In general I have a deep and abiding faith that I will get better, but sometimes I’m so damn sick I just want to die. NOW. This is not about being suicidal. I’m simply not suicidal. It’s about wanting the suffering to end. I probably have to repeat for the sake of clarity AGAIN, that this is not a psychiatric issue. I am profoundly physically disabled and the withdrawals make me profoundly ill at times. It goes up and down so I’m not always equally ill.
However, having worked in hospice with people on their death beds, my quality of life is much like theirs. I am not exaggerating this one bit. Granted, I probably don’t have to worry about this killing me, it probably IS NOT terminal, but frankly, I don’t always even really KNOW that.
I do know that a few people who have ended up as I am have taken up to 13 years to heal. Some I know have not healed. Most do recover to some extent even if they don’t get it all back. I don’t expect it all back, I just want to be able to leave the house, run errands, and travel. I want to be able to go to conferences and share my story. That’s all. I don’t need to be the athlete I once was. I don’t need the endurance I used to have. I just want to be free to leave this damn house when I want to by myself. I want my independence back. I feel like I’m in a prison right now. I can do nothing without assistance from others and a lot of it.
The guy who interviewed me for a book on the topic of psychiatric drugs destroying people’s well-being has targeted and interviewed over 70 people who in some way fit this criteria for his book. He is a decorated journalist who wishes to be left unnamed at this point. But having spoken to hundreds of people during his career in which one of his main interests has been how psych drugs poison, he too says recovery is a question mark once it gets as bad as my situation is.
In general I’m okay with this. In general I put it aside and deeply trust that I’m here for a purpose and that my illness is sacred. It has allowed me to touch hundreds of people and help them. And I’m really okay with that most of the time.
But yesterday was another nightmare day. My physical therapist came again. I’ve been sitting every day as she recommended to treat the orthostatic hypotension and my standing blood pressure was worse than the previous time. This time it was 72/36.
I don’t know if it was because she got me up and down so many times or what, but after she left I was overcome with nausea, all over body pain, migraine and I could only lay in bed in a darkened room for several hours doing nothing but meditating and coming in and out of consciousness.
Her plan is to get me a wheelchair. She doesn’t want me standing at all. Every time I stand I get sicker. The theory is the more I sit and not lay down or stand up my blood pressure will improve. Laying down is not good because it makes the problem worse as does standing at this point. My sitting blood pressure is pretty good, so she wants me sitting all day. Literally no standing and preferably no laying down either. For several weeks maybe. This all sounded good while she was here, but when she left I was overcome by all the nausea and migraine and body pain and could not have sat up if someone paid me a million dollars. I made a Klonopin/Valium cut the other day and it now seems to take about three days for me to get hit with the crapola symptoms. The bottom line is my problem is not just the orthostatic hypotension which she is treating. It’s the damn chemical injury, the drug poisoning and no one knows what the fuck to do about that. NO ONE. No one actually knows how these drugs damage us. The most knowledgable folk have simply observed lots of us, but no studies have been done at all.
We are the first generation of guinea pigs on this crap. I took all these meds the first year they were available. I am the canary in the coal mine and so are a lot of other of us.
I woke up today not much better, though I’m writing about it and that’s always a good sign.
I will end on a positive note though I truly don’t feel positive right now.
My therapist, who is a Jungian, is basically on call with me. Pretty much all we do right now is dream work. When I have a dream I call her or send her an email and we discuss my dreams. My dreams are one of the only thing that give me comfort now. I have beautiful, loving, gentle dreams that portend transformation. There is not doubt about this. My therapist feels confident that my unconscious mind is profoundly healthy. It only gives me promising, nurturing messages. That to me is the only bit of evidence that I feel is somewhat real. It comes from inside of me. It is my soul or spirit or simply my psyche, depending on how you want to look at it, speaking to me.
Not everyone believes dreams can tell us things. I suppose I’m still mildly agnostic. But, I do know that the dreams are consistently positive and helpful. My therapist tells me that this is simply not the case for some people. And that people who are truly in mental distress have horrible and painful dreams. (they too can, of course, heal, but the suggestion is I don’t have that far to go) And it’s true again and indicative that my issues are not, primarily mental, but physical. And it seems my unconscious knows that finally I am freeing it from the strangle hold the drugs had on it. My dreams are celebrating my good health.
My unconscious mind knows and loves me and lets me know that I will be okay. In the depths of my being I love myself and am telling myself that I am okay and that I am healing and that I am transforming. Most of the time that is where I let my awaking consciousness lie. In that trust.
I’m simply not there in this moment as I’ve had another traumatic, hellish 48 hours.