Tag Archives: psychological pain

What I started writing yesterday and stuff I did today

What I started writing yesterday and stuff I did today

So this is what I wrote yesterday:

I am so flipping enraged. Just came from seeing my pcp. He was interested in how I was doing with the med change. Jerk said he was extremely skeptical about opioids helping me at all. Well take this chickenshit, my pain is reduced 50% aside from flares, which nothing seems to help. He was glad he was wrong. But can you imagine the big “I told you so” if I got no relief? I can’t believe the ignorance. Totally dumbfounded and hurt I would left to deal with excruciating pain and nothing to treat it with when there is something to treat it. So anyone who says opioids don’t work for CRPS, THEY ARE FULL OF CRAP!! So I then tell him my back has been acting up due to weather changes. My lumbar spine and sacrum do not want to move. Asked if taking ibuprofen was ok and he says it has risks of heart problems and hypertension. But mostly stomach issues. I should use it sparingly. Why the fuck is this over the counter if it causes so many problems? And doctors prescribe it like candy or more potent NSAIDs like naproxen or diclofenac?? Idiot. I just rolled my eyes. I cannot believe this idiot is practicing medicine at a world class hospital.

Today I find out that he is worried about my sodium levels as they dropped again since the last time I had them checked. He is going to talk to my psychiatrist and has ordered blood and urine tests to rule out what is causing my blood sodium to drop other than medication. I wrote back to him and asked what the tests were (I am a lab geek, after all) and if the PCOS I have might be affecting my pituitary, thus messing up my blood levels. I don’t think I will get an answer tonight as I thought of this around 1900. He did tell me that if I felt ill to go to the urgent care.

I spent most of the day clearing off my bed so I can change my bed sheets. I had to do it in increments because my back kept flaring if I stood longer than 10-15 minutes. Then I couldn’t find my reacher on my bed so finally cleared off nearly everything except my office essentials like my journal, laptop, and book that I am reading. I made pancakes this morning and then had buffalo wings for dinner. I was so sleepy after dinner that I had to lay down. I was hoping to sleep but I couldn’t.

Tomorrow, I will be able to change my sheets. I plan on washing them and my blanket. I have another set of blankets that I will put on. They won’t be as warm as the Red Sox fleece I am using now. I think I am going to put the hospital blanket on and then the Red Sox. That should keep me warm and if I am too warm, I can always take it off. I have to keep my leg warm because the AC might make my foot cold. Plus I get cold and like to get cozy under the blankets at night.

I was feeling really down last night. Pain was elevated and so was my suicidality. I wrote a blog. When I finished it, I sent it off to a couple of suicidologists, including the president of the American Association of Suicidology because something she posted on Twitter bothered me and I had written about it. She tweeted me in the morning and we had a discussion but I could tell she wasn’t getting what I was trying to say. It amazes me that these people want to prevent suicide yet belittle the thoughts of those who actually live with chronic suicide ideation. She had written a study that had showed more than 132 people are affected per suicide. It was dispel the thoughts that Dr. Shneidman had that at least six people were affected. He said this but never studied it. No one knows where he got this number and he is deceased so we will never know. Her study was important. But what the bereaved suicide loss persons don’t realize is that saying loved ones will be hurt and others will be affected, some how guilt trips them into staying when they do not wish to live anymore. I was trying to explain this and we weren’t getting anywhere. Depression already caused excessive amounts of guilt. Add this information and it is overwhelming, which is what I was trying to get at but obviously wasn’t explaining right. She is a very intelligent person but I really think that lived experienced people and others who think of ending their lives might be too painful for her to deal with and so gets offended. I have seen it happen to me one too many times. Yes, it does make you stop and think of who you are hurting when you are thinking of taking your life. But then you (the suicidal person) have to wonder, is my suffering greater than those I love? And if this was a physical, terminal illness like cancer, would they still feel the same?

