A Slump...

I am between psychiatrists right now and that is a bit scary for me.  After months of debating whether to stick with the doctor I had I finally made the decision to find a new one.  Dr. W. was really good for me in the beginning.  She seemed to be right on with med changes and I was encouraged to finally have a doctor who "got" me.  That was three years ago. 

In the last year, my appointments with her either left me feeling that she was still right on, or completely the opposite.  Sometimes I would visit her and she would seem to be completely up on what we've tried, where we're headed and what changes would be best.  Other times she seemed as unfamiliar with me as if it had been a year since I last saw her, even when it was only 2-3 weeks.  

Lately, though, I had a sneaking suspicion that she was pushing certain drugs on patients.  I have no proof of this other than my experiences in her office and some snippets of conversation overheard in the waiting room.  No matter what side effects I complained about, she would pass it off as something else or attribute it to a medication I had been successfully taking for months if not years.  

I recently started a medication that is commonly used for bipolar and schizophrenia.  I tend to have very bizarre reactions to medications.  Reactions that are so bizarre they are sometimes not even recognized as problems with the medication.  This time it was pretty obvious that it was the medication.  Weight gain and blood sugar issues, along with some minor side effects were making me uncomfortable on this new med, but my doctor breezed through our appointment emphasizing all the drug's positive attributes.  It was at this time that I decided I needed a new doctor. 

I had other issues with Dr. W.  She rarely returned my calls, was getting worse and worse about running way late on appointments.  She couldn't be counted on to be at the top of her game.  And since she doesn't bill insurance, it was costing me a great deal out of pocket to see her, not to mention the medication changes and the costs involved with that. 

So I have a new doctor - Dr. K.  He runs a bipolar and depression clinic and is supposed to be top notch.  In fact his waiting list is a bit long, so I will finally get in to see him in early December. I got on his list at the end of September.  I dread changing doctors because it can be a lot of work to establish where you are, where you've been and where you need to go.  However, Dr. K has a packet for new patients that is about 36 pages long, so we should be on fairly familiar territory by the end of the first appointment.  

In the mean time, I knew I couldn't take this new drug anymore.  So, I weaned myself off of it which you should never, ever do.  It is a very bad idea to quit meds without doctor supervision.  And I knew this but did it anyways.  I told Kyle it was probably going to be a rough couple of weeks as I withdrew from this medication, and it was.  I have been very depressed, very lethargic, sleeping a great deal more than I should, and experiencing lots of symptoms like fevers with chills and horrible headaches.  It's a really frustrating experience.  

Thanks to a wonderful therapist and the support of Kyle and that of my little dogs, I am getting through the slump, but it sure isn't pleasant.  It's amazing to me how one little pill can either pick me up or really let me down hard.  This is probably one of the hardest withdrawals I've gone through, and I have been through a few. 

Looking forward though, I'm excited about a new doctor who may bring new expertise into my treatment and hopefully get me in a good place to enjoy the holidays and greet the new year.

Dearest Lil' Pip...

My darling boy, 

What pleasure, joy and comfort you've brought to my life in the 18 months since we met.  From that first afternoon we spent holding one another, I began to experience a bond with you I'd never had before. 

I've had many pets over the years.  Growing up on the farm allowed me many opportunities for a wide variety of pets, but my mom was the one who was their main caretaker.  While I was at school, she was potty-training them, feeding and loving them.  I wasn't great at making attachments.  We moved a great deal, so people, places, and sadly, even pets came and went. 

YOU were different from the start.  Your adorable pug nose and soft brown eyes struck me immediately.  And those ears!  I wasn't sure if I was getting a chihuahua or a bat!  I saw about twenty chihuahuas before I first saw you, and you picked me the minute my heart leaped when I saw you.  

I have a couple of apologies to make to you.  First, for this costume.  Captain Jack was a popular Halloween costume pick among the other kids, so I thought you would enjoy it.  I guess I was wrong.

And this...so it may be that you're just not as into Christmas as I am.

And maybe you're not into the Gap, and I get that, too...

 
I'll try to do better by you, but I can't make any promises.  We girls never really give up playing with dolls and dress up.  We had dolls and younger siblings to dress up when we were kids, and as adults we exchange Barbies for babies, and since you are my baby, I substitute sweaters for onesies and you get the short end of the stick.


