April 25, 2012

Did I Win?

I hated myself Monday morning. I usually do after battling for days emotionally with my husband; and finding myself put in a position where I have to relinquish control once again. I can’t deny the joy I also felt though. My son is coming home to me and I’m trying to tell myself that’s all that matters. Still, that gnawing feeling that I caved again wouldn’t go away, and I let it get to me the past couple of days wondering if I will ever be strong enough to battle the dragon and win. In this case it meant putting my principles ahead of my sons happiness and freedom and that was something I couldn’t force myself to do. Maybe one of these days I’ll be that selfish. I doubt it. 

In our marriage, I’m the talker. I know that will come as no surprise to any of you who read my blog. I’m the one who always wants to sit down and discuss, compromise and resolve. My husband is the one who avoids these discussions at all cost. Things changed after that last heated argument. I made it clear where I stood and had nothing left to say for nearly a week. It never occurred to me before that perhaps my talking reassures him and lets him know where I stand, and that without my addressing the issues he might not have no idea where that is. I figured that out as he kept finding reasons to interact with me this past weekend; finding excuses to initiate conversation. I finally just told him that I was entitled to one damn room in this house for privacy, and he wasn’t welcome in it. I told him I wanted nothing from him, not even my share in this house, and my full intention was just to get the hell out of here as quickly and painlessly as I could with my things, and he could have the rest. I thought this more than generous on my part, and told him so. We have eleven months left to pay on our acreage–you heard me right, eleven months–and it will be ours outright. My half, I am more than entitled to, I was willing to walk away from. It really seemed at that point as if peace was a might more desirable then any amount of money I could fight for.

Apparently, this little tidbit of information sent off distress signals in his head, because he became relentless in his pursuit to make me happy and appease me. Were it not for the fact that he talked me into going to see my son Sunday, and knowing that my boy deserved an explanation face to face for the disappointment I know I’ve caused him, I wouldn’t have went and probably would’ve been able to hang tough. I knew what the Old Man was up to. As was, once I saw my sons smiling face, held him close to me, and then learned that if he were to go to a halfway house it might mean a delay in his being released for up to six months as they’re trying to place him, I found I couldn’t do it. My husband won again: He gave, took, and offered it back to me like he always does, in his time, his way, and at my expense. I would have to continue remaining trapped, playing the game, and forego my freedom, to make sure my son got his. ‘Fair’ is not a word in a mother’s vocabulary.

My boy, is a good boy that made mistakes, has now paid his dues, and deserves a second chance. I know my husband sees him as a grown man, currently incarcerated, and the eldest son of his wife, but to me he’s still my baby. I know the correctional facility sees him as just another adult offender, another number to be processed, housed, and disciplined till he’s released, but to me he’s still my baby. I think maybe my husband and the correctional officer in charge of the visitation room learned a bit more about him as a person because of this last visit. At 5’10, a 195 pounds, and broad in shoulder, they witnessed him as the child of someone who loves him without limits, as we stood in a room full of people and he held his mother as she cried. I believe the worth of a man is measured by the love he’s given, and not by what he’s accomplished or hasn’t. You simply can’t ‘buy’ the love or respect of another. I know as we were leaving and the officer was escorting us out the door, he turned to me and said, “I know he’s a good guy. He follows the rules, never gives anyone any trouble, and he’s always polite. I can tell he was raised right.”

I know he didn’t have to bother, but these words were gold to me. I was brimming with pride–in a place I can attest that is hard for a mother to feel such emotions at times–at the thought that my sons actions broke through the barrier between officer and inmate, and spoke for themselves. I can only hope my husband knows how fortunate he is to be a part of my family and in the presence of so much love, and realizes that this is something that can’t be bought, bargained for, or controlled, but is given freely to another. We have enough love for him too. ‘We’ have always had. He just has to be willing to receive it. 

I can’t express the joy I feel at knowing my boy is going to be home with me, if but for a short while. He left home at 17 to go stay with his father, and other than a few, brief stays since, has remained out on his own. I’m as anxious as a mother whose child has been away at summer camp. I know he’s 27, no longer a child, but the thought of having him under my roof again, doing his laundry and cooking for him, just tickles me to death. We share a passion for knowledge and have always had these complicated discussions concerning history, psychology, etc..; and though he’s much more intelligent than I am concerning these subjects, it’s refreshing to have someone close to my intellectual equal to talk with these things about. Sorry, but my husband’s discussions about fishing, hunting, blah, blah, blah…just doesn’t stimulate me. I envision a lot less lonely evenings with his being here.

I miss being a fulltime mother and wish all my children would come back home. I never realized how complete they made my life till they were grown and gone. I know it’s just wishful thinking at this point. My beautiful daughter has a life of her own and two children. I’m very proud of the fact that at 24 she’s carved out a life for herself, has managed to work and care for these two children, and has just recently gotten her CNA and is looking to further it with an LPN. She’s such a good girl. Likewise, my youngest is gone, and although he’s not making the choices I’d wish for his life, is trying to pave his own way. I know the days of preparing meals for all of them, separating piles of folded clothes, and sitting around the dinner table with them while they painted or created clay sculptures is gone. You never realize how quickly these moments will pass until they are a distant memory.

