Go Ask Alice

As many of you already know, I currently reside in a community residence for people with mental illnesses. I have a co-occurring disorder: addiction along with major depressive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), anxiety disorder with panic disorder, and trichotillomania (trik-o-til-o-MAY-nee-uh) (a disorder that involves recurrent, irresistible urges to pull out hair from your scalp, eyebrows or other areas of your body, despite trying to stop). That last one took a long time to admit, but it's not the end of the world. Fortunately, I don't have any diagnoses that involve psychotic features. But one of my best friends does.

To protect her anonymity as much as I possibly can, I'm going to call her "Alice." She was diagnosed with schizophrenia in her second year of college. She's now 38 years old. We've known each other for three years, and lived together for two. Of all the people I'm friends with (and I have a lot of acquaintances, but not many who I count as friends), she's the most generous, thoughtful, funny, enthusiastic and supportive. I can always count on Alice to chill with me when I'm feeling blue, binge watch entire seasons of our favorite television shows (currently "Salem," we're on Season 2), co-sign my bullshit when I say that cake I bake myself has only 100 calories per (very large) slice, and tell me when my ass looks fat in a particular pair of jeans. She's a gem of a person. I've watched her struggle, and she was getting there. She was working and preparing to move to the next level of housing in this agency (the apartment program, where 3 women share a house, each with their own room, and no staff on site except for a few times a week). We've supported each other along the way, and she's just as happy about me moving to my new place (SPA housing, which is a little bit less intensive than the apartment program but not entirely on my own) as I am. 

But here's the thing with schizophrenia, and many other mental illnesses: you just never know when the shit is going to hit the fan. 

A few weeks back, Alice's medication regimen was changed. She'd been super, super sick and in the hospital for a few months (this was last year). While she was there, they put her on a completely new lineup of meds. When she got home, she was still a mess, but then, one day, out of the blue, the "Old Alice" emerged, and it was a joy to behold. She was absolutely fine. So why the doctor decided to ditch one of the meds that had gotten her back, I do not understand. That happens a lot when people with these illnesses manage their own meds - we think we're better, so we think we don't need the meds, when meanwhile, the meds are the reason we're better - but for a doctor to do it just baffles me. 

In the weeks following the change, I told staff repeatedly that I thought Alice was acting "off." She was just not herself, and it was clear that something was not right. I know that I'm not a psychiatrist or any kind of mental health professional, but I've been her roommate long enough to know when something is going on. Alice, of course, said she was fine. She always says she's fine. But she wasn't.

For the past 3 days, the girl has been gradually declining to the point where she now has almost no grasp on reality. She's talking to herself, in gibberish, she's singing to the paint, she's not sleeping. She had to quit her job. All of the staff here NOW agrees that something is wrong. Everybody thinks she needs to be hospitalized, except for the doctor, who says no. The same doctor that took away the medication that had made her stable in the first place.

Here's my thing. If we live in a house where there is staff in place to keep us safe, then shouldn't it ultimately be the decision of the staff whether or not Alice goes to the hospital? Or, at the very least, to the psychiatric emergency room, where she can be evaluated in person by a physician? Because her current psychiatrist has made this call based entirely on one telephone conversation, and not even a conversation with Alice, but a conversation with a staff member.  I mean, the girl hasn't slept in three whole days. I feel like, at the very least, they should bring her to the ER, sedate her, and force some rest on her poor, tired body.

The auditory hallucinations are probably the scariest thing, and they're the most common symptom in schizophrenia. The goal is to not only reduce the occurrence of "the voices," but to also teach coping mechanisms and reinforce that the person doesn't have to obey, or even acknowledge, the hallucinations. But I can't talk to Alice right now, because Alice isn't there.

It saddens me that her own doctor is so very adamant that she remain outside the hospital. I know why he's doing it - this particular doctor doesn't like to have any of his patients hospitalized, because it will reflect poorly on his choice to change the medication regimen that was working in the first place. Also, Alice is one of his "stars," because she was doing so well. But at what cost?