It just bothers me so much that people who are already suffering from huge amounts of pain, physically and mentally, still go on with their lives because they basically feel trapped. I know I do. I feel trapped by not want to cause pain to my family and friends with my death and the pain I already have that I was so desperately to end. It is tearing me apart some days, especially when the dawn approaches and I no longer have such intense feelings of ending my life. One of the suicidologists was glad I had made it through the night. She was the only one that said that. I am sure the others would have thrown my ass in the hospital if they could. I write a lot about my feelings because I don’t have a lot of support. It is also cathartic for me to write. If I lose this, for whatever reason, I know I will die. I think I even emailed my psychiatrist last night about why am I still around? Why am I still here. And will she let me go? I was half expecting a response or a phone call. I got neither. I see her next week so I know I will talk about it, least I hope to if I am not chickenshit. She sometimes scares me because she has this way about her that when she says something, I have to listen and “follow orders”. I have never not done what she said when she says it in that tone she has. She has known me for a long time. I respect her a lot and she respects me a lot. She looks up a lot to me because I have been through so much.

Next week is going to be difficult as I have a lot going on. But right now, all I care about is changing my sheets and reading Harry Potter as well as keeping track of the Sox. Oh, almost forgot, the blog that I wrote early this morning was chosen by some paper and published on their platform. Pretty cool!

day 5 and a flare

Day 5 and a flare (warning, long post)

Last night, I had to go to the bathroom kind of late, around 2300 or so. I was also hungry so went downstairs. I must have went down four steps and my ankle went out on me. It became really painful. I stopped and hung on the bannister to prevent falling. Pain subsided a little and I went down a few more steps only for it to happen again. Shit. I held on again to the bannister and waited for my ankle to calm down a bit. I knew the downward motion of my ankle was causing it to get annoyed. I finally went down the rest of the stairs and did my business.

When I came back up to my room, my ankle felt okay. The game was late as it was on the west coast and I couldn’t stay up as I needed to be up at 6. Around midnight, I turned in, or tried to. My body pillow was a mess and was not making me comfortable. I must have flung it off the bed as when I came up to my room today, the whole side of it was on the floor. It collected all the dust that surrounded it. Great. I used a lint roller to get it off. I just decided to use a regular pillow and somehow fell asleep. I woke up about three hours later in pain. It was too early to take the 12 hr pill so I took the immediate release. Two hours later I was still in pain so took the longer acting med. I was early but oh well. I then slept for about an hour until my alarm went off.

I took my morning meds and then went downstairs to brush my teeth and wash my face. I was deciding on what to wear. I thought I could wear shorts but it was too cold and it was kind of rainy. I decided sweatpants and a long sleeve shirt were in order. Except, I couldn’t find the one I wanted to wear. I scrounged my bed and it was nowhere. Oh well, just go with the one I usually sleep in. I left to catch the bus. As I got to the corner, the bus I was to take rolled by. Luckily, another one soon followed so I didn’t have to wait long.

I brought my Dostoevsky book with me. I had 45 minutes before PT. I got coffee at the lower end coffee shop and a coffee roll. When I finished the roll, I got to reading until it was time to leave for PT. PT was not so great. She gave me a few new exercises but I think I am going to have trouble doing it on my left side due to moving my damn ankle/foot. I might have to wear the AFO (ankle foot orthotic) to keep it stable. We just did the right side and she explained what muscles were moving. Then she massaged my hip. She said my muscles were hard as a rock. I said like a tennis ball and she said yes. Some parts of where she was touching was bothersome to my thigh muscle. I had to remind her that my L2/L3 surgery fucked it up. We talked about the PTSD and stuff that surrounded my pain issues and she offered some concrete grounding techniques which I will try as the ones I were using were not working. I chiefly use distraction and music. She had me laying on my back under some kind of box thing. As we were ending, she moved my knee to my chest and my back cramped up badly. It hurt so much. I was able to walk out of there but I was hurting. I came home because my next appointment wasn’t until 1500. I made a fried egg that I kind of overcooked the yolk. Then I went upstairs and was hoping to catch a nap. Well my ankle said no to that soon as I laid down. I left an hour early than I wanted to. I went to Starbucks for espresso and a Danish.

I read my book as I brought that with me. I was going to get some serious reading done. But my god, did Dostoevsky talk and talk and talk. It was about 4 chapters of the prosecutor giving his closing argument. When he was finished, so was I. I have about 8 chapters left in the book and I should be able to finish the book this weekend. Progress. I promised one of my suicidologists that I would read her book so I will. It should be somewhat easy reading once I remember where I put it. HA. Don’t know if it is buried on my bed or I put it somewhere else.

