Walking With Old Fuss and Feathers…

Dad came and walked with me this afternoon. We are going to try and walk everyday he doesn’t work weather permitting. We talked a long time about my early years as we strode through my neighborhood.

“We should have sent you to a school for the musically gifted,” he told me.

I agreed. I just never fit into that classic mold of a student unlike my brother and sister who excelled in the classroom. I struggled to make C’s and B’s and was socially inept when it came to my fellow students and classmates. I could play a mean piano, though.

“I worried you were autistic at first,” my father added. “I had no idea you were schizophrenic and there weren’t any real drugs to treat you as well back then.”

“Ah, when you mother started taking Zyprexa then the pieces to the puzzle started to fall together,” he continued. “She was a different person within two weeks of taking that drug. We knew then it was schizophrenia that afflicted you.”

Dad drove over here for years to give me my medications knowing that was the only way I would have a normal life. I wouldn’t take them on my own volition fearing they were trying to drug me into submission and controlling me which is common with noncompliant schizophrenics. Dad always thought he could control my drinking with those pills, but he couldn’t. That had to be my choice. 

Operation Bumfuzzled…

<------- I miss the old nurse uniforms.

Well my injection was growing increasingly FUBAR this morning. Dad forgot today was my injection and I called him at work yesterday to remind him. They didn’t have a shot in stock and had to have it delivered overnight. I drove down to the pharmacy this morning hoping for the best. Dad had called me and said my injection had arrived. I was kind of disheveled today and Old Fuss and Feathers remarked upon it.

“Let’s see how you fare with schizophrenia,” I snapped at my father with a tinge of anger in my voice.

My father apologized for his harsh words.

“Rebecca’s not coming in until lunch,” my then father told me. “A nurse named Mary is going to give you your injection.”

I drove down to Kamath medical deflated and expecting the absolute worse. I signed in, chatted with the receptionist, Trina, for a few minutes, and sat down for about 15 minutes. Then Rebecca poked her head outside the door and welcomed me back. I was so elated to see her.

“What are you doing here?” I asked excitedly.

“I had to take my daughter to the pediatrician this morning,” she told me. “It dawned on me that today was your injection so I hurried up.”

I just sat in my chair with a big goofy grin on my face at this fortuitous turn of events.

Just Call Me Crazy…

I can get so paranoid sometimes.  I’ve been trying to reach my parents via their cell phones and home phone all afternoon, but no one answers.  I got paranoid and got to thinking they were avoiding me until I saw on Facebook that it was grandparent’s day.  I am sure my father and mother drove to Alexander City to my sister’s house to be with all the grandkids along with my brother’s kids.  My father has his cell phone turned off which is exceedingly rare and he only did it after my first call to them.

Normally, Sunday night around 7pm is when Charlie rallies the troops and him and my father do fried chicken Sundays for Horsefly and us all along with my medications.  I wonder if Charlie is going to do that alone tonight? I hate when our schedules get off kilter like they are doing tonight. It makes my anxiety go off the charts. Sunday nights are always nice because I don’t have to wait until late to get my medications. At least I know one thing: Horsefly will have to get his chicken fingers meal come hell or high water.

Oh, I am just crazy as a fruit bat today so don’t mind me.   Paranoia, anxiety and worry is the name of the game for me at the moment.

Photo credit:   http://www.dreamstime.com/stock-images-paranoia-paranoid-paranoid-mental-anxiety-as-concept-image31422984

And the Bell Tolls 10:00pm…

Gosh, Papa was so very late tonight.  Horsefly had urinated in his bed while he slept and my father washed and dried the sheets.  Then he put them back on the bed after changing the plastic liner.  Dad also had to go get Horsefly’s Kentucky Fried chicken fingers and made sure he didn’t get choked while he ate. Horsefly also drinks Sprite Zeros like I do and dad made sure he had plenty in the fridge in Charlie’s basement adjacent to Horsefly’s basement hideaway – a room just jam-packed with toys.

“He was sitting happily rocking in his recliner watching Dora the Explorer when I left,” my father told me of Horsefly tonight as I eagerly took my medications.

I always fiercely worry something will happen to Horsefly when he is left alone overnight like that, but he pretty much just rocks in his recliner all night fixated on that night’s plush doll toy of choice.

Dad will stop by in the morning to make a quick breakfast of grits and get Horsefly in the bed.

Mobilizing the Emergency Schizophrenia Medication Squad…

Let me tell you dear souls, I was at the very edge of the envelope of endurance as far as withdrawal to my medications were concerned this evening.  I was a nervous, scatterbrained, jittery wreck when my father pulled up in front of my house. I thought dad would never arrive. Just the mere fact of taking them makes me feel better – to know they are inside me going to work.  It must be a placebo effect.  The bad thing about medications for many mental illnesses is they are very often extremely habit forming and you get addicted to them.  I’ve seen a friend of mine write about having terrible withdrawal from Seroquel and it didn’t sound very pleasant.