Whether you realize it or not, you know someone with a mental illness. We all do. Every last person in this country is affected in some way by mental illness, and we need to educate ourselves. Alice needs a voice right now, since her doctor doesn't seem to want to use his on her behalf. I am grateful that the staff at this house sees the need, and will probably just take her to the hospital by the end of the day. But how many are out there right now, alone, singing to the paint and not being heard? We all need to stand up and use our voices so that they can be heard.

For more information, please visit The National Institute of Mental Health's page on schizophrenia.  And for ways you can help to end the stigma and help give all mentally ill people a voice, please visit the National Alliance on Mental Illness and see how you can get involved. If you won't do it for me, do it for Alice. Or for the Alice that you may not even know you know - and love.

Update Time!

I know, I know, I promised to update this blog every couple of days, but what can I say? When given the choice between writing a blog post or sitting in the air-conditioned living room with my roommate, a bowl of buttered popcorn and Season 2 of "Salem" on DVD, I'm going for Option B. Every time. Because I'm lazy.

So, in between daily workouts at the gym (go Planet Fitness), trying to write erotica to order, living in a house with nine other adults (all with some form of mental illness), going to AA meetings, going to therapy, and other fun stuff, I have actually gotten the GoddessVox, Inc., website online. You can find it by clicking here. We're currently published by GoDaddy on a free trial, and I'm desperately trying to raise funds to pay for the first year (it's only $189, but I'm totally tapped right now, because I'm doing this by myself). I did the site myself, and I'm pretty proud of the way it looks. Please go check it out when you get a minute; any feedback or suggestions would be appreciated.

I'm also doing a fundraiser (and if anyone has any better ideas than GoFundMe, I'd love to hear them). My goal is $2,500, just enough to pay for the website publishing and the costs of filing the government paperwork. I want to make GoddessVox a 501(c)(3) non-profit, so we can hire women in recovery and put them to work, while training them and giving them marketable skills to move forward from GoddessVox. This will allow them to secure a job in the outside, brick and mortar world, that will pay enough for them to be able to support themselves without relying on anyone else. I believe that everyone has the ability to take the reins and get it done for themselves; many women in recovery simply don't have the marketable skills to get themselves out of the situations that they're in, which keeps them bound to unhealthy relationships and puts them at a greater risk of relapse. GoddessVox is here to help change that. I know it's a big dream. But dreams are supposed to be big, right? Go big or go home.

GoddessVox also now has its own Facebook page, under the name Persephone deHades. You can find it here: GoddessVox Facebook Page

Finally, I am also looking for some full time work in the private sector, as an executive assistant or something along those lines. I just can't finance all of this other stuff without a steady income, and, since I'm looking to move out of this house and into SPA (Single Point of Access) housing in October, which charges 1/3 of your income for rent (and I don't get any assistance from Social Security Disability or Supplemental Security Income), I'm going to be needing a lot more than the penny a word I've been getting off and on from the freelancing. I'm kind of hoping that if I get something soon, I can just get rid of the fundraiser, but my free trial with GoDaddy is only a week, so it's going to be a bit of a crunch to come up with $189 between now and next Friday. But I'll make it happen. 

On that note, off I go to write a post that has something to do with witchcraft. Stay tuned. And thank you for reading.

If you liked this post, please like and share it. And please consider donating to the fundraiser. You can find the widget on the right sidebar. All donations are tax deductible.

"Are you a Good Witch, or a Bad Witch?" "I'm a Sand Witch. Eat Me."

I've been watching season 1 of Salem, and I gotta tell you, I love it. I'm kind of over zombies. But I'm a little pissed off about some of the inaccuracies about the Craft, and my biggest bitch is the whole Satan thing.

Here's a quote that sums it up:

The major misconception about Witchcraft today is that Witches worship Satan, which is just not so. We do not believe in Satan. That is a Christian creation. We don’t worship evil. Indeed, to give evil a name is not a real intelligent thing to do, because then you give it power.
~ Silver Ravenwolf ~

The term "Satanic Witch" is a pernicious epithet used by those who wish to demonize practitioner of the Craft. Satanic worshippers are not witches; Traditional Witches do not worship Satan as this is a Christian concept not recognized in traditional pagan beliefs. Accordingly, the labels "white witch" and "black witch" (popularly meaning a "good witch" as one who practices "white magic" and a "wicked witch" as one who practices "black magic"), are also misnomers, as Traditonal Witches practice a "natural magic," drawing on the forces of Nature, and they refrain from attempting to manifest any form of black magic and the drawing down of negative or demonic energies.

