It's been a long time...

I know it's been a long time since I wrote here. I actually haven't had much of a public presence at all for months.

To be honest, I was in a very dark place. I didn't have the energy to pick up my computer and write anything here. It might've helped me work out some issues. But I just couldn't do it. I was drained physically and emotionally. My physical health was declining rapidly and my mental health followed.

The doctors still can not find out what's wrong with me health-wise. It's frustrating as most of my time is spent waiting. To see certain doctors, I often have to wait 2-3 months for a first appointment. They don't consider my health an emergency. So day in and day out, as sick as I am, they don't care.

I think I just finally snapped. Felt I had no hope anymore. I became horribly depressed. I was ready to accept that this is my life and I wanted to just sit back and let it take over.

I can't really say what changed. I don't know why I finally pulled myself out of that dark place. But I am working on it. I won't say that I'm all better. That would be a lie. When the sickness hits, of course I get emotional. I'm frustrated, I'm sad, I feel pathetic and hopeless. Moments like that probably affect anyone with a chronic illness. And I need to stop beating myself up when I feel down.

And I need to remember to get back up again each time I fall down.

I have renewed strength. I'm determined to fight.

I'm going to be pretty busy with the holidays coming up. I usually love Christmas and I want to make this a good one. Even if we can't afford a ton of gifts. I'll still decorate and cook and bake as much as my body will allow! And I'll try to pop in on here more often.

I want to thank all of you who have contacted me in the past few months asking if I was ok. I am grateful to know I am thought of and worried about. I'll try not to scare you all again like that!

Depression doesn't discriminate

By now, I'm sure you all have heard about Robin Williams and his suicide. I thought long and hard about writing about it. I wasn't sure if it was right. Respectful. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. Especially when I started hearing the negativity.

Depression and mental illness doesn't discriminate. It doesn't care if you're rich or poor. Your race, your religion. Your upbringing or your genetics. It doesn't care what you do for a living. It doesn't even care if you're an honest and good person.

I know not every understands that level of depression. The very most bottom of rock bottom. Or what it feels like to go even lower than that. People say it's selfish. People say it's dumb. Maybe people just don't understand.

Depression doesn't discriminate. But people do. People judge you by the clothes you wear. By the jobs you do. By the house you live in. And by your mental state.

I won't sit here and say that what Robin Williams did was ok. I can't condone suicide. But I can't say it was wrong either. Just sad. Sad that anyone could hurt that much. Could see no other way. And it's not just him I'm sad for. Not just the famous ones. I feel for the average person who struggles day by day.

Depression doesn't discriminate. And neither should we.

I ask of you to do this. Smile at a stranger. Compliment them, help them, be kind to them. You never know, maybe they are at rock bottom too and that simple smile shifts something. Maybe even saves a life.

If you are suffering from depression, please know you aren't alone. There's such a stigma around mental illness. But you are NOT alone. There's websites, forums, friends, family, therapists, and even me.

Yes me. I will listen. I won't judge. Because I've been there.

Robin Williams, may you finally find peace. And may the world grow more understanding of mental illness and depression so people can come out of hiding and say, "I need help," without fear. The help is there. And it doesn't discriminate either.

Been some time - Medical stuff

I haven't been here in quite a while. Honestly, I haven't been on my computer much at all in the past couple weeks. I've been dealing with medical stuff.

First was the endoscopy. That was a horrible experience. I wasn't sedated enough before the procedure. I found myself choking and gagging and crying as this tube was shoved down my throat. Naturally, I fought against it. Tried to turn my head. And this led to injury. I was in a lot of pain for many days after. Because the tube had rubbed all down my throat and esophagus. They biopsied some stuff in my stomach too. So that hurt as well. Eating and drinking was difficult.

My mom had taken me and she was a big help with the anxiety before the procedure. I felt safe. Which is good, since I wasn't allowed my Xanax before hand. No food or water for at least 12 hours.

But after... they wouldn't let me see my mother in recovery. In fact, the hospital staff pretty much rushed me out of the hospital as quickly as humanly possible afterwards. I think they wanted to avoid a scene. I didn't get to see my mom until they had wheeled me out to her car. I got in and told her how it went and I cried. Oh my mother, she wanted to punch someone and she's the least violent person I know!

Recovery was difficult. And once that was done, it was time to prep for the colonoscopy. I'll spare you the details. It's not fun. They give you this drink to clean out your colon and I was on a liquid only diet. I went 38 hours without food.

My boyfriend took me, but he was not allowed in the prep room or recovery. And I know he was very upset about not being able to hold my hand before, as my mom did with the endoscopy. Thankfully, I was allowed to take Xanax this time so I managed the anxiety ok considering.

This procedure went better tho. I had the same doctor perform it and he remembered the last time, so he doubled up on the sedatives. The room swam and I told the male nurse, who was giving me the meds, that I loved him. Then I fell asleep. I woke up once, in a fog, feeling pain and I may or may not have cried out. Next thing I knew, I was in a different room. Woke up, went back to sleep. Woke up again. Knew for a fact that I was indeed in recovery. I could've gone back to sleep but decided to wake up and get the heck out of there. Who wants to stay longer than they need to in a hospital? Plus, I needed to get back to the boyfriend. It had been over an hour and I'm sure he was flipping out.

I had more biopsies done. And days later, I am still in pain. Those sedatives did a number to me too and I slept for the most part of two days. But I prefer that to being awake during it!

I have another test this monday. Imaging. I have to not eat again, and then drink barium (yuck) and have some images taken of my insides. Then we shall finally see my doctor again and go over all the tests.

I hope they find something. I hope this is all over soon. Or it could still just be beginning. Who knows. None of this has been easy. A part of me wanted to just pretend I was ok and avoid these tests. But I can't do that. I can't hide anymore and pretend I'm not sick. I need answers. We need answers. It's not fair to my loved ones anymore. It's not fair to me. I want my life back. And I'm hoping that we're on the right track.

Had quite the manic outburst today. They have become rare in the past 5 years. But wow they were they ever present in the past. Real violent fits. Guess that's why I dated a guy who abused me. Cuz I could beat him back. I could throw shit at his head and it was normal. We'd tackle each other with knives in our hands. Smack each other. I used to stab holes in the walls of my childhood bedroom. I had so much rage. So much hurt. And no outlet. Except my photography.

Maybe I need to find my way back to that. Because I do carry rage. And guilt. And I have no place to let it go. My therapy isn't covered by my insurance.

So I lashed out. And it sucked. I don't want to be that messed up girl I used to be. I don't want to be lost. I don't want to be angry anymore either.

God help me find the way out of this pit. This was rock bottom. I hurt the one I love most in this world. I don't want to be that person.

I hope all these tests find something so they can fix my body. Once it's fixed, I can fix my mind too. Because 3 years has been long enough. I want to take my life back. And it won't be easy. It won't be fast. But I'll change. Same as before. I was a normal, healthy functioning person once. I can be that again.

Productive Day

Today was a good productive day. In spite of all the comments that I woke up to today calling me an alcoholic panhandler, begging for money to support my "addiction."

First let me say that I have emetophobia. A fear of vomiting. Do you know what alcoholics do? They drink till they throw up. So guess what I don't do?! Bingo. One drink. Not even every day. Not during the day. Not in the mornings. Not until I'm drunk. Not even until I'm buzzed.

See, my doctor decided today that he didn't want to refill my anti-nausea medication anymore. I found this out today at the pharmacy when they said they never heard back from the doctor. Apparently, since I saw a specialist once, and had zero tests done, that the doctor should know what's causing my nausea by now and that I don't need the pills. You're freaking kidding me right??

I don't know what healthcare is like where some of you live. Other countries. Even outside of California. But here, the free healthcare is a damn joke. And I can't afford other healthcare because I have pre-existing medical condition which means they can charge me $600 a month if they so wanted. So, free healthcare it is! But all the doctors who accept this healthcare are over booked since now everyone was forced to get health insurance. They had to change the requirements for free health care so more people could get it. People like me. I've only had the plan for a few months now. But let's just say it's a pain in the ass. The only doctors I could find are a half hour away at least. In traffic, more like an hour.

Anyway, so I was at the pharmacy, trying to get my pills and had to call the doctor and that's when they decided I don't need the pills. The pills that I have been on for 3 years so I can eat! The pills that don't cure the nausea but take the edge off a little so I can get nourishment.

Now I have to find another doctor. I know of one that will give me the pills but she isn't covered by my healthcare and will cost $60 to see. We'll have to scrounge up some change and take in the recycling so we can pay it. But whatever we need to do, we'll do so I can have those pills. Irvin told me so. He won't let me go without. And I love him for it.

So once I dealt with that fiasco, I managed to run other errands and get everything done on my list for today. All of it! 4 different places and I didn't have a panic attack once. My mother, who helps me run errands once a week because no one wants me driving when I now black out and faint or am taking Xanax, was very proud of me. Even of how I handled the whole pharmacy pill fiasco.

Finished the grocery shopping, had lunch, did the dishes. Now it's time to give my duck a bath. And then get dinner going.

I want to thank my friends, fans and family. I was strong today because of you. And my mom. Thank you mom for reminding me that I'm a good person, with a good heart, who may have thin skin, but it comes with being mentally ill. And also she flat out told me that if she thought I were an alcoholic, she'd smack me and ground me. I'm 31 and taller than her, but she's Japanese, so I don't doubt for a second that she would ground me. Probably take away my video games or something and make me stare at the wall.

