So the last month and then some has been a different kind of adventure. The battle went from the simple physical nature of the brain and crossed into the mind. I lost control of myself I suppose is one way to phrase it, the other would be the medical name "a manic episode". I spent most of that time in the hospital, Abbey Lane was the name of where I was, an involuntary patient of a psychiatric ward.
It was an adventure getting in. Out of worry and fear for my well being and from a period of incredible stress and lack of sleep due to my manic ramblings, actions, and obsessions, my mother and stepfather organized an event to justify calling the police against me to have me taken in there. Riding to the hospital in the back of a police car is another adventure. The cops were really cool though. That part is the clearest bit of memory I have of my time when I was really "manic" and out of control. I didn't get cuffed or beaten like many of my fellow patients. I had no record and didn't resist at all and it was really a strangely pleasant experience. Still pretty stressful though.
The time in the hospital was different than I'd imagined too. I don't know what I imagined though I guess. I never even considered ending up locked up in a mental ward of a hospital. I knew about it, I'd been in them before, visiting my mother when I was very young, and my grandmother a few years after. I understood, or thought I understood, what it meant to be "psychotic" or "borderline" or "manic" or whatever it was that got me in there. It turned out I was flying blind. I barely remember the early days. It seems like when I was in that state of mind it was almost like being drunk. One fact I do remember is that while I was up in the "manic" state I could actually tap into and piece together some of my old drunken blackout episode memories. I think somehow they were related. Looking into that part of my past was looking into the darkness, not so much in my actions but actions I allowed myself to ignore or fail to understand through those blurry eyes. I won't lose myself in the past though. Nor claim that I see blackout Dave as wholly innocent. Just mixed up, and more childlike than I'd really thought before. Back to the present though.
The most important part is that I'm done now. That's what gives me the courage to try and write about it. I think the disjointed nature of my writing shows how mixed up in the head I am about it all still however. I'm trying to hold myself together and just share the truth or what happened or me, but it's like trying to read primary wind direction off land hit by a tornado. It's a mess. I learned a ton, I grew a ton (womp womp, physically too, in the bad way), but in some ways I still feel like I lost a ton. More of my freedom, my independence is gone. I'm on more drugs now, more people watching me closely, less of the recreational stuff I enjoyed (cold cut off weed by necessity), it kind of hurts but it's necessary.
The hospital is a hard place. It's tough to deal with your issues there. The nurses were amazing though. The lack of freedom, the nature of the hallways, the long-termers, ranting, rambling, lost, helpless, struggling... it was a challenge. I chose to tap my strength there and keep my chin high as best I could. Most of the day I had a smile on my face, open, friendly, strong. I cried too though. Some times alone, some times calling home, some times in a room with a nurse, asking for help, feeling lost, feeling confused. It was good for me to cry, probably better for me than the times I tried to hold strong. I did receive some respect and appreciation for my approach, I made friends, I opened my world. Strange. Beautiful. Confusing.
Some of my fellow patients were in and out. Others I don't know how they'll ever be free. Pictures in my head of lost souls wandering the hallways, PTSD of different forms, confusion, manipulation, paranoia, all in their own ways pulling people down. Chemicals ran the waterlines. Everyone had their own cocktail of cures. All cures have their own cost. Mine were hard to deal with. I was at times possibly, probably, almost certainly overmedicated. One I dealt with, Olanzepine, was really fucking hard to deal with. I guess I needed it to bring my energy down, bring me back to control, but my dose was brought up high, and it wreaked havoc on me in some ways. Gained almost 30 lbs. High blood pressure, high heart beat, strange, self-destructive thoughts, frustration... I'm on my way off now though. That's why I can finally write. I went to a psychiatrist today and he is bringing me down, titrating me, trickling me off the poison that cured me, as far as the world is concerned. The real picture? Who knows.
This has been negative so far. I should bring up the positive. I have my puppy back. Cora is here and she's amazing. She is so smart, so energetic, such a positive light in my life. I need to find my strength back to look after her, and I will. It won't be easy. I don't feel like myself yet. I'm still dealing with these more sedative drugs, and recovering from this period of stress, anxiety, chemotherapy, cancer, death... but I'll figure my way. The big part that I'm surprised I haven't mentioned yet is I'm done with this cycle of chemo. I did 8 months instead of 12, and I could easily end up on it again in the future, but this round of the fight is over. It's time to rebuild. Time to grow.
One of my first goals in growth is to lose back at least most of the 30 lbs I gained in my hospital time from the drugs. I found and lost my self confidence in this time. I feel fat and lazy now and I know I can conquer that but it's not easy. I'd love to be out there chasing girls and dating but I'm insecure and that's kind of pathetic. I'd like to tell myself girls aren't superficial but we're all human and a belly is a belly, most people aren't Buddha. That's one of my big goals to sort out first, is to just get myself looking like a form of me I can feel confident in. I will be there by summer, come hell or high water, I'll do what it takes to get there. It'd be nice to be confident to get there sooner but it's not a small amount of weight and I don't get to stop taking fat pills right away. About a month before I'm done altogether. I'm going to try to diet and work out and fight the battle now but I have a feeling the weight will really start to move once I'm done with the drug. I will still have a bit of a handicap on me in the fight though as well. I'm sticking with another one, a "mood stabilizer" that will also reinforce my fight against epilepsy, called Divalproex. It also stimulates weight gain, but somehow I feel more confident in conquering it. Who knows. Hard work, good food, good gym, and long walks with the dog should add up in my favour eventually.
Writing is a challenge now
I grow, I break, I build.
What's next? Who knows.
Into the wind I row. Bow
forward. Eyes open. Nets filled.
Fish or stone, flesh or bone.
Push, pull, over, under.
Through. Always through.
Around the stone.
Over the waves.
Thunder. Lightning.
A new day. A new way.
Wish me luck. Or whatever works for you. I'll be back.
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