I am currently listening to Tibetan music as Maggie snores at my feet.  I am hoping the chant will give me a little Zen until my medications take effect about 11:30pm.  I highly recommend Jeff Beal’s Tibet: Cry of the Snow Lion soundtrack for some soothing and interesting music.

photo credit:  http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2012/04/the-top-4-drugs-that-can-land-you-in-the-emergency-room/255069/

Turbulent Indigo…

I just haven’t felt very well since my injection on Tuesday.  I wonder sometimes if it is administered inadvertently incorrectly. It gets into my blood stream through a vein and is absorbed too quickly thus negating its effects. It is supposed to be injected deep into my gluteal muscle.  I never did get that hour of euphoria I always enjoy and that was a warning sign. 

I just called my father and asked if we could take my medications early today and he said he would be over at my house in 30 to 45 minutes.  What a relief and such a huge surprise!  I expected him to balk, but he pulled through for me on this one.  I also expected to have to drive to my parent’s house to take them. I don’t need to be driving today as distracted as I am with my ailing and turbulent mind.

Update: 

My father has just left at 4:15pm and we completed the medication ritual and Maggie’s ritual.  Let’s hope these medications help and I am a jolly old happy soul in about an hour instead of a miserable old wretch of a human being.  I already feel extremely relieved and more relaxed.  I know it is psychosomatic, but it sure feels better.  Usually, I have to go through an ordeal to get my medications early.

I Know Y’all Don’t Believe Me, But…

By this time of day, 24 hours from my last dosages of psych meds, I am struggling as my medications wane from the medication ritual the night before which was at 7pm.  I feel panicky and uneasy right now waiting on mom to bring my Mexican dinner.  My mind is racing at 100mph. I hate to think of crossing the yard and the social interaction involved.  I know I will have a pained look on my face and mom will ask me what’s wrong. I will probably pour my heart out to her and worry her.  She, of all people, understands me.

My father had to work all day today so thankfully that means he will be here a little earlier around 8:45pm tonight.  The pharmacy closes at 7pm.  He will call me on the drive to my house to make sure I am up and going as I have been known to conch out in the interim of his arrival.  I look forward to getting that call knowing help is on the way.  In a few hours, I will be able to rest and relax for another day.

Photo credit: http://www.cafepress.com/+health-schizophrenia+gifts

My Trial By Fire. That First Day is Under My Belt…

Well, I made it there and back again this morning. I survived one of my hardest mentally and physically taxing days in years.  I really haven’t worked in eight years as I’ve said many times and I am home again after four hours of my first day of work.  I worked from eight till noon this first day to break me in gently for which I was much relieved.  I don’t think I could’ve worked much longer than that for the first day.  I will probably be working longer hours as the weeks progress my supervisor said and that will be my true trial by fire. They only have two people doing my job and it is a 24 hour store.  A teenager comes in the afternoons and works the second shift.  Can I work an eight hour day of standing on my feet all day?  My mental illness has often made me pace the floor for hours and hours on end so I hope so.  If I can do that, then surely I can stand and walk for eight hours.  Of course, I will have water and rest breaks like I did this morning. 

Charlie gave me my two extra Klonopin last night and I carefully saved them to take today and they did the trick helping me to get through the morning. I knew I would need them dearly today. They kept me calm and serene despite my supreme nervousness I was experiencing on the drive to work. I had all these scenarios playing around in my head as I drove down through the Valley to work.  Could I do it?  Could I return to work after all these years absence? Would I have an extreme anxiety attack and terribly embarrass myself?  Would my social anxieties cause me to act strange thus becoming ostracized at work on my first day? I took one 2mg Klonopin this morning at seven to start the day and the other 2mg pill at work around ten when I felt a little shaky. I only had one interesting mental illness moment and it soon passed with the help of my medications and some rest.  I just felt a little confused, and a little nervous and schizophrenia induced psychosis and paranoia slipped in, but I sat down for a moment, cooled off for a bit inside, and calmed down.

“How was your 4th of July?” the elderly greeter asked me as I readied some more carts for him inside the cool store which felt wonderful after the heat of the parking lot.

“My father’s best friend brought me hamburgers, hot dogs, and cokes,” I replied excitedly and glad that he broke the ice. “It was pretty good. I stayed at home, though. I like my days quiet. Even holidays.”

“I spent mine with my son’s family,” he told me grinning vigorously. “We grilled steaks and the kids shot fireworks. We had a great time with family.”

“Sounds really nice,” I replied smiling kindly as I headed back out to the parking lot to grab another load of carts.

I was actually making small talk with strangers without feeling extremely weird or acting strange.  I astounded myself this morning in a way. I am sure the medications helped and had a great deal to play in this.  Thank God for the calming effects of Klonopin.  Work is so much stimulus social wise that it worried me I wouldn’t be able to handle this social sensory overload I would experience.  I did pretty well despite my social anxieties.  At least I didn’t have to deal with customers much.  The occasional customer would stop you and ask you a question about a sale or something, though.  I just played dumb. I had no idea if the Cokes were on sale or not. My job was outside the store.  I was just bound and determined to make returning to work viable this morning.  I was willing to battle any mental or physical foe that cropped up.  I’ve always said and dad does as well that I can be a determined son of bitch when I set my heart and mind to it.

“It’s going to be hot? Isn’t it?” my soon to be former fellow employee and coach said late this morning. “Drink lots and lots of cold water. You will get dehydrated quick. Always take your breaks even if the carts are getting backed up.”

