreed with me that a re-referral probably wouldn’t achieve anything, and so I’ve been passed on to rheumatology. I’ll be seeing the specialist who diagnosed me with fibromyalgia, which cheered me up considerably because he’s such a lovely guy. The last thing I need is to be stuck with another po-faced consultant. I explained how the steroid treatment also helped a lot with the pain, to the point where it pretty much disappeared. We both agreed that fibromyalgia seems unlikely now; so I suppose it’s a case of finding out what it is yet again. I’ve been given drugs for arthritis to see if they help, and yet more steroid cream to treat the eczema; it’s come back. It came back once the steroid treatment dropped to two tablets a day, and the speed has been pretty distressing. One day I had a small red patch and I felt really smug that it seemed to have finally cleared up, the next I woke up with blisters all over my hands and feet. After a week, it’s pretty much back to the severity it was when I started the treatment, and I confess that I don’t hold out much hope for steroid cream working. They never have before. Still, if it helps the pain and itching at all, it’s a bonus. The past two nights have been pretty hellish, scratching and being kept awake by the burning.

I suppose I’m coping okay, otherwise. A few small panics, but I’m putting that down to frustration over the pain. I’ve developed a strange walk; I caught sight of myself in a mirror in Marks and Spencer yesterday and noticed that I’m not only dragging my right foot slightly (unattractive in itself) but I’m doing a strange thing with my hip – lifting it more on one side – thus making my backside look even bigger and, well, just making it look like I don’t know how to walk properly. It shouldn’t bother me because I can’t help it, but I really dislike showing any physical signs that I’m in pain. I don’t want sympathy or to be treated differently, but it’s becoming inevitable that I will be. I like being able to pretend that everything’s okay, but I can’t really do that anymore. Still haven’t used my walking stick; it almost feels like giving up, even though I know I probably need it. I told S about it, and I don’t know why but I said that it was a silly idea of my mum’s (it wasn’t) and I’m fine without it. Why did I lie? I hate lying, and I know he wouldn’t think any less of me. I just want to be… perfect, I suppose. I know there’s no such thing, but it’s hard to accept that life didn’t quite go the way I planned it to.

Speaking of S, on Tuesday it was a year since we started going out together. We didn’t see each other, but exchanged some lovely texts and he made me feel pretty special. I can’t quite believe that he’s put up with me for a whole year, and that during that time we haven’t had a single argument or even a bicker. I’ve never had a relationship like this, and I constantly have to mentally pinch myself to make sure it’s not a dream. I’m still slightly convinced that I’ll wake up one day in a padded room, having fabricated the whole thing. Love like this… it doesn’t happen to people like me. My relationships have always been about passion and fights and denial and jealousy. They’ve never been so peaceful and comfortable as my relationship with S has been. I’ve truly never known any man like him, and I feel pretty blessed. Sometimes I get scared that he’ll change his mind, but something inside me actually feels hope, for the first time since I can remember.

Next weekend, we’re going to Wales to stay in a cottage for a week with some friends. It’ll be the longest we’ve ever spent together, and I suppose in a way it’s a test of just how much we can take of each other’s company. I’m looking forward to it; usually I hate being around other people, but I feel quite comfortable with his friends and it’ll be nice to get away from these four walls.

We’ll be staying pretty close to the base of Mt Snowdon; a perfect opportunity to actually use my Nikon.

I confess; I slipped again. I didn’t purge like last time, but I’m sitting here with codeine running through my bloodstream. A normal dose, for once… but not a great sign. I just wish I could cope without some form of chemical help. Sometimes I worry I never will.

Edit: I’d like to thank the bloggers who have nominated me for awards recently. It hasn’t gone unnoticed or unappreciated, and when I’m feeling more up to it I’ll respond. Thank you for the nominations, it still amazes me that people even read this.

 

You vs. I (or, The Battle With Myself)

You vs. I;

was never supposed to be a war.

We stood together,

yet always apart.

 

I think I love you,

but how can I be sure?

 

I slipped, you see,

I let us both down.

 

You vs. I;

and how can we win the battle?

 

When we are one and the same?

 

I’m sorry.

 

(c) 2012

 

Today, we are doing a special offer, we challenge you to write a short story or a poem in exactly 55 words, you have about 4 weeks to work out your entry, the submission is from today to February 29, 2012, which means you have enough time to make your effort, this helps you improve your creative writing skills by restricting your word counts in 55 words, samples are provided from below, G-Man is the host of Flash Friday 55.

The offer is open to the public, One entry Per blog link please, you are encouraged to fine tune your entry and meet the word counting requirement before submitting, by the end of the project, our officials (2 to 3)  will format your work into a book form, we expect about 100-300 entries, we will publish your talent as a book, it is self-publishing, and we won’t charge you but won’t pay you either, since we do it as a non-profit project, the finished book selling link will be provided to you by end of March, 2012, have fun, good luck!

Bluebell Books

 

 

Skinny Versus Curvy: Why Women Can Never Win

Reblogged from marymcgillsblog:

• 

Ladies: it’s time to put down those sparkly shoes and pick up your shields, for the battle of the body types rages on and you’ve simply got to choose a size, sorry, side. No, no – no dithering. You’re either one or the other and before you starting rambling on about ‘healthy body image’ just shut it. ‘Healthy body image’ doesn’t whip up a media frenzy the way ‘skinny versus curvy’ does, so you can park that notion, thank you very much. What’s it going to be, women folk: the skinny tribe of supermodels and …

Found this post whilst reading through blogs this morning, trying to distract myself from eating a mountain of toast. It’s a subject I think about a lot, and the author has managed to put it across far better than I could. I suggest that any woman struggling with body image and/or eating disorders gives it a read.