You haters may be trying to break me down. But guess what, all you did was anger me. You don't get to win. You won't break me. Because I know who I am. I know what's in my heart. I know the physical illness that plagues my body. And I know the mental illness that seeps into my soul. You empowered me.

And from this point on, non-constructive comments will be deleted.

I want my fellow suffers to come back out of hiding and continue to share their stories with me. With us. With this blog. We will talk of our hardships and our triumphs. We will share tears and laughter. But we will not judge here. We will not insult. We will not break down those who are already suffering. YOU will not break down someone who is already suffering. I won't let the dozens of people who emailed me with their stories to have to deal with it. I will be the barrier. I will speak out for those who haven't found their voices.

Enough with the drama - here's my health update

For those of you who are actually following the story, I suffer from Chronic Illness. And I'm not talking about the bipolar disorder or the panic attacks. Physical illness that leaves me too sick to work. To do much of anything really. I am nauseous 24/7. My bones ache in places I never knew possible. And yes, it's embarrassing, but also bad diarrhea. I faint from a lack of certain vitamins because my body can't get nutrients when you throw everything up. I also suffer from exhaustion (I just fall asleep randomly and was NEVER able to nap before due to the bipolar disorder), black outs and memory loss. I can not drive a car as it's unsafe in case these things happen behind the wheel.

So I finally saw a specialist yesterday. Why has it taken me 3 years  to see one? Because I lost my health insurance when I lost my job. And I lost my job because you can't work and keep running to the bathroom.

I so far have done 3 separate blood tests (7 vials of blood taken each time), 3 different stool tests, and had x-rays. Now lined up is an endoscopy, a colonoscopy and an ultrasound.

Hopefully at least one of those tests tells us what's wrong. Now of course, I am nervous about these procedures. But they must be done. So I can get better. For 3 years, I've been living half a life. I want the whole one back. I want to work and socialize and be productive. I want to give back to society again.

It's going to a be a long hard road folks.

For those of you sending me good thoughts, money for my psychiatric care (that my free health insurance refuses to cover) and those of you commenting, sharing and emailing, I thank you. I will always thank you.

When this is all done, we need to celebrate!

I wanted to make this a safe place for people to come together and share their stories of mental health problems and overall life problems. But then the hate mail started

Worse than that, I started getting emails from people who wanted to share their stories on my blog, until they read how judgmental people can be. They asked me to take down their own stories and not post their personal struggles because they fear they will be hated on too.

This is a very sad thing for me as that's not what I wanted. I wanted to connect with others. I wanted a safe place where we could tell each other "you're not alone." But I don't think it's meant to be.

I don't think people understand that my photos, my journals, my blogs... they are just pieces of me. Windows into moments of time that create a life. They are not a whole life. They are pieces. And sue me if the sad stuff is more inspirational to me to write about, to photograph. But if you know me. If you're on my facebook. If you've talked to me. You'd know. I'm not a damn victim and refuse to ever be one. But even more so, I refuse to let these people turn my friends into fodder. I put myself out there KNOWING that people will hate on me. But my fellow bloggers who tried to reach out, did not ask for the drama.

So I thank those of you who contributed to the blog and I am sorry that you no longer want me to post your stories publicly, but I do hope you know you can still email them to me and I will reply.


PS, I apologize for a lot of typos and wrong words and such in my entries. I've been using my phone to post on here cuz it has internet. Just can't use a ton of data because my mom pays that bill and I don't want to go over the limit! But it's darn hard to type a journal entry out on a bloody phone ;p

Inspirational

I don't really believe in a higher power. But I love this video and this message just the same. I cried tears of pain and tears of joy for this strong woman. I guarantee you that she still has bad days. Times when her past pains catch up to her. But she's facing it head on. You go girl.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=470736836295471&set=vb.100000774768296&type=2&theater

Post by Dakysha Sullivan.

Getting Ready

I'm seeing a GI doctor today. A specialist to figure out what's wrong with my stomach. The first step of many to find out what's wrong with me. I know that if I get my physical health back in shape, the mental health will follow.

But I'm not looking forward to it.

I ate breakfast today. And let me tell you why that's a big deal. When I know that I have to leave the house for an appointment or to run errands, I don't eat first. Because food makes me sick. And with my phobia and all, that terrifies me. I don't want to get sick stuck in public. So I don't normally eat until the errands or whatever is done. But my appointment today is very late in the afternoon. So I knew I had to eat something. Because going that long without eating will just make things worse.

Did I mention I hate doctor offices? Not only because most of the time, the doctor is not helpful. But also that I hate the waiting rooms. Anxiety plus being stuck in a tiny room, with poor ventilation, and a bunch of sick strangers hacking all over the place... Well it's not fun. And I've been warned that this office is slow. So I'll be stuck in a personal hell for at least 45 minutes to an hour. I'll take a book to read, but I'll probably just read the same sentence over and over again.

Also, this particular waiting room has no restroom. When I get panic attacks, I have to pee. Nervous bladder I guess. And it's like an every 10 minutes type of thing. Anyone else get that? Have to pee when you're anxious? Even when I know I need to leave the house in like 30 minutes for something, sometimes the peeing starts then. I keep going and I'm not even drinking anything.

I don't mind it as much once they put you in your own exam room. I feel better without the strangers and their germs and their judging eyes. Let's face, you're having a panic attack, and you're trying to appear normal and fine, but it's so obvious that you're not. And people notice. They stare. Stop staring at me! Read a bloody magazine. And for goodness sake, cover your mouth when you cough!

I got about an hour before we have to leave. It'll be a long drive in bad afternoon traffic and it's hot as hell out today. I know I'll survive this. But I don't have to like a single minute of it!

My reasons for fighting

Guest Post - My Story

This is sent from someone who read this blog and wants to share their story with you guys, as well as with myself. Thank you for your bravery.

Hello.
First and foremost, thank you for sharing your story and writing where others can't.
I wanted to say "hang in there" but it is never enough or even insulting at times.

Your diagnosis sheet almost looks the same as mine: Bi-Polar, Depression, Panic Disorder, and phobias. I can... understand, the struggle it takes to get through each day. I read a lot of other examples or blogs people write to remind myself that I am not the only one that suffers, but your story, as I mentioned, hits almost the same path mine has taken.

You wanted to know other stories to share and know your not alone. I hope mine can give you some comfort (and others if you choose to share it). I will not go into a lot of detail, but if it can help another I will gladly share.

I grew up isolated even though I had a large extended family and many friends. There was always something off, though I was the only one that really knew it. I was outspoken around others, so much so, that I never realized it was a coping mechanism until my early twenties. I dealt with Bi-Polar and anxiety without realizing it, but my youth and desire to be away from my father was enough to get me through. (My father was not physically abusive, but emotionally.)

At the age of 18, my future mother-in-law recognized the traits of depression in me, but I refused to believe her until one day in college I could not go on anymore and the only thing I wanted to do was find a corner and cry. I don't know why or even how I ended up in the school councilor's office, but I did. From there I ended up at the mental health facility with her by my side waiting to speak to a psychologist. I hated the psychologist I first saw and almost gave up... and did because I lost my insurance that paid for it.
Long story short, for about 4 years, even after getting married, I went through the motions of therapy and meds... the only reason I never turned to self-medication was a hyper-paranoia (my term) that made me afraid of almost anything, especially drugs and alcohol since I had seen the aftermath of its misuse in some of my childhood "friends". Now out from under my father's roof I also started to feel more comfortable at home, and soon became to fear going out my home more than I did staying within. That is when the anxiety disorders presented itself in full.

Until I was 24, I took meds, refused to accept skill training and merely talked to my therapist. The meds helped the most but could not stop the worst. I ended up in the hospital many many times for suicidal thoughts, a couple of times for trying. Something in my own mind always made me seek help at the last possible minute.

I finally accepted help from the teachers in my Partial Hospitalization group... after my third time in the program. (This is where I am also diagnosed with Schizoaffective disorder but that comes and goes as it pleases...)
I went off my meds on a med holiday (to clear my system and start over), but I haven't been back on them since. (I don't recommend this for anyone - I do it because I am afraid of being suicidal again, of which I was only truly suicidal while on the meds... the whole not stopping the worst, but may have been causing it even though I was more stable in between...) I turned to skills (DBT) and my wife. I opened up to her. To this day she does not always understand or tolerate me, but she tries and strives to. This has been a big help. (Do not withhold from your boyfriend if he honestly tries to help and it seems your mother is understanding... even if it is hard.)

I eventually got on disability because I was unable to hold a job. It took 3 years and help from a professional lawyer (one that deals with helping get disability) and ALL of my doctors (regular doctor, psychologist, and psychiatrist) to get it finally. (So, do not give up hope!)

As TV us to you, video games are to me... a coping mechanism. It is also an addiction, but one that is better than substances. It has taken me years to get where I am and it is still a struggle. I am impatient to get even better so I still feel like a failure. I feel worthless and stupid for playing video games all day, or yelling or being withdrawn. But not every day, and even most days the skills can counter those feelings enough to get through them.