“I like the heat, though,” I replied ever the positive person this morning. Nothing could steal my thunder today. “I keep the air conditioner in my house on 82 or 83. It doesn’t bother me as long as I don’t get sunburned.  I will get terribly burnt if I am not careful.”

“You’re going to be just fine, then,” he told me smiling. “Cover up and wear sunscreen.  Battling the heat is the hardest part of this job this time of the year.  And the cold in winter of course.”

I shuddered at the thought of winter, but I will just have to tackle that obstacle when it arrives. I’m a very cold natured person and not much one for the chill of winter. I will have to really bundle up next winter to gather my carts.  If I can work that long, but let’s be positive and say I will.  Always hope for the best.  I kept having to tell myself I was homeless for six months during the coldest part of winter and could easily handle the cold again if I set my heart upon it and grew acclimated.

My job is going to be very physically taxing it seems, but I handled it well.  My arms and shoulders are a little sore this afternoon.  You just have to have a lot of upper body strength to manhandle the carts before adding them to the mechanical pusher to bring them inside.  Luckily, I have a mental disability and not a physical disability so I was able to handle the work.  I am a big strapping guy.  I always have been.  You would look at me and never know I was mentally ill or had a disability.  I hide it well most days unless I just get batshiat crazy like I can at times. lol  Let’s hope that doesn’t happen anytime soon.  Let’s hope it doesn’t happen at all.

My coach helped for the first hour showing me what to do and then let me be to work the job for the remaining three hours to see how I would fare.  Our Wal-Mart is a very, very busy place and the carts would pile up pretty quick.  I had to hustle and bustle to keep up.  It is a very big parking lot larger than the size of a football field and it took a LOT of walking and a LOT of cart pushing.  You know me, though.  I walk everywhere these days often miles per day so that wasn’t a problem. I’ve had so much trouble driving lately and will probably start walking to work to save gas as well. It’s about a three mile walk if I have the time every morning and get up early.   

My supervisor stepped outside to see how I was faring at one point before I was to leave for the day.

“He’s doing really well,” I heard my coach tell her as I was bringing carts inside just around the corner. “He’s a really good guy. He is going to be just fine. He’s worked really hard this morning.”

“Any problems with his disability?” she carefully asked as I stood just mere feet away from them unaware of me in the store’s cart opening.

“I didn’t even know he had a disability,” my coach replied sounding astounded.

I was glad he didn’t ask what kind of disability I had.  I was worried about the stigma which is omnipresent with schizophrenia.  I had told my supervisor, though, that I had a mental illness this morning being honest.  She didn’t seem surprised or alarmed.  I was just beaming with pride at that little exchange they had, though.  It felt so good.  It has been a long time since someone paid me a compliment like that other than on my blog or in AA. I wanted to be accepted and valued.  This was working wonders for my self esteem.  It felt so good to be doing something valuable and important for someone else. And I was getting PAID for it!!!! 

Well, I am off to go hustle up some work by way of cutting grass in the neighborhood.  I am going to be one of those aggravating bastards I hate that ride around on their riding lawn mowers and solicit for money by mowing grass – a true capitalist and entrepreneur at heart these days. I always hate being solicited by them and I guess am such a hypocrite it seems. I just really want to get up some money to eat at Rodger’s tonight in celebration.   I haven’t had one of their barbeque plates in months and am craving one.  This making money is intoxicating after not having any for years.  George is going to be so surprised when I write him about it. George has been saying for years that I needed a job and something to do and to hell with my father about it.  I am going to tell dad, though, as soon as he gets home from his vacation Thursday.  I am not going to hide it I have decided.  All that can happen, is that he will be mad at me for a few weeks and will fret terribly about my Social Security Disability.  He won’t believe I have researched well online and covered all my bases about that. He will panic and think I will lose my prescription drug coverage.  He will just have to wait and see that I have been careful and prudent.  I am tired of being so dependent upon my parents and ready to strike out on my own.  One step at a time. And a job was that first step.    

The Trials of Life, Alcoholism, and Mental Illness…

I can remember back in the early nineties when I was first diagnosed as schizophrenic.  I was strangely elated.  Most people would cry in horror at being diagnosed with such a devastating disease of the brain.   We now knew what was wrong with me – the strangeness with what I had struggled with since I was a child.  The paranoia.  The delusions.  There was the hope for help with a solid diagnosis.  I had answers and not some nebulous accusation of lack of character or laziness for the cause of my problems.  Medication after medication was tried with little absolution to my problems, though.  It was a time before the atypical antipsychotics were discovered or were still in clinical trials.  I grew depressed and drank heavier and heavier – my hopes dashed.  Beer my soothing mistress for my mental illness addled brain.  My father says it wasn’t until we tried Zyprexa years later that I had a breakthrough – the drug that had so helped my mother’s schizophrenia.  I was able to work a stressful prestigious job and I got married.  There were terrible side effects though.  I couldn’t wait to get home from work to get in the bed and sleep until the next day.  Bed was bliss.  Bed was an escape.  I was constantly sleepy and morose.  I didn’t realize it then, but I was terribly, terribly depressed.  Next, we tried Risperdal.  The side effects went away.  The depression lifted, but I began to drink heavier.  The Risperdal was more conducive to this and didn’t interfere with my drinking like the Zyprexa did.  I wasn’t sleeping all the time.  My marriage then fell apart.  I lost my job.  My then wife just couldn’t take the chaos that was my alcoholism.  I ended up homeless losing everything in the divorce – signing everything over to Rachel in a fit of drunkenness in a lawyer’s office.  Homelessness was a disastrous time of constant drinking and severe cold.  I lived in a tent in the woods like some modern day alcoholic Thoreau.  I drank so much I couldn’t afford an apartment.  Drinking was paramount then. I would go days without eating because it would interfere with the amount of beer I could drink.

