Thin Veneer

If you haven’t seen every episode of Intervention and want to, don’t read this entry.

A&E has been showing old episodes of Intervention recently, and I’m hooked. Been in rehab myself twice as I’ve talked about, so I know a bit about this stuff. If an intervention had ever been pulled on me, I would have been one of the runners.

Anyway. I just saw the most fucked up episode ever. This alcoholic guy finally decides to go to rehab for the 2nd time, and you really think he’s not going to go. His kids are crying and begging him, and he’s not giving an inch. It’s heartbreaking. Seriously, I was sobbing. But finally he decides to go, and we learn that he’s committed to it. He’s been in for eight weeks, and then we learn – wait for it – he has advanced cancer of the esophagus. OK, that’s pretty fucked up. But then we learn that he went in for cancer treatment and died THREE WEEKS LATER.

What fucking kind of life are we living.

And it made me want a drink.

My first full on manic episode came near the end of my college career. Sure, there had been the all night kitchen scrubbing sessions and my refusal to accept any grade lower than an A as acceptable, but full on mania hadn’t hit yet (or had it in my maniacal runs to the store at midnight to seek more food to consume just to vomit up, or my hours long workout sessions? What is mania?)

This episode required no questions (though nobody around me offered any.) I fell in love with a heroin addict who by the end couldn’t stand the sight of the (insane) me. I couldn’t offer him his drug of choice of course, and anyway, by any measure my attention to him was stalkerish.

I remember once knocking on his door for so long and so hard that my knuckles bled.

His name was Bill, and I met him in a bar on my visit home to Seattle over spring break. We instantly latched onto each other in the dirty bar that was our meeting place. In truth, he latched onto me and I spent my evening alternating between leading him on and ignoring him. He really wasn’t my type – too skinny (all that heroin) and hardly suited to a future college grad like me with an eye on the best law schools in the country. The night we met we fucked, and he called me the epitome of a woman and I was semi-hooked.

Phone calls between Eugene, OR and Seattle sealed the deal. He told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world and I was obsessed. I visited Seattle for a position in the Seattle City Attorney’s office, which I got along with him for the rest of the time. I wasn’t like his other girls at the time – I was relatively sober, didn’t do hard drugs, had a life that was turning into something (that it would disappear so quickly, I didn’t know.) He called me his angel. His angel that fucked like an animal.

He seemed liked everything I needed. I didn’t know about the heroin use at  the time, but would it have stopped me?

When I returned to Seattle at  the end of spring term, he was living again with an ex-girlfiend. Mania ensued. I had believed in a drug addict that had carved out a life for us, and I was pissed that it was all fake.

He was a junkie. His phone had been turned off, and when he called me to meet me and didn’t show, I camped outside his apartment to watch for a sign of him. This was aside from the time I spent at my job where I watched hit girl after hit girl not show up to court to testify against their abusive boyfriends or husbands, or show up only to say the evidence wasn’t true. They weren’t hit, they weren’t hit that hard, it had all been a huge mistake.

Everything was looking like a huge mistake, but I took care of their cases and filed them accordingly. And I still went out with junkie guy to see shows and make out in the back of the room. I thought this was love. Lubricated with enough alcohol, he was actually sweet. So what if he occasionally passed out on me. It was just due to a long day and a longer drunk, and he loved me when he woke up.

One night unsettled me. He had been gone for too long in the bathroom, and when we left the Off Ramp which had holes in its fucking floor, guys hurled the world “junkie.” “What is a girl like you doing with a mess like that?”

When we got in the car, he asked if I wanted to go to heaven. Yes, I did.

Then he fell off the face of the earth, and with no phone number to call him I was left knocking on his door with bloody knuckles. And I couldn’t stop. Me, with the trip to law school waiting was obsessed about an alcoholic junkie who no longer wanted any part of my non drug providing self. I was crushed. And obsessed.

I channeled my heartbreak into working out obsessively and visiting his residence. I left my job. I spent hours in bed weeping.