Keep trying and fighting the mental battle. The physical as well. As you said in one of your blogs, the mental illness leads to physical illness and back around. I deal with the same. Phantom pains I call them. Many feel like heart attacks even without a panic attack (though the panic makes it worse), but I get pains elsewhere that no doctor has yet to tell me the cause.

Thank you for your story... and your photography. I found your blog from DeviantArt. You have some very great photographs!

Because I ramble and cannot keep up with my own mind (thus the writing is fractured and sometimes incomplete - I too can understand that :P ) I will end here. I hope it may help you and others. Keep fighting.

A fellow sufferer

Tired of defending myself against strangers

I am NOT giving up. I used to. The depression has been a part of my life for so long. And long ago, when I was just a naive teenager, sure I gave up. Handfuls of pills. Wrist slashing.

I am not that person now. So what if I drink once in a while? I can't get anti anxiety meds, so I have a shot of vodka so I can go to sleep and sleep it off. Big deal. I'm not asking for donations to pay for my "drinking problem." Just because I mention it a lot here, doesn't mean I do it every day. Plus, $5 for a bottle of wine isn't the same as $360 for my bipolar medication.

This blog is merely a window into thoughts in only parts of my day. Moments of weakness really. Where I spill here what I can't spill elsewhere. Because I thought here was safe. But I guess it's not.

I'm seeing a specialist tomorrow and I'm so nervous. I'm tired of being turned away by doctors. I am chronically ill. Physically. And it affects my mental health to a point that maybe not everyone can understand. And maybe I need to stop being so open about what I feel in a dark moment. Because I'm getting a lot of emails telling me how weak and stupid and annoying I am.

Guess what? I'm not here to please everyone. I'm not perfect. I'm struggling in a world where my own health insurance won't cover the things I truly need. I need a root canal but that specific tooth isn't covered. I need therapy, but that's not covered either. I need medications that some doctors don't believe in. So I have to see several before I can find something that will help me keep a meal down.

I've been beyond sick for 3 years. And mentally ill for most of my life. But I'm not giving up. I'm just in a rough patch. And screw those of you who can't understand that.

For those of you new to this blog, I suggest going all the way back to the beginning posts before making judgement. It's not all doom and gloom around here. I'm just in a rough patch. You can't define a person by a few sad posts.

And you can't know how you'd behave in my position if you haven't been there yourself. I used to hate my father for leaving us when his cancer got really bad. He walked out. And I didn't get it. But now that I too am ill all the time, I get it. I can see why one would want to leave their family. I'm not saying I'd make the same choice. But I couldn't even imagine it before I came to this place.

And let's face, I'm still feeling out what "this place" is. Am I happy? Am I sad? It's not as simple as that. But when I figure it all out, I'll let you know.

Oh how easy it would be...

That's the thought that passed through my head today while driving. Oh how easy it would be... To not look before crossing that intersection, to drive right out into oncoming traffic, to maybe take a turn too quick, or too slow. To somehow just get my car smashed to bits.

That's not healthy to think now is it? But there it was. It was such a strong thought. An urge. I had to fight hard to drive the rest of the way home in a careful manner.

I'm just so tired. Tired of fighting with doctors to get the meds and tests I need. Tired of trying to convince people that something is wrong. Tired of being rejected. Tired of the anxiety that pops up each time I have to see yet another specialist. Because that specialist is just as likely as the last to tell me, "it's all in your head."

Apparently, I'm stressing my fiance out to the point of which we bicker over stupid shit. And even his mom is upset with me for stressing out her baby. I get it. I do. I watched my father deal with bone cancer most of my life. I know how it sucks to love someone and watch them waste away. Then my dad left. He left out of pride. He left out of guilt. He left for a number of reasons that I may never really know. But being sick now myself, I can see why one might want to leave. I feel a burden. I'd go home to my mom, but she has no room for me and the pets at her place. I don't want to put a strain on my relationships. I didn't ask for this. Any of it. The bipolar disorder. The anxiety. The nausea. The body aches. The exhaustion. The confusion. The black outs. I didn't wake up and say, "hey, I think I'll be miserable today, and every day from now on."

And I just wish that maybe for a while, we could sit and deal with what my illness is doing to me. I wish I could see my therapist again. But not enough money. Even with the huge discount she gave me. Because my healthcare doesn't cover mental health. Really??? I would think they'd want less crazy people roaming around town!

Oh well. I managed to catch a cold, on top of everything else, so it's time to sleep now.

Thank you to those who have donated so far. I think we'll be able to make it another week now without being totally broke! Yay, because I like having food and electricity and my medications :)


Money can be sent to my paypal. kedralynn.amber@gmail.com

Tv and internet is gone again. Those two things help keep me sane. When you're sick and can't do much but just veg out on the couch. But other bills take priority. Obviously in this heat electricity is a must! And water! And the roof over our heads. I don't mind not having a lot of food since I just throw it up anyway. But I'll miss the escape tv gave me. Guess I don't have to pay netflix this month either :p

I have a terrible pain just above my belly button. It hurts to move around. I now walk hunched over like a little ol lady. I hope it goes away. It's been almost 24 hours. If it doesn't go away by the time Irvin gets home, I'll be making him take me to hospital.

Anyway, dunno when I'll be back around. I'm typing this on my phone but I have limited data so I can't be using the internet often unless I go steal me some wifi!

Love and miss you, my fans.

Money can be sent to my paypal. kedralynn.amber@gmail.com

And there it is again. The sickness that has me reaching for the bottle. The nausea. The panic attack that slams with the first sickening wave. The body aches are easy enough to ignore. It's that damn nausea that throws my world into chaos. All because of a strange phobia that I can't trace or understand. My medications take the edge off. But it's no cure. And my free healthcare won't cover anything stronger. Plus, no one wants to give me anything stronger anyway. I don't work and I'm on free health care so they all assume that I must be some druggie or dead beat who just wants to get high off my pills. Oh if only that were the case. I don't drink for fun anymore. I drink to numb. To sleep. To escape. And I feel so weak for it. But there it is. This is how I cope.

And no, I'm not spending my money on alcohol. We have a stash that's been around for a long time from when we used to throw parties.

Money can be sent to my paypal. kedralynn.amber@gmail.com

Thank you

Thanks to those of you who have donated. Also thanks to those of you who have sent me words of hope, compassion, ect. Every day is a battle. Some days I win. Some days I lose. But each day is another chance to say, "I can do this." Another chance to face my health. Both physical and mental. Each time I walk into a store is a chance to say, "I won't run away." To not let my anxiety beat me. I will fail. I will falter. I will stumble and fall. But because of your support, I will get up again. I will fight. And maybe, just maybe, someday, I won't have to battle anymore. I'll just be ok.

Stress related illness

That's more or less what I'm being told. And I guess it's true. I'm always sick. But it's worse when something bad happens. Say we argue about money, bam, I'm throwing up dinner. Or I'm freaking out about yet another doctor appointment and how I do and yet don't want to go. Bam, I'm having a panic attack. I'm truly sick of the cycle. The mental illness causes the physical illness. The physical illness causes the mental illness. On and on and on.

Ok, so it's not quite that simple. My bipolar disorder has pretty much always been there. But looking back, I was sick much of my life. I have a weak immune system and always wound up with something wrong with me. It drove my dad nuts. "You're always sick!" I hear those words now, but from another man. You're always sick. We can't go out. We can't have fun. We can't go on vacation. You can't work. You can't clean house. I'm stressed. We're broke. Because you're always sick. Or too afraid of getting sick to even step outside the front door...

Each appointment gives me anxiety. And oh boy is it gonna get worse. I have to see a specialist for my stomach. Get to have the ol' colonoscopy and endoscopy. For those of you who don't have to know these things, I get to have a camera shoved up my butt and another one shoved down my throat. Thank god they sedate you. Because I'll be a hot mess. And of course, my phobia of vomiting has me terrified that the anesthesia will make me puke. Or that I'll gag on the tube and throw up. More reason to have a panic attack.

I wish I could hire a live in nurse. Or a maid. Or something. Probably not tho. I prefer to to do my suffering alone. To be by myself when I am my sickest. Having the worst panic attacks. Have the worst bout of nausea. Laying on the floor when the pain hits my legs and back. Curling in fetal position when the stomach cramps kick in. I don't want to be seen that way. I don't want to remembered that way.

Well I'm off to do more blood tests. Do you know they don't even give you juice and a cookie when they take 8 vials of blood? The juice and cookies are only for blood donors. Not those being poked and prodded like lab rats. Thankfully, I'm not driving. I'll be too dizzy.

I'm still asking for donations to help me pay for things. Money is so tight, it's like a cruel joke. You check the past entry for details.

Thank you again for your support.


Money can be sent to my paypal. kedralynn.amber@gmail.com

It's been so long and I need your help

First, I apologize for my absence. It's been so long since I've been on here. So long, that I worry I've lost my words. My ability to even say anymore how I feel.

It's the same old thing. I'm still chronically ill. And the doctors are still stumped. I've turned into a human lab rat. All dignity and pride has been taken away. My anxiety is at an all time high.

I can't even grocery shop with my mom now. Well, I can... But it often takes a few tries. I have to run from the store and to the safety of her car. I also cling to her arm for dear life out of fear of blacking out.