I tried everything to quit drinking once my mother convinced my father to let me live in my late grandmother’s house next to theirs. There were conditions to me gaining a home and that was to straighten up and get sober.   I was sick and tired of being sick and tired.   I went through detox countless times often driving hundreds of miles to hospitals for which Medicare would pay.   I tried AA and would go a few times, but would end up drunk a few days later.  I looked terrible.  I weighed almost 300 pounds from drinking thousands of calories of beer per day.  My eyes looked yellowish and dim and often red shot.  There were black circles under my eyes.  I will never forget pacing the floor of my den as I drank my seventeenth beer of the night realizing I was going to die soon if I didn’t do something drastic to quit.  I had to get serious.

It was about this time that dad decided he had to do something drastic or his oldest son was going to die from alcoholism.  He got power of attorney over me and took over my Social Security disability account.  The money was cut off and we went through a tumultuous time of severe withdrawal.  Dad and I fought like cats and dogs.  Nights would be spent screaming accusations at each other as I would plead with him for a drink.   I would do anything to get drunk.  I was inescapably addicted.  It was then that I discovered mouthwash.   I read an online article about a man named Listerine Gene who would get drunk drinking his namesake.  Mouthwash was only a $1.09 a bottle at Fred’s dollar store and it would get you just as drunk as whiskey or beer.  It was terrible to drink, but the urge to get drunk overrode any inhibitions about the nasty taste.  I would somehow manage to scrounge up a dollar a day to get drunk. Dad was at his wit’s end with me. 

The chemical harshness of the mouthwash was what saved me.  I could no longer drink it.  I would take a drink and throw up violently – my stomach protesting. My sister warned me that I would soon develop pancreatitis.  I went into an ever deeper depression when I realized I could no longer drink.  I had exhausted all options.  I had no money.  I couldn’t work with my mental illness.  I finally got sobered up, but it was a shaky stasis.  My father had finally won the battle with which he had fought with a bulldog like tenacity.  He never gave up on me despite all I put him through.  I was going to live and possibly sober for a change.    

Shaky is the Word for the Day…

“You’re still not feeling up to snuff are you son?” dad asked after opening their back door and me telling dad I was feeling unwell.

I couldn’t get mom and dad on either phone and knew they were home.  I drove over to get my medications early hoping that would calm me as it usually does.

“I feel like I am going to jump out of my skin!” was my reply.

Dad had been cooking a brunch of bacon and biscuits.  He fixed me a plate and told me to sit down and eat a bite.  He then walked out to his car to get my medications in their blister packs which he keeps in the trunk of his Honda.

“What’s wrong?” mom asked, walking into the kitchen in her nightgown.  “You look pained.”

“Oh, it’s just my typical mental illness bullshit,” I replied. “It’s a curse I have to bear.”

Mom hungrily fixed a plate of bacon and biscuits, and sat down with me to eat. 

“Here. Take this,” dad said upon arriving back inside.

He handed me my handful of medications and I took them.

“You will get to feeling better in thirty minutes.”

“I hope so,” was my weak reply.

“What’s Maggie been doing?”

“Oh, she was still in the bed when I left the house.”

“It’s a dog’s life,” dad said laughing.

“She will be going strong about my bedtime no doubt,” I replied with a weak laugh.

Suddenly, my head began to swim and I felt dizzy.  My heart began to pound.

“I’ve got to lie down!”

I lay on the couch for thirty minutes while mom asked me a hundred questions.

“Jesus! Mom! I don’t feel well!” I finally exclaimed.

“How do you feel now after thirty minutes?” dad asked.

“I feel like I can drive home now,” I replied as I sat up to put on my shoes.

“You will feel better in about thirty more minutes,” dad said. “Give your medications time to take effect.”

“It’s my fault,” mom said internalizing the problem.  “You got my terrible genes.  I shouldn’t have had children.”

I sighed.  I just wanted to get home and lie down for a few hours.  Quiet solitude is what I sought out the most.  I realized going over to get my medications was a bad idea.  Dad is hard of hearing and the television was turned up super loud.  Mom was asking me a thousand questions as is her usual custom.  Mom’s cat was hungry and was crying loudly.  The phone was ringing and ringing and nobody was answering it for fears dad would have to make a run to the pharmacy for a customer.   Argghhh!  I was so glad to get home and on my bed where the only sound was that of Maggie snoring softly as she snoozed in my warm covers. 

The Quest for Batteries…

“Do you need anything?” dad asked last night during our medication ritual.

I had noticed when dad handed me my medications that there were eleven pills.  I looked closely and there was an extra 3mg Risperdal.  I didn’t say anything and just took them with one gulp of Wal-Mart grape juice.  I figured the extra anti-psychotic would do me good and would help me sleep well for the night. 

I pointed at the eight home theater remote controls on my coffee table and said, “I really could use some batteries for all of these.”

