Category Archives: Psychiatry

steering my boat


This is as complete of a story as I can make of some things that I have either done or have had happen to me in the last couple of months since I last posted my rant about psychiatrists, medications, and mental health in America.  Since that post, it’s pretty easy to break time down into three main chunks: that last post until 7/11, 7/11-22, and 7/22 to now, 8/23.

Between my last post and 7/11, I basically ranted and raved on Twitter about the various mental health-related injustices of the world and researched that and related topics until I had circled back to The Icarus Project, the first serious alternative mental healthcare website I ever ran across.  They’re often classified as anti-psychiatry, but they’re just highly critical of psychiatry.  As am I now.  I need meds: I’m not stupid and I’m aware enough of my mental and emotional processes to understand that I need chemical help from time to time.  But not to the extent that Western psychiatry insists I do.  Nor should many of the thoughts and thought processes I have be dismissed as pathological.

Around the same time, a terrible old feeling set in, the sensation that “every day is exactly the same” that I had for at least four years, if not more.  I had been taking an antipsychotic fairly regularly for about 3 weeks, at first for sleep problems, then for anxiety, then just for basic mood maintenance.  That sucker kicked in and life ground to a halt, just like it had been the year before when I was taking meds I didn’t need.  After three days of joyless existence, I said, “Oh hell no, we’re not doing this shit again,” and I threw two meds in the trash after making sure I wasn’t taking a dose high enough to require tapering (I wasn’t).  Luckily I was using a mood tracker by then, so it was easy to quickly identify what was wrong.  I also shot off an email to my old acupuncturist in the hopes she could help.

Serendipitously, pretty much at the same time I decided to take a different approach to treating my mental illness, my oldest and best friend sent me a link on 7/11 to a regrettably now-deceased gentleman who had had a very similar experience to mine.  A couple of clicks later and I found myself at the ACISTE website: the American Center for the Integration of Spiritually Transformative Experiences.  That pretty much kicked a door wide open and I spent the next few days reading about things like spiritual crisis, spiritual emergence, spiritual awakening, kundalini awakening, and several related topics.  I looked at the list of bipolar/mania symptoms and compared it to the list of typical “awakening” symptoms, and there was no comparison.  A skeptical psychiatrist would accuse me of seeing what I want to see, obscured by faulty mental processes, but I’ve got a really strong reality check in the form of a well-rounded and intelligent yet open-minded husband who has no problem telling me if I’ve got a really wacky idea, and that’s not the feedback I was getting.

7/17 began like most days, but it was pretty clear by mid-morning that my mind had taken off on a journey of its own, though not like the one it went on in May.  I took note of it with more than a bit of alarm, but I felt pretty good and fairly grounded.  I sent an email to X letting him know what was going on upstairs with the admonition DO NOT CALL MY SHRINK.  I DO NOT NEED HIS HELP YET.  I did ask him to call the pharmacy and refill one of my scrips, though, just in case.

The details of the next five days are important, but I’m still sorting them out, and they’re very personal, so I’m not willing to share much from all that, except to say that I had a divine encounter, and no one can tell me otherwise.  Anyone who wants to argue with me needs to watch Contact and then we can talk.  Just be prepared for a lengthy discussion about Occam’s Razor.

I will say this, though: you know that scene in The Matrix where Tank plugs Neo in for the first time and teaches him ju-jitsu in five seconds?  That pained face followed by “holy shit I’ll have some more of that please”?  It was a lot like that.  While surfing.  Now I’m on shore emptying my head as fast as I can, and learning to accept that I will never, ever be able to chase every ball that my brain spits out.  As such, I’m learning to be selective about which balls to chase, knowing that if I let one go, if it’s really important I’ll circle back to it, or it to me.  It also means I’m glued to my phone most of the time, because at the moment I need access to one of my apps to record my thoughts, pictures, photos, etc., or just to listen to music or something else audio: my ambient environment has become exceedingly important to me after ignoring it for…I don’t know how long.