So although I had to give in to my husband yet again, I’m trying to look at it as a win on my end. As long as the outcome I was looking for was achieved, it shouldn’t really matter how I got it, should it?

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April 21, 2012

Cinderella, I’m Not!

Okay, so the latest word, is that I’ve had to deal with some disappointment the last few days–big disappointment!–but I haven’t let it derail me. Yeah, I must be doing better because I’m not sobbing, the Old Man still has his balls intact, and I’m not drinking to ease the pain. My husband, the controlling man that he is, made a great error in judgment the other day. He doubted me and my convictions. You see, I’m a woman that has an extremely high tolerance. I can put up with a lot (when you’re married to a controlling man who likes to call all the shots you have to), am willing to give up a lot to keep peace, but there are a couple things in my world that are completely off limits: My friends and my children. A man is never going to tell me who I can be friends with, and is never, NEVER, going to make me choose between them or my children. They will lose. Up till now I thought I’d been clear enough about this and things have been going well. Up till now.

My oldest son, Jud, has his parole hearing next month. The plan has been in place for months that if he gets paroled and it’s in agreement with the courts, he’s coming here to stay with us. This has been something that has been talked about to death. It’s a no-brainer. Where I am my children always have a home when/if they need it. The stipulation to his coming here, of course, is that there is no alcohol or firearms on the property. We’ve known this for some time. I felt it wasn’t that big of a problem because my husband won’t be using his guns till he hunts next winter anyway, and can keep them all safely at his father’s. After speaking with my son’s correctional counselor the other day, I told my husband that I felt it was time to remove them. I was unsure how soon they would want to come to inspect the house and didn’t want the worry anymore. An argument ensued. It was nothing more in my eyes than another one of his I-call-the-shots-and-no-one-is-going-to-tell-me-when-I-have-to-do-anything. It ended with his telling me that my son is not welcome here because it’s creating a big argument.

I could’ve begged for what I wanted and gotten it. I know that. I know that because I’ve spent years doing it. He makes a decision or takes something away, I cry and pout, he gives a bit back, and then I’m made to feel grateful while he gets the opportunity to play the good guy for doing the right thing. I guess I’m beyond that. Maybe I’m stronger now. Definitely not medicated or sick anymore. I didn’t beg. I refused to beg. Instead I sat down and wrote my child a letter telling him that he would have to go to a halfway house. I had to hurt my child for no reason, which I now find to be completely unforgivable. I then removed all of my husband’s clothing and personal items from our bedroom into the spare, and made it clear that I was done. The first time, in all the years we’ve been together, that I’ve done that. 

My husband is an idiot. Controlling men usually are. Because they’ve been able to dish up the bullshit and we’ve continued taking it, they naively assume that it will continue forever. Cause what…we like being someone’s damn dartboard? I think he now realizes the seriousness in it though, because he’s finding it difficult to buy or bargain with me. I made it clear today that I didn’t want the early anniversary gift he bought me, didn’t want to go out to dinner with him this evening, that what I did want he took away from me, so I now want nothing at all. Thus began the game of fancy side-stepping the facts, where he began to twist things around to make it look like he’d just been, you know…misunderstood. “It’s not that I didn’t want him to come here. It’s just that you told me I had to get my guns out of here, and I didn’t see why it had to be done so soon.” All I heard the whole time he prattled on was “It’s all about me. It’s all about getting my way. It’s all about my calling the shots and saying, where, when, who, how, etc…” Ladies, that’s how you know when you’ve taken your power back. It’s when the controlling man becomes the insecure coward that he is.

I think I’ve figured out what the problem is. Books. I read too damn much. It started with a fat volume of fairy tales when I was small, which led to anything and everything I could get my hands on that was written about relationships after. I bought into the whole ugly duckling becoming a swan and Cinderella bullshit. I was positive that Prince Charming did exist, and that someday when I was ready for him he would find me, be able to look past my common background, tomboy exterior and bad attitude, and see me for the Cinderella I knew I had hiding just below the surface. I spent years in my teens reinventing myself, grooming myself to look more pleasing to the eye, and waiting for him to come and rescue me. I thought for sure I would be able to spot him. He would be kind, thoughtful, generous, and his beauty would take my breath away. He came. Or so I thought he had…many times. 

I’ve spent years purchasing glass slippers in the hope that one of the many pairs I’ve owned and dropped would be the lucky one. And many have retrieved them and promised their undying love. Not a one though bothered to prop me up, put it back on my foot, and walk away with me into the sunset. Some have bargained with me in giving back the shoe. A few have tried to steal it….and the other one too. A couple have tried to wear it themselves. One beat me over the head with the damn thing. In short, all I’ve gotten from hobbling around on one damn foot my whole life waiting for him was a bad fucking back! Glass slippers have not been a lucky commodity for me. 

