The Medicated Life: Part II

The point of my previous post was that I am constantly and consistently medicated.

I'm on stimulants all day and downers during the night.

There is nothing natural about my routine, 

it's all induced.

Then again, we have to remember how wonderful I am doing. I have a healthy, loving, functioning relationship, a great job, I'm doing better in school than  I've ever done, my moods are stable, I've quit drinking... everything is calm.

I still have mood swings. Somedays I'm in a total fog, others I'm wired. But there is no depressive or manic behavior.

Sometimes I wonder if I really am even bipolar. You can never really know. I could just be extremely dramatic (which I am). 

I was first diagnosed when I was fifteen. He was an old Indian man with horrible english. He listened to my parents describe my mischievous behavior. He heard my story through dramatic sobs. He casually informed my parents that I was manic depressive, and likely ADHD. He gave my dad some samples of medication. They were tiny pink capsules and my father promptly decided that I was not bipolar and threw the meds away.

I saw a few more therapists and psychologists, I stuck with none.

When I was nineteen I decided to enroll in a local community college. My second semester there I took PSY 101, which was when I rediscovered bipolar disorder and read the symptoms through tears as I self-diagnosed myself. I went to my professor in tears and told her my discovery, she recommended I went and spoke with a psychologist at the school.

I went a few times, we came to no conclusion. 

Two years later I started seeing a psychologist at ASU. I had done countless hours of research on bipolar, and told her that I had concluded that was what was wrong with me. I used up my five sessions with her and she referred me to ASU's psychologist, who I am still seeing. But what if I was wrong? What if I am not even really bipolar and I'm taking all of these medications? Spending my entire paychecks on medications I may not need?

I've read that this is a common symptom with people who have bipolar disorder. They started taking their meds and get better and think they are cured and go off their meds and go crazy again. But sometimes, rarely, I'll forget to take my meds before I go to sleep. When I do this, I am instructed to skip that dose and wait until the next. I feel a sense of clarity on the mornings I wake up without seroquel in my system. I won't take my adderall, I will feel awake and alert all day long... 

I guess it's a question that will remained unanswered for now.

The Medicated Life

My morning begins with my alarm clock chiming at 8:15--

Although I never remember it going off.

I can't hear it and I instinctively silence it. 

I am in a trance--it is called Seroquel

Around 10 or 11 I come to consciousness.

Sometimes it's one of the many alarms I set,

Most times it's because my dog Kali is taking up the entire bottom portion of the bed.

Still in a trance, I stumble into the bathroom and start the water.

Sometimes a bath, sometimes a shower--it just depends.

I then go and search for a glass of water and my adderall prescription.

I break one of the small orange circles in half, pop it in my mouth, and swallow it with thick morning spit. Sometimes it'll leave a bittersweet aftertaste in my throat.

I zombie walk back to the bathroom, find a towel and lay it in front of the bathtub.

Sometimes, I'll have my dirty old pillow, coverless and endlessly stained, and I'll scrunch it up into a ball and fall fast asleep on the towel, listening to the sound of water.

Sometimes, I'll bunch together some dirty clothes and makeshift a pillow with that.

Sometimes, I'll cover myself with my robe or a clean towel.

Sometimes, I'll sleep for hours--or at least until Waleed wakes up.

Sometimes I'll sit in the steamy bathroom and smoke a cigarette.

I've had this habit for at least the past seven years.

Sometimes I'll actually bath or shower.

Sometimes I'll shut off the water and force myself to wake up, wash my face, brush my teeth, and start my day.

I know it's weird but itt's my most relaxed time. Listening to the rush of the water, 

lying on the cold, hard surface.

I usually don't even realize I'm doing it until I'm already there.

If I have work, I'm out of the shower by 11:15 and in front of my mirror putting on my make-up or blow drying my hair. These past few months have been the first time since fifth grade that I actually wake up and wash my hair and style it in the mornings.

I've found that I feel more confident when I go to work and school in a fashionable outfit with my make-up and hair done. I feel more professional.

Lately, for the first time in my life, I am finding myself to be shy.

When I speak up in class my voice is small and shakes as if I were shivering.

I can't find the right words. I can't remember the end of the quote, or the man's last name.

I stumble and shake some more and smile and slide away.

Maybe this is because I'm becoming more of a writer.