My little trip was over by 7/23, and I pretty much took the week off.  I didn’t tweet, I didn’t blog, and at the time I had not yet resumed the practice of keeping a daily document, something I began in June and promptly dropped around the same time as my last blog post, though I was tweeting madly at the time so there’s a record of my thoughts until 7/17.  I was reading, though, mostly topics I was once familiar with but had abandoned long ago: magick, witchcraft, and astrology, mostly, with a heaping helping of Hinduism and a dash of Buddhism, largely set in a Jungian structure that I shaped to my own purposes.  My spiritual framework is, um, eclectic and syncretic, to say the least.  There’s something to offend and/or please everyone in my world, depending on their viewpoint.  Monotheists?  Well, we need to talk about dualism, but sure.  Polytheists?  Ah, my people!  Agnostics? Would love to chat.  Atheists?  If you’re one of those dickhead atheists that is basically a fundamentalist without belief, then no, not unless you’re willing to talk about how you missed the point and wound up right back at dogma.  Good work.  Witches?  I’ll see you folks in October, it’s been too long.  Magicians?  See the witches, but if one of you can talk chaos, we need to sit down.  Did I miss anyone?

By the end of that week, I was back to “okay, I must write some of this stuff down before I forget it” and resumed daily writing on August 1, Lughnasadh.  I’ve managed to write something, sometimes a lot, almost every day since then.  I have a lot of mental energy in the morning, so I get up, usually with X around 7am, make coffee, listen to music and fiddle with my phone while I wait for it, sit outside and smoke and either think or fiddle with my phone some more, and until this past Monday, then I went back upstairs and sat in bed and worked all morning until lunch, ate, then did less mentally strenuous stuff in the afternoon unless my brain was on a roll I couldn’t stop, a common situation I’m working to address.  I also try not to “work” in the evenings, again, unless my brain just will not shut up, in which case I’ve gotten used to watching/not-watching a movie or show while I take notes and do stuff on my phone.

I had already undertaken the task of creating a timeline using Facebook, Twitter, emails, and blog posts to reconstruct, as best as I could, my mental state since October of last year, which was when I first posted after months of silence, but before I had stopped taking the most offending meds.  I had also begun the daunting but fascinating task of looking at the astrological transits for certain important dates.  That would turn out to be a very eye-opening exercise.  Let’s just say I no longer doubt the validity of astrology, though I’m willing to bet I don’t use it the way most astrologers do, not entirely.  That’s another post, though.

After a few days of sorting, collating, collecting, and condensing data from various sources, I had enough information to spit out a bullet list of important points.  I showed it to X and he was like, “hmmm, that needs fleshing out”.  Right.  I kept at it, being slightly desperate to share my experience with someone, as I had been fairly tight-lipped about the inner goings-on of my head.  At the same time, I was anticipating my next shrink appointment and wondering what in the hell to tell him.  I couldn’t figure that out until I ran it all by X, so one day I did my best to give him the Reader’s Digest version of the previous 2.5 months: seven pages came out.  I waited for his response with a bit of trepidation, really hoping I didn’t get, “honey, we need to talk about your medication”.

I didn’t.  I got, basically, “that’s really beautiful and wonderful and I hope you chase as many balls as you can because that’s great stuff, and you shouldn’t tell ANY of it to your shrink, because he doesn’t care about that and he’ll take it the wrong way”.  Ah, validation two ways.  With that, I was able to silence the ongoing anticipatory argument I kept having in my head with my shrink.

Everything has just kind of shifted and clicked into place since then, and shifts and clicks again every time I get a new tool, or make a new connection, or rediscover something old I left behind for whatever reason.  I sort of feel like part of me has been keeping an eye on myself for a really long time, and whenever I dropped something important, it would pick it back up and tuck it into my subconscious for safekeeping, knowing I’d need it one day.  When I need something, I don’t have to look too hard for it, if at all (with the exception of my truck title, but that’s another story).  Typically I’ve already encountered it and just need to remember it, or it’s something I’m already using and need to look at in a different way.  Sometimes it’s a book.  Sometimes it’s a movie.