And I need your help, dear fans. The government has turned their backs on me so many times. I don't get disability. No welfare. No social security. No money aid at all. I get free health care. But its so limited, that it's almost a joke.

I need food. I need money for rent. I need cable or at least internet to keep me from losing my mind. I need summer clothes so I'm not out in triple digit weather in either sweats or pjs.

I'm asking for donations. Even just a dollar. I hate to do that. I hate to beg or turn into a panhandler. I'd like to think I could support myself. But how can I, when I can't even leave my own home anymore? My man lost his business. He works, but it's a huge pay cut and we're not even living paycheck to paycheck. It's more like, "hey what can we sell so we can get through the rest of the week?" Mortgage won't even get paid this month.

Ugh I hate this. It causes even more anxiety. Even depression. I sleep a lot now. Not much else to do.

I self medicate to the point of which I hate myself. I deal with the worst of my illness alone. Day/night, doesn't matter. I use alcohol so I don't feel the nausea. Don't feel the aches in every bone of my body. Don't feel what a worthless waste of space I have become.

Money can be sent to my paypal. kedralynn.amber@gmail.com

Thank you in advance. And even if you can't send anything, thanks for reading and for supporting me.

Won't be posting for a while

Well money is so tight that we are without tv or internet. So I won't be posting for a while. Wish me luck getting by. I may even lose my phone and probably my sanity. But that's life when you're too sick to work.

Dropping a bombshell

I have been nothing but open and honest here about all aspects of my life. Well most of them. Some parts involve family members who wish to not be talked about. And that's hard as some of that really shaped and changed me. But I'll respect that.

Anyway, I considered not writing this entry. I thought long and hard about it. I felt I had to tell my family first.

So what is the bombshell? Well, last week I had a miscarriage.

I didn't even know I was pregnant. Let's face it, I'm nauseous 24/7 anyway, so I didn't notice a difference. My body is always sore, and I'm always moody. I got a period like normal, but that doesn't mean much. My mom told me she had her period the entire pregnancy she had with me.

Anyway, this was a hard loss for me. Yes, I hadn't know I was pregnant. So it's not like I had painted a nursery and picked out names. But to find out in the same day that I had a baby and it was gone was a lot to take in.

I want to be a mother. I know I'd be good at it. But I also know that I'm not ready. My physical and mental health makes it so I'm not in a good place to have a baby. But I mourned just the same.

I was put on bed rest, which sucked because then I had all the time in the world to just sit there and think about the baby I lost. I tried to lose myself in stupid tv shows. And sometimes it worked. But other times, it didn't.

I'm still torn up about it. Still a little heart broken. Talking with my mom helped some though. When I told her, she felt my pain. She showed up at my door with chocolate cake and took me shopping. We talked about why I didn't tell her right away. I didn't want to bother her, she has so much going on. I also just didn't want to talk about it in general. I wasn't ready to admit it to myself, let alone anyone else.

But here I am, again pouring my heart into this blog. I am human. I make mistakes. And I ache. I get kicked down. I feel bad for myself. But then I get up again. I'm not standing just yet. But I will be. And when we are ready for kids, I'm going to be a damn good mother.

The physical battle

I struggle from physical ailments as well as the mental. And I know this blog is supposed to be about my mental health. But how I feel physically affects how I feel emotionally.

I feel my body failing me. Day in and day out. The healthcare system is also failing me. Be it finding health insurance or a doctor who actually gives a damn. And that's quite a strain.

There are very bad days. Such as today. Where I just keep crying about it all. I am tired of being sick. Tired of not being able to do what healthy people take for granted. I start to think the worst. About dying. I can't handle getting worse than I already am. I don't feel emotionally strong enough to feel any worse. Losing control of my body is scaring me. It's tearing me apart. It's breaking me.

But every day, I get up and I face it again. I wake up feeling sick each morning, and all I can do is take my meds and pray I'll feel better. Well enough to do something. Anything. Clean or cook or maybe go out shopping for food. Those are my small victories. Going to the damn grocery store. I celebrate my ability to do just that. What life is this when that is something to cheer about?

And if I manage to go a whole day without crying, I feel I've experienced a miracle.

I thank you all for your support. Those who know me and those who only know my stuff on DA and these words here. I am not alone in this. And I will keep reminding myself of that. So I can get up again tomorrow and try to achieve one more small victory. Every time I can push my body to function like a normal persons' body, I will rejoice. At least a little. And I'll keep battling. I'll keep striving. I'll keep on. But I'll be honest, some days I don't want to. But I will.

The end of fairy tales.

Reset

I find myself with regrets. Searching for that reset button so I can take the chances I should've taken once before. Ones that no longer exist. Ones I will punish myself for letting go. My health and circumstances won't allow such do overs. And only one or two people who read this will know what I'm talking about. About a particular "what if" that will forever haunt me because I let it go and lost that chance forever.

Wild Horses. They couldn't take me away. But they took you away didn't they?

Pets, breakdowns, and love

I had quite the break down 2 nights ago. And it's been hard even considering writing about it. But I've been nothing but open and honest here. And in turn, you have done the same.

I was surrounded with much sorrow on Monday. Starting with watching a tv show where a tragic death of a main character rubbed me raw. Then there was the usual sickness that I endure each evening after dinner - nausea, panic, pain. I was in the middle of trying to get back to normal, when my fiance left to go drop off something at my sister's house.

When he was there, he rescued a beautiful parakeet from a cat. The bird looked bad. Be it sick, wounded or even having a heart attack. Who knows. He rushed home to bring me the bird so I could work my usual magic when it comes to rescuing animals.

Sadly, the bird did not make it. He died just around the corner. My sister had warned me of the bird and so I was all ready for it. I had a soft towel, water dropper, things to clean it's wounds, had made a list of food to pick up for the guy, and even the emergency vet clinic ready for us, should the need be. All this, I managed in ten minutes.

But it was not to be. We opened the box, and his little birdy body was lifeless. I scooped him up anyway. I rubbed his neck, held him close to my chest. I rubbed his stomach, I lifted him to my ear to listen for something, anything. We both held him and we cried. We held him till his body started to stiffen, then wrapped him in a towel and placed him in a box. We've been trying to find his owners (as he was a pet, parakeets don't normally live wild here) in case they want to bury him. But haven't heard anything, so we'll find him a nice spot in the backyard.

This of course, left a bad feeling with us for the rest of the day.

A couple hours later, we noticed that my dog has been coughing quite a bit lately. So at 11pm, we take her to the emergency pet clinic. They think she has kennel cough, though they didn't test for it. It could just be a cold for all they know. But we've got her on antibiotics and cough meds, and she needs to be isolated from other dogs for a week. How she got it, I'll never know. It's highly contagious but only from dogs or people with sick dogs. As far as I know, my dog hasn't come in contact with either.

While were at the clinic, a family came in with their cat. The sounded truly in distress. And then the wailing started. Not the cat, the cat's owner. And my heart sank. As we were sitting there in an exam room, being given fairly good news considering (it didn't spread to her lungs, she'll be ok) and we're listening to a woman mourn. Her cat did not make it.

I got flashes then. Of when we put down my 16 year cat (Kelli) with kidney failure. She was angry as all get out when they gave her the shot that would put her to sleep for good. I hated knowing in her last moments, she was so angry. I held her as she went limp and watched the light go out of her eyes.

Then there was Sasha... My dear Sasha. A chow chow shepard mix. Only 4 years old. She injured her knee and needed surgery. This was maybe 8 years ago. But to this day, I still cry and beat myself up over what happened next. Her surgery went well, but they said she was peeing blood. She was not to walk up the stairs to my room. She hated that. So I slept with her on the floor downstairs. In spite of the dr's orders, she taught herself to walk again that first night home.

But she got sick. So sick. She threw up everything. Water, her pills, one bite of food. She kept trying to pee and nothing would come out. I constantly bugged the vet about this. They figured the pain meds were just making her nauseous. No one listened to me.

Exactly one week after her surgery, she died. Just like that one. The night before, I had desperately wanted sleep. So I went upstairs to my room. Sasha wanted to follow me so badly. And the look in her eyes... God, she knew. She knew it was her last night, and she wanted to be near me. That look haunts me, even today.

The next thing I know, my mom is waking me. "Sasha won't get up and she's breathing funny." Then I hear my sister's voice ring out, "Sasha no! No! God no! Breathe!"

I tore down those stairs, hating myself for having not been near her. For abandoning her. For not doing more. My baby girl, who always had to be touching me to sleep, who always guarded me against even flies, was gone.

I still feel guilty. And I've also become hyper vigilant about my pets now.

The vet office also felt bad, so they did an autopsy for free and found her stomach had burst. Turns out this is a possible side effect of one of the anti inflammatory meds they gave her before her surgery. They also cremated her for free and donated money in her memory to a pet research center.

Sasha went first. Then Kelli years later. I cremated her as well because it felt right to honor her the same as Sasha.

So of course, these memories came rushing back to me after returning home from the clinic. I went into the storage room and started ripping open boxes and throwing things all over the place. I was on a mission. To find Sasha and Kelli. The box with their ashes and favorite toys and collars and such. I drank Jack Daniels like it was my salvation and I cried.