I went to my psychiatrist appt. I gave her the run down of being hypomanic without euphoria and the cycle I seem to be in. She didn’t read anything I sent her but she said she would read it as she always does. I felt kind of deflated because I really wanted to talk about the article I sent her. I couldn’t bring it up if she didn’t read it. I actually was not really present. I just glossed over things and she accepted it. I told her my therapist wanted to meet with me twice a week but I am not sure if I can do it physically, especially with physical therapy sessions going on as well. I had told him I would think about it and get back to him. She thought it was good to be seen twice a week. Then we made an appt for two weeks and I left.

My ankle was kind of giving me grief but it wasn’t bad until I got within two blocks of home. Before the Walgreens by my house, there is this dead end street that leads to some houses. The sidewalk has a little handicapped ramp that, to me, is very inclined. I walked down it and it brought me almost to my knees. Pain was so fricken bad. I had to stand in place until it settle down. It was the same as last night when I was going down the stairs but 10 times worse. I didn’t know what to do. My sister was away (or so I thought) and there wasn’t anyone else I could call for a ride. I took my blessed time limping home. The block that lead to the final block to my street was hilly and downward. OMG did it hurt to walk downhill. I had to stop a few times to catch myself. I finally made it home and my sister’s apartment door was wide open as well as my door. I called for my niece but there was no answer. I stuck my head in my sister’s apartment and called for her again. My sister was home making dinner. My other sister was there as well eating some kind of cheese plate. I had some cheese and pepperoni and chatted with my sisters. I then went upstairs. I took my things up the stairs carefully. I took a seat in the kitchen and my ankle just went berserk. I had no idea how I was going to walk down the hallway to my room. I was in a serious flare. I have been on the new med for five fucking days. I have no idea if CRPS doesn’t care if you take meds or not. I posted the question in my support group. I am still waiting for an answer or support. I had to take the med when I finally got to my room. It was two hours early but I didn’t care. After I made dinner with a boot on, my ankle still flared again. I took the breakthrough med. It is going to be a long night and I have been up for 15 hours so far. I cried in pain while I was in the kitchen. My mother was oblivious.

I don’t know what to do to make this pain go the fuck away. I thought the new meds would work and they did for a bit. Until I walked that handicap ramp, which I will never fucking do again. I wish I could say the same of the stupid stairs but I live in a two floor house so that isn’t possible. Even wearing the boot didn’t help. More than a few weeks till my date. I wasn’t going to go through with it. But I change my mind. I could still change it, again. I haven’t told anyone about this because people keep saying they need me and that makes me feel guilty. Someone also reminded me of the ripple effect and I told her to stop talking to me. I don’t want to hear it. I just want to be left alone in my misery that no one understands. I am so done with explaining about how suicidal I am and not getting any understanding about it. Not that I want support for it. That would be ridiculous. But to know at least where I am coming from rather than have supposed opinions. I just have become callous to anyone that thinks they know me.

I did ask my psychiatrist if she thought I was “treatable”. She said yes. But that is all she said without any elaboration. I am in too much pain, both mentally and physically, to tell her what I am thinking. I am also afraid of telling her what I am thinking for fear of another hospitalization. I won’t go this time, not unless I make an attempt. That is the only way I will go back. I just hope to be successful. Things will be really bad if I don’t succeed. I am scared though. I’ve never tried this method before. And if I don’t get it right on the first try, I am kind of screwed. I am just messed up.

Bigger

Bigger

This song is by Sugarland and I have to say, it speaks to me. Not in a psychotic way like some music can do, but the lyrics touch me because it is hopeful and I feel like Jennifer Nettles, who I adore, is speaking directly to me as she sings it. (I know that isn’t it but you kind of feel it with the tone of voice she uses.) It is a beautiful song and as my last few days have been rocky and filled with suicide, it is slowly sifting in my brain that maybe I can put off my plan a little longer.