Sometimes it’s a person.

At some point during the last couple of weeks and doing my best to record the not-always-predictable stream of thoughts in my head, I was like, “okay, I have to find someone to talk to about this stuff”.  I started wondering about local therapists that wouldn’t immediately throw me out of their office and send me back to my shrink, and one of my old therapists from when I went to the local sliding scale clinic popped into my head, and not for the first time since I stopped seeing him five years ago.  “THAT GUY” I said.  Okay.  So I sent an email with the hopes that he would remember me, and he did.  He also had biweekly appointments available on Wednesday mornings.  Perfect.  I’ll save my first visit for a separate post, but I feel fairly confident in saying that I have found the right person to be my guide for the time being, something that just about every awakening forum on the internet says you should do.  He seems to speak all my languages, and that’s a really tall order right now.

At the moment, I’m trying not to get lost in the details or burden myself with too many tools.  “Keep it simple” really is my motto right now, and if I’m trying to organize something and it’s in groups of more than four, I know I need to scale it back.  I try to start with two.  Too much?  Fine, just use one.  Once I can handle two of something, I move onto three.  Then four.  Those are pretty much my instructions from the Universe, for lack of a better term, for the foreseeable future, which really grates against a couple of parts of me, but there’s that whole “trust the process” thing, so I’m just going with it.  Most of my anxiety and impatience comes from a practical perspective.  X has been the main breadwinner for a damn long time, and since I began slowly checking out one psyche aspect at a time beginning ???, he has slowly done his best to take over the running of the house and caring of the family.  It’s high time he had some help, especially if we have any hope of having a decent retirement and not working ourselves into the grave.  But that’s way, way in the future and I’m not supposed to think that far ahead, so I just have to pull back sometimes and go back to contemplating things and putting them together.  My head is working on something.  I don’t know what it is yet, but I know what it’s made of, so I’m pretty sure the result will be pretty interesting, and it will come along at the right time.  Somewhere down the line, maybe sooner than I need but probably longer than I want, everything unfolds.

Until then, I start each day with either passive or active excitement for what the day might bring.  Sometimes I have a plan and wake up all ready to go, or even before I’m ready to go, like yesterday when I woke up at 2:30am for no good reason despite being dog-tired.  Other days I’m just open to whatever comes.

At the moment, I see my internal thoughtstream like a river flowing through a forested mountain range.  Each day I get up and hop into my mental boat and push off.  Some days I have an idea of where I’d like to go, but I don’t always wind up there.  Rarely, in fact.  So often that I have largely abandoned that mindset and just start paddling.  I make notes and observations as I go.  Some days the trip is fairly placid and occasionally even boring, but not usually.  Sometimes the river is merely a passive vehicle and my job is to observe the scenery.  Other days the river is turbulent and I have to pay more attention to it than what’s around me if I don’t want to capsize.  Some days are like today: the river is very slow and wide with a lot of eddies along the banks to get stuck in: those are frustrating days.  Sometimes I’m in unfamiliar territory I don’t recognize.  And sometimes I can’t find a safe place on the shore to park my boat for the night so I can get some sleep, so I stay there.  I don’t like sitting still so I usually just keep paddling.  Those are the nights I wake up early, if I ever went to sleep, and just think, surf, read, take notes, watch YouTube, and generally follow my desires.  A potentially bad time is when the river is flowing so swiftly I can’t reach the bank, and I just have to ride it until the current slows and hope the rapids aren’t too bad and the rocks are few.  And it always does eventually.  If it doesn’t, I have “dams” up and downstream to control the waterflow, with meditation and other tools, and block it if utterly necessary with drugs.  Most of the time, though, I am happy to hop into my mental boat, even excited on occasion.