I can perfectly say my words through writing. I can perfect my voice and my structure and my content. I can leave it, and come back to it, and change it a million times.

I'm not put on the spot.

After a few hours of sitting in front of my computer, I go to drop off the mail. I always stop by the local coffee shop, iced black coffee to go. They make coffee ice cubes so your coffee doesn't get watered down. Any coffee drinker in Arizona can appreciate this.

It gets me wired. I start feeling more awake, more talkative. Time flies, and I always seem to leave early (and come in late), 4:30-ish I leave and walk through the back garden to the parking lot where Waleed is waiting for me.

The first thing we do when we get home is take Kali out of her crate. She lovingly greets us and then rolls on her back, and I scratch her belly.

Waleed sits at the table, "Lobitty, what time is it?"

I look up at him, "Joint time!"

Lite a cigg. Pop the other half of the addy.

Chainsmoke. Cigarettes and joints. Stare at your computer screen. Facebook. Gmail. MyASU. Canvas. Spanish. Stumbleupon. Pinterest. Facebook. Chainsmoke.

Finally, get some homework done.

"Baby, can I have a bar?" 

I'm already in the bedroom, popping open the purple bottle.

"Sure baby"

"Love you"

He smiles, "Love you more baby"

And then I write. I love writing on xanax.

Although, I am not on xanax right now and I am writing.

We grab pillows and cuddle up on the couch. We watch American Horror Story or CNN or Game of Thrones or some random movie. We eat, we smoke, we hold hands. 

I wash my face and brush my teeth and plug in my phone and kiss Waleed.

I take my seroquel. I drift off and then wake up and stumble to the kitchen.

I eat everything in sight. Sometimes I try to make something.

Sometimes I get so dizzy that I have to sit on the floor and close my eyes.

I eat more and stumble to bed. 

I put one pillow under my head and I squeeze another pillow between my legs and I fall into a heavy sedation, a trance, for the next twelve hours. Until I take another adderall and do it all over again.

(to be continued...)

Chivalry Isn't Dead, Our Belief In It Is

I read an article today that stated: "It's pretty obvious that chivalry is completely dead"

http://elitedaily.com/dating/sex/why-chivalry-is-dead-from-a-mans-perspective/

Someone had posted it on facebook, and it attracted a slew of comments--some agreed, others didn't, others argued it all came down to money and that women should "approach men first" and "pay for men" before we expect to be treated as an equal in the workplace...

Yet, none stated the obvious. Chivalry isn't dead... our belief in chivalry is dead.

Albert Einstein once said that "perceptions create reality" and they most certainly do. When we convince ourselves that it's okay for a man to invite us to a bar instead of dinner, that it's normal when he pays more attention to other women than to us, that we shouldn't expect him to open the door for us, or give us a hand when walking down steps, but instead we should expect 3 am text messages and infidelity...
Instead of demanding respect we have lowered our standards to the bare minimal.
And we're okay with it.

For the longest time, I would juggle men, trying to prove that women could do it too...
We could sleep around and not have feelings and be as casual as men could.
I would proudly say: "Don't mistake my affection for attachment" yet, I wasn't doing anything to be proud of. I idolized Samantha from Sex in the City, but the reality is that by acting disrespectful towards men, I was making it just that much more okay for men to act disrespectful towards women. That my perceptions--that chivalry was dead--had begun to create my reality. Not only did I fail to meet any men worth dating, but I wasn't worth dating either. The men that I had relations with would lie to me, and I'd lie to them, then they'd sleep with others girls, so I'd sleep with other guys. We never vocalized any of it though.. this was all just "casual."

And then I met Waleed.

To be chivalrous is to "show respect and politeness, especially towards women."

We started as friends-- he was casually hooking up with a friend of mine, and I was casually hooking up with a number of guys. Waleed would pick me up in the mornings, from whomevers house I had slept at, and we would go to lunch and gossip about the men in my life. He'd ask me a million questions about my life and would always insist on paying for my meal. He was genuine and caring towards everyone in his life, not just me. Once he discovered my love of cooking, he didn't take me on dates to nice restaurants, he took me to Walmart to buy groceries to cook us dinner. He found me during a time that I was deeply depressed--death was much more appealing than life, and he made life appealing again. I'd sleep all day, everyday, and he would always come to wake me up. He brought me Christmas dinner on paper plates and forced me to get out of bed and shower. When he discovered my love for wine, he bought a box of it and we sat on my bedroom floor, drinking, playing "never-have-I-ever", and learning each other's secrets. He kissed me that night. I felt confused--what about my friend that was sleeping with him? What about the guys that I was sleeping with? Was he worth losing all of those people in my life? I'd sit quiet for hours, guilt rolling through my mind constantly. 