“Come on,” dad said. “Let’s get in the car and drive to Kroger.”

Dad and I wandered around Kroger looking for batteries.  If mom was along, she would have been asking complete strangers where the batteries are kept.  Thankfully, dad is like me and we would rather just wander and look.  Cooler, less socially anxious inducing heads prevailed. 

“Blu-Ray discs,” I said wantonly as we passed near the magazine rack.

“Pick you out a movie,” dad said. “Get you something you will enjoy.”

I tend to enjoy war themed movies and picked out a recent one that got decent reviews.

“What kind of treat do you and your mother usually get Maggie?” dad then asked. 

“Beef jerky,” I replied. “But it’s expensive.”

“How expensive?” dad asked.

“About ten dollars expensive!”

“Oh hell,” dad replied. “Let’s live high on the hog tonight. Let’s get the Mag dawg something good to eat!”

We finally found the batteries and I sheepishly reached for a package of twenty Duracell AA batteries.

“Too expensive?” I turned to dad and asked with a wince.

“Ah shit,” dad said throwing caution to the wind. “Get you enough batteries to last you awhile.”

I really had a good time shopping with my father last night.  I had a little tinge of anxiety during the experience as Kroger was very busy for a Saturday night.  Lot’s of people were shopping.   The hardest part was waiting in the 20 items or less line that had grown very long.  I was so relieved when we arrived back at the safety of dad’s car and I could relax as he drove. 

On the drive home, dad and I talked about I learning to live a normal life.

“I need help, a mentor, to do so,” I told him. “It is normal for me for my life to be chaotic and in disarray.  It always has been.”

“You’re my project,” dad said as he laughed and smiled. “We are just going to keep trying till we get things right.  Don’t ever give up!”

I smiled as we turned into my driveway.  I kept thinking of that often said line in AA about all us alcoholics being a work in progress.  My life is a far cry better life than it was just a few years ago.  There are setbacks and tumultuous times, but we seem to learn and grow from them.  Long gone are the days were we all struggled against the current and now go with the flow that can be my mentally interesting days.  We go to the doctor, get medications, sedate me, and we all rest.   There is no screaming or hollering as in the old days – the accusations that I must be doing something wrong to cause my mental illness.   I think dad is finally coming to terms that I and mom’s mental illnesses are actually a disease and not a defect in character.  

My Thoughts at the End of the Blogging Day…

There’s a Difference…

There’s a difference in dad these past few episodes of mental illness I have experienced.  He is kinder, gentler and far, far more forgiving of my foibles.  He is quick to tell me he loves me and Johnny-on-the-spot about getting me medical attention. 

“You need cigarettes?  Don’t you?” dad just called and asked.  “It’s been a week since you last asked for any.  And be sure to drive over to go get your diet Cokes tonight.  It is driving your mother crazy that you haven’t gotten them in days.”

I talked for a minute and dad interrupted and said, “Thank God!  You sound like a different man.  You’re coherent now!  I don’t think you realized it, but you were talking some crazy and wacky stuff for a few days there.”

“What makes you so want to be homeless when you get like that?” dad then asked. “You have such a nice, comfortable home.”

“It’s my social anxieties,” I replied. “Out in the woods is where no one could find me.  The phone wouldn’t ring and the constant knocking at my home’s door would stop.  I could relax knowing I was a safe human free space for the most part.”

“Well, I am just glad you’re better.  You sound so different.  I will bring your cigarettes tonight.  I love you,” dad said in closing. 

Dad’s usual reaction when I get mentally ill is to search my home for signs of beer or over the counter medications.  He didn’t do that this time.  We both talked about how hard I have been trying with regards to my addictions – that I have been religiously going to AA up until I had this recent episode with my schizophrenia.   We both remarked about how my life used to be constantly like it was these past few days years ago – that I had much more mentally ill days than I did good days.   So there is hope and I hope I am getting better.   We all now know how to better react when these situations arise – no screaming and hollering.  No accusations of untoward doings.   Just simply getting medical attention as promptly as possible before things get worse or spiral out of control.   

Warning Will Robinson!

This is how crazy my mind works sometimes.  My psychiatrist weighed me during Wednesday’s emergency visit.  I weighed 186 pounds.  My last visit three months ago, I weighed 167.  I was extremely mentally ill and still freaked out about my weight.   Dad was just ecstatic.  My bulimia for some reason hits a sore spot with him and he worries about it deeply.   All I could think about was that I was getting fat again.  At one time in my life, I weighed 277 pounds at it’s highest.  I was a chunk!  So I have been obsessing today about my weight.  I have cut my portion sizes in  half and have put myself on a diet.  I am going to have delicately break it to my doctor that weighing with every visit is not a good idea for someone who struggles with bulimia.  It freaks us out!

Miss My Camera!

The part I need for my camera is only around ten to twenty bucks so why do I still not have a working camera?   Because it is an extreme hassle to get dad to get “The Girls” to order it for me.  I talked to dad before this recent episode of mental illness and he said he would order the part.  I just have to get it together enough to write down the item number on piece of paper so he can get Tricia down at the pharmacy to order it.  I could be dastardly and get mom involved.  But that would certainly piss dad off.  LOL   Mom is so obsessive compulsive about such things that she wouldn’t let my father rest until the part got here and was in my hands.  She thinks we have already gotten the part at Wal-Mart the other week.