So the whole going off into the woods and deeding your very soul to the Dark Lord is hilarious to me on one level, but on another level it pisses me off. The Salem witch hysteria was just that - hysteria. Many of the men and women hanged or burned (yeah, we burned witches here, it was a shameful time in a country founded on the desire to be free from the religious oppression of the Old Country, about as shameful a time as the one we find ourselves in today) weren't even witches at all; the large majority of the women were merely midwives or women with some kind of voice, a rarity in those days and thus viewed as some kind of an allegiance with the devil. There were also little girls playing games with forces they did not understand, and that invariably leads to trouble (Ouija board, anyone?), but that doesn't mean they were in league with the Christian devil, or Satan, or whatever you want to call that Christian invention. Mercy Lewis was probably half crazy due to her father's treatment and abuse of her mind, soul and body, and her little friends were undoubtedly just hysterical.

I will post more in other articles about various types of witches and their traditions (including a piece about Wicca, which is a new age amalgam of a religion and has nothing to do with the Craft), but for now, please know that I don't worship Satan, and neither do any of the true witches that I know (I don't know about Wiccans - they're not witches). Because we don't believe in Satan.

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Bye, Felicia

Or, as I should say, "Bye, Suboxone." 

I've been down to 1/2 mg of that nasty shit for a week now. I still have a few weeks' supply left, but I've decided that this morning's dose will be my last.

I've made some drastic changes in my life and my health since June 1. I started eating healthy foods, low in fat and added sugars, and I've been going to the gym every day. I do yoga daily. And I drink water like it's going out of style. I've been meditating and praying to my Higher Powers every day as well. And I feel wonderful.

Except for this lousy buprenorphine flowing through my system. It's done its job. I'm off opiates, and my plan is to stay off of them forever. And the bupe does not fit in with my new life choices. It's not healthy. It can't be good for my teeth or my mouth in general to be melting a strip of bupe and naloxone under my tongue every morning. And the bottom line is, due to my daily cardio workouts, I don't feel like I need it anymore.

When I dropped from 8 mg to 4 mg, I felt like I wanted to drop dead. It was a drastic decrease, and I felt terrible. But then I started changing my health habits. Eating better. Getting even just a little bit of exercise every day. Utilizing my other meds to ease the withdrawal symptoms.

And it worked.

Now that I'm down to 1/2 mg, I'm at the point where I feel like, really, what's the point in dragging it out? Yeah, my bowels are very enthusiastic right now. Yes, my legs are a little twitchy, and yes, I have screaming anxiety almost all the time. But I hurt my pectoral muscle a few days ago, and the doc at the emergency room gave me a five day script for 5 mg. Valium. So, since the pec feels better, I'm going to be using the remaining Valium to get me off the subs. I have 4 left. That's enough for 4 days, because I only take them when I feel like I'm gonna go out and punch a kitten.

I know, I know. I'm not supposed to be taking benzos, either. But every reliable study I've read has said that short-term use of a light benzo like Valium is key in getting you through the hideous anxiety that comes from bupe withdrawal. I can't use the kava because it gave me that disgusting shedding rash. But bupe has a crazy-long half life (37 hours). So it will take like two days to get the last of it out of my system, and then I will be totally, absolutely drug-free. No opiates or opioids, no benzos, nothing.

I'm making LIFE CHANGES. I don't want to be one of those people that has given up on life. I have gone through a lot of loss in the past couple of years. My daughter, my mother, my father, and my soulmate. And I thought I needed some kind of buffer to cope. But all the buffers did was keep me stuck in a state of non-feeling, and I haven't dealt with any of those losses. Hell, I haven't even dealt with my miscarriage from 10 years ago. That's a lot of shit. But I think maybe going to a bereavement group is a little healthier than sitting on the couch shooting dope and snorting bars, don't you?

