Medication Update II

This'll be a long one. It's time to tell the truth.


It's my understanding from those around me that I have been on a downward spiral for the last few weeks. Thanks for the heads up.

Monday night I had some internal conflicts with myself and I did something absolutely horrible. I cut myself. I've been a cutter for over 15 years. I remember reading an article about cutting in Sassy magazine when I was 12 or so and I cannot tell you the amount of relief I felt that I was not the only one who did this. It's been nearly five years since I put a razor to my skin and at that time I hadn't cut in 2 or 3 years. I was always smart about it, mainly cutting my thighs (in which I still have scars from when I was 15) so no one knew. I fucked up this go 'round and cut my upper arm where people usually get tattoos. Tuesday I had to come into work bandaged. It must have been a cry for help.

I had a bit (to say the least) of a breakdown on Tuesday. I went into the manager's office, shut the door and laid it all on the table. She told me it was time to get my family involved - that they needed to know what was going on with me. She also suggested me taking a little 'vacation' i.e. voluntarily committing myself for a 72 hour hold. Fuck, am I that bad? I called my Pops to make sure he was home and headed over. Again, I laid it all out and even showed him my arm. Not knowing what to do, my dad called my grandmother to try to get in touch with my (possibly) gay uncle, who happens to be a licensed mental health therapist or something, who deals mainly with drug addicts. Dad tracks down my uncle, who is on vacation in Canada, and makes me talk to him. Sheesh. So for the third time that day, I had to explain the situation yet again. I asked my uncle if I should check myself in somewhere. He said he didn't think they would take me because I wasn't suicidal (things are different in Massachusetts, the only state in the union where gay marriage is legal, which just so happens to be my uncle's residence) and recommended I call the crisis hot line.

I hung out at my dad's for a little longer and showed him the box my mom sent me a few months ago. I guess my 'bio' mom was doing some spring cleaning and sent me a box full of stuff that I had made and letters I had written to her through out the years. Was this woman trying to cut me out? Also included in the box was a letter my daddy wrote her in 1984, telling her he was going for custody of me. The way she always told it was she didn't know he was looking for custody until the sheriff showed up at the door and she was served with papers. The letter my father wrote also stated he wanted her to be a part of my life again and that he would never speak bad about her to me. That man kept his promise for 29 years and still continues to keep it now, even though Tuesday I told my father that woman was a lying bitch who really fucked up my life. My father asked what I was going to do with the stuff in the box. He seemed appalled that she would send that stuff to me. I had no plans for items, so my father decided he would mail them back to my mother along with a letter, that he said he may or may not let me read. Eeek.

Going back to work was not an option. I was bruised, broken and scorned. I went home and followed my uncle's advice and called the Tampa Crisis Hotline. Again (time #4), I explain what's going on. The lady asked me if I thought I could cope with it. When I said 'no' she suggested I check myself in. You have got to be fucking kidding me. Everybody thinks I need to go to the looney bin. I can't remember if I took any Xanax but I went to sleep for a few hours and was awoken when my step mother called. She asked what the crisis people said and I told her the truth. She concurred with me that I was not quite ready for One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. When we hung up, I called Grandma and spilled most it it to her. She told me she'd pray for me.

It was time to get back on the meds. I took my Lamictal, Cymbalta and a few Xanax and settled down for bed. Damn, Tuesday was a rough day.

When I came into work on Wednesday, I spoke with an E in my office who had voluntarily went on sabbatical a year or so earlier, to find out exactly what I would be looking at. You stand in a line when it's medicine time. And they don't let you smoke, you have to wear a nicotine patch. That was the deal breaker. I had to leave work again yesterday due to my inability to function and spoke again with the manager. Again I hear the suggestion of checking myself in - then she tells me the kicker - I probably wouldn't be able to come back to work for 4 - 6 weeks, until I have a doctor's release. Hell fuck no this isn't happening to me.

Yesterday was the first day in two weeks or so that I didn't take any Xanax. I took my meds with a bit of Nyquil last night to help me go to sleep. It didn't work. I woke up literally every hour and sometimes within as little as 15 minutes. I am dead on my feet today. I haven't eaten anything since Sunday. The thought of food makes me nauseous and I think my body would probably reject it anyway. On a lighter note - I'm down close to 7 pounds from this time two weeks ago.

Fortunately, before the big breakdown, I had made an appointment with a therapist for next week. I know the medication isn't a cure all and figured it was time to talk to someone to in an attempt to lead a 'normal' life. I have severe trust and abandonment issues and do not feel like I can function like a human being until these issues are resolved. That appointment is next week and I'll fill you in at that time.

When I spoke with Grandma last night I told her that it was going to cost approximately $300 a month to keep me 'sane'. She said she wants to donate to the Danielle Mental Fund because your mental health is ever so important. I spoke with her this morning and she wants to see me today. I'm going to go over there during my lunch break and have already given my manager a heads up I might be a bit odd when I return.

So there it is - most of it at least. I am far too embarrassed to mention that my uncle thinks I've developed an addiction to Xanax. I called the pharmacy yesterday to get the Lamictal and Cymbalta filled and decided to get a refill on the Xanax as well as I was almost out. Being that it is a controlled substance and I had last had it refilled on 4/23 he could not give me a refill until 5/20. So I called my psychiatrist and concocted some half ass story about my dog getting into my purse and eating the pill bottle. The doc was nice enough to call the pharmacy, but cancelled my remaining refills because I am careless with my medicine. I will have to call him monthly now and have him call the pharmacy when I need a refill.

So what do you think? Have I really lost it?