Every now and then I’m like, “Fuck it, I’m not getting on the river today,” and that is totally fine.  I may be under the guidance of divine influences, but I’m the one in control of this ride (mostly), and if I don’t want to ride that day, most of the time I don’t have to.  Sometimes, though, my psyche is like, “Ok, come on, let’s go, we’re going on a trip. Nope, not telling you where we’re going, just sit down, shut up, and hang on.  And pay attention, there’ll be a quiz.”  I just sigh internally, reach down and tighten the laces on the combat boots my inner self is still wearing from 1995, and get in.

Working on myself is fun, but it’s hard.  There’s a lot of locks to pick in here.  And secret passageways.  And the occasional booby trap, though since I’m the one that made them, they can’t really hurt me.  All they do is slam the door shut and send me back to where I was.  It just means I’m not ready to look there yet.  It’s all good, everything circles back around eventually.  For now, my psyche has a torch, a key, and a dog, and that’s pretty much all I need.  She wanders, I observe and take notes, and at some point we get together and see what we have.  Right now I’ve got an assload of really interesting data that doesn’t pull together to really go anywhere solid, but I have total faith that a pattern will emerge.  Scientists laughed at pilots for two decades before admitting the existence of the jet stream.  Just because I see something others don’t doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

I leave you with my favorite quote for the week from Matrix: Reloaded

We can never see past the choices we don’t understand. – The Oracle

Week From Hell


Well, it has been one hell of a week, lemme tellya.  Hell of a month, really, but things really came to a head this past week.  I went from being pretty damned happy, though not too happy I don’t think, yet still suffering from physical effects of mania, not mental ones, to being pharmaceutically dragged from my lofty perch to very unnecessary depths which actually still left my brain way up where my doctor was trying to get it down from, and that was not the right approach.  All he did was induce what psychology calls a “mixed state”, something seemingly unique to bipolar disorder in which the various aspects of the body, mind, and soul/psyche fail to operate at the same speed anymore. Instead of bringing me back down to what he considered Earth, he threw me way out of equilibrium and as a result very nearly made me suicidal.

Which leads me to the same conclusion I made while I was having my psychotic break a month ago and was observing parts of the Universe as well as the inner mind that led me to an irrefutable, to me, truth: psychs, therapists, and shrinks are fucking with shit they do NOT understand.  Not enough, anyway, for way too many of us. If they knew as much as they like to pretend they do, then we would not have this problem we have today of both medical psychiatric practitioners as well as therapeutic practitioners doing the equivalent of playing darts with drugs and therapies until they find something that sticks.  Sometimes this works out really well, like with my kid, who was given the right antidepressant and anxiolytic the first time out. He got super lucky. A lot of people don’t.

So my husband and I along with my shrink have been discussing/arguing over what to do about the “crash” I experienced a few days ago as well as how to address what has been both correctly yet incorrectly viewed as my suffering from “mania”.  Mostly they discuss and then present what they think to me, and then I argue, because I haven’t made myself clear to either one of them, particularly my shrink. Yes, my physical being has been in a high state of mania that has prevented basic things like sleeping and eating enough.  However, my mental activities when I was awake, which were very focused but not uninterruptible, were actually operating on a pretty normal level for perhaps the first time in my life. I was pretty happy, but not excessively so, and I was busy, but not excessively so, and I was re-experiencing things like writing, sex, and dancing, again, not excessively so.  Except perhaps the sex but quite frankly after my husband I having not had decent sex in probably five years if not more, I think I can be forgiven for wanting to make up for lost time.

Unfortunately, my first visit to my shrink was just a few days after I really began to spiral out of control, and just before my actual psychotic break, which lasted about a day or so, to my admittedly fuzzy memory.  At this visit he put me on a brand-new antipsychotic (and therefore horribly expensive so he was giving us samples) as well as an anti-anxiety agent that has been used for a very long time, although its use as such is off-label.  He said both were very mild and would not result in a screeching halt to my thought processes or a hammer to the psyche. That sounded good to me, because part of me was enjoying the intellectual and other epiphanies I was experiencing as my brain spiraled out of control.  And I know that’s a danger of bipolar disorder: getting hooked on that amazingly creative and introspective state of mind that allows for truly genius connections. So I was happy to take something that would supposedly not seriously affect that state of mind but allow me to establish some control over the speed of the mental vehicle.