I would also like to apologize for the disruption to your life that the introduction of your little brother Dobby has brought to your life.  But you two seem to be getting along just fine.  

I know deep down that it's best for you to have a companion when Daddy and I are away, but there's still some Mother's guilt at not being able to give you the time and attention that I could when there wasn't a pushy, needy sibling stealing your thunder.  The arrival of the second kid is an adjustment for everyone.  I miss our quiet afternoons together, but at least you have someone to race around the house with.   So maybe you will forgive me the minor inconveniences of our new life together. 


We will always have our special connection that I only feel for you.  You may only way three pounds, but you reside in a large portion of real estate within my heart.  

I have so many favorite memories of you already. 

Your first night in Denver.  You were quite content with the accommodations at The Curtis. 

Your first Superbowl.  Go Peyton! (Unfortunately, we lost).  But to the Saints, so it wasn't too traumatic.

Your way of curling up on my neck for your naps when you were a babe.

The way your little tongue would stick out when you slept.  Dobby's tongue sticks out too, but pretty much all the time, not just when he's asleep.

Seeing Daddy and you together melts my heart.  Daddy is half his size now, but he still seems giant in comparison to you.  However, he's just a teddy bear inside, especially when it comes to you.  You know what the word "daddy" means, and when I see his car pull up at the end of the day I say, "Daddy's home!" and you whimper and run to the door to greet him.  It's truly one of the delights of my life, and my happiest time of the day.  

Another quality you have - you are SO easy to transport.  

Most of all, you just really, truly, completely thrill me. I love you to pieces, wouldn't trade you for a million dollars, and would do anything for you.  Thank you, Pip, for being one of the most perfect gifts in my life. 

Writer's Hypochondria...

I've decided to diagnose myself with a new illness called Writer's Hypochondria.  It seems that when I am supposed to be writing and focusing on getting words on the page, I suddenly become concerned that I might be dying.  In fact, I'm certain that if I am to live, I best get to the doctor.  Or take a Tylenol.  Or at least a nap.  Yes, a nap will surely cure me of all that ails me.  

It amazes me how many distractions I can find to keep me from actually putting pen to paper.  The load of laundry that hasn't been folded for three days suddenly must be put away.  The junk drawer needs organizing for the first time in five years.  The dogs need to go for a walk (i.e. I carry them and I walk).  The mail must be checked.  The checkbook needs balanced.  I must paint the living room, vacuum the stairs and wash the car.  Everything minor in my world immediately becomes of paramount importance.  

Why do I avoid doing what once gave me great pleasure?  Writing has, for most of my life, been a huge comfort to me, whether I was reading another's or doing my own.  But in the past couple of years, I've struggled to write, and it mostly comes down to the impact my psychiatric medications have on my creativity and my ability to come up with the words I am looking for.  

One of the big debates in mental health is when and if people should be forced to undergo treatment with medications that can have debilitating side effects.  No one would be forced to take insulin for diabetes if they chose not to.  It isn't always the same with psychiatric medications, especially if people become a harm to themselves or others.  It is quite common for those prone to mental illness to also be very creative.  This, too, has undergone intense debate and research.  Are persons with mental illness more creative?  Or, are those who are unusually creative more prone to mental illness?  Regardless, it has been proven that psychiatric medications can definitely impact the level of creativity a person is capable of achieving.  

I have encountered this many times in my treatment.  I used to look at a blank page as potential. I was excited to see what would become of it, whether it was a scrapbook page or a page in my journal.  Now, more often than not, I find it daunting. I know I will struggle to find words, I won't be able to concentrate as well as I once could, and I won't be able to envision potential as well as I used to.  Is the trade off worth it? 

I don't know. 

If one lives to create, yet that creativity and production is hampered by medications, one's life can still seem empty and one may experience depression-like symptoms at the loss of their creativity.  Yet, without the medications, one cannot function many days a month, making creativity also difficult if not impossible.  It's a frustration I have quite often, but don't have an answer for.   

PS (A Few Hours Later) ...