Yeah, Prince Charming doesn’t exist, and Cinderella, I’m not! I’ve come to the conclusion that the best I could hope for is someone mediocre in comparison, and frankly, I don’t think that’s acceptable anymore. I fear that for me happiness may never be found in another’s arms. With that thought though, I have to remind myself that I still have a pair of my own to wrap around me. Those, and my children’s.

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April 17, 2012

Pissy Can Drive Again!

I had an impossibly good weekend. One in which the mechanical wheels of good fortune seemed to just shift everything perfectly into place. Each time an obstacle seemed to arise it was as if a solution presented itself before worry had a chance to manifest. Had I much of a chance to think about it until after, I might’ve assumed it was happening to someone else. After all, when has Pissy ever had anything but shitty luck?

Before I share with you all how well the weekend went, I must tell you that the Sam-E herbal antidepressant I bought and had such high hopes for has proven to be more of a problem for me than a solution. I noticed within just a few days that it did indeed improve my mood and even relieved the constant pain I have in my lower back from my Sciactica, but I was having serious gastrointestinal side effects from it—which was so not worth it—that I discontinued use after six days. The kind that doubles you over in agony, and you don’t know whether you need to shit, spit, scream, or both. Ummm…no! Anyway, I hear it’s something that doesn’t necessarily happen but can, and in my case did, so although I still recommend trying it as it may work for some, I’m back to taking drugstore stress tabs.

I had my DMV appointment Saturday morning to take my driving test. ((Groan)) Something I looked forward to, but dreaded at the same time. I got a lousy three hours sleep the night before, as the Old Man decided to play a lil ‘slap and tickle’ in the middle of the night, and to be honest didn’t see myself faring even reasonably well. I was nervous anyway, and my ass was a draggin’. I did manage to jump in a shower though, slapped on a little face paint to hide the dark circles, crammed my fat ass (courtesy of a couple weeks of nervously eating over a gallon of ice cream) into a pair of ripped, blue jeans, and was ready when Kristy was supposed to arrive to pick me up. To my surprise she seemed as nervous as I was, and it was then I learned that at the last minute she found a light was out in her car, panicked because she knew it wouldn’t pass inspection, and had to have her Old Man meet us at the store to replace it. Kurt to the rescue! :)  Then to ease my nervousness—I can only assume—he insisted I take money as a gift to buy a new pair of ‘driving’ sunglasses to go with my new license. He had a helluva lot more faith than I did I could pull it off.

To be honest, I SUCKED at my driving test. I turned on the wipers and fluid squirted all over the windshield when the instructor directed me to turn on the lights for inspection. I rode with the emergency brake on for several blocks before even realizing that was why the car was dragging. My hands shook, my voice rattled when I spoke, and my response time was off. I just knew, KNEW, I was going to fail. I felt like an idiot, could feel the heat on my face from embarrassment, and kept apologizing during the whole thing. All the while thinking to myself, Good-fucking-grief…you used to drive for a living at one time, and never had so much as a speeding ticket before this damn DUI! Then something wonderful happened (I kid you not…it was a damn gift that fell right into my lap), the instructor recognized me. We both spied a Harley, she started talking about something…someone…I recognized the name as a friend, and suddenly…she recognized me. Oh yeah, Pissy was a bartender, remember? And a damn good one, I might add. Don’t think that shit don’t come in handy! She smiled; conversation instantly became easy, my driving skills improved like I was just occupying the vehicle with an old friend, and this bitch walked away with a license. YAY!!! I got out of the DMV as quickly as I could, after. Partly, because I was afraid they’d realize at the last minute that a huge mistake was made, and another reason was because I thought I was going to start bawling with relief…and well, Kristy looked like she was about to start crying with happiness for me.

The plan after was to get a bite to eat before heading back home, but great minds think alike, and mine and Kristy’s seem to be ‘scarily’ similar. Oh, ya know we were going to drink our lunch to celebrate, and did. We stopped in at my old haunt in the city, I was able to spend time with a few, old friends I hadn’t seen in at least two years, and shot some really ‘shitty’ pool. I probably had more than I should’ve, because I vaguely remember going home and falling into bed. Sunday I got to play ‘princess for a day’, the Old Man grilled steaks, and even managed to muster up some Cajun, grilled shrimp and Fettuccini Alfredo to go with it that was pretty tasty. I have no idea when the Redneck learned to cook. That must’ve completely escaped me.

Now, none of this past weekend might seem particularly ‘lucky’ to any of you, but as I said before, Pissy has absolutely NO LUCK, so I find it indeed lucky that Kristy thought to inspect her new car at the last minute and therefore was able to foresee a problem that would’ve occurred to prevent me from taking the test had she not. That we had time to spare and Kurt was available to fix it for us. That I just happened to be fortunate enough to get probably the one and only driving instructor in town that was familiar with me, the bar I used to work at, friends and the ‘biker’ lifestyle we have in common, and…and…was cooler than shit. But more important, I think, was that I’ve been lucky enough to find a friend like Kristy.