However, since I was essentially not yet finished with the process that brought me to his office, at least one of his prescriptions was very premature.  Fortunately since it was slow-acting, it didn’t interrupt the major central transformative and healing process that took place over probably a week, culminating in a night of panic attacks that forced me to reconnect with the one person in my vicinity: my husband.  I hate to say “forced” because that makes it sound like it was an unwilling activity on my part, but that’s not true. While the panic was awful, it allowed me to pierce straight through all those shit-colored lenses of perception that had been laid over my “eyes” over varying amounts of time and from different life situations, and be able to SEE my husband for who he really was, the main message of whom during that panicky night was “I’m safe, I won’t hurt you.”  Which was demonstrated repeatedly over the night as my brain over and over again left my body and then snapped back in a state of utter terror and confusion.

By the time I woke up in the morning, all, and I do mean all, of the negative baggage that I had un/subconsciously projected against him had fallen away.  And that baggage and its associated lenses of perception had also fallen away from other aspects of my life, largely involving my kid and therefore many parts of my own childhood.  My thoughts and emotions were no longer so far away that they could not be controlled, so it was much, much easier to avoid negative states of mind that I had previously been ruled by for decades and that caused me to behave in…very unpleasant ways, especially towards my child.

Now it did take a couple of days to get a handle on those newfound, much closer emotions, though I never got angry like I had before.  If anything, I was able to tell when anger might be approaching, grab it before it got too far, identify it, and be able to do something such as say to my kid, “Hey, you’re doing something I’ve asked you not to do repeatedly, yet you’re still doing it, and if you don’t stop I’m going to really lose it on you and I know you hate that, and I hate it, so let’s not go there, okay?  Just do what needs to be done.”

And lo and behold, when presented very directly yet kindly, sometimes sternly, in my newfound non-angry Mom Voice, he would usually blink or nod and go do whatever I wanted him to do, or not do, depending on the situation.  It even worked on my nephew, who is very neurodivergent and much of his behavior is based in unpredictable chaos, so it’s hard to get through to him. I did, though, much to I think both of our relief.

And thus I spent a couple of really wonderful weeks actually enjoying true happiness, although because I was essentially like a newborn baby, I had to re-experience things like food, which was really weird for a while and still is sometimes.  I still haven’t eaten anything sweet besides my coffee and pumpkin bread, or had any soda. I discovered dancing, and then I couldn’t stop bringing my phone everywhere to listen to music and dance, though it was usually dancing in my kitchen waiting for my coffee to brew.  I spent days listening to music and making YouTube and Spotify playlists not just for myself, but for a larger project I had in mind, and still do. I brushed off my blog, picked a new theme, and started organizing it while I wrote new blog posts about my experience. No, I wasn’t getting enough sleep, and food intake, while improving, was still on the low side.  I was also smoking a lot and drinking a lot of coffee, but honestly that’s not so unusual for a writer and as far as I’m concerned is a minor problem I can tackle later.

Then the antipsychotic that my shrink gave me at that first visit started to kick in, rather slowly at first, but then plunging me into darkness much like the first hill on a roller coaster.  Only I wasn’t coming back up like the roller coaster does. I ground to a near halt, spending two nights in a row crying into my food in the middle of crowded restaurants because that window to happiness had been painted black and the door nailed shut, cutting me off from the writing, the dancing, and most importantly, the sex.  All of it, just gone in the space of about 24 hours. I felt like the world’s most cruel joke had been played on me and while I did not find myself contemplating suicide, that big black door that represents it was sitting RIGHT THERE. I took a look at that fucker, as did my Inner Voice which to me had been squelched, and they both went “nope”, and went to bed with every intention of staying there until this horrible wave passed and/or something was done about the medication regimen.  I had never, not once, been so sad and unhappy, and damn that is saying a LOT.