Now here's the thing, as much as it hurts to lose a pet, I will continue to rescue and raise them. Some people find me crazy for putting myself through it. The loss never gets easier. And maybe it'll keep adding on and keep building up until my heart shatters so hard that it can't be put back together. But I keep on letting animals into my life. I have too much love to give them. They need homes, they need love, they need a good life. And so, even if it hurts, I will keep on taking in rescues. I will give them forever homes. And I will love them even after they are gone. They need me. And I need them. And even tho the mourning hurts like a bitch, the good memories and the love makes it all worth it.

On the road to healthcare

I received a letter telling me that I have been accepted for free healthcare. This is very good news. But my coverage doesn't start until May 1st. I am finally heading in the right direction towards a healthy me. But it's going to be a very long journey. And part of me lacks hope. It's hard to be excited about finally getting health insurance when I have little idea if it'll be of help.

First, my coverage will kick in. Then, I'll have to see a new general physician covered by this healthcare. She will then (hopefully) get the ball rolling on referrals to specialists. There will be those initial appointments, then the tests. After the tests, who knows. Perhaps treatment, perhaps life long medication. Perhaps I'll finally find out what has been ailing me for years. I fear that part. It could be something minor. Something easily treated. Which would be irritating, as it would mean I've been suffering for years for no good reason. But what if it's something worse? Something life long? Something that will change my life.

I hope for the strength to continue this journey that stands before me. It seems so daunting now. But I'll put one foot in front of the other and just keep going.

Purple Anguish

I am so tired of the every day struggle....

Withdrawal and more anxiety

My general physician won't refill my anti nausea medication. He wants me to make an appointment to see him, even after I told him I don't have health insurance or a job. Also, would've been nice if he had told me sooner. Instead, I went to refill my meds with a full week left, figuring that gave him plenty of time to approve the refill request. Usually it does. But suddenly, he changed his mind. But the office didn't contact me. I finally called them to complain when I ran out of pills and they told me I need an appointment. They then also told me that the Dr isn't available till April.

So I've been going about 3 weeks now without my anti nausea meds, and I'm going insane. I was taking them once a day, and then again if needed. And I honestly didn't always need them that much. But now that I'm out, of course, I feel I need them every day. I can't eat a thing without feeling super sick afterwards. I am not sure how much longer I can handle this with my phobia. The panic attacks are back with a vengeance.

I'm also going through withdrawl from my anti depressants. Same situation, my psychiatrist didn't tell me that I would need an appointment to get more. You are NOT supposed to quit taking anti depressants cold turkey. You are supposed to be weaned off slowly. I was not, because I just ran out and no one would refill my pills. I don't have $150 to go see her for more. And I can feel my moods going all over the place. I also think perhaps my nausea may have a bit to do with this withdrawal too.

On the upside, I am in "in the system" and they "are processing" my paperwork for free health care. Though no one can actually tell me how long it'll take. It's already been two months since I sent the paperwork in...

Hi, I'm kedralynn

Hi, I'm Kedralynn. I'm the bipolar part of Amber. I like to listen to depressing music from the past and remember. I also really like to let loose and have a good time. I don't think about consequences and just live in the moment. I am danger, sadness and liveliness rolled into one. I drink and dance and love sex. I drive fast and sing out loud. I cry at random times and remember what it feels like to run a blade across my skin. I am what she tries to hide. And yet, I am her inspiration. I am her worst fears, and also her greatest hopes. I am the super highs. The good times buried in a million mistakes. I also made these mistakes, but I don't care much for regret.

No, I do not have two personalities. Kedralynn is not a separate entity acting on her own. But she is the bipolar me. The disease. The good and the bad of it. The magic and the mystery. Because of the dangers of the highs, I try to avoid them. I try to avoid the mood that is "Kedralynn." But she's been making an appearance more and more lately. Random tears multiple times a day, followed by dancing the cha cha in heels across the kitchen, while I make dinner. For her, the world sparkles. Or it's cased in darkness. And often, the idea of the world sparkling, makes the danger of the darkness forgettable. Kedralynn is a temptation. And she's hard to ignore sometimes...

My trip to the ER

Recently went to the emergency room. It wasn't my idea. Honestly, I could be dying, I'd rather not go to a hospital. All those people, all those germs... No thanks! My anxiety says no.

But my back was killing me. It felt like I was being stabbed in my kidneys. I worried about my kidneys as coffee made the pain worse and I am no longer able to tolerate alcohol. A friend told me these things were symptoms of her kidney disease.

Anyway, I was home alone and crying from the pain. I just wanted someone to sit with me.

As fate would have it, my fiance got off work early due to a machine breaking at work. He had no idea I was ill. But when he got home and saw me in tears, he said we're going to the ER. I of course tried to argue against it and said I was fine. Yeah, I wasn't fine and he's no idiot.

We made an appointment online, which saved us from having to sit in the waiting room for hours. I'm so glad we did because my anxiety would've never allowed such a thing. We were in and out in about an hour thanks to this online check in. And even that was very hard on me. I am glad I had my fiance there to hold my hand and distract me from all the sick people crowding in on us.

My urine sample was inconclusive. Probably because I was drinking a lot of water in hopes of it helping the kidney pain. In the end, the dr said it's probably a muscle or spine issue and gave me a bunch of pain killers and sent me on my way. He said to follow up with my physician later, get another urine sample and also have my back checked out if the pain persists. I didn't tell him that I don't have a physician or health insurance. I don't even want to think about the hospital bill if my Medi-Cal doesn't kick in soon and cover it.

Just more things to worry about...

Sorry I seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth for a while. Been overwhelmed with day to day errands. Also a few social situations that were honestly draining both physically and emotionally. I've been using the tools my therapist has given me, and I am getting by. But sometimes I wonder, is just getting by enough?

I will try and write more soon. I want to share a few tips for anxiety that my therapist has given me. But for now, I need a nap. I've been trying to catch up on sleep for about a week now, with little luck!

Black outs? Or just distracted?

I was at the grocery store this morning. Somehow I ended up with something in my cart that I don't remember putting there.

I clearly remember looking at a jar of jalapenos. I think I debated for a full minute over whether or not I needed more. I also clearly remember thinking "we're good, I don't need it this week." And I walked away. 5 steps later, I looked into my cart, and the jar of jalapenos was in it! Did I put that there? Did I decide I needed it after all? I don't remember.

I decided to brush it off and rush to finish my shopping, as I can't stand it. My anxiety was low today while shopping, but maybe it's because I was in a trance. I started to worry that I'd get home and forget the entire trip!

Once home, I started cutting up chicken to marinate for dinner. Half way through cutting it into cubes, I remembered that it wasn't supposed to be cubed for this recipe. What is wrong with me?

It's only 1 in the afternoon and I'm wondering what else I will do wrong or forget...

I want to hear from you

I've been doing plenty of sharing myself. Here's your turn. Feel free to email me your story kedralynn.amber@gmail.com. Subject it "my story" so it doesn't get lost in a sea of spam. I'd love to share your stories on this blog too. So if you'd me to post it, let me know. It can bear your name or be anonymous. I just want us to start removing the stigma from suffering from mental illness. Let us band together and be each other's strength :)

I am not a whole person tonight. Tonight, I am the remains of a person. The shell left after the will to fight has taken off. I am the same broken girl I was all those years ago when I first cut myself. I have fallen to my knees so many times, I lost count. Broken for years and years. Shattered heart and heavy limbs. I don't want to stand up again. I'm begging for a hand to reach out. But the only hand I have is rejecting me. Maybe because I've rejected myself. I hate what I am. I hate what I have. I hate how the bipolar disorder defines me. Hate how it breaks me. Hate how it enrages me.


"I've never been the praying kind
But lately I've been down upon my knees
Not looking for a miracle
Just a reason to believe."

Savage Garden - Hold Me

This is kinda how I feel

Tonight

Let's just say it's not a good night for me. I'm angry, upset, moody, and anxious. I'm short on my Xanax again and have to wait 5 days to get more. So I went to the local gas station/convenient store to get coke to go with my Jack Daniels. Yes I know, don't mix your pills with alcohol! Let me just say that sometimes you have to do some dark and not so safe things to get through the now. And you worry about the ramifications later.

The drive was ok. But when I got out of my car, in a not so safe neighborhood mind you, at night, I had to struggle with each step. I had to remind myself to breathe. To not shake. To not look so vacant in the eyes. I don't want to get mistaken for a junkie in that neighborhood! I made it in and out pretty quickly and back to my car, where I had to calm my breathing. I just sat there, thinking, how did I come to this? After all the years of hard work I put into trying to manage this thing, how can it still have power over me?

How can it turn me into a shaking, raging, maniac of a person. Someone who doesn't know if she wants to scream, cry, cut, or break something? How can it still control my life?

No money, no help

We have found ourselves in a bit of a bind. Some unexpected financial problems. And since I'm still trying to cut through the crazy road map to free healthcare, I can't afford to see my psychiatrist for a while. $150 a month just so she can give me more pills. Pills that I don't even like, but they do help.

Thankfully, my therapist gave me a HUGE discount to see her, so I'll continue those sessions. But I'm not sure if my psychiatrist will refill my pills if I can't afford to see her. It seems silly to pay that much money to talk to her for 5 minutes and then get prescriptions that cost as much as it did to see her.