He told me that he wanted to spend New Years with me. We went to a club with our friends--he didn't take his eyes off of me once. He held my hand, kissed me constantly. And then the countdown-- 5, 4, 3, 2, 1-- "Lauren, will you be my girlfriend?"

I didn't say anything. I kissed him, a million thoughts rushed through my mind, I looked at him and I said yes.

Because of my answer, I have now been in my longest and happiest relationship. I have a boyfriend who doesn't have eyes for anyone but me, and who will hold my hand no matter where we are. He opens doors, tells me he loves me a dozen times a day, and always puts my needs before his. Whenever he goes to Circle K he gets me chocolate pretzels because they are my favorite, and he'll stay in on a Friday night with me to do homework. He still insists on paying for most of my meals, but it's okay because more often I'm cooking his. Don't get me wrong, we have had our fair share of problems-- we've called each other plenty of names, gotten into more than a million fights, and some have gotten pretty nasty--but we have learned from them too. I respect the fact that he hates when I get blackout drunk, so I don't anymore. He respects the fact that I hate certain drugs, and doesn't do them. We've learned what bothers each other and what makes each other happy-- and we have a constant effort to make each other happy. My relationship isn't my relationship, it's ours, it's not about me, it's about us. And it's because Waleed taught me to never expect anything less than the best of treatment from men. He showed me that men can be gentle, caring, and loving. He showed me that chivalry is still very much alive, but you must believe in it, expect it, and be chivalrous in your ways as well to receive it.

And in ten years it'll also be my responsibility to teach chivalry to my son if I have one, as well as to teach my daughter to never accept anything less than a chivalrous man, and in turn, she'll never receive anything less than the respect she deserves.

Chivalry is as alive as it ever was, you just have to believe in it.

I've begun to really look forward to my blog post once a week.

I think it's because I've been a journal keeper for nearly my entire life--until college.

College bombarded me with so much reading and writing, that I rarely am able to do it for personal reasons now. But don't get me wrong-- I love the literature I read and the things I learn about writing, and watching my writing progress-- I absolutely love school (minus Spanish) -- I am just saying that I rarely have the time to sit down and read or write for personal pleasure. 

Also, because I stopped going to my "counselor-in-training" therapist. I don't know why, but I always do this! I even told him that I always do this -- make it past a couple of appointments with therapists. My relationship with my psychiatrist is the longest I've had with a doctor since my pediatrician. And I'm very proud of myself too! 

I didn't stop going to him for any particular reason. He was young, African American, had a great personality, when I told him I was a stoner he didn't judge me, and I liked him. I felt like he was a bit young, unexperienced, but then again of course that's all true, and I was aware of it when I entered the program. Truthfully, I didn't have the $20 to pay for my appointment. He kept calling and calling and leaving voicemails and I kept ignoring and ignoring. I don't know why. Bill collectors call me a billion times a day, so I am used to ignoring every unknown number. But, something scares me about telling someone everything. No one knows everything. Except me, my memories, and my shit ton of journals.

More than anything, I want to tell someone everything. But I want to make them understand why I did it all first-- and I feel like I've begun to understand. I'm obsessed with learning about psychology--especially rated to mental illness. I've begun to understand....

And I don't know if I'm ready to share it with anyone else. 

Sex. Money. Death. Drugs. More drugs. Alcohol. Pot. More drugs. Sex. Sex. Sex. Parties. Manic.

Mixed in with a million people, a million complex relationships.

Don't worry, I've never hurt anyone. But death was all around me-- my mom, 25+ friends over the past eight years. Heroine. Russian roulette. Suicide. Murdered by his cellmate. Shot. 

So much fucking shit has happened. And I've grown so far away from it... 

Do I want to peel open that scab?

I'd rather just study it, understand it, heal it... on my own. Through my writing.

Or maybe I should see a therapist. Who knows, but I'm bound to find out sooner or later.