To make things even worse, the “crash” had done absolutely nothing about the perceived primary issues of my supposed “mania”: the lack of sleep and the poor eating.  It was like someone had set demolition charges to blow up a certain section of a building only to find that when the detonation occurred, unforeseen connections in the building’s infrastructure nearly caused the whole thing to collapse, with me in it!

Fortunately I am not a building, I’m a person, and I know my brain can heal itself under the right circumstances.  Yet I was going to have to go through several days of discussing/arguing with my shrink over how best to treat this “crash”.  And pretty much everything he recommended went way against my Inner Voice and how I thought this should be approached, and in my newly agitated state of mind I typically reacted angrily about it.  He wanted to increase the antipsychotic and have me start retaking another drug that had been one of the direct causes of several years of my life during which “every day is exactly the same”, to use the Nine Inch Nails song.  And it was true. “I believe I can see the future, because I repeat the same routine” was my mantra for years, and I will not tell you about the disgusting and filthy state of affairs I allowed my body, clothes, and general surroundings to descend into while I was in that state of mind.  I.DID.NOT.CARE.

Fortunately I had railed to my husband about that particular drug and what it did to me and he was able to convey that to my shrink without my having to go into it, and at least on the phone he said that was fine.  And I was befuddled and angered by the suggestion that I increase the dosage on the antipsychotic, which we had previously DEcreased because of side effects and did not seem to be doing what we wanted it to. To my mind’s Inner guiding Voice, none of this made rational sense, and it had been keeping a very careful watch on me during the entire process, so I was very reluctant to ignore it.

I was very angry and panicky for a few days after the crash because I was repeatedly being given untenable options for how to deal with it, much to my husband’s consternation, who was having trouble dealing with not only my anger, but my growing inability to properly communicate my thoughts and feelings because of the rising panic.  I could not talk to my shrink on the phone because a) I knew I’d get into an irrational state with him because b) he was going to try to argue with me based on his perception that I was not thinking clearly, and I knew for a fact that I was, unless I was being actively panicky.

Friday I was prescribed two more drugs that I was trepidatious-bordering on-angry about, another antipsychotic for sleep that I had taken before and gotten bad muscle twitches from, and a common mood stabilizer that I had said many times before that I would never take again.  That particular day had started out relatively okay, but grew into depression as the day wore on, and rage when I noticed how much of one of the drugs he had prescribed to me. I had been emailing him the entire time, and I wondered if he had even read them, seeing as how he seemed to be doing the exact opposite of what I wanted or needed him to.  I was tired and wanted to go to bed, so I angrily took my meds, even the new one, and stomped upstairs where I blew up at my husband again, not because I was angry at him, but just because I was angry, as well as frightened and confused.

As we drifted off to sleep, he said he had some ideas he wanted to talk about in the morning about my mental state and the drugs I was taking.  I agreed and we went to sleep.

In the morning, I had indeed slept for several hours in a row, but my back hurt terribly because I don’t think I ever moved, my mouth was dry as the damned Sahara, and I was very groggy from the additional antipsychotic I had been given for sleep.  I decided right then and there that that would be an on occasion only drug to be used only when I had too many nights in a row without adequate sleep.

My husband I attempted to create a timeline for the drugs I had taken over the years along with start and stop dates, and dates of onset for different mental states I had experienced.  It was very clear almost immediately which drugs were responsible for what, which my Inner Voice and I had already suspected and were merely confirming. We did the same for the much shorter time span beginning late last year when I began ending taking those drugs one at a time, and again for the time span of the last month that began with my spiral on May 21.

The long and the short of it was that my experience was being misinterpreted and therefore mistreated, much to my detriment.  Amazingly, at the same time, my shrink answered an email I had written the day before, in which he AGAIN tried to convince me that I needed to increase the antipsychotic and add a mood stabilizer, his favorite of which was the “every day is exactly the same” drug.