I’d honestly forgotten that there were people like her left in the world. By people I mean those that are selfless, generous, and actually don’t mind going out of their way to inconvenience themselves for another. I guess I was also surprised to realize my own reaction to it, and wonder when I began to think of myself as so unimportant I was undeserving of kindness. I say this because when I offered her gas money to pay her back for the cost of driving me an hour into the city and back, she declined, and I found myself uncomfortable and kept insisting she take it…which she never did. When she asked me where I wanted to go to have a few drinks, I found myself completely without an opinion at first, which I contribute to being chauffeured around these past four years I’ve been without a license, and having had to go where others want…with little thought to what I might enjoy. I was also shocked that she had no negative reaction to my wanting to stop in at the old haunt and see some old friends, but probably more so that she seemed to really enjoy herself once there. And trust me, that bar is considered the Island of Misfit Toys, where not just ‘anyone’ can fit in. And also because she kept insisting that she buy drinks, because it was my special day. My special day? I’m allowed to have a ‘special’ day?

I don’t know what world the rest of you are fortunate to live in, but in mine these little niceties are not every day commonplace, and when they occur I recognize them and give credit where credit is due. So this post is not so much as an update to what’s been happening in Pissy’s daily life as it is to stress how far just little acts of kindness can go to validate another’s worth. It really takes so little of ones self to make another feel important…and can go a very long way at undoing the damage made by others less considerate. I feel pretty fortunate now for just the small, handful of people in my life that make me feel better about myself, and have fewer regrets for the many I once had, now gone, who didn’t. You know what they say, if you can count all your ‘real’ friends on one hand….

Oh, and in case you missed it… “This bitch can drive!”

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April 3, 2012

His Last Act of Generosity.

I question God a lot. I find myself asking why this and that loss happens, often. Perhaps because I’ve had more than my share of excuses to do so. Loss seems to be constant in my life as of late, and yesterday was no different. Yesterday I learned Matt died.

It’s funny how we all just assume that we’re immortal. Not to say that we don’t believe the end will ever come, but rather make choices as if we have plenty of time left to get to things or people. I know this. I’ve had many an occasion to nurse regrets because I waited too long. Still, I did it again. Yesterday as I sat at my computer reading the obituaries in the online local paper, I realized that I’d let time and opportunity escape me again. In front of me was a picture of the wonderful man I knew, loved, and had called my friend. A man I thought was busy living his life much the same way I was living mine, and one I believed would still be there when I got around to calling him. A man I learned was now gone. Shock is not even an appropriate word for my first reaction. Sadness definitely fit my second.

The loss of a person is hard enough in itself. Even those that leave misery in their footsteps will be missed by someone. It seems truly unjust though and difficult to comprehend when it’s someone like him. Matt with his mischievous, dark eyes under heavy brows that made his grin look comically sinister. Matt who was the definition of a gentleman in every sense of the word. Matt who had a kind heart, a gentle nature, and generously gave of himself without being asked. Matt who loved life and tried to enjoy it to the fullest. Matt, who was 44 years old when he passed away Friday in his sleep of heart failure.

I left behind a lot of people after getting my DUI. People in the big city where I’d grown up, lived and worked for forty one years before moving to the country, who some I had the good fortune of seeing nearly every day when I was tending bar. Not being one to inconvenience another, I had difficulty asking any one of these friends to make the hour drive to the country just to pick me up for the day, let alone go out for an evening. My hesitance at asking for a hand-up proved to be my undoing. Soon it seemed all those I had once been so close to had just moved on without me. Not their fault. I’ve never blamed them. They had an opportunity to be a part of things, where I had not, and chose to. Matt was one of those people. He had family, friends, a job, a life, and eventually as I withdrew more into myself the calls to him became more infrequent and we’d just stopped talking. But I knew eventually when I got my license back I would make that call to him, and the friendship would be the same as if there’d never been an interruption in it. Why should I have thought otherwise? He was my good buddy, and for all intents and purposes immortal.

Sadly, he was not immortal, none of us are, and passed away quite unexpectedly. And although I have no illusions that I might’ve been a person in his life he missed terribly or fretted over not being able to see, his passing hurt just the same and I am filled with regret that I missed out on spending time with him in what would be the last few years of his brief life.

Shock, sadness, guilt; all emotions I’m too familiar with. These are ones that can and have, completely emotionally derailed me in the past. Yesterday it didn’t. I suppose that’s the greatest sign of all that I’m doing better and in some form of recovery. I had a very healthy cry, made the call to extend my condolences to family and friends, signed the guest book on the online obituary, and went back to housework. Why? Because his life stopped and mine hasn’t. Their lives (my parents, brother, many friends, and my beloved pets I lost last year) have stopped, and mine hasn’t.

I do question God’s choices often, and perhaps shouldn’t. It’s only because I fail to see what good can come from taking this wonderful man who appeared to have so many more years of life left ahead of him away from a daughter, family and friends, who loved him dearly; because I fail to see what good could come from any of life’s losses I’ve suffered, as each appeared to have so much more left to contribute. But especially because my life, once again, has been spared. A life, sadly, I never felt had much purpose. The question Why them and not me? has often left me perplexed.