I emailed my psychiatrist as I have had another day where my mood is a fricken rollercoaster. I have felt slightly above normal (not really euphoric) and then crash. Last night I swear I was having mixed states as the perturbation was so bad I couldn’t sleep. I was so on edge. But I woke up depressed but not so much that I stayed in bed like I wanted. I forced myself to catch the bus. I didn’t change out of my PJs. They could pass as sweatpants so I just went out with them. Fuck it, people go out in the PJs all the time, why should I be different? I did the few errands and had the intent of making zucchini pie today.

I was exhausted when I came home. The fluidity that I was able to walk with yesterday was gone. Every step was painful and slow as molasses. Not sure if that was due to pain or depression. I just felt like I was going uphill with every step I took, even on level ground. I saw my mother had taken out some meat for dinner. I was grateful I didn’t have to cook. I will make the zucchini pie tomorrow after I go to the pharmacy to get my breakthrough med as there doesn’t seem to be one close to me. I called the one I go to all the time and they are out of stock and think it might come in Friday. That is just unacceptable. I’d go tonight if I had a car, though I might get lost as I am not too sure of the way. I know the bus route so will take it tomorrow. I hate going there two days in a row but I need my meds and I really don’t want to wait till Thursday when I see my PT.

One of the suicidologists on Twitter liked my blog that I wrote yesterday or rather this morning. I was kind of in the mixed state so was hyper/depressed and needed to write. It was nearly 1700 words. She asked my permission to use a section of it for her class that she teaches. I said sure as long as you credit Midnight Demon. That was all I ask. Give credit where credit is due. I haven’t read what I wrote. I usually just write and then publish. Then someone comments and I wonder what the fuck did I write. Happens all the damn time, even in my journal writing. There was a time where I was in the hospital for a lengthy stay. I wrote in notebooks (didn’t have fancy journals like I do now) and I went back to read what I wrote. My handwriting changed so many times I thought it was a different person writing. The think that always struck me, even to this day, my feelings always stayed the same. It was just a different day. Talk about feeling hopeless. I literally had proof that I was a severely depressed hopeless person.

suicidal turmoil

Suicidal turmoil

***note this is just talk. No action. Just expression of feelings of suicide. If this bothers you, do not read***

My mood has been all over the place today. Last night I was feeling really suicidal. I was exhausted after a chat and wanted to sleep but my thoughts wouldn’t let me rest peacefully. I wanted to email my psychiatrist but I couldn’t come up with the words as my exhaustion out ranked my thought process. Eventually, I did find sleep.

I woke up in the middle of the night because of pain. I took my pain meds, made note of the time, and then went back to sleep. I woke up before my med alarm as I had to use the bathroom. I decided to stay up because I knew that if I went back to sleep, I’d feel like shit.

I got hungry and so made breakfast. I then had time to catch the bus, even though it was an hour earlier than I wanted to go to the square. Oh well. I took my time getting dressed. It was cool out so I had to switch things to my jeans from my shorts. I decided to wear a long sleeve T shirt rather than a sweatshirt. I figure it would be light and if I got hot, I could take it off. It was a beautiful day out. My pain was there but it was manageable. I got to Starbucks and had my espresso. Then I got my journal out and started writing as I wanted to keep it updated with what happened with my appt with the pain doc.

As I was writing, my mind kept going to suicidal thoughts. I wanted to write some more about suicide but I didn’t know what to write. It kept forming in my head. I looked in my bag for a notebook or notepad and there wasn’t one. GAH! Seriously??? I had bought a million notebooks and notepads and this bag was “empty”??? Guess I was off to Bob Slate in Harvard Square to get my favorite kind. I wrote down some more things in my journal and then went to get my med scripts before going to Harvard.

I got to Harvard and the place had change. I don’t remember the last time I was there. The newspaper stand had closed and it kind of changed the whole place. There was a new CVS next to the bank, which was also new. It was a jewelry place before. Starbucks was besides it. There was still construction going on in front of the Au Bon Pain. I still have no clue what they are doing. The construction has been going on for a couple years now. I went to Bob’s and got two notebooks. I only needed one but the other one was a composition type and was for quick notes. I thought it was cool so I bought it. I stayed away from the pen aisle but talked with the guy at the pen desk about refills. There are a couple of pens where I want black ink as they have blue ink right now. The lady became insistent that I bring in the pen to make sure I buy the right one. I am not a naïve pen person but thought it a good idea to do so. I asked what the price range for them were and she said $5 and up. I said I would be back. I’ll probably go Friday before my psychiatrist’s appointment.