Mental Health Woes and Homeless Ideation…

“You can’t drive when you are like this,” dad told me the other day as he yanked my car keys from my hand.  “You are outta your gourd as far as your mental illness is concerned.  You don’t even know what day of the week it is.”

I was busily packing up my car with all the things I needed to live successfully on the few thousand acres of land my family owns.   I had put so much in the car that you couldn’t see out the rear view mirror and back window.   I was going live homeless in the woods where no one could find me or bother me – my social anxieties had been screaming for a break from life for days.   I was also extremely delusional my father told me.  “You were making up some wild and convoluted stories that just did not make sense.” 

Wednesday rolled around and dad and I sat in my psychiatrists office.  Dad went on and on about how I always want to be a homeless man when I get very mentally ill. 

“He says he is going to live off the land!” dad told the doctor excitedly. “He says he is tired of people and just wants to escape.”

“I suggest we hospitalize him to get him stable,” Dr. K told my father.

“No! No! No!” I exclaimed as I interjected and started to get up and leave.  “You’re not putting me in the psych ward for a few weeks where I can’t smoke.”

A compromise was reached where dad would come by every morning and give me an extra 3mg Risperdal on top of the six milligrams I was already taking at night.  That did the trick.  I felt better and better yesterday and am now back to normal now.  Now comes the arduous task of unpacking my car.  I literally got so much junk in my car that you wouldn't believe it.  I was going to be one of the most best equipped homeless men in the state.  

My Thoughts for the Blogging Day…

Intruder Alert!

Maggie woke me at 2:30 barking like I haven’t heard her bark in weeks.  I turned on all the outside and inside lights and then put some chicken nuggets in the microwave to warm.  I had the munchies something terrible.  “Did I lock my car?” went through my mind as I sat down in the den smoking my first cigarette of the day.  Out came the flashlight and I walked outside to make sure my car was locked.  I then opened the fence and found that Maggie had a raccoon cornered.  The raccoon was hissing menacingly and growling something fiercely backed up in the corner of the fence.  It seems he had been enjoying Mexican Tuesday’s as well before Maggie interrupted him.  Well, I had to pick Maggie up, bring her inside, and lock the dog door to diffuse the situation.  Maggie was none too pleased.  She was doing her job and I had caused a layoff.  I am sure a few backyard neighbors sighed with relief, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

The Bare Necessities…

I’ve tried a lot of templates over the course of my blogging career.  I am finding myself gravitating to simple designs that load fast.  I removed most of the bells and whistles from my blog such as the Twitter gadget and a few other things with the hopes that when you visit, the blog will load like lightning.  I am pretty sure most of you come here for my character studies and stories, and not a fancy schmancy template that looks like it was designed by a color blind child with ADHD.   I also have ulterior motives as well.  I have been doing most of my browsing and blog reading through my Wii these days and I wanted something that was friendly to that console.  

Caller ID Enabled…

Mom got me hooked up with caller ID.  I now have my phone set up with a distinct and different ring for mom’s home number, dad’s cell phone, and Mrs. Florene’s number.  These are the only people that should be calling me on a regular basis.  Terribly, I am relieved to know when Mrs. Florene calls as she can talk for an hour and sometimes I just don’t want to chat.  Because of my social anxieties, I can’t just say I have to get off the phone.  I will sit there and listen for an hour till I am exhausted.  Crazy, I know.  I love her more than anything, but she sure can run her mouth on the phone.

Adventures in Mental Illness…

I have felt this undercurrent of mental illness the past few days.  It’s nothing of the caliber I used to experience a few years ago.  My doctor and I have seemed to have found a medication regimen that mostly keeps my mental illness at bay.  But the medications aren’t perfect.  I go through cycles like my mother.  I keep having tinges of auditory hallucinations.  Car doors shutting.  Front door closing.  Knocking on the door.  Weird high pitched sounds (bleeps and whoops) in the music I listen to.   It is aggravating more than anything as it ties into my social anxieties other than the music. 

Day Two Caffeine Free…

I keep expecting this headache of grand and epic proportions today with lots of withdrawal.  I’ve had to use a bit of subterfuge to keep mom from freaking out.  I still drive over to get my diet Pepsi and put them under the sink in the cabinet.  They are my ace in the hole.  You better bet that if I get the faintest hint of a headache, I am going to drink my six for the day. 

My Thoughts at the End of the Blogging Day…

You Just Gotta Laugh…

Imagine my excitement a moment ago when I found a twitterer who was following countless doctors of psychiatry.  Much following ensued.  I was excited to hear what these doctors had to say.  I wanted to hear about their practices.  The medications they prescribe.  Their feelings on being doctors of psychiatry.  Much to my chagrin, they turned out to be the most egregious group of Twitter link linkers I have ever encountered.  They were posting all these countless links that had no merit towards me and my mental illness.  Unfollowing ensued fast.  I was so disappointed.  I thought I had found the mother lode for mental health on Twitter.  Instead, I get a bunch of doctors posting countless and useless links to articles about psychiatry and mental illness.  I can look for and find that stuff on Google myself in my own time.  I wanted to hear personal things – wanting to get to know the doctors and develop a report.  Oh well, you just gotta laugh.  I am slowly learning my way around Twitter still it seems.