Today I am acutely aware of my surroundings…my life. I sit here in bed keying this post on my laptop, nursing a bad back after yesterday’s episode of grief-induced cleaning, and drinking my morning coffee. The weather has begun to turn again, there is a cloud cover and a gentle breeze fills my room, while the distinct sound of rustling branches outside my window can be heard. I listen for a whisper in the wind that tells me he knows I’m thinking of him.

Today they bury Matt. It is a funeral I won’t be attending. The family had chose to wait many days for the autopsy results before posting the obituary, as they knew many people would have questions and wanted to be able to provide them with answers, which unfortunately never gave me enough time to make arrangements so that I could attend. No one was able to reach me prior to the obituary because my number had been changed and I hadn’t felt it necessary to update anyone. My depression and reclusiveness cost me my final goodbyes to him, but has been a reminder of what and who is important to me and that these things and people are far too precious to be ignored. In understanding that I realize that perhaps Gods choices aren’t that questionable after all. Perhaps one door has to close before another can be opened. One life has to end to remind another to begin. 

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March 27, 2012

A Chip Off The ‘Ol Mickey’!

I thought perhaps this blog needed a new post, since the last left everyone hanging as to how I’m managing my med withdrawals. The horror must be in taking the meds themselves, because once I started tapering down I felt much better, not worse; no ill side-effects. And although the pharmacist recommended that I take a full, two weeks to get off of them (since I was on the highest dosage allowed), I did jump the gun a bit and allowed myself only a little over a week. I’m happy to now say I’m completely off the damn, soul-spirit-mind stealing drugs. Good, freaking riddance! I wish I could say I feel 100%, but alas…I don’t think I even know what that means. It just is what it is, I am who I am, and unfortunately my normal is probably never going to be the definition of actual normal. I do know I’m back to being the best that I can be though. Know how I know? Well…the bitch is back. 

Yes, that is what I am, and dare I say that I’m back to taking charge round the ol’ hovel, taking names for my shit list, and taking few prisoners. Once the meds started wearing off and I regained my mental faculties back, I found myself looking around, narrowed my eyes on the Old Man, and said, “Oh, hell noooo, pal! You didn’t think you were going to get away with this forever, did ya?” I reckon myself to a wasp nest that’s been slumbering for the last year, while the Old Man has been teasing it with a stick. Time to come out and play with the big, bad man who wields the wood. Like most men who can take advantage of a situation, he will…and did, so now I’m calling him on it. I don’t feel so broken anymore. He’s been ignoring my needs and the needs of our home, and frankly, I think he’s got some s’plaining to do. In an odd twist, I’ve noticed this last week he’s been in a much better mood while kissing my ass and making repairs to the house, so I have to wonder if he’s happier living with the bitch. Things that make you go hmmm….

I guess I’m just a chip off the ol’ Mickey in that way. (That being my mother’s nickname she picked up as a country western singer. Her real name was Gladys, but she said it put a bad taste in her mouth after being tormented as a child with names like ‘Glad-ass’ and ‘Happy-bottom’, so Mickey it became and stayed.) My mom was the first, self-proclaimed bitch I ever met, and she wore the tag well. There were movers and shakers, and then there was, well…my mom. With her high-pitched yell that set teeth on edge, and her nails-dragging-on-chalkboard nagging, she got shit done when she wanted it, baby. And hell hath no fury like a ‘Mickey’ scorned. Mom had no problem slapping the smug smile right off of a face. That being not just limited to us children, but includes the bullying, neighbor lady, with the foul mouth who thought herself brave enough to cuss Mom out. ((shudder)) Silly lady, tricks are for kids! Yep, she was one helluva woman, and I doubt there is anyone who knew her who’d say different. She was incredibly beautiful, gifted, and ballsy; generous to a fault, and never failed at standing up for friends or family. (She literally went to my junior high with the intention of smacking around one of my male teachers who had manhandled me, and only by an act of God was he fortunate enough to be out that day and it be the end of the year so mom had time to cool off over summer vacation.)  And although she suffered depression and mood swings that could make the most rational person dealing with it lose their mind, it was forgiven her, because it was considered part of the total package. And aren’t most creative, gifted people a bit eccentric and nuts, anyway? Ever met one who wasn’t? I guess that’s reason enough to cut myself some slack too. :)  Tooting the old, Pissy horn again, aren’t I?

Mom’s birthday was Sunday. She would’ve been 87. Sadly, she passed away in 1988 and wasn’t here to celebrate it with us. Her memory is ever-present though. She was unconventional and stood out from the crowd. The kind of woman that women-folk would whisper about under their breath, because of her foul mouth, try-everything, and fear-nothing attitude. The kind of woman that other women wish they had the guts to be. The kind of woman that I’m proud to say she wanted me to be.  And I am trying. The depression eventually got the best of her and she found herself weak and succumbing to it. I guess that length of her footsteps I don’t care to follow. Nor would she want me to. The real difference between my mother and I is I now live in a world where depression is recognized as such and not just considered an ‘emotional spell’. This knowledge might’ve saved her too, and many others like her had it been available then. I intend to make use of it. So anyway, “Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you and miss you, and hope I’m still doing you proud.”

