Sick cycle carousel, part 3

May will be upon us in one week. With May comes the nine year anniversary of my various illnesses and trials. Last year I wrote a rather difficult post, Sick cycle carousel, documenting the progression of my various conditions, depression, and to a small extent my coming out journey. Below is the next part in the Sick cycle series. You might want to read parts one and two.

It seems that the ending of part two was a little bit too optimistic. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy (and I certainly was at the time I wrote that) but I can’t really say I’m all that content anymore. My back has been a lot of trouble lately, I’m downing drugs at an alarming rate, and I’m still kinda upset about Sister’s attitude in The Talk.

January 2007
After the loss of Pop, life was less sunny. I shepherded in the new year with Liz in a quiet ceremony with sparklers, champagne and Roger Rabbit. I spent most of January with The Beach Crew at Cal’s parents’ holiday house up north and on the Central Coast. My health waxed and waned, I was still popping pain killers left, right and centre, but for the most part I was excited at the prospect of starting at Sydney Uni in March.

February-April 2007
I turned 23 on the first and on the nineteenth we celebrated Pop’s birthday for the first time without him. Then I started uni and met a lot of really intelligent people who intimidated me very quickly. I had classes on three days a week, and as a general rule I was able to make the journey to Sydney at least twice a week. I did well in both subjects, gaining high distinctions in both. I enjoyed my time but the extra stress, walking, and sitting up took a toll on my already fragile health. Many nights I felt trapped, a youthful spirit caged up in an aching, ailing prison of a body.

I met Kate in March and we quickly formed a close bond. Within no time I began to refer to her as my sister, and her son, Lance, refered to me as Uncle Dan. Along with Liz, whom I consider my sister also, Kate is one of my best friends.

The day after St Patrick’s day I came out to Mum and Dad, which was, as you can imagine, a huge burden off my mind. After some initial teething problems, Mum came around; Dad didn’t give a shit from the start…finally I felt more myself in my own home.

May-August 2007
As the realisation that coming out to Sister was inevitable dawned on me, I suddenly suffered a bout of migraines at a rate of nearly two per week. Dr KHS, whom I started to believe was loosing his touch, advised cutting pain meds to see if they were the cause. Within a week or so I knew this wasn’t the case and went back to the normal dosage, however the migraines persisted.
As well as being migraine-prone, I found myself becoming depressed. The reason wasn’t clear at the time but with the benefit of hindsight I can see that it was all related to the intense sense of foreboding welling up inside me about Sister’s reaction. I sought shelter from the migraines and the depression in sleep. I was also struck at about this time that I forget how it feels to be totally healthy. Having been sick for eight years at this point, my last healthy memory was at the age of 14.

I came out to Sister on the 27th of May. We never spoke of it in any meaningful way for ten months. The migraines stopped soon after. The depression, on the other hand, continued. I felt trapped by illness and circumstance, hopeless, locked in a constant battle between my heart and my head.

September-October 2007
As the pain in my legs got worse and worse, Dr KHS switched the anti-convulsant (which I take as it blocks neural pain signals in the brain). I had every side-effect that the package warned against. I was nauseous, my knees were constantly inflamed, I was dizzy, spaced-out and all-in-all did a fabulous Anna Nicole Smith impression. I felt like a lab rat. The pain did go away after some time but the side-effects were way too much to bear. I couldn’t function at all and ultimately after a fortnight I switched back. The pain came back, followed by the vicious cycle of pain-drugs-nausea-sleep-pain. The high dose of pain killers left me in a perpetual haze. To add insult to injury I picked up gastro at some point.

I outed myself to the Family-at-Large by a rather cunning plan involving step cousins, the FAL’s natural propensity to gossip, and Facebook. Finally everyone knew and I didn’t have to lift more than a finger.

We sold Pop’s house. That was difficult.

November 2007-February 2008
I went to a neurologist; it was a waste of a morning. He was an odd little man and he told me nothing I didn’t already know. I did, however, get some stronger pain killers which made like a lot easier to deal with. I also changed anti-depressants from an SSRI (which I had been taking since the age of 17) to a tricyclic, which blocks pain signals as well as stabilising mood. I changed pain killers again and finally had a winner. CTs and X-rays revealed nothing. I started smoking weed to help with the stabbing pain in my back and shoulders. It helped too, it was a lot of fun in fact, but all in all no cause was found, nothing really helped in any permanent way… and so it continued. I struggled to get my head above water for a time but after I found my footing with the tricyclic antidepressant, my mood did eventually even out.

February 2008 onwards
I moved to Glebe into a house full of strangers. The Space Cadet makes life interesting. The Optimist and I are becoming good friends. The Guyanan and The Accountant I don’t have much to do with. Though my depression seemed to be under control, I was suddenly gripped with anxiety at having to fend for myself.

The pain in my back and shoulders continued to get worse; I continued popping pills (and have made a few faux-pas while under the influence…). As I write this, I am doped up and as soon as the effects wear off I will be writing again. Last night I got no sleep. I’m going to a chiropractor or physio on Monday. Someone has to be able to do something.

Life has to be better from this.

Doug and other anxieties

The week has not come to a peaceful conclusion.

Catch your breath,
Hit the wall,
Scream out loud,
As you start to crawl
Back in your cage
The only place
Where they will
Leave you alone.