Restlessness…

I am feeling some discomfort this afternoon mentally.  My injection is again well near being this Tuesday.  I feel restless and uneasy  -- this feeling of doom and dread overcoming me.  I just called mom to talk about it, but she was out of it and couldn’t speak long or coherently.  I moved my bed again so I could lie down and use this computer.  That seems to help.  I am prescribed extra Risperdal – twenty to be exact just for these occasions.  I just can’t call dad and ask for them though.  He suspects I will abuse them – one of the many dangers of crying wolf once too often just to get a buzz from my medications.  I will soldier through, though, as I always do and eagerly await Tuesday.  Tuesday will be a day of euphoria and I can’t wait – to feel that high giddiness and to feel my version of normal for a day.  The calm comfort of another two weeks of slow release antipsychotic medication.

I’ve actually been doing so well lately and it’s been nice.  Today’s uneasiness is nothing compared to the mental torture I would experience on a daily basis just a year ago.  We seem to have found a comfortable stasis with my medication regime.  I have to remember it’s all relative.  It is easy to let my discomfort get the better of me not remembering the past.  This is a walk in the park. 

Well, I am off to eat my supper of lasagna and read for several hours.  I finished Gone with the Wind last night and will start another book of Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles.  I have really enjoyed that series, but each book gets less enjoyable than the last.  You can tell she was running out of words at the end.  Good night dear friends and I hope you all have a wonderful day tomorrow.   It’s Friday – the front porch of the weekend.  

The Stigma of Mental Illness and Schizophrenia…

I deal with this sort of thing with my family – this stigma.  Dad feels I am incapable of making medical decisions about my mental health.  He also feels I cannot handle money efficiently or responsibly due to my illness.  It was interesting to read the results of this study below as they so echoed my own experiences with stigma and mental illness.  Dad has often told me he is afraid of me when I get very mentally ill.  I had a 9mm Glock handgun that dad took away from me for fears I would shoot people or harm them in the throes of my mental illness.  I have never shown any violent tendencies when ill or well for that matter.  There is an estimated 1.4 million Americans with schizophrenia at any given time and it takes only one crazy person on a killing spree shown on the national news to instill fear in Americans about people with mental illness thus perpetuating this stigma.  The news media loves this kind of thing and should be ashamed at the harm they are doing to all the law abiding mentally ill citizens.  

Stigma

Social stigma has been identified as a major obstacle in the recovery of patients with schizophrenia. In a large, representative sample from a 1999 study, 12.8% of Americans believed that individuals with schizophrenia were "very likely" to do something violent against others, and 48.1% said that they were "somewhat likely" to. Over 74% said that people with schizophrenia were either "not very able" or "not able at all" to make decisions concerning their treatment, and 70.2% said the same of money management decisions. The perception of individuals with psychosis as violent has more than doubled in prevalence since the 1950s, according to one meta-analysis.

Da Sexay is Getting Old. I Need a Break from Sex Talk when it Concerns George. He is Obsessed!

“You need raunchy wild sex with a big black woman,” George told me this morning very matter-of-factly after drinking two of my precious Cokes. “Now Pookie!  She used to ride me like a bitch in heat.  She would get all jiggly, wiggly, and giggly on top of me.  Used to get me so excited.  I would bust a nut all up in dat shit.”

“Great!” I thought. “I am getting a raunchy lecture on sex from George with Pookie as the protagonist.”

“George, you can be so vulgar sometimes,” I replied disgustedly.

“WHAT!?” George exclaimed and asked as he followed me into the kitchen. I was getting a soda. “You need to get laid. It would solve a lot of your mental health issues.  Men screw.  It is what they do.”

I couldn’t help but laugh and giggle like a school kid at George’s last statement.  If sex could cure schizophrenia, then I would be finding ways to pay for it.  Psychiatry would be turned on end. And Dad would be bringing women to my front door. 

George then reached into my fridge to pull out a left over piece of cold pizza.  He was eating as he explained to me how to entice a woman into bed. 

“You’ve got to be subtle,” he told me. “Women like it naughty and nasty, but you’ve got to go slow at first.”

All I could think of was all the times my ex-wife used to tell me to talk dirty to her when we were making love in bed.  I smiled and got me a piece of cold pizza as well.  I stood there eating as I listened for ten or more minutes on how to get demure and sexy women to do your bidding in bed. George is so full of shit sometimes it’s hilarious.  And he’s serious about it!!!  He means well, though, in his own way.  He’s the stereotypical working class “guy” friend. 

Mental Illness Check-in…

I had some issues with my mental illness yesterday.  I get these periods of great despair and restlessness.  I immediately jump up and pace the floor.  “I AM THE WALKING MAN!” I exclaimed loudly as I walked and Maggie looked on like I was crazy.  I tuned the TV in my spare bedroom to The Weather Channel and also the TV in the den.  I walked between both rooms pacing as I watched.  I realize it is growing time for another injection thus my restlessness.  Tuesday is the day.  We are going back to my 50mg level for my injection.  The 25mg injection just wasn’t working as well.  My sex drive started to return, but at a great cost.  I am just destined to be celibate it seems.  It is not like women are beating down my door anyway.  I had mainly hoped for a rich fantasy life which I currently do not have. 