Just found this quote by Steven Pressfield, "Resistance is fear."  So true for me. If I don't write it, I won't know whether I fail at it or not.  Not writing is safe.  It's comfortable.  Writing is terribly scary. 

Right Now...

It's been far too long since I last blogged.  I have a million excuses but no excuse at all.  Mostly a major lack of motivation.  Here's a quick update about life in the past few weeks:

• Flooring still not in.  Hasn't even been scheduled yet.  We're looking at mid-November. 
• I finally reached a manager today at Home Depot after several days of unreturned phone calls and general run around. 
• Kyle and I are really tired of living out of our bedroom since the entire upstairs is waiting on flooring and we can't have any furniture up there.  But this will make the finished project that much more enjoyable.
• We had a snow storm that dumped about 8 inches of snow on Cheyenne in late September or early October.
• Tonight we are under a Winter Storm Warning with the threat of 8 to 10 inches of snow.
• I'm taking a memoir writing class in Ft. Collins and I have to come up with five life stories I want to write during the last half of the course.  
• Had a rough withdrawal from a medication that was giving me very intolerable side effects. (More on that in another post). 
• Struggling with the changes in season and the impact it has on my moods.
• Missing the longer daylight.
• Loving hot chocolate and soup in the crock pot during snowstorms.  
• Bulbs in the ground to prepare for their spring emergence. 
• Pip and Dobby are as ready for the house to be back in order as I am. 
• Reading Wuthering Heights.  It's my favorite book this time of year.  Contemplating starting Frankenstein or Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde this weekend in time for Halloween. 
• Congrats to my dad on his nice bull elk.
• Feeling thankful for what I have, and maybe even for what I don't have. 
• Determined to blog regularly, regardless of motivation. 

Remodel Purgatory...

My last post was pretty upbeat about the changes around the abode.  It was optimistic and cheerful.  I was hopeful of quick turnaround on the whole process and figured by the end of September I would be relaxing in my newly redone home.

My disposition has changed.  I'm less patient.  I'm tired.  I'm sore.  My fingers are sore and in some instances, bloody.  Instead of springing out of bed eager to get going I wonder if I could sleep for just one more hour and then I'd have the energy of Superman and I could get this whole project done in one or two more days.  Sure.  Right.  Did I mention I have a thyroid issue that is still under trial and error treatment?  I feel about as UNsuperman as possible.  

This is all Dobby's fault.  


It all started one fine September day when I decided the (ugly) blue carpet in our 1950s built home must come up.  Dobby is not capable of being potty-trained and has determined to prove this by utilizing my (ugly) blue carpet.  It was either Dobby or the carpet - one of them had to go.  Since I paid a lot for Dobby and I think he's cute, and I hate my carpet, I opted to keep Dobby and wave goodbye to the carpet.  Besides, earlier renovation had proven we have some decent hardwood beneath that ugly carpet.  


Whether the following thought processes were a result of bipolar disorder or OCD, I may never know, but I was clearly cloudy-minded when I thought this would be a "little" project.  I was so far from rational and clear-minded that I now want to grab Kyle by the lapel and ask him "WHY, KYLE, WHY??? Why did you let me do this to us???"  (He would simply remind me of how I get when I'm ... manic.  I get a bit hyperfocused.  Driven.  One might say, stubborn.  

Oh, mania.  You are so deceiving.  You make me feel like I could conquer any old project in a day and a half.  You hide the costs and potential problems so that I see only the beauty of the plan.  You make me energized and gung-ho to get going. 


What happened in my mind went something like this.  "Okay, we're pulling out the carpet and scrubbing up the hardwood underneath.  But I've been wanting to paint this room.  I should probably paint before pulling carpet, otherwise I have to tape and put plastic over the flooring and try not to get paint on the floor (at which I am horrible).  It would make far more sense to paint and THEN remove carpet.  And since I'm going to paint, now would be the time to pull that awful wallpaper that bubbles and ripples when painted over.  It was a fairly easy job in the craft room when I redid that room."