So, here we are at the end. Thanks to everyone who has supported me on this journey. This blog will not be all about drugs anymore. I'd like to add a little more humor, since that's how I write, and maybe some sex, if I can get me some. We'll see.

In the meantime, I'll see you at the gym. Or a meeting.

Namaste, bitches.

Don't Effing Do This

When someone is feeling sick, for whatever the reason, it's our natural instinct to want to comfort them. Of course it is, because, aside from anything else, it makes US uncomfortable when other people are uncomfortable. Sorry, bleeding hearts, but that's the state of the human condition. We want to be comfortable all the time, and when someone else is NOT comfortable, we feel totally agonized because it's fucking with OUR day. I know, I know, some people are just nice by nature, but I don't know any of those people. I'm OKAY by nature, but I'm not a Disney Princess, so yeah, when you feel bad, I wanna cheer you up so I don't feel bad along with you.

That said, I'm the type of person who, when I feel shitty, wants to be left the fuck alone. I don't want you hovering over me. I don't want your chicken soup. I don't need another fucking Kleenex. Just go away. You'll feel better that you don't have to witness my shitty feeling, and I'll feel better because you're GONE. Win-win. Every long-term relationship I've been in (yes, I've been in more than one - shut up) has succeeded in large part because my partner recognized that he or she needed to vamoos when I was feeling shitty and come back later when I was feeling less shitty.

However, I realize that some of you are going to resist the urge to turn and flee, and to try to make me feel better anyway. I'm warning you, I'm not good with people (that's why I'm a writer - NO PEOPLE). And I'm worse with them when I'm feeling either physically or emotionally shitty. So, here's a list of what not to do.

1. DO NOT OFFER ME A HOT BEVERAGE. I'm aware that it's the socially accepted custom (I learned that from Dr. Sheldon Cooper - I love Big Bang Theory), but I don't want any fucking tea. Or soup. Or anything else. I probably want a drink, but since I can't have that, it's best to just not offer me anything. They don't make a tea that lets you sleep for a week anyway. No, Sleepy Time does not do that. It doesn't even let me sleep for the night so yeah, no hot beverage.

2. DO NOT ASK IF THERE IS ANYTHING YOU CAN DO. If there was something you could do, I would have asked you for it right off the bat. I hate being uncomfortable, either emotionally or physically, and I have NO PROBLEM asking someone to make it fucking better. So assume from Jump Street that there's absolutely nothing you can do. That should be enough to make you go away. If it's not, let's proceed.

3. DO NOT - UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES - TRY TO TOUCH ME. I will probably rip your head off and shit down your neck. Just don't touch me. Please.

4. DO NOT REGALE ME WITH TALES OF HOW SHITTY YOU FELT IN SIMILAR CIRCUMSTANCES. We may be friends but really? Don't care.

5. DO NOT SUGGEST THAT I TAKE A SHOWER/GO FOR A WALK/DISTRACT MYSELF. I wanna lie here and feel shitty, and that is my prerogative. It'll pass, okay? In the meantime, allow me my misery.

I know everything passes, believe me I know that. Whether I'm feeling awesome or feeling like I want to jump in front of a bus, the feeling will pass. So just allow me my misery. I'm not a miserable person by nature, although I'm not exactly the Happiest Girl in the World, either. I'll get tired of being miserable soon enough, take a shower, and move forward. But in the meantime, please don't do any of the above. Or our friendship will suffer a severe and likely permanent blow. I will recover. Our friendship may not.

Drink that tea yourself, go watch a movie, and wait for me to climb out from under the covers. I will, eventually. I promise.

So, It Does Get Better. Eventually.

It's been two weeks since the Suboxone cut, and I'm starting to feel a little bit better. Which is not to say that I feel great, but I wasn't expecting to feel great, just well enough to do my job and take care of the things I need to take care of. To stay out of bed for more than an hour or two every day. To do my laundry. To shower.

Actually, the laundry is just going now, because, while I felt well enough the other day to get it started, the thought of folding all that shit and putting it away exhausted me. The reason I started it today? I have therapy tomorrow and I can't walk in there in dirty clothes. I don't want them locking me up in the psych ward because I haven't done my laundry in two weeks. Also, I'm out of underwear. I mean OUT of underwear. I don't even have a pair of period panties in my drawer. And while you can Febreze a pair of jeans, you really can't do that with panties. So, the wash is going. I have three loads of clothes, plus linens, which may or may not get done. 