I am feeling some restlessness this morning, but not bad.  I just drove over to get my diet Cokes and that will preoccupy me for about an hour.  The caffeine seems to focus my mind and calm the doldrums.  I wish I could just drink Cokes all day.  I realize it is just another drug and I use it as such.

Knock, Knock…

Imagine you’re paranoid and filled with nerve wracking anxiety.  Your only weapon against this is two little pills that are increasingly hard to obtain because all your loved ones feel they are addictive and mind altering.   On top of this, you keep hearing what sounds like car doors shutting.  You run to the bedroom window and look out.  Nothing is there.  It happens again.  It begins to happen at what seems like increasing intervals.   Your social anxieties are piqued.  You don’t want visitors – not feeling like this.  You look out your other bedroom window at your neighbor’s house.  Nothing.  You sit back down to smoke and read.  The smoking helps.  It calms you and is comforting.   You hear it again though.  The car doors.  You cringe.  The anxiety begins to mount again.   You call your stern father just increasing the anxiety at the thought of bothering him at work, but you have no other recourse.  “You take two clonazepam at night and that is enough,” he says almost heartlessly and hangs up.   You smoke more and more and begin to pace the floor.  You feel better.  Nervous energy is being released.   Your favorite radio show is now playing on the radio.  There is talk of the cosmos and physics.  You begin to think you understand the fabric of time.  There is a giddy, tantalizing feeling as you pace faster.   Your legs balk, but you continue on.  You walked all day yesterday, but that doesn’t stop you.   Your dog watches on like you are crazy.  You start to feel better mile after mile.   The anxiety melts away as you grow exhausted.   You continue to walk anyway. It seems to be the only way to stay sane.  Thus is my reality this morning and for many mornings for the past few weeks.  

My Thoughts for the Day…

Don’t Try to Befriend Me…

Wait until some day when they have medications that will cure my mental illness.  I am thinking genetics will be the next big breakthrough in psychiatry.  I need to ask my physician brother and sister.

My point is that I am incapable of friendships.  I am just too paranoid and suspicious of people and online activities.  Email pushes this certain button in me and many have written me over the years only for me to never respond back.  I am afraid to even open my email program these days for fear of what I may find.  They say to have a friend is to be a friend, and am unable to do such a thing due to my mental limitations it seems.  

One reason George is my friend is that he doesn’t take no for an answer.   He is the perfect fit for my illness as far as friendships go.  He will knock on the door until I answer and will call until I pick up the phone. He will come over and look in the window to see if I am sitting at this computer as usual.   He has no qualms about bothering me or forcing me out of the house. He is not afraid of my illness or my often odd social behavior. 

I once had another friend like this named Jay when I lived in Calera, Alabama in my late twenties.  We loved Birmingham Bulls hockey and drinking beer at the games.  He would drive me absolutely crazy until I got a shower, got dressed, got in his truck, and he drove us to a hockey game or the strip club, Lynn’s Den.  I was constantly paranoid that he didn’t like me, though, and that he just felt sorry for me.  Isn’t that crazy?  I guess that is why so many mentally ill people end up alone without family or friends.

More Midnight Shenanigans…

Mom called me after midnight again last night.  Mom is like me.  We keep weird hours.  I wasn’t going to answer the phone until I thought, “If I was having a tough time with my mental illness, then I would want mom and dad to answer at any time of the night.”  Mom wanted to bitch about dad and how he treats her, but I successfully avoided the subject.  Mom and I can have a weird relationship.  For years, we never talked.  Our mental illnesses in our later years have seemed to have developed this bond or truce between us.  One moment she can treat me like a dependent son like she did yesterday with my groceries.  The next, she is treating me like a brother or sister – an equal or confidant.   

My Thoughts at the End of the Day…

People Come and Go, and Strange Emails…

A lot of people have come and gone over the course of this blog.  I wonder what makes people stay around for a long time, and what makes people leave after reading for so long?  I guess my blog can get like a broken record, but aren’t all our lives mostly routine and mundane?  One lady named Kathy emailed me a few months ago and said she was quitting reading because of my religious views.   Religion and politics are two things I specifically avoid writing about on the blog due their their sensitive and polarizing nature and my eclectic views on both.   I didn’t even write back thinking it was probably for the best that she went her own way.  I didn’t even know her anyway.   I’d never even seen her comment.

When I had my Facebook badge on the blog, a lot of people befriended me that read, but never commented.  I had people emailing me privately in Facebook that I had no idea of who they were or what they were up to.  I piqued my paranoia badly.  I didn’t email back and probably pissed a lot of these people off – them thinking I was rude.   These people knew intimate details of my life and were talking to me like a long lost friend and I had no idea who they were or what their motives were.  I have one specifically doggedly determined Frenchman in regards to this on Facebook.  I no longer use Facebook.

And then there was the anonymous email I got the other night that sent chills down my paranoid schizophrenic spine.  It was a definite case of “big brother is watching”.  “We’re watching you!” is all it said in the subject line with nothing in the body with the strangest email address.  I will never forget the sinking feeling I felt for an hour after reading that!  You really gamble with your mental wellbeing when you talk so openly about your life and illness in a public forum such as the Internet.  There are all manner of strange things that can occur if you don’t have a thick skin and a good anti-psychotic to take!