I finally saw a psychiatrist who diagnosed me as severely depressed since I couldn’t utter a single word. He misunderstood. I just needed my man. He put me on prozac which only exacerbated the mania. But also on xanax, sweet xanax which made me not care at all.

I’ve been in rehab twice in my life. In quick, rapid succession.

It was my decision to enter. My drinking was so hard and out of control, I didn’t see any escape from it except for a forced removal from alcohol. I had been drinking daily for months, and each morning I would vomit pure bile. My liver hurt. I wasn’t gaining anything from drinking except for the peace from the shakes and the small release from the depression I would go into if I didn’t drink.

When I entered they took a picture of me to show me how terrible I looked when I entered. I have no idea where that picture is now. The second time, I don’t think they bothered taking  a picture. The first one obviously didn’t work.

Rehab was a medley of group meetings, lectures, and bullshitting time. In order to bullshit properly, one needed a supply of cigarettes. I quickly placed my order with Bill and started smoking a pack a day again.

My roommate in detox was the mother of three children, 26, and one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever met in my life. She was addicted to oxy, and I adored her immediately. I started wearing my hair in pigtails like her. I adored her so much so that I almost gave her my urine to pass a drug test. Almost. The logistics were sketchy – otherwise it would have been a no brainer. Maybe she would have shared some of that oxy with me.

Later on in our stay, she told me her story. Everyone has to tell their story in group at some point, but she didn’t need to share her story with me. It was horrific. Horror movie horrific. If anyone needed to escape to a special, oxy place, it was her.

I  think she’s dead now. I have no reason to know that, I just think she’s dead.

And she felt sorry for me, because I couldn’t stop drinking. She related to me and now she’s either dead or living a life worse than death.

I wish I could have saved her.

Her name was Sarah.

I’m going through mini manic episodes interspersed with longer periods of depression. I cry at least twice a day – indulgent half hour crying sessions. I’m sure my time could be spent in better ways, but I’m not sure what they are.

I did go to the Weight Watcher’s center in the nearby shopping center, since my weight is one of the things things that gets me going on a crying binge. I try to tell myself that the situation isn’t as dire as I see it. A loss of 15 lbs would get me back into my jeans. But I ache to be stripped to bones and skin and little else. I hate myself for eating, and yet it’s the only thing that gives me some comfort.

I’m trying to find a shrink, but my top choice is giving me the runaround. First I had to call, and then they’d get to me. Then I had to submit a list of the meds I’m on, and I’m still waiting for them to get back to me on that. If they don’t respond by the end of the day, I’m going elsewhere.

I really need to see a doctor. This cycle I’m in is dangerous and needs to stop.

It’s not normal to wake up each morning crying, is it?

Things haven’t been going very well.

I had a grand old manic attack Thursday night, and without going too much into it, let’s just say that knives were involved, along with a lot of blathering about symmetry. Hey – it’s hard to explain this stuff to myself, much less explain it to you.

I should have known I was due for an attack, because I’ve been suffering from a lot of anxiety lately. Everything causes anxiety. I need to get a new driver’s license – huge source of anxiety. Will I be able to find the place, will I get in a car accident on my way there, will my eyesight be good enough to pass the test (yes I know this is ridiculous), will there be a lot of people there, will they be looking at me. Will I even be able to leave the apartment to get this done.

All this anxiety built up over one little event. And don’t even get me started about how anxious I am over finding a job. I’ve been trying to break things down into small chunks. Like I need to find a psychiatrist and get in to see a real doctor before I even start looking for a job. But it all seems like way too much for me to handle. I’m not able to look at one thing, take care of it, and cross it off my list. There’s this mountain of stuff I have to do (some people would call it normal stuff you have to do to get through life) and I can’t break it down.

I just can’t let another manic episode take me over. This last one scared the shit out of me.

That’s it. I have to go grocery shopping at Walmart today. That’s what’s freaking me out the most right now – being around people today.

No, things aren’t going well at all.