Doug, the amiable bloke next door who appeared to be “quirky” on the first day, “a little strange” on the second and “downright weird” on the third has devolved into the housemate from hell by day eight. My theory (or which I am 95% sure) is that he is doing some kind of drugs and that the showers he takes aren’t showers at all, but in fact just him turning on the water to ensure I do not enter the bathroom while he does goodness-knows-what as he talks on the phone (and at times, yes, to himself) or lies on his bed (presumably) with the door to the bathroom open to ensure good ventilation for the smoke that would otherwise stagnate in his shoebox of a room. I know this because I can smell the smoke, I can tell he’s in his bedroom when he’s talking on the phone as the shower runs, the fact that he flushes the toilet while the shower is running, and the fact that the shower curtain doesn't move from one shower to the next nor does the shower head, which was pointing at the wall at one point. Last night the shower was running for an hour and a quarter and while it was only around dinner time, and hence not sleep-disturbing, it was still pissing me off nonetheless as I sat in my room watching TV and dwelling on all the strangeness in which I now find myself. I should point out, by the way, I have no issue with drugs being consumed. If he wants to take them then he is big enough to look after himself. It is the being woken at all hours by running water and the fact that by the time night falls there is not any hot water left that I take issue with.

There have been other incidents and evidences that indicate he is a few cards short, however I doubt that any of them would actually hold up outside of my circle of friends. I don’t want to complain because to be honest I just don't trust the guy not to hit me or set my room alight or something of that nature. Dad suggested encouraging him to think of the room as a shoebox in the hope he makes a move himself. This isn't an entirely ridiculous plan since the room is, and I promise I’m not exagerating, the same size as the laundry at my parents’ place.

This afternoon I decided to move my wardrobe in front of my door to the bathroom in an attempt to muffle the noise of his ostensible showers and his awful music from wafting unbidden into my space.

Locked inside
The only place
Where you feel sheltered,
Where you feel safe.
You lost yourself
In your search to find
Something else to hide behind.

So tonight, as I was attempting to go to sleep, I was dwelling on this issue and some others that have been on my mind during the week. As a consequence, I had an anxiety attack. It wasn’t pretty. Since the bad trip, I have had another major anxiety attack apart from tonight’s so I am a little worried, to be honest, that this may be a new and interesting symptom of something else under my medical belt. After I calmed myself I tried once again to fall asleep but my mind obstinately returned to the issues that are worrying me as I felt my pulse quicken and my breathing became shallow.

You don't know why they had to go this far,
Traded your worth for these scars,
For your only company.
And don't believe the lies
That they have told to you. Not one word was true
you're alright, you're alright, you're alright.

As some of you may already know, anxiety (and at times depression for that matter) has the uncanny knack of warping one’s thinking to the believe that ultimately if one cannot do or have something, that the world will end and one will die a horrible, nasty death (at least in my case, since on a good day I am petrified of death). The idea that everything can (and in all likelihood will) end in disaster is paralysing. I turned on the light and the laptop and decided to write a little about it in order to prevent it...it’s worked too, I feel much better. I realise that the things I’m worrying about haven’t gone away and that I still need to do some legwork to fix things up, but at least I can do it calmly, without fear of apocalypse or an untimely death.

The bad trip

Picture the scene: I’ve just lay down to go to sleep when...

“Fuck, I’m going to puke. Fuck fuck fuck. Shit shit I’m going hurl... No you aren’t, this happens, you take too much because you aren’t thinking straight and you get nausea. No biggy, just nausea, relax and you’ll get over it soon. No it isn’t and no I won’t. Man, I feel like shit. I feel like I’m drowning. DROWNING! Shit I’m going to drown. No you aren’t, you’re in bed, calm down, calm down. CALM!? How can I be calm!? I don’t feel well, I feel wrong, my skin doesn’t fit, I need new skin, I feel wrong wrong wrong, hot and clammy and wrong... Fuck I’m going puke. Oh man I’m sinking, my bed is eating me up. God help me help me help me please help me. Where are you? Why am I feeling this way? I overdid it overdid it overdid it. I need to throw up now. I should get Dad, Dad will know what to do Dad will help even if it’s just to tell me I’ll be ok I’ll be ok right? Yes, you’ll be fine, calm down. No no no. Have to puke, have to throw up now now now NOW! Hmm, maybe you’re right, maybe you’ll throw up, but it won’t be the end of the world. FUCK! Well come on then...”

At this point I think I started to hyperventilate. After the calm little voice in my head calmed my breathing I got out of bed and staggered to the toilet. When I got there I lay on the floor (the disgustingness of this act didn’t appear to phase me at the time, but at least I had the sense to angle my head towards the door and away from the actual bowl), curled up in the foetal position, and resumed my litany of anxiety...

“Ok what now? Fuck, I’m going to die here on the dunny floor, what a way to go, oh fuck oh my god oh fuck oh fuck”. More hyperventilation. “Will you calm down? Calm down! It’s not going to last, remember that, it’s not going to last. You’ll be ok in the morning.. It says so in the Bible. This is like a bad trip, fuck I’m having a bad trip, how fucking ironic. I’m going to die here I’m gonna die I’m gonna die. It’s ok, you won’t, don’t worry. Don’t worry!? Yes, don’t worry. I’m trying but I’m failing I’m failing I’m trying and I’m failing and... Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. It won’t work. I know it won’t last but I don’t give a shit because I have to deal with it now and now I’m freaking out and I’m lying on the toilet floor and no one knows and... Oi! Calm the FUCK DOWN! I’m trying. Hail Mary, full of grace...”

As I lay there, drenched in sweat, repeating the Hail Mary with varying shades of success in my addled mind, I managed to calm myself down to the point my breathing became slow and steady. I know it sounds trite but I feel that the praying is what did the trick. I knew that sitting up would be pushing it, so I stayed there on the floor until I felt I could get up. I stood, went back through the deserted house to my bedroom and lay down. The clock showed an hour had passed. I grabbed my teddy bear and held him tightly to my chest as I drew my knees up to my chin. I was still unsure as to whether I would die in my sleep or live through this somehow.

But I did. And that, my friends, is what happens when you mix drugs the wrong way.