I also did the NAMI walk on Saturday. Granted, it was only 4K, but I honestly didn't think I was going to be able to do it at all. I brought two bottles of kava with me. However, I locked one of them in the van, because I'm a fucking genius, so I did the whole walk with NO kava. And 2 mg. of Suboxone. As opposed to 8 mg. I went with a bunch of people, and I figured, hey, it's at Jones Beach, there are bathrooms everywhere. Well, there are. But they were all locked. Towards the end there, I have to say I nearly shit my pants, but I managed to finish the walk and get to the only open bathroom, the one at the beginning of the walk, and I pity whoever was in there with me, but I got it done. I slept all day Sunday, and most of Monday, but I'm up now.

Kava helps. Kava, for those who don't know, is a root in the member of the pepper family, and it has anxiolytic properties. Sometimes, people have "reverse tolerance" and it takes a while for it to start working, but once it does, it's awesome. You're clear-headed but calm and able to cope with a myriad of things, like people. People are a problem for me, and the anxiety from this withdrawal has been the number one problem (aside from having to poop every 15 minutes but hey, according to Dr. Douchie, that's all in my head).  With the kava, I'm relaxed enough to get through things like group therapy and the car ride there and back without wanting to kill myself.

The problem is, if I drink enough of it to feel REALLY relaxed, I get SO relaxed that I just want to go to bed. So, I've stopped making it in gallon jugs, and I make two shots (we call them shells) at a time. Just enough to take the edge off, without sending me back to bed.

The stomach issue, I don't know what to say about that. I was starting to think that maybe it was a virus, but it's lasted for a couple weeks, so it's not that. I tried Imodium, but unfortunately, since it's an opioid (it just doesn't get you high) it doesn't seem to work with the Suboxone. So, I'm riding it out.

I want to tell everyone reading this that I feel amazingly better, that the 4 mg. is holding me just fine, that I can do everything I did on 8 mg. But, unfortunately, that's just not true. If I force myself, I can do SOME of the things I'm used to doing. I can work, that's most important (at least it is for me). But I work from home, so that's not a huge deal. And I try to take a walk every day, because cardio supposedly helps. The NAMI walk certainly helped, at least a little. But then, like I said, I spent the next two days in bed. So maybe not 4K, but at least a few blocks, and fast enough to make me sweat.

I'm sure that by next week, I'll be feeling relatively normal. And then I'll have a week of feeling relatively normal before Dr. Douchie drops me another 2 mg., and I feel like shit all over again. I promise not to bore you with all the details, but I do want this blog to offer SOME hope to others going through this. I want to be a little bit positive about the jump off Suboxone. So, expect some bitching along with some hope. Because, more than anything else, I want this blog to be REAL. And I promise, it won't be all about Suboxone, or even recovery. It's just that that's what I'm going through right now, and it's kind of all-consuming.

Except for the erotica I'm writing. That's consuming some of me too.

Anyway, that's the latest. If you're interested in why I went to the NAMI walk, you can check them out here.  They do awesome work for the mentally ill, and it's a cause that's dear to my heart. Feel free to donate to them. I won't mind.

Things are getting better, as they always do. Nothing is permanent. Good or bad, it always changes. So just remember that, when you're feeling like shit. Or even when you're not. It will pass. Hopefully, my next post will be more positive. Or at least funnier.

Seven Days In and I Want to Drop Dead

This sucks, ladies and gentlemen, and not in a minor way. It sucks like all the sucking ever sucked in the history of sucking. I had no idea when I started this Suboxone taper that dropping from 8 mg. a day to 4 mg. a day was gonna kick my ass so bad or I would have held out for the 2 mg. drop we'd been doing all along. But my doctor, for some reason, thinks that he knows better than me how I feel and how my body responds. Here's how the conversation went:

Me: I've been reading some studies that suggest that a slow taper with a low jumping-off point is preferable. I'd like to drop by 2 mg. per  month until I'm down to 1 mg., then cut the 1 mg. dose in half for two weeks and jump off at 0.5 mg. That's what I feel most comfortable with, since I've been on 16 mg. for a year now.