I think I mentioned a few weeks ago that I was shocked at how much weight I had put on in a short period of time. The plan back then was to lose 20 lbs. Well, since we’ve arrived in Missouri I’ve done nothing but eat even more, and I’ve put on another 5 lbs. My appetite has been out of control, I suspect due to one or two of the medications I’m on. Add to that the fact that I haven’t been getting any exercise, and you have the current state I’m in. I’ve never been this fat, and it’s enormously depressing for me. Makes me want to curl up in a ball and stay at home even more.

And I have three pairs of pants that fit, and one of those is sweatpants. I lost my last decent looking pair of jeans with this last weight gain, and I’m determined not to give in and buy more clothes that will be too big for me if I just stop shoveling food in my mouth for a few weeks. I’ve mentioned before that I’ve had problems with eating disorders, so I have to tread carefully here and lose weight in a sensible manner, instead of using the tactic of starving myself. I’ve decided to try a high protein, low carb diet, which some people may not consider sensible, but it’s worked for me in the past. Slows that urge to eat right down.

(It’s been two weeks since I started this entry, and I’ve already lost 10 lbs. Fit into those jeans. Go low carb.)

I’m not sure if starting to write again was such a good idea. I just don’t have much to write about. My life is fairly boring. I have no job – a problem I must rectify. I don’t go out much. I’m working on that. The end. The fact that I have no job leaves me feeling worthless.

Some days I take a long walk. There’s a hill at the end that kills my thighs.

But other than that, it’s not like I do anything except watch TV. Been watching a lot of daytime CSI lately, and I don’t even like that show. Though I came across a marathon of Billy the Exterminator the other day, and I was captivated. It’s about a company in Louisiana that deals with all the creepy-crawlys that infest that state. I hate bugs, so seeing wasp nests go over to the dark side is like crack for me. And there’s even personal drama. I highly recommend it.

I’ve never even been stung, but bees are a huge phobia for me. Though I’ve learned that the slow moving, enormous bumblebees around here are harmless. My dad is deathly allergic to all types of bee stings, and I’ve never been stung so I don’t know if I’m allergic myself. I suspect I am because I just assume the worst in any situation.

I deleted my Twitter account because I used my own name as my username, and Google results turned up all my posts. Not that any of my posts were objectionable aside from a swear word or two, but I didn’t want potential employers to find my account when they searched on Google. Not that I can put the genie back in the bottle, but at least when you search for my name now it says that the account doesn’t exist.

I walked to the Subway by my apartment yesterday to grab lunch. I’ve always enjoyed eating by myself. In fact I consider it one of the marks of adulthood if you enjoy doing so. It’s very sad when that’s the most interesting thing you do all day, though. But it’s so important for me to socialize – even a little bit. The weather is very much like Seattle today – lots of blustery rain, so I felt like a champion for venturing the elements. I actually have the heat on right now – something I didn’t expect to do until next November.

I think my parents are missing me more than they let on. They were very supportive of the move, both financially and emotionally. But it’s going to be hard not to see them during most of the holidays – something I used to dread. Now the idea of spending some time with my parents doesn’t sound so bad. It’s very much like college. And I’m going to really miss watching my nephews grow up. I used to fantasize about gradually buying them the essential albums they would need in their collection. I’m a little less naive now, realizing that they would probably prefer $20 to The Velvet Underground and Nico from crazy aunt Nicole.

The first thing I noticed was that I was vibrating. Not in a restless legs way, but in a panic attack way. We were filling out my discharge paperwork, and I couldn’t stop vibrating. I had expected to feel free once they let me out of those locked doors, but instead I was freaking the fuck out.

The drive home wasn’t much better. The vibrating was still there. Being in the outer world was more than my body seemed to be able to take.

When we got home I had expected a feeling of calm, familiarity. My cats ignored me. I felt like I was in an alien world. The place was immaculate, due to Bill’s mom making a visit while I was in the bin. I didn’t know what to do or how to interact with my surroundings. There was no next class. No art therapy. No meeting with the doctor to look forward to.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. Bill made me some food I barely tasted. I had lost 10 lbs. I couldn’t sit still. He had to hold me as close as he could, and we listened to podcast after podcast. He had to sit on me to keep me still.