Well, that’s Pissy’s post for today. I still have my head above water and am sucking in every breath I can muster. Things are much better than they were, but hopefully not nearly as good as they’re gonna get. I’m optimistic, anyway. Hope all is going good for you as well. Kick up a little sand in the litter box and raise some hell. I promise it’s good for the soul. ;)

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March 17, 2012

Should the title be “Side Effects of Generic Wellbutrin” or “What to Take if You Want to Lose Your Mind!”?

I’m going to try and articulate this as best I can. I hope that my word skills don’t fail me now. If they do I want you to understand why. I feel about as composed as someone who’s trying to breathe with a bag over their head. More often than not my mind is fuzzy and thoughts befuddled. Occasionally I get a reprieve and have moments where I’m lucid. Sadly, not enough of them anymore. I think I might have figured out why though. I believe my medicine is making me sick. I’m going to share this because I want all of you to be careful what you’re taking. Don’t just assume someone else knows best.

I’ve been on antidepressants off and on for most of my adult life. Chemical imbalance, shitty life, or both. For whatever reason I’ve always been broken. It took a very long time and many different prescriptions to finally find something that worked for me. Trust me, I’ve tried many. Approximately fifteen years ago, while battling a breakdown brought on by a panic disorder, was when the doctor finally prescribed something that we found actually worked for me. This miracle was called Wellbutrin. With the help of that and Xanax for a time I overcame my panic disorder. Soon the depression also lifted, I was able to look at things in my life more clearly, and divorced a man that was contributing to my being sick. I then moved on. There were a few more times in the years since that I’ve had to rely on this ‘miracle’ drug to get me over emotional humps, and each time it has done the trick. Each time…till this time. 

I’ve shared with all of you about the emotional hurdles I’ve had to overcome the last few years: The isolation from living in the country and not being able to leave by myself because of this unfortunate dui I got nearly four years ago. The suicide of my best friend five months after that. The depression that followed both of those. All of which caused me to seek out counseling for a time, with this counselor putting me back on medication. This medication once again began to work its magic; enough that I was able to feel confident enough to start this blog last January. Unfortunately, my funding for the meds ran out, the counselor that had been so helpful relocated to another practice, so I did the next best thing; I took advantage of my husband’s new insurance and went to the local doctor for a prescription.

I’ve always assumed generic means ‘just as good, but just cheaper’. To be honest I really didn’t pay any attention to the prescription at all. I went to the new doctor, told him the things I was dealing with, said I was feeling better but was hesitant to go off it till I felt I was 100%, and assured him that this was what had always worked for me. He called in the prescription, I picked it up, and began taking it diligently. It didn’t occur to me after that anything was wrong, because my life was turned upside down again by circumstances that were beyond my control. I just assumed it was normal for me to be feeling like shit even on the medication.

I didn’t get better. You all know this. I had my high moments, but mostly I struggled through the down ones, and tried to keep a smile on my face in spite of it and be happy. When my dog, Sully, got sick with cancer this past summer was when I knew I needed to do something about the depression, because it got increasingly worse. I went back in to the doctor the end of August, told him what was going on, and he upped the dosage. Where I had been taking 300 mg a day, he then put me on 450, which was the highest dosage allowed. I thought surely that would help. It didn’t. I got worse.

I really thought it was just me. I’ve had a ton of excuses why in the past year: A close, family member that broke my heart. My oldest son going to prison. My youngest son moving out of the house. The death of my Pitbull, Sully from cancer, and then the death of my Chihuahua, Hound Dog, just six weeks later. Add to that the holidays which suck because I dwell on all the deaths of loved ones that have passed, and it pretty much explains why I wasn’t getting any better, right? I mean, medication can only do so much, right? Right? 

My mind began to shut down. I would find myself having lapses of memory. I couldn’t get back into a routine, which has always helped motivate me. I had no energy. I either couldn’t sleep, or couldn’t get out of bed I was so tired. I no longer had a desire to clean my house or make love to my husband. I began shutting myself off from people for lengths of time, and only seemed to feel comfortable around anyone with the aid of alcohol and other people to distract me. I found myself unable to write…to focus on anything. I found myself drawing away from others, and couldn’t concentrate enough to even read other blogs. The more I drew into myself the worse it got. Eventually leading up to the last month when the panic attacks and shakes began again. And most recent, the last couple of weeks when the suicidal thoughts began coming back. Thoughts I’ve lied to others about so they wouldn’t worry. Thoughts that pissed me off, because I am a huge advocate of life since my best friend took hers. Thoughts that scared me because I knew I was reaching a point where I was capable of acting upon them. 