I started walking down Mass Ave, not sure if I wanted to catch the bus down to my therapist’s office or just walk there. I got to the corner where there were some benches and sat down for a bit to drink some water. My bladder was telling me it had to go so I waited a little more, just taking in the surroundings and nice weather. I miss being in that part of town so much. It was like going down memory lane. I just started walking toward my therapist’s office. It was farther than I thought it was. I kind of figured that as the numbers were higher at Harvard than the other train station I usually get off. That part of Mass Ave had changed a lot. There was an Indian buffet restaurant, a Domino’s, a Dunkin Donuts. It was amazing to see all these new businesses.

By the time I reached my therapist’s office, I had walked off my suicidal writing energy. I went up to the floor and used the bathroom, then sat in the waiting room for an hour. I played on my phone for a bit and then I took out my journal to write some more. I tried to remember what I wanted to write about but nothing was coming to me. The bug had worn off. I wish I could walk off those feeling whenever ever they occurred. It would be a huge help to me but I know that might not always work due to pain.

I told my therapist right away about my suicidality and how my week went. A lot of stuff was stirred up. I forgot how much my PTSD was flared because of what happened in PT and then with the pain that activated the Cauda Equina Syndrome memories and surgeries, relearning to walk, etc. We talked about it and he listened to my suicidal ramblings. He didn’t ask if I was safe, didn’t get me off topic with plans or crisis stuff. He just listened and inputted his thoughts when I had finished. He does want me to see him twice a week just to have someone to talk to. He thinks I am too isolated. I explored it a little bit and I told him that was scary to me. I don’t know why. He playfully said that he shaves down the horns. LOL I told him I would think about it and let him know next week. I told him I would be on the new pain medicine and hope that would calm down flares and help me regain some things that I have lost.

When I got home and was thinking over the session, I wanted to cry. I never had a therapist that listened to my suicidal thoughts, plans, and other stuff before, in detail. I felt good about it and it made me feel better knowing I had someone to talk to about this stuff, the hardest stuff I can possibly talk about. He told me he wouldn’t be able to stop me unless I was telling him right then and there I was going to end my life after I left his office. It is Massachusetts law to protect someone from themselves or others. He didn’t give me an ultimatum, a do this or else scenario. I was appreciative because I never had that before. I never talked about how much I was feeling about suicide because safety was always first and foremost. Then add in a therapist’s anxiety and the whole thoughts about why you are suicidal are lost, never to be spoken about. For 27 years, no one heard me out after I said the “S” word. It was like the why are you suicidal didn’t matter and containment was more important. By then, the session was over and you were more frustrated because you were in this bind where you promised if you were going to act on your feelings, this and that had to happen and if it didn’t, you were on your way to the hospital to be admitted for a few days or more.

This is where suicide prevention gets mucky. You have a suicidal person and instead of listening to what they are going through that is making them think about ending their lives, they need to “prove” they are safe when they walk out that door until the next session with the therapist or psychiatrist. The client/patient may get angry they are being put in a bind and not heard. This has happened my entire suicidal career. Now I have someone that cares about me, wants to listen to me, and knows that if I really want to end my life, there is nothing he can do to really stop me. He is the perfect therapist for me and it is scaring me because I am expecting metaphorical handcuffs on my thoughts but they aren’t coming. I am free to talk about suicide as long as I don’t act on these feelings. It is freeing. It is validating. It is helpful. And I am grateful that I have someone like this.