I couldn’t cry. I would have given anything just to cry. I asked him to hit me, but nothing would make me cry.

Finally I asked for a Klonopin. He gave me one, and I was able to stay still. We watched the Food Network, and I was able to stay still. I watched them talk about strawberries and chocolate, and I was able to finally stay still.

I wondered how I was ever going to be normal. I thought about giving Jesus a try, but after twelve years of Catholic school, I didn’t see it taking.

Could a Buddhist Temple save me? There was one nearby. How about a little S&M? Punishment was definitely in order.

Just fucking save me.

I fixed some of the typos in my previous entry. I tend to write fast and furious, typos be damned.

Visits are everything when you’re locked up. Bill was able to come by twice a day: for lunch and for dinner. He could stay for over an hour. During that hour I clung to him. We would have our meals and I would I take him back to my private room I couldn’t share with anyone and we cuddled. I lived for those visits. They would actually make me smile.

After my first night without Seroquel and Klonopin, I was a wreck. They were supposed to help my restless legs, so all I could do in group sessions was vibrate. I would often get up and walk out of group because it was so important to sit still, and I just couldn’t. If I did this, I usually tried to find the person I had walked out on while they were talking and apologize. If they weren’t too out of it.

There was another guy who walked the halls compulsively – he had the same restless legs, and we would  discuss the problem.

“Your legs driving you crazy?”

“Yes – yours too?”

That was about the extent of our conversations, but it helped knowing I wasn’t the only one going through hell. He was in his 60’s. I don’t want to be in the mental ward in my 60’s. I don’t want to be there again at all – ever, but when it reaches that age, is the trend ever going to be unbroken?

Our legs couldn’t stop moving. It was either walk the halls or sit or shake our legs compulsively. The hall was in a L shape, so it was back and forth, back and forth. He didn’t seem to want my company, but he did seem comforted that he wasn’t the only one there with the problem. Hell – he seemed comforted that someone else would talk to him, because pacing the halls does not scream sanity.

In my next appointment with my on-site doctor, I told him about my insomnia and legs, and that I needed my drugs back. He let me go through another hellish night without the Seroquel. He never gave me back my Klonopin. Addictive forming, or something.

Because addition is worse than pain.

Finally, on my third night there, they gave me back my Seroquel. I still had trouble sleeping, but I could usually drift off by 1 or 2. I still didn’t have my Klonopin, though, and I was a nervous wreck. In the med line I could hear other patients being given Klonopin, so why not me? Maybe if I had thrown a fit, but I was incredibly well behaved.

Despite my meds problems, and my general being-in-the-bin problem, I was doing better. It had been so long since I had interacted with people, just socializing on the most  basic level helped. Being brave enough to stay in the common area and watch American Idol or some atrocious movie (Ever After, anyone?) helped, Being forced to share helped. Keeping to a schedule helped. Even if I had to do art therapy, at least I was doing something other than stare at the wall.

And the staff worked its tail off. They needed to know where we were every half-hour, and that certainly wasn’t easy for them, but some went far and beyond their job descriptions. They were abused regularly, but that didn’t keep them from making us popcorn at night. They joked with us. They were overworked, underpaid, but something let them keep their cool around us. Most were even kind to us and treated us with dignity.

So I chugged along, being the model patient I needed to be to get let out of there, though that has a whole lot more to do with insurance than performance. I participated in group sessions, hell – I showed up for group sessions. That there was an accomplishment in their eyes. I ate. I didn’t cause the staff any stress. But God I was bored and ready to go home. I had Bill bring me a copy of The Brothers Karamozov, but what I needed was something that didn’t overtax my fragile brain. He also brought me a book from the fantasy genre I feel safe to say will never be my cup of tea.

After five days there, I was let out to face the world.