I didn’t lose it this time, though I was rather incredulous.  However, since my husband and I had been nailing all this shit down all morning, I was able to craft a “good morning and good timing” email in which I laid out much of what you just read, but not before making the statement that no, I would not be taking that particular drug anymore, I would not take the other drug again, and the other new/old drug he gave me would not be taken in as high a dose as he wanted me to, at least not yet.  I would also be treating the sleep meds much more carefully. I also rejected his assertion that I needed a mood stabilizer, but said I was willing to discuss it.

I didn’t put him down or yell at him or express any of the other negativity that my knee-jerk reactions were producing towards him earlier in the week, I just laid it all out as simply as I could that he did not understand what happened to me, and was therefore mistreating it, dangerously so.

It’s the weekend and he doesn’t like email, so I do not expect a reply until my visit with him on Tuesday, at which point we’ll find out whether he accepts what he read and is willing to respect my autonomy and newfound knowledge and experience, or if he persists in wanting me to take drugs that I am pretty damned sure will NOT help me.

And this is the power struggle that so many mentally ill/neurodivergent people in crisis find themselves in, and regrettably a lot of them do not seem to have the internal cogence that I do that allows me to be able to determine which drugs are good for me and which ones are bad.  And there is the further problem of potentially not being taken seriously because it is assumed that because you have X disorder and/or are in crisis, you are therefore incapable of thinking rationally. And at least for me, that’s bullshit.

That may indeed be the case for a lot of people, and I can even see where it might apply to myself in the right circumstances, but that would require a profound loss of my ethical, rational, and logical mental structures again that I do not think will happen, as that baggage has been processed now.  My breakdown served a huge purpose which has been largely fulfilled, leaving me with so much energy and fodder for further exploration that I will be happily busy writing for quite some time, provided that ending taking that one drug has the intended result, which I believe it will, since it’s not even doing what it’s supposed to be doing in the first place.  Sorry, FAIL. Next!

My huge fears right now are that a) the ability to dance never returns, which is vastly overshadowed by the fear that b) my libido, finally recaptured and then cruelly yanked away again, never returns.  My Inner Voice tries to tell me that won’t happen, though, that I just have to wait for this shit to wear off, which might take a few weeks, and that I will indeed be able to dance and enjoy sex again. And I admit that itself may actually take another drug of some sort, although I hope not.  I have discovered that my physical body, which underwent some really amazing and strange changes that I will have to write about to be believed, along with my mind/soul/psyche, are in careful balance that are dependent on another, much like the orbit of the planets in the Solar System. Fuck with one, and the entire system goes to shit.  Ask any astronomer what the Earth would be like without the Moon. TL;DR – bad, bad things that would likely prevent the formation of life on the planet in the first place. Let’s not even discuss what would happen if there were no Jupiter.

I am no different.  Part of psychology and psychiatry’s problem is that it often treats what is wrong in the brain while failing to address or even acknowledge the elephant in the room that carries it: the rest of the human body.  Which is probably why we have so many psychiatric drugs that carry profound physical symptoms, many of which are unbearable to the user. It’s a terrible and, to me, unacceptable tradeoff that I will no longer engage in, even if I’m back to eating bananas and only sleeping for two hours at a time, because I know that state of mind/body will not last forever and while it may look wrong from the outside, dammit I’m happy!  No, not TOO happy, just happy, and true happiness has been so rare in my life it’s hard to describe.

If you could walk in my life’s shoes, not only would you stumble in my footsteps, you’d crawl back to me on your hands and knees, bleeding, scarred, and sobbing for me to take my shoes back.  And then maybe you would understand what I will and will not sacrifice for this long-fought for happiness, and why I was so upset that it and vital parts of it were ripped away from me almost as I was just beginning to enjoy them.

Me and my baby soul still have a website and its menus to wrangle, and blog posts to finish that were started over the last few weeks.  In the meantime I just have to check in with my Inner Voice, aka The Goddess, and get reassured that things will return to my new normal, not someone else’s.