American Parisienne

The New Guy

Earlier this week, I met my new psychiatrist for the first time.  I had recently moved back into the Greater Boston Area, two hours away from my previous residence.  My previous medication manager was a very capable and sympathetic woman, but she is now too far away for regular visits.

Typical of first appointments, I went through my medical history and any other life events that may have contributed to my present condition.  I started with my recent diagnosis with bipolar disorder and traced backwards through the abuse and trauma.  When I paused for breath, he leaned back in his seat, seeming to regard me thoughtfully.

“Anxiety?”

He’s good.

I hadn’t even alluded to the panic attacks, but he could infer anxiety from my story. I shouldn’t be surprised. There is much intersection among mental disorders.  If you know the different ways they intersect and manifest, then you could recognize one with another easily.

But that single question communicated competence.  I am very comfortable in medical settings, having been shuttled among health care professionals since I was sixteen.  Most, if not all, of them were good at their jobs.  But speaking as a patient, sometimes that extra comment or question is what establishes trust.  It’s not just that he inferred anxiety, but that he communicated to me that he did.

Likely, he didn’t think he was doing that. He was just asking after my history, as any good doctor would do.  But call me pleasantly surprised.  I’ve had to explain myself so often recently, I forgot what it was like to have someone simply understand.

Off-Topic: Bisexual, Too

sexartandpolitics:

Bisexuals protest the stereotype that we’re all sluts but I don’t know a single one of us who isn’t.

I’m bisexual and I’m a slut.

But it’s less the stereotype itself than the assumptions made from it. We’re not—or at least I’m not—going to dance the horizontal mambo with anyone and everyone, but I’ve been treated and addressed as if I would. That’s a lack of respect, and in cases where there is physical contact, a violation of personal boundaries.

Then there are the people who get hurt when I decide not to be slutty with them.  People forget that even slutty people have agency.  That is what’s so annoying.

Coming Back Up

I’m moving into a manic episode.  How do I know?  Libido is up.  I forget to eat.  I have excessive energy.  I can’t focus.  Also, I can’t sleep.  I want to sleep, but I can’t drift off because I am always thinking about something.  (That is related to my attention impairment. I’m so easily distracted, my mind won’t rest until I am about to collapse.)  These changes mean that I will be cutting certain things out of my diet or at least limiting them, because I don’t need to be any more stimulated that I already am.

• Caffeine. This is a hard one, considering that I lived off it when I was writing my term paper. Now I limit myself to one drink a week, but I still don’t feel normal unless I have a cup of coffee in the morning.
• Sugar.  I’m especially sensitive to simple sugars right now. No candies or cookies or other desserts. Don’t need a sugar high or crash that would further disrupt my body clock.
• Alcohol. Though not a stimulant, alcohol is not a good idea, because I’m already less inhibited without it. A few drinks could mean some very poor decisions.

These are little things but they help so much.  What I need most now is sleep, and anything that prevents me from getting some is getting removed from my life.  As always, a consistent schedule and exercise help, and it’s been showing. I’ve moved from 2-4 hours a night to 4-6.  If I can manage 6-8, I’ll be happy (and well-rested).

Feels Like Monday

I can’t get past the safety lock on my medication bottle today.

I wonder if the world is trying to tell me something.

Fighting the Meds

Every September in Boston, boxes and moving vans collect by the sidewalk.  Old tenets leave their unwanted belongings behind.  New ones pick through the discarded items and bring them to their new destination.  This past Labor Day I brought my bins and boxes to his place.  We were moving in together.

But it didn’t work.  When I was there, everything was black.  I wasn’t happy.  We couldn’t be happy together.  We parted due to “irreconcilable differences”.  I moved out.

Everything is still black.  But there’s some reason now.  When deeply committed relationships end, the world is black.  And you want to die.

It’s October now.  I just checked my pill organizer.  The days of the week were printed in bold black letter across the colored boxes.  Only Sunday was empty.  I hadn’t taken my pills for weeks. I don’t remember which Sunday that was.

“The work goes on, the cause endures, the hope still lives and the dreams shall never die.”

— Senator Ted Kennedy