I don’t know if I can see him twice a week because financially, that will be double the copay a month. Not to say that I will be able to make every session because I can’t always do that. We talked about that too. He understands that I have a chronic health condition that makes going out impossible some days. But he still wants to help me. He isn’t going to slam the door or give me an ultimatum saying I need to see him every week or else, which was what I was fearful about. He is a laid back therapist and I like this. I have to admit that my suicidologist instincts about him not using CAMS or some other EBP was freaking me out. How could I talk to him if he wasn’t going to measure the level of suicidality on a piece of paper? But I realized today, you don’t need that stuff to make suicide prevention/intervention happen. You just *need to talk*.

in a hopeless state of mind

In a hopeless state of mind

I can’t sleep because of pain and too much on my mind. I keep reading people’s messages about the two people that died by suicide this week and the CDC supposed data that suicide is increasing. I don’t trust the CDC anymore because it fudged data just to push an agenda that hurt people like me with chronic pain.

Some of the messages I read concerned helplines. Do people think that talking with someone for five minutes can help a lifetime of anguish? Probably not. Can it bring enough hope so that person can see to tomorrow? Maybe.

The past few months I have wrestled and anguished with my own thoughts of death. Hell, the beginning of the week, I was tormented with psychache, spoke about it on social media, and then was reported. In the email from Twitter, it said that I could speak to a hotline and there are resources. I deleted the email. What it comes down to, is whether I seek help or not. My choice, really. No one else’s to make. Just like you, reading this. You don’t have to read my blog. No one is holding a gun to head saying to read Midnight Demon. We all have battles that we face, some bigger than others but that doesn’t make them any less of a battle. It could be drugs, alcohol, depression, suicide, mania, voices, paranoia, etc. Some times someone feels too good to get help. Some times someone feels too bad to get help. Others may not think they are worthy or are too afraid what others might think of them if they seek help.

If you have a problem, whatever it is, someone else might have it too. You are not alone. There are people who have alcohol issues, mania issues, depression, trauma, sexual abuse, physical abuse, etc. and live to face another day though they may not want to. Some people, like me, think of suicide often. And that is really scary to some people, so much so they think by reporting them or calling the cops on them is the answer. But let me tell you what happens when you don’t face that person and ask, how can I help or if you need to talk I am here. It shuts them down. That was their one chance of opening up these vulnerable feelings and you just slammed the door, possibly forever, of them ever talking about their dark side ever again. Reporting does not help. I got an email with a hotline and a link to a resource. Did I use it? No, I deleted it. Someone once reported my online activities to the police. The local cops came and scared the crap out of my aunt and pissed me the fuck off. You think I am going to write in my blog the same way again? Fuck no. And why? Because of people like you who are too stupid to understand someone else’s pain and despair. To sit with it and deal with it rather than throwing it at someone else because you can’t be the better person.

I may end my life one day and sadly, even though I talk about it on my blog, you will never know about it because of this one person that sent cops to my door one morning a few years ago. It shuts people down. So I understand why Kate Spade didn’t seek help. She was afraid. I can’t say anything about the other guy. I never heard of him until he died a couple days after Kate. Would either of them have called a hotline? Would either of them have opened the link to the resources that were provided to them? Probably not. Their battle was theirs alone. Their decision was theirs to make. I understand it because I have lived it time and time again. In one of the legal pads I was trying to find to write this down on, I came across a story I wrote that I later published. It is also on my blog (I think). It was about a night where I was in so much pain, I wanted to end my life. And though I had promised my therapist and psychiatrist that I would call them should I feel like ending my life, I didn’t. I had hotlines to call. I had coping skills to use. Instead I wanted to end my life right there and then because of the agony of my foot and ankle but because I couldn’t walk three friggen feet to my bureau, 36 inches away from me to get more pills to take to end my life, it saved me. I woke up and wondered what I did. I will never forget that fear and the shame I felt. I was scared to tell my therapist and psychiatrist what I went through. Terrified that I would be once again be on the psych unit of some hospital never to breathe fresh air again.

Lately, I have been saying, Always be kind. You never know who might need it and is depending on it to survive another day. If you are still reading this and not dialing 911, reach out in other ways. Call that friend you haven’t spoke to in a while that seemed to have stopped posting on social media. Or that friend that was supposed to go to a cookout but didn’t show up. They just might need to know that someone other than the demons in their head care for them. And be kind and non-judgmental. Ask them if they need help with something that is important to them. They might not tell you everything or they might not even want to talk, just listen. Sit with their darkness. It will mean the world to them.