I wasn’t so much trying to self-diagnose when I went online a few days ago to look into the medication I was taking, as I was to just see if any of the symptoms I’ve been experiencing could be side effects. I’m well aware of the fact that sometimes the body chemistry changes over time, and when it does the affect the medication has on it changes. I thought possibly my body chemistry had changed, and that maybe the side effects that the medication was capable of producing, that I had been fortunate enough not to experience before, were just now manifesting themselves. Hey, when you’re sick you grasp at straws. I really didn’t expect to find what I did though. I was absolutely stunned by the multitude of people that complained–and had been complaining for years–on many different websites about generic Wellbutrin. Like I said, I always assumed generic meant ‘just as good, just cheaper’. I no longer feel that way.

I don’t have to go into detail about the complaints I read. I just cited them all when I told you how sick I’ve been getting. I LITERALLY  read the same exact symptoms I’ve been experiencing, over and over again, from one person after another. Some even stating that they too were on a very high dosage, and how not only were they not getting better, but were getting significantly worse. Many quoting the same thing I believed… “I thought it was just me!”

I took it upon myself to start tapering down my dosage. I don’t have the money to go in to see the doctor to find something else–that probably won’t work anyway–but know I’m definitely not staying on whatever this shit is. I did call my pharmacist today, who was honest enough to tell me that, yes…he has had a few complaints similar to mine before. He is going to send in a request to the insurance company to see if they will pay for the actual Wellbutrin–which I know is incredibly high–but I told him if that fails I’m discontinuing medication altogether. I’ve already begun looking into some herbal alternatives.   I don’t actually see where I can be much worse off than I already am. I might also add that just in the last few days I’ve been off the 450 mg and tapered to the 300 the shakes are beginning to subside a little and the panic attacks are not as frequent. I feel very safe in assuming that once I’m off it completely I may still be depressed, but the other will subside altogether.

I can’t stress enough how important it is to look into what you’re taking. And don’t just assume that generic means same or safe. I’ve read enough in the past week to realize that there is reason enough for suspicion and alarm. I’ve suffered through enough to know if it doesn’t feel right, then it’s probably not right. And don’t assume that it might just be you. Most of us know ourselves well enough to know when it is, or isn’t. Trust yourself.

I suck at adding links anyway, and am not in the best frame of mind, but if you want to do some research yourself, I found everything I needed to know just by keying in the words ‘side effects of generic wellbutrin’ into google. One website in particular was call The Peoples Pharmacy. Just a little FYI for ya. 

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March 5, 2012

Know What an Anxiety Attack Is? A Train-wreck About to Happen!

It’s been about three weeks since my last post. I know to say I’ve been slacking would be putting it mildly. There just seems to be more days than not lately where I find this blog doesn’t seem to be much of a priority. Then like a housewife that notices she’s let things go, I remember I have a litterbox to maintain and put fingers to keys once again. I suppose it will have to do till Pissy can get her head surgically removed from her butt and be the ball-buster she once was. 

I’ve noticed I’m much better when I’m not alone. When the Old Man gets home at night, or when I actually get a reprieve from sitting in this house and am in the presence of others, the light seems to go back on. I find myself temporarily feeling like my old self: Carefree, light-hearted, chatty, and charming to be around…if I do say so myself.  :) It’s those alone times that weigh heavy on me, zap my strength, and seem to squeak by ever so slowly, that I battle with and have difficulty enduring. Hopefully, this too shall pass with a bit of freedom. I know I’m more than due.

I finally talked the Old Man into taking me to the bar so I could try out my new, pool cue. Well, okay…it wasn’t necessarily me, but Kristy did. (Little FYI: If you want your Old Man to do something that he doesn’t want to do, have one of your friends put him on the spot and ask him. For some reason I find that most men–not all, but I do believe most–will go out of their way to appear to be the ‘nice’ guy around other women, no matter how much of a selfish prick they are at home.) I’d begged and pleaded with him to take me to shoot a game of pool after he gave me ‘Monkey’ for Valentines Day. The first weekend after I got her I practically got splinters in my knees from graveling on them for him to take me out. My pleas went unanswered. Then we go into the store a couple of weeks ago to pick up a few things, Kristy is working, and all it takes is her telling him that she thinks it would be fun for us to get together with she and her boyfriend and he’s all agreeable. Huh? No graveling needed? WTF? See what I mean? Men like to appear to be Prince Charming to everyone but the little princess they actually have at home. Good thing most of us women realize it, don’t buy into it, but rather use it to our advantage when need be. As I’ve said many times before, I’ll take it when I can get it, and little is beneath me at this point.

We had fun, and I have to admit that playing with Monkey did improve my game… a little. To be exact, during the window of time between my first few drinks and my last one hundred and fifty! Only a slight exaggeration there. In my defense I hadn’t eaten anything for nearly two days, was drinking on a completely empty stomach–and I might add having no problem playing keep-up with everyone–so yeah…I was blasted! I paid for it, don’t think I didn’t. I paid for it all the next day when I lay over a bowl with a wet rag on my neck. Of course I’m not foolish enough to promise I’ll never drink again, but I do believe I told the Old Man that I’ll never drink on an empty stomach again. Yeah, that one really tore me up!