My fiance is beyond worried about money right now. And I feel so much guilt. I wish I could help. I wish I could say "ok, I'll go back to work and we'll be fine." But I can't say that. We both know that I'd never be able to get a job like this. Let alone keep one. I feel like I should be able to help more. I wish I was better.

Cluttered Mind

The way things are

I get so tired sometimes of not being "normal." Of the limitations I have.

Just last night, my fiance and I went out for a late night snack. We realized we hadn't eaten in a long time and I'd say it was maybe 10:30 at night when we headed out. Our options were pretty much junk food and more junk food. So we drove around rather aimlessly trying to decide where to go.

I already wasn't feeling well. Kind of anxious and nauseous. I stopped being able to say more than "uh huh" in the car. Well it came out more like just a grunt.

We started getting farther away from home. The farther we got, the more anxious I got. I had to roll down the window to let the cold night air in. I pulled my knees up to my chest in my car seat. I started touching my face a lot. I didn't want to say anything. I didn't want him to think me pathetic for freaking out because we were a whole 10 minutes away from home.

Finally, he turned back towards home and I let out a "thank god!" I admitted that I was freaking out. He asked why. "I'm with you, you're safe, why are you panicking?" How do I explain? How do that I say that I have this irrational fear? That if I do throw up or pass or have a full blown panic attack, that I want to be home. I just wanted to be home. Home is safe.

The rest of the ride was quiet. I started thinking how unfair this is to my fiance. He didn't sign up for this. I was mostly functioning ok when we met. He didn't see the full extent of my disorders until the past couple of years. I wonder sometimes if he resents me. Or at least resents my illness just as I do. I started thinking maybe we need to talk. Maybe I should give him an out. A chance to pack up and leave rather than stay with a woman who panics when she leaves the house.

I feel like only part of a person. And just a fraction of what I could be if I were "normal." But this is the way things are. And even with the meds and techniques my therapist suggested for those with PTSD, my bipolar disorder and all it's ailments that come with it, is a life long condition. There are no cures. Just ways to try to cope. And there will always be cycles where I'm fine and then worse and then fine again. Does he want to deal with that for the next 40 years? I don't even want to deal with it that long. But I have no choice. This is my life.

Not much new

I haven't written here in a while. And honestly because there isn't much new to report. Just the usual random panic attacks. Some worse than others. Some at home, some out at a store.

My medications have me sleeping 12-16 hours a day. I did the math. That means that some days I'm awake for as long as most people sleep. I often get up late. Usually around noon these days. Run a few errands and then nap through the rest of the day. I wake up in time to make dinner and watch some tv. And then it's back to sleep.

Even though I am sleeping a lot, I feel it's not quality sleep. It's often interrupted. I wake up a lot. Have trouble falling back asleep. I also don't seem to dream. I mean maybe I am. But since the sleep is so drug induced, I don't remember anything but blackness.

I'm seeing my therapist today. For the first time in about 6 years. I had to stop seeing her when I lost my health insurance. And even though I still don't have insurance, I feel I need to see her. She's waving the fee for my first visit considering that it'll be mainly playing catch up on my life. I was up most the night wondering how I can cram the past 6 years into a 55 minute session. I tried to sort out just the highlights. I figure I can go into details another time. Because even though the past 6 years in important to how I'm feeling, it's not the main issue. The main issue is the PTSD, the emetophobia and the panic attacks. I want to tackle those with her most.

I want to add that I love my therapist. I know it's her job not to judge. But I loved being able to tell her anything. She was the first person I talked to who knew anything about emetophobia. So I felt safe sharing it with her. I don't know if we'll even get to that today. But we'll see.

Wish me luck.

When the emetophobia began

When did it begin? That's the big question. I worked with a therapist for 2 years trying to pinpoint that moment where the phobia came about.

I know I wasn't born with it. In fact, I vividly remember being about 5 or 6 and suffering from a horrible stomach flu. My sister was caring for me while my parents were at work. She gave me soup and I thew it up a few minutes later. There was no fear. No trauma. Not even any tears. I just did it and moved on. Then I drank some 7up and threw that up minutes later too. Whatever. I crawled back into my parents bed (they let me stay there cuz the toilet is close to the bed and they had a tv) and watched tv. No panic. No fear. It was normal.

Something had to have happened that caused this phobia. And I wish I knew the one event. It's like it was so traumatic for me that I blocked it out.

Or maybe it wasn't just one thing. My therapist thinks it was a series of events. When I was 7, my sister got pregnant. She was fairly young. And I remember starting to get disturbed by her morning sickness. It wasn't super tragic yet. But I became more aware. And I remember us enjoying a pizza one day. And her running to the bathroom after barely taking a few bites. I lost my appetite too and went to my room.

Then there was the baby. Baby spit up wasn't so bad. It was such a little amount, it didn't seem to phase me. But then the baby grew up and she got bigger, so did the vomit. Good god, how can so much come out of someone so little?!

Also at this time, my dad was diagnosed with cancer. The treatments made him throw up too. Violently. We could hear it even from downstairs in the living room with the tv on. I'd turn the tv up to tune it out.

Again, back to the baby. As a toddler, she puked a lot. And the panic came. She'd throw up, and I've cover my ears and sing to block out the sound. I'd close my eyes and run for the safety of my bedroom. I would refuse to come down for the rest of the day or until we were sure she was no longer going to be sick. I also avoided where ever she threw up. I don't care how many times my mom cleaned the couch or the carpet. Didn't matter how much disinfectant she used. The spot was "tainted." For weeks, I'd also avoid my niece. And I ate very little. I would feel queasy myself. I know now that I was suffering from panic attacks and PTSD after each time she got sick.

Then there was school and shopping. Anytime I saw someone else throw up, I panicked and had to go home. The queasy feeling would return, along with the inability to eat. It's like I thought I'd catch what that person had. And as long as I didn't eat, I couldn't throw up.

I remember spending many nights awake reliving each and every time I had seen someone throw up. I would try to think of other things. But the images always came back. As did the panic. I even had nightmares about throwing up. Again, I know now this was PTSD. But back then, no one even knew much about emetophobia so no one considered PTSD,

My therapist believes that somewhere along the way, I began to associate vomiting with bad things happening. My niece coming along when my sister was still just a young teen herself. My father's cancer. Perhaps that is true. I do not know. But I never outgrew whatever it was.

And now living with a stomach condition that causes constant nausea, I now live with constant panic too. I'd love to get to the root of the problems. But considering this phobia was a learned condition that started more than 20 years ago. It may never go away...

The Mania

My doctor recently put me on an antidepressant to help with the anxiety. As I've stated before, these can be dangerous for anyone with bipolar disorder. I'm supposed to increase my dose of my mood stabilizer to counteract the antidepressant. But the mood stabilizer mixed with the anti nausea pill and the other anti anxiety pill put me to sleep. I don't like napping through most of the day. So I'm not taking as much of the mood stabilizer as I should.

And I can feel it. The mania. The energy. The high. The feeling of being invincible. Wild. Untamed. Bouncing off the walls. Even though my hands still shake, and I still feel anxious, I also feel I can do anything. Suddenly, I'm cleaning my house for the first time in months. And I'm sure my house is grateful. It needed it! I'm running errands I wouldn't have thought of doing.

But I know I'm walking a fine line now. The mood swings. The anger. The hallucinations. The need to do bad. The craving for drama. The urge to chase the high. It's bubbling under the surface. Waiting for a chance to take over. To act before thinking.

One wrong step, and I could spiral out of control. Go back to the sex, drugs, and alcohol that once consumed my days.

Thankfully, I have my man to ground me. But I also know that one tiny little thing could blow up into a huge fight. All because of the mania. All because I'll have lost control. And he's not one for drama. He won't put up with my crap.

It's difficult, as the mania in itself can feel so great. And the greater it feels, the worse the fall will be. The worse the depression will be when I cycle back down. Because that's what it is. A constant cycle of highs then lows then highs again.

I fear this road I'm walking. I just have to hope that I've learned enough over the years to help me cope. To recognize the trouble and to be able to stop it.

So many years ago, I never knew what mania was. Never knew why I'd get so angry. Get so crazy. React with violence without thinking first. Why I was never able to even think "this is wrong." I didn't know what was wrong with me.

Now that I do, I hope to be able to fight it.

The Cutting

I don't remember when I first became a cutter. Is it strange that I can't bring to mind my first time?

I know I was young. Around 14 or 15. At the time, I was on antidepressants for tension headaches. They were supposed to be tranquilizers. To help me sleep and help ease the tension.

What no one knew at that time was that I'm bipolar. Antidepressants make the mania worse. My mood swings were a daily roller coaster. The depression was also really bad. My parents chalked it up to teenage angst and hormones. I figured that was it as well. Puberty really bumped my bipolar disorder up big time.

I believe the first time I cut, I was thinking suicide. I was that down. Dragged into a pit of despair. I was either numb or in heart crunching pain. Everything was dark. For most of my years after that, things would remain to be dark.

I didn't cut deep enough in the beginning. Thinking killing myself would destroy my parents. So I held back.

Eventually, cutting became more of a way to cope than to kill. Like I said before, I was experiencing panic attacks at this point. But I didn't that's what they were. All I knew was that cutting made it better. The ritual of cleaning the skin, pulling out my special box of "tools" and doing the deed. I felt the anxiety flow out with the blood. The depression too. Then I'd clean up and bandage up and feel fine.