I bought the needed supplies at my local Home Depot and eagerly embarked on the job of scoring, spraying, scraping.  And then I scored, sprayed, scraped, scored, sprayed, scrubbed, sponged, scraped and scraped.  And I was only down to the third layer of wallpaper.  I would soon learn that my old home's walls had FIVE layers, one of which included some odd plaster haphazardly placed.  I may or may not have cried out of sheer frustration.  When I got to the final layer, of which I last blogged, I had to admit the paper was kinda cute even though at this point I wanted to burn the house down.


Today, about 20 days into this project, I finally got to step 2 - repairing walls with joint compound and putty knives.  It was a bit cathartic, slapping wet goop onto the wall and smoothing it out.  Except that the perfectionist OCD in me really wanted it perfectly smooth, even though she knew that she would be sanding it down later anyway.  Sigh.  Much more frustration ensued, but I think I may be close to getting to the painting part.  


Which is good, because soon Home Depot will be doing the flooring part.  Did I mention that the hardwood floors I just knew would be beneath that ugly carpet didn't extend to the addition that was built at a later point than the original house?  All that exists in that area is some sort of sub-flooring I never really want to see again.  This project is costing a lot of dough, and I will probably have to substitute teach for the rest of my life to pay for it.  If I live that long.  

But at least when I get home from work I'll be able to relax in a lovely redone home. 


I can't wait to reveal the final look.  Who knows when that will be!  I will also be blogging a recap of my 30 before 30 list and revealing my 40 before 40 list.  If my fingers are still around.  Until then, I will be sanding, painting and sneezing.  And visiting the allergist.  

Nesting...

I'm in love with making my home pleasant, beautiful and homey.  Kyle bought our house right before we met.  In fact, it was how we met.  We've been living in this home for five years together and slowly making it "ours".  This is probably the longest I've ever lived in one house, and I love the idea of making it ours and enjoying it for the rest of our lives.  It's a modest home.  It has three bedrooms.  Our master bedroom is in the basement.  The two bedrooms upstairs are going to be Kyle's craft studio/office and my craft room/writing studio.  His is painted teal and mine is painted lavender.  Those rooms have been redone by me previously.  The kitchen has been redone by me, and besides the addition of a pantry and island, is finished.  The basement was remodeled thanks to the great basement flooding of last September.  So this project will pretty much complete major household repairs except for the sunroom.

I am presently stripping out all the old wallpaper in preparation for painting with Benjamin Moore's Coventry Gray.  With white trim, this color us uber warm and absolutely lovely. 

Usually I love every step of the remodel process.  However, this wallpaper is really tough to remove and I have been stripping wallpaper every day since Saturday.  The wallpaper is EVERYWHERE throughout the house.  It's been painted over THROUGHOUT the house.  Then, it appears that some areas have THREE layers of wallpaper.  And although retro-adorable, it's become the bane of my existence.  

I know this is going to be worth it in the end, but this wallpaper removal has been a nightmare.  Basically, counting the three layers and the plaster and paint I've got about five layers to get through.  My arms are pooped.  Even the smelly chemical peelers haven't helped a great deal.  I really, really, really hope to be done with the wallpaper tomorrow.  Then I can start the part I really enjoy - painting.  

When the painting is done, carpeting will be ripped out.  Some hardwood exists in some areas, but because this home has had several additions over the years, it is not certain where the hardwood begins and ends until the removal of carpet.  Because we're pretty certain there are some areas of no decent flooring, we had it measured today and we are probably going to have a pergo floor installed.  I am leaning towards this walnut shade from Home Depot:

 

After the paint is dry and the floor is installed comes the super fun part - decorating and organizing!  This will be another post.  For now, know that I have a redone entryway in the works (since we have no mudroom).  A picture wall (or two?) and some crown molding will make it all even sweeter.  Let's just hope this is all done before next year!

Eating to Live Vs. Living to Eat...

It's no big secret that I've had an unhealthy relationship with food most of my life.  Food was the friend when I was lonely.  Food never disapproved of me or made fun.  Food was sometimes in abundance and at other times scarce, but always it was available in some form.  Food couldn't abandon me.  It provided comfort and solace.  It accompanied me on the long bus ride home each day, or while I read before dinner. While it appeared to be my best friend, it was slowly killing me.  

On my best days I am mindful of what I put in my body and I try to remind myself that food is fuel.  On my worst days, I fall back into old patterns where my mood plummets even lower if something comforting (ie, carb-filled) isn't available.  Even Kyle can tell when chocolate is essential for the well-being of the household.  