 

After the storm

hind·sight

   [hahynd-sahyt]

noun

recognition of the realities, possibilities, or requirements of a situation, event, decision etc., after its occurrence.

A life-lesson I could have done with learning years ago is that there is no such thing as Superwoman. At least, not in the everyday hero sense. Even if I wore hotpants and a conical bra, I’d still be pretty damn ordinary, and trying to be somebody I’m not has been the downfall to my many attempts at recovery. I know that now.

I’m not proud of my actions last night. Knowing that so many people saw me fall (albeit online) has been a massive reality check. Because I promised myself when I started this blog that every mistake, every slip, every attempt at destroying myself… had to be published. As uncomfortable as it may feel, I can’t hide my emotions and actions away just because I don’t want to be judged.

Sleeping was nigh-on impossible after purging. I confessed to Z, after she became worried about me after a status I left on Facebook. I don’t usually get too personal when it comes to social networking, but I was struggling and needed some sort of outlet other than hurting myself in some way. She said she loved me, and that I could stay at hers if I needed to. I thought she’d be angry with me; that’s how people have always reacted to purging in the past. I’ve come to associate admitting weakness with being shouted at, so to have somebody answer me gently and with compassion… it meant a lot, along with the comments I received on here. I’m fairly sure that they stopped me going further. At one point I was considering breaking apart a razor and continuing the cycle of self-destruction, but after reading the comments and support, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t just be letting myself down, but everyone around me, and that’s sometimes easier to focus on.

After lying awake in the dark for a few hours, tossing and turning and getting more frustrated than ever, I decided to take two 500mg Naproxen tablets. I reasoned that they’re not codeine, and not addictive in the opiate sense, so I haven’t failed in my attempt to give up the opiates. I took a Lanzoprazole alongside, and even though the last lot of Naproxen gave me a stomach ulcer, even a larger than normal dose seemed to sit happily in my stomach for once. I was aching and sore from the stress of throwing up, and I knew that without sleep I’d only sink even further into the massive hole I’d dug for myself. Eventually, nature took over and I fell into a restless sleep filled with bizarre dreams about O and his girlfriend, and about the people I went to school with. They’re pretty common dreams for me to have, but the painkillers must have amplified something because I could remember every detail when I woke up.

Woke to a text off S. I haven’t told him about the purge, and I’m still debating whether it’d be the right thing to do. On one hand, I don’t like keeping things from him. On the other, if it’s just a one-off, a small slip in recovery, is it really a good idea to stress him? S understands better than anyone how I feel sometimes, but I know if he told me he’d made himself sick, I’d be heartbroken. I’m not sure it’s fair to do that to him if it’s just a one-time thing.

Today, I made an effort to give myself a challenge; something to distract myself. I decided to knit a scarf in a day, using four skeins of wool and huge needles. A couple of hours later, here’s the result:

I don’t need another scarf; I’ve knitted loads. Still, it gave me something to do. A purpose.

 

In which I let myself down

I want to write this post even less than the last one.

I purged.

I purged, for the first time in years.

The red marks on my fingers. The acid-breath. The sheen on top of the water in the toilet. The old running-the-taps trick. The ache. The emptiness and puffy face. I was over it.

But I’m not. Not by a long way.

It was always there. Waiting for me to slip.

I’m an idiot.

 

Hormones and depression

“You think that the only truth that matters is that truth can be measured. Good intentions don’t count. What’s in your heart doesn’t count. Caring doesn’t count. But a man’s life can be measured by how many tears are shed when he dies. Just because you can’t measure them, just because you don’t wanna measure them, doesn’t mean it’s not real. And even if I’m wrong, you’re still miserable. Did you really think that your life’s purpose was to sacrifice yourself and get nothing in return? No…you believe that there is no purpose, to anything, even the lives you save you dismiss. You turn the one decent thing in your life and you taint it, strip it of all meaning. You’re miserable for nothing…I don’t know why you’d wanna live.”

- House, M.D

Sometimes, life throws me a curveball. A ball which curves so much that I miss it entirely and let it sail past my head without realising how much I really need to grab onto it, for my own sanity.

Today’s curveball was as simple as getting my period. Something I can’t control other than the usual pack of pills to stop me getting pregnant and give me a false bleed once a month.

I temporarily sunk. Only for a short time, but a short time feels like a lifetime when you’re feeling despair for no good reason. All because of some hormones flinging themselves around my body, just like they do for every other woman.

It’s frustrating to know that even if I kick depression’s arse, hormones will take control once a month. I’ve spent the day alternating between screaming at my mother over nothing and wanting to drink myself into oblivion, is that normal? I spent time staring at my walking stick, wondering if I’ll ever be brave enough to use it, and if I’ll ever need to use it every day. It was difficult getting out of bed today, it was even more difficult to reply to comments and I really, really don’t want to be writing this. I want to sleep and forget. However, I promised myself that I would write my moods down.

I should be happy, and that’s why I’m angry enough to punch a small kitten. Before depression comes anger, and I don’t want to slip into that darkness again. S stayed over at my house at the weekend. My mother was visiting my sister in Yorkshire, and her paranoia about having the house broken in to means I had to look after the place while she was away. From Friday to Sunday night, S and I spent our time wrapped up in each other – physically and emotionally – and it was amazing. We squeezed into my little single bed and slept with our legs and arms tangled together, occasionally waking and smiling at each other.

I should be happy. Instead, I want to hide away.

Stupid hormones. It’s not fair.

 

 

Honest Freedom

Such beauty in self abuse
Such clarity in this emptiness
This hopelessness
This worthlessness.
Such honest freedom in bleeding
Such a relief in releasing

There’s peace for me in this wasteland
A place for me to belong.

(c) 2003.