Do I recommend this coping mechanism for panic attacks? Not at all. I don't even condone cutting. It took many years to stop. I cut for everything. Anger, depression, anxiety, to spite someone who pissed me off, to control something in my life when I felt everything else was chaos, to punish myself for being "crazy."

I had boyfriends during that time who all looked down upon me for it. Told me the scars on my hips, thighs, stomach and arms were ugly. I was ashamed and hid them. Wearing long sleeves even in summer.

It wasn't until I stopped, that I now don't care who sees the scars. And I have to thank my current boyfriend for helping me quit. He never supported cutting. And the one time I did it when we first started dating, I broke his heart. It was over a fight with him. Jealousy on my end. Having been in so many abusive relationships before, I had a hard time trusting this one. He had to work very hard to gain my trust. It took a long time.

I stopped cutting. And not for me. I realized that trying to quit for anyone else had always led to me cutting just to spite them whenever they hurt me. But this guy never intentionally hurt me. So taped up my special box and put it away in some other boxes in the closet.

I don't ever forget about it. There are even times when I am at rock bottom and I long for my "tools." I know where they are. But I fight the temptation to go back there. Once I start again, it will be so easy to fall right back into that addiction.

I don't want that crutch. I will try and battle this out without it.

Worthless in a crisis

I feel like a terrible daughter. A worthless one.

My mother had a bit of a mishap with her dog. The dog is old and cranky and easily spooked. Somehow she freaked out and bit my mom on the lip. It was pretty bad. The hole went all the way through her upper lip.

I guess my mom sent me a text about it. But I was asleep. At 4pm. Yep. I'm adjusting to my new medications and the past couple days, I've been sleeping a lot.

I wake up, take my meds, do some stuff around the house, feed the pets, feed myself, and then pass out on the couch. Yesterday, I had only been up for 4 hours, then fell asleep for 3.

Anyway, with my fears, phobias and anxiety. I'm pretty sure I would've never been able to have taken my mom to the emergency room anyway.

Thankfully my sister stepped in and took care of it.

I finally woke up when my mom called me just before she left with my sister to the ER. I felt so useless. I wanted to have rushed to the ER to meet up with them. But was too groggy.

So all I could do was sit home and worry and text my sister every 10 minutes to find out what was happening.

My mom is also diabetic. And she was stuck in the waiting room during her dinnertime. Meaning, she was at risk to pass out due to low blood sugar. And she doesn't heal well.

God, I wish I had been more helpful. I feel pathetic. I know my mom doesn't hold it against me. But I still feel bad. Thankfully, it wasn't that bad of an emergency and she's all stitched up and ok now. Had it been something more severe, I don't know what I would've done.

I now have to take 4 medications first thing every morning. Then try to get on with my day, pretending it's as normal as can be. At night, it's 5 medications.
Copyright kedralynn.deviantart.com

Yay got my meds

Finally got more anti-anxiety medication. Also got put on a few more medications. And as much as I hate taking pills that are probably destroying my body, if they help me function like a normal human being again, I'm willing to try it. Only thing is that I am now on 5 different medications that cause drowsiness. So guess who can't drive or work? Yep, me! But try telling the county that. They will probably still deny me disability. But I'll be applying again. I'm going to see a therapist and maybe even a different psychiatrist, so I can build a better case about my inability to work. I mean come on, who wants to hire a zombie who needs Xanax just to leave the house anyway?

The last job I got was a fluke really. I got lucky because the manager who hired me liked pretty girls working for him. So even tho I flat out told him that I have bipolar disorder, he didn't care and hired me anyway. I even had to call out of work once due to me being hauled away into a 51/50 hold. That was yet another ex who caused that one. He called the cops and had me hauled away 2 hours before I had to be at work. My boss didn't seem to mind. I think he had a soft spot for me. I don't know. But once he was replaced by a female manager... Well, I couldn't get away with as much =p

Anyway, it's going to take a few weeks for these new medications to make a difference. I hope they help. We shall just have to wait and see. I'm going to nap now, because like I said, all the pills make me drowsy. Think I could get a job where I get to take a nap everyday? Yeah, I didn't think so.

The day I was forced to seek professional help

I can't remember the date or even the year. I want to say it was about 8 years ago. But truly so much of my life is a blur. I never was good at keeping track of time.

But even though I can't remember the date, I remember the details of that day so well.

I was in an abusive relationship with a guy who I should've left long before I did. I wasted 3 years with him. I hate to say it, but the bipolar me loved me the drama. And yet, there was a sane part of me that hated every minute of it. It was a toxic relationship with lots of fighting, breaking up, getting back together.

He and I were arguing on the phone one day. One of the many arguments over something dumb that I can't remember. At this time, I was a cutter. I had actually started cutting around 14 and it continued until only about 3 years ago. But that's a story for another time.

Whatever my asshole boyfriend at the time was saying to me that day gave me a panic attack. Back then I didn't know that's what it was. But looking back, it was clearly a panic attack. And cutting quickly eased those attacks by giving me something to concentrate on, and by lowering my blood pressure. Yes, I did have a ritual and yes I did make sure my tools were always clean.

Sadly, on this particular day, I cut too deep by mistake.  There wasn't a lot of blood, but the wound opened up a lot and I could see muscle and fat beneath my skin. I guess I managed to just cut through the skin, but nothing below that.

It was vanity that led me to tell my mom. The wound was wide open and I was pretty sure it would leave a horrible scar. Yes, I was a cutter, but I was also self conscious about my scars. I'm not anymore, but again that's another story. So, yes I admit, vanity led me to tell my mother.

There wasn't an easy way to say it. She knew I had cut before so I merely showed her. I was still on the phone with the asshole. And he was yelling at me. Telling me I was stupid and he couldn't believe how dumb and selfish I was. Yep. I hung up when my mom gasped at my arm.

She called my dad, who was no longer living with us. He rushed over and tried to place me into a 51/50 hold. That's when they deem a person a danger to themselves or others and lock them into the psych ward for at least 24 hours. Thing was, I wasn't suicidal. I wasn't even hysterical or upset. I wasn't even crying anymore. I was however embarrassed.

My father called some place to have them take me away, but since I was an adult, they asked to talk to me. After a 5 minute conversation, they decided I was of sound mind and weren't going to lock me up in some padded cell. Dad was pissed. He never understood my issues. Even once I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, he still considered me just a "drama queen."

Anyway, it was suggest by this family crisis center that I at least seek mental help. So I was given references to some therapists and psychiatrists. My mom also made an appointment with my general physician to stitch me up. Dad left angry. Mom took me to the doctor. I agreed to see the mental health specialists for my mom. Because of the pain in her eyes when she took in my gaping wound.

I remember the sad look in the doctor's eyes when he saw not only my gash, but the scars around it. It took 13 stitches. He said the skin was too ragged from multiple cuts and scars that it just kept falling apart as he tried to stitch it. So I was still left with an ugly scar.

I have to look at that scar everyday. Have to remember how it happened and what it led to. In the end, it was sort of a good thing. I found a great therapist and a good psychiatrist. I was properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder and anxiety and started getting meds and help on a weekly basis.

That day had been life changing for me. And even though I'm not anywhere near cured (there really is no cure for these things) I was given tools to help me cope. And for 2 years, my therapist was my lifeline. Sadly, my health insurance changed after that, and I had to stop seeing her. But I still have my psych. Even tho she's less of a "let's talk this out" and more of a "here's some pills" type of help. It's still help.

I'm lucky I didn't have to hit rock bottom and wind up in a hospital, getting my stomach pumped due to an overdose. Lucky that I didn't sever an artery or something. Lucky that my help came before something much worse happened.

To my readers, you are not alone. Talk to someone. Professional or not. Talk about it. Hopefully before you hit rock bottom. Hopefully before you have to see the disappointment in the eyes of your loved ones as they witness one of your not so shining moments. Start talking. Someone will listen.

I will listen.

Things I can't/don't do because of my phobia

In no particular order, things I can't or won't deal with due to my phobia of vomit and vomiting.

- Go to parties, bars, clubs, ect. I pretty much avoid places where there will be heavy drinking. Because people tend to drink too much and throw up! I have never drank till I threw up. For obvious reasons. I briefly lived in a party house where drinking till you puke was a daily thing. I couldn't handle it. The bathrooms were always full of people throwing up. So I actually used to pee outside. I felt it was cleaner!

- Have kids. Not that I'm in a place to have them anyway. But the fear of morning sickness and having a child with the stomach flu is enough to scare me away from the idea of motherhood. Everyone says I'd make a wonderful mother. And I probably would, until they got sick. Then I'd be running out the door!

- I have gone to the emergency before. But I'd rather not. Again, sick people, throwing up. Can't handle that. Same with dr waiting rooms. I usually take someone with me who will wait in the room for me and I stay out in the parking lot.

- Drugs. Obviously this is a good thing to avoid. But my reason wasn't because they are wrong. But because I feared throwing up. Someone told me that you're supposed to throw up with some drugs. Why?!

- Certain medical procedures and medications. I avoid pretty much anything that "may" cause vomiting. No thank you!

- Working. I did it for a little bit. In a store. And who knew that customers threw up so often in stores?! It's crazy. If you feel sick, stay home!