In all honesty, I hate food. I hate my relationship with food.  I hate how I am controlled by cravings and how many times I've deemed myself worthless based on the reading on the scale.  Unlike so many bad habits that can be eliminated entirely from one's life if one abuses them, food cannot.  Unfortunately, a food addict must eat, whereas an alcoholic is not reliant on alcohol for sustenance.  When I write out my weekly menu plan, I wish I just never had to eat again. I wish there I could take a magical tablet along with my vitamins each day that would provide all the nutrition I need.  

When I had my gastric bypass three years ago, I was very excited at the prospect of getting to a more normal weight.  I was pre-diabetic, had high blood pressure, constant acid reflux and was in poor physical condition.  I had absolutely no idea how very hard those first few weeks on a liquid diet would be.  The difficulty was compounded by the fact that it was the Christmas season and an abundance of food commercials and parties with sugary treats were at every turn.  A liquid diet, followed by a pureed diet is all very bleak in the shadow of Christmas dinner Prime Rib.  Time passed, though, and the scale showed quick transformation, even when I could not see it. 


It takes the mind a lot longer to catch up with the weight loss.  I still don't see it sometimes.  I was almost 300 pounds when I had surgery.  I couldn't sit in a booth at some restaurants without the table digging into my stomach.  I couldn't fit in some bathroom stalls.  I dreaded flying, feeling deep embarrassment at the extra space my body would take up, crowding out the persons next to me.  I can't count the number of dressing rooms I cried in and the deep shame I felt when I had to shop in the men's section of the store to find a shirt that fit.  

Now 100 pounds lighter, I am thankful on a daily basis that my life is much improved from what it was when I was "morbidly obese".  Ouch.  Just typing those words hurts.  When I see my reflection in the mirror, I often have to look twice.  Is it really me?  I touch my collarbone as if to make sure it's still there.  The collarbone was, to me, the very image of femininity.  I couldn't see it before surgery.  Now I get such contentment at the sight of my necklace chain resting on it.  I can't get used to shopping in the Misses section rather than the Women's or Plus sized sections.  Unfathomably, a pair of Juniors jeans fit quite nicely the other day.  I look at them and hold them up, trying to discern whether they will fit, but again, my mind hasn't quite figured out what size I am, so it's a great deal of trial and error.  

The list of positives that comes with losing 100 pounds is quite long.  The way that size 10-12 feels compared to 24-26 or 3x is indescribable.  And yet, none of those wonderful feelings are enough to keep me away from the sugars and carbs.  This is how I know that food addiction is a reality.  So many times I've heard "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels".  If this were true, no one who has a sweet tooth would be overweight.  The amazing way that I feel about weighing what I do now, while incredible, is not enough to keep me from making poor decisions when it comes to food.  It's not enough to get me to the gym daily. It's not enough to keep sugar out of my kitchen.  


Food is still a very present issue in my life.  Certain events are tied to food - especially holidays.  Certain excursions are tied to food.  I will attend the Colorado Rockies game next month, and I will enjoy baseball.  But I will also enjoy some treats that are only found at the game - a hot dog, a lemonade, or perhaps some cotton candy.  I will see someone guzzling beer and eating nachos dripping in cheese, and I will instantly think of a savory soft pretzel.


Many bypass patients gain back all or more of their excess weight. Food will be an issue for me for the rest of my life.   On a daily basis I will battle cravings.  What I know intellectually to be right will spar with what I want in the moment.  I will refrain from bad choices some days, and I will give into them on others.  I will have to make conscious decisions about whether I choose to eat to live or whether I live to eat.  

Sometimes I can make the right decision for this moment only.  It will be one moment at a time, instead of one day at a time.  I will hear myself say, "Just get through this moment without overeating.  You can make it through this moment."  And I can!  Like most of the things I've set my mind to over the years, I can do this.  The difference this time is that it really is life or death, and it really is a matter of me choosing ME and my health over the taste of that chocolate.  I am the only one who can decide whether my worth is more than a bar of chocolate or a bowl of crackers.  And I'm thinking I just might be.