Dr. Douchie:  Any withdrawal symptoms you feel after 4 mg. is all in your head.

Me: Not really, I've been to this rodeo before. And the studies....

Dr. Douchie: Anybody can write anything on the internet (side note: I guess that's true because I'm writing this, but still) and I am going by the FDA's protocol.

(Another side note: as of this writing, there  IS NO FDA PROTOCOL TO GET SOMEONE OFF SUBOXONE. Only to get them ON it. So whatever, Douchie.)

We've had this conversation every month now since I started my taper, with me feeling more and more frustrated because, let's face it, even if it were "all in my head," he's my fucking psychiatrist and my head is his JOB. Plus, it really sucks when you feel like your psychiatrist isn't hearing you and keeps offering your vistaril for your anxiety (I don't have hives, asshole, I don't need an antihistamine). Finally, last month, he told me he was going to cut my 8 mg. to 4 and then stop my script. Of course I freaked out. So on my last appointment, I brought backup with me, another counselor to help me advocate, because I couldn't believe that this guy still didn't get it.

Again, he blew me off, and the research I'd brought with me. Then my advocate chimed in, and we came to the plan where I'd go down to 4 mg. this time, then 2, then cut them in half and jump at 1. Which was not what I wanted, and I figured I'd feel kind of crappy with cutting the dose in HALF, but it was better than jumping at 4.

I thought.

Let me start out by saying that I don't think I've digested any of the food I've eaten since Sunday night. I started the lower dose last Wednesday, and I felt pretty okay for the first couple of days, apparently because my brain was still basking in the warm fuzziness of buprenorphine. Plus, I was drinking a lot of kava. Which is a huge help, but I'll talk about that later. But I ran out, and I decided to give it a rest because my skin is getting dried out from it. Right now, let me just tell you, my bowels feel like I've been on an extended colon cleanse for the world's longest colonoscopy. I walked to the grocery store yesterday, the one time I've been brave enough to move out of shouting distance of one of our two toilets, and I almost didn't make it to their nasty ladies room (having that kind of diarrhea in a nasty bathroom, by the way, makes you feel even shittier, like you now reek of shit). I'd thought maybe the kava root was causing it. Nope.

Also? My anxiety is off the fucking charts. I can't sleep for more than an hour at a time. If I wake up at 2 am, I'm done for. That's it for the night. I won't feel anything close to normal enough to rest until I take my first 2 mg. dose at 6 am; I can't take it any earlier than that or I'll be shot for the afternoon and I'm trying to maintain SOME kind of a normal life here. Without having at least a cup of kava in my system, I'm quite literally sweating bullets at the thought of doing anything other than reading funny mom blogs and eating chocolate (which is what I got at the supermarket).

My legs feel weird. My stomach has that hideous shitty knotted feeling that anyone who has gone through opiate withdrawal will recognize as the realization that shit is about to get real. And it only alleviates for a couple hours after I take my dose, then it comes back.

I knew I was going to be uncomfortable with this big drop. I said that. But it feels like nobody is listening to me telling them how my body feels. I haven't been to group twice this week because Monday I was shitting like a champ and last night I woke up at midnight and was kicking the blankets around in between running to the bathroom for the next six hours.

I called my therapist and told her what was going on. She said she would email my doctor and have him call me. That's a vain hope. I doubt he will, and if he does, I probably won't understand wtf he's saying anyway because of his accent (also he needs a hearing aid, which makes me suspect he doesn't really catch most of what I'm saying to him).

The way I feel right now, if this is going to keep up, I'm going to just jump ship and deal with the withdrawals. Because I don't want to be in a low-level panic for the next three months. I can't live my life like this. I don't have the luxury of lying around on the couch while I kick the drug that was supposed to help me live like a "normal person." I'd rather go through the withdrawal all at once, treat my symptoms as they arise, and deal with it like that.

We'll see what he says. Stay tuned. If you need me, I'll be in the bathroom.