- Cleaning when my pets throw up. I throw a towel over that crap and leave it for my boyfriend to clean. I can't even look at it. Actually, I've gotten wise and when I know my dog is feeling nauseous, I throw garbage bags around the floor so clean up involves just wrapping it up and taking it outside.

- Public transportation. People get motion sickness. I can not be trapped on a bus or something with someone puking. Flying on a plane is definitely not happening.

- School. I HATED being forced to go to school when I was younger. Too many kids throwing up! Even in high school! Again, stay home! When I did witness such a thing, I'd go home feeling sick myself and stay home for days. Now as an adult, I don't have faith that others know any better so I never did attend college other than online.

- Eating questionable food. Be it something new I've never tried, or chicken cooked by someone I don't really know or a place I don't trust. No food poisoning for me thanks!

- Watching certain movies. Anything with a vomit scene will send me running. I often have to look up a questionable movie to see first if there's such in a scene in it before watching it. If a tv show seems to be leading towards a possible vomit scene, I close my eyes and cover my ears.

- Carnival rides. No roller coasters or things that spin or go upside down. I don't want to get sick and really really don't want to someone to get sick on me!

I'm probably missing out on a lot due to this phobia. But it runs my life. It has since I was a little girl. In fact, I have yet to pinpoint the exact moment when vomiting became the end all. When it turned into a traumatic event that led me to never want to deal with it again. But the irrational fear is there. And I wonder if it'll ever go away...

Unedited

I've been writing these entries without going back over and reading them. So I apologize if there are errors. Spelling, grammar, or otherwise.

I feel that if I were to reread what I wrote, that I may want to rewrite it. I'd want to censor myself and start deleting sections. But I think it's better if I don't. I want this to be raw. To be the truth. So I'm doing my best to keep it that way.

Denied

I was denied disability. I know some of you are reading this in other countries so I'm not sure if you know what that is. Basically, had I been approved, I would've gotten free healthcare and also money from the government to help support me as I can not work. I can't even leave my house most days.

But I was denied. Perhaps because I was once able to function in society like a normal person. Had I never worked at all before, they would've taken my claim now more seriously. Which is silly. I should not be punished for once having my life together.

It's the PTSD. Something changed in me when I got physically sick 2 years ago. The physical problems (constant nausea, diarrhea, body aches, exhaustion, confusion and fainting) led to a mental breakdown. And it's only getting worse.

But the doctor who examined me for my disability claim said I was "curable" and therefore will be denied. He said I looked fine. Healthy, well groomed, ect. Um, I hadn't showered in days, was in mis matching sweats and no make up. 2 years ago, I would've never dreamed of leaving my house without make up and a nice pair of high heels. So what does he know?

Regardless of how this decision came about or why. I am suffering more now than ever. Disability was my last hope. I was also denied just the free healthcare. Which is silly as I don't work and am now, under law, am required to have health insurance. So where do they expect me to get the money to pay for it?

This news has caused even more panic attacks and an even deeper depression to sink in. I am scared and lost. Not sure where to turn now for the aid I need. How will I pay the $150 for my psychiatric appointments? How will I pay $227 for one medicine that I need (that's a 2 month supply) and the $500 for the other medicine that I need (for a 3 month supply)? Not to mention all the cheaper medicines that will surely add up to hundreds in a year as well?

My boyfriend has been supporting me. But it's wearing him down. He can't handle much more. Too many long hours at work has made him cranky. I think he may also be bitter. Angry at me for putting us in this place where I am unable to contribute to the relationship financially. Not to mention adding more bills and more stress to the situation.

So what will I do? I'll fight of course. Between panic attacks, I'll appeal the decision for my disability. I don't want permanent disability. I just want some help so I can get better. An easing of stress so I can focus on my health. Is that asking too much? To the government, I guess it is. But I'm going to damn well try my best anyway. Because living a life like this is not living.

The Panic Attack

Most professionals will tell you that the human body can only stay in a heightened state of panic for a short amount of time. About 40 minutes max. I feel my body didn't get that memo. Just yesterday, I was having a panic attack for 6 hours. Now maybe the attack was settling down after 40 minutes and then starting up again a minute later. Who knows. I'm no doctor. But I know it FELT like a constant attack for 6 hours.

For those of you who have never had a panic attack, let me try to explain how it feels.

Sometimes it's a slow build of anxiety into panic and then right into a total break down. Sometimes it's just anxiety that settles down. Other times, it just suddenly hits as a full blown, all out, freak out.

But for the most part, the symptoms are the same. Rapid heart beat, numb or tingling in my hands and feet, shaking of the whole body or at least hands and arms, sometimes such hard shaking that it's easily visible to others. Also, I get nauseous. Since I have a phobia of vomiting, this causes more panic. I get tunnel vision, dizzy, weak. The body goes into fight or flight mode. Often, I take flight. I flee whatever situation I am in that is making me uncomfortable. Other times, when I'm home and this happens, I can't fight or flight. So I just suffer. Often for long hours that feel like days.

My last 6 hour long attack actually had me considering calling an ambulance and going to the hospital. My heart was pounding so fast, I thought I was having a heart attack. I hear that many people mistake panic attacks for heart attacks. I was so weak, so shaky. I hadn't eaten all day and could barely stomach even a little water.

Of course, I didn't call. I can't stand Emergency Rooms and the thought of going to one, made me more anxious.

I'm out of my anti-anxiety medication for the next few days. I guess I used too many and my psychiatrist does not want to refill my pills until I see her on Monday. So instead, I get to wake up each morning, already shaking like a leaf, weak and dizzy. Lather, rinse, repeat. For the next couple of days.

Wish me the best. I can't stand this all day everyday!

The Breakdown. Copyright kedralynn.deviantart.com

The Truth of the matter

(This was actually written months ago, but only posting now as I just started this blog)

I like to act all strong about my illness. I want to be inspirational. I don't want my loved ones to see me break down and cry. I don't want to scare them. I want to pretend that it's just some mild thing that I'll get over.

But it's not. I still don't have a proper diagnosis for what's physically wrong with me. But I can tell you of the emotional stress and the mental problems that have arisen from this. Now why would I do that when I want everyone to think I'm fine and dandy? Because maybe then I truly will be inspirational.

I have bipolar disorder, as many of my older followers know. In the past 4 years, I have made huge strides in coping with it and taking an active role in society. I was working, driving, dealing with stress and crowds like a normal person. The anxiety attacks were few and far between. The mood swings were less violent.

But then I got sick almost 2 years ago. It started out with a long night of hugging the toilet. Now what you may not know is that suffer from emetophobia. It's a severe fear of vomit, vomiting, ect. I can't see it, hear it, do it. Won't watch it on tv. Just talking about it makes me shaky. Before this incident, I had gone 11 years without throwing up. 11!

I was more or less traumatized and couldn't eat or go out for a week and lost 15lbs. I eventually had to go back to work so I sucked it up, popped a few xanax and anti-nausea meds and got on with it. But then it started affecting my work. Being a cashier, it's not like you can say to your line of customers "Oh excuse me, I feel queasy" and go to the bathroom. But one day, I had to do that. I told my boss I had to go home and I crawled into my car, shaking and crying. I wasn't having an anxiety attack. It was an all out panic attack. I felt like dying. I don't remember the drive home at all.

That was pretty much the beginning of the end. I couldn't go back. I got medical leave, started seeing doctors. They all scratched their heads in confusion. I had an appointment with a GI doctor (for my stomach) 2 days before my health insurance ended. 2 days before I would lose my job as my medical leave was up. That doctor called me and said "hey we don't take your insurance, can we reschedule you next month with someone else?" Not possible. And that's where my tests and doctor head scratching ended.

I also feel it's where my life as I knew it ended too.

I fear leaving my house. I fear being alone in a store and getting sick and panicky. Alone. How do I get home? What will happen? Will I faint and smack my head? Will I puke in the middle of the store? Another huge fear of mine btw. I don't drive myself out of my "safe zone." My safe zone is close enough that I know I can make it home safely in case something happens. Anything outside of my zone, and I need a ride. I will literally burst into tears if someone asks me to go somewhere outside of this zone. My mom has to take me grocery shopping once a week. I have no social life.

The nausea and panic happens at home too. But at least at home, I can hop in the shower, take my meds (which make me too sleepy to drive btw so I can't take them when I'm out) and scream and cry if I need to without people staring at me.

Today, I tried to go to the pharmacy myself. A place I've been to so often that they know me by my first name. I was in line and suddenly the nausea hit. The panic followed. My vision blurred, my heart rate sped, my arms and legs shook violently. I threw my almost purchases on a shelf and ran outside. Ran for my car. I shook. I cried. I gagged. I broke apart.

A trip to the pharmacy brought me to my knees. This is my reality. This is my daily struggle. I've applied for some government help in the healthcare department. I am waiting to hear about my application. I pray with all I have that I get it. I need to start seeing doctors again. I need to get my life back together.

This is the truth of the matter. If you read this far, I thank you. I don't want to hide this anymore. I am human. We all are. We have our struggles. It's killing me inside, but I will still get up each day. I will still keep trying to live some sort of life in spite of this. I will fall to my knees. I will break. But I will get back up again. There is no other option.