I finally swallowed my pride last week and asked for a little help. Which is something I would rather gnaw off my own arm than do. I hate inconveniencing anyone with my needs, and don’t like to put myself in a position where I feel obligated to someone because they’ve extended kindness my way. This has happened to me many times when I’ve relied on friends or family for a hand-up/hand-out. But I did. I finally asked my daughter if she would mind giving up one of her days off from work to drive all the way out, pick me up, take me in to the DMV, and let me use her car to take my driving test so I can get my license back. I knew it was time to break free from the shackles that bound me and get mobile again.

I rode out all the emotions that comes with fear of failure. For several days I studied–because I don’t give myself enough credit that I have any brains at all–fought through the panic attacks that were trying to manifest themselves, and made myself go. To say I was scared shitless to take the written/driving test was an understatement. It’s been three years and eleven months since my dui occurred and I’ve been behind the wheel of a car. Three years and eleven months that began with guilt, anger, and self-loathing; ending in depression once I realized I had put myself in a monetary hole that I couldn’t get out of. This hole and depression ever widening when Beth took her life five months later. Three years and eleven months of trying to dig my way out of the monstrous financial and emotional mess I made of my life with a teaspoon, all the while confined to this house in the country with no means to leave without assistance, no way to make money to pay restitution; dealing with dead-end after dead-end. Three years and eleven months of waiting, praying, and pleading, and I finally got there. Know what happened? I passed the written test only to find out I’d have to make an appointment to take my driving test. WTF? I can’t even come up with a reasonable scenario to compare this level of sadness/pissed to. Dammit! It took everything I had to get there in the first place and I had to go back? DAMMIT AGAIN!  

Well I went back. Like I had a freaking choice, right? I knew unless I wanted to sit in this house forever and watch the cobwebs grow out of my ass I had to get back in motion. So anyway, I made an appointment, the Old Man took a day off from work, and borrowed his buddy’s car so I could take the driving test with it. (My car hasn’t been plated for some time and the Old Man’s work truck just wasn’t going to pass inspection.) I fought through anxiety attacks on the way there and was barely able to find the courage to walk  back in. I made myself do it. Which for anyone battling anxiety/panic attacks is a great feat in itself. My mouth went dry, my heart started beating rapidly, my hands shook, but still I walked out to that car, keys in hand, with the driving instructor at my heels. I CAN DO THIS! I CAN DO THIS! I CAN DO THIS! We started going over the inspection of the car first and….the horn didn’t work. What? Yep, we were to find out later that his buddy had taken the fuse out, because apparently the car alarm kept triggering the horn. You know the rest of the story don’t you? Without a horn you can’t pass inspection. Without passing inspection you can’t take the driving test. Yeah…I walked away from that car with the heaviness of disappointment hanging over me, sans a drivers license. I’ve always said, if it weren’t for poor luck Pissy would have no luck at all. 

I sobbed all the way home; at one point asking the Old Man to pull over to the side of the road because I had to get my emotions together. I got in my pajamas, crawled on the couch, and pretty much laid there for a couple of days. I dealt with the phone calls and texts from well-wishing family and friends who wanted to know if I passed the test, and upon finding out that I wasn’t able to take it tried encouraging me not to give up but go back in. I kept hearing the same thing over and over again: “Don’t give up. You’re stronger than this. Keep the faith.”  I knew each and every one meant well, but there was something that no one was taking into consideration…I become frozen with fear; paralyzed by these panic attacks that are occurring again. It took everything…literally EVERYTHING...for me to overcome the fear enough to go in the first time, let alone the second. The fear shook me to the core, and the disappointment overwhelmed me. The thought of having to put myself through this again is terrifying me. I’m just not ready yet. Maybe in a week, or a month, but not today.

For those of you unfamiliar with what a full-blown anxiety/panic attack feels like: Picture yourself driving a car, and imagine the emotions you would feel if you saw a car at high speed coming straight at you and you knew a wreck–possibly causing your death–was inevitable. The fear would come over you suddenly in a landslide; your insides would feel twisted, your hands would grip the steering wheel tightly, your heart would feel as if it were going to beat itself right out of your chest, and your thoughts would be completely muddled. This my friends is the equivalent of a full-blown panic attack. It feels that real. It feels that threatening. Which is why none of you should be surprised to learn that those of us who actually suffer from them will do pretty much anything possible to avoid the triggers that set them off. I hope knowing this you’ll understand how difficult it is for us to just ‘face’ our fears. It takes much more than you realize.

To end this post I should tell you that today I am in a better frame of mind. The weather has been unbelievably agreeable for this time of year, which enables the dogs to play outside longer, and me to obtain a bit more peace inside. The Old Man and I are getting along incredibly well, and things seem to be moving along relatively smoothly. Other than that bit of sidetracking with the DMV nightmare, all is going smoothly on the home-front. I’m just taking one day at a time–though moving at a snail’s speed–and pacing myself till winter is finally over, the warmth of the sun can once again fill me with Vitamin D, and this damn Seasonal Affective Disorder has finally passed. I miss all of you. Miss the conversations we used to have. I just have little to give right now. Hopefully soon. Godspeed.

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