Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

I Go Insane: Part the Third

At one point in the year after I was diagnosed as (ha) bi-polar, I began having my strange thoughts that all my friends hated me, and if people didn't say goodbye with the right expression on their faces I would cry all the way home. If Marcia said hi to Libby before she said hi to me I would obsess. This is not situational sadness.

One would think I would have recognized the depression when it came back. Here's how crazy I was: I argued, "But Dr. Guiffra, they really DO hate me. Marcia used to say 'hi' to me first, and now she says hi to Libby first, and I know it's because she can see what a bad person I am. I can see it in her face. I think I need therapy, not drugs. I'm a Very Bad Person."

"No," he said. "Just try these anti-depressants in addition to the bi-polar drugs. Just for six weeks. If you're still a bad person after six weeks we'll stop the drugs and start some heavy duty therapy."

And of course, I listened to him and the medicine made my brain chemistry all better. (Every once in a while Marcia tries to make that face I described to her as the Marcia Hates Me Face, but usually she cracks up.)

At the next visit, he noticed I've gained twenty-five pounds (and how could you not). So he suggested I go off the current 'mood-swing medication' and instead try a different 'mood-swing medication' for a while, one that makes you LOSE weight. (Joy, joy, and even greater joy.) Then he continues (in his Peruvian accent) "and then I think maybe you aren't having mood swings at all. Let's stop that medication all together. Maybe you were just a little depressed when you first came to see me."

I would like to say I gaped in disbelief.

Or, I would like to say I jumped on him and hit him with my little fists and yelled "I told you bastards that two years ago!" But no. It is testament to my trust in him that I said, instead, "Are you sure? I was really upset when I first came here."

He said, "Well, sometimes depression can exhibit itself that way. Not typically, but sometimes."

Still blinking against the bright light outside of the cave, I said "So I'm not bi-polar?"

And the lying bastard said "Oh, I never said you were bi-polar."

I piped up with, "In the second paragraph from the bottom of the letter you sent my neurologist, gynecologist, and general physician." (YOU LYING DIMINUTIVE BASTARD I thought.)

He looked it up and yes, there it was. He said, "these things are tricky. You have a family history of bi-polar behavior, plus your MS, but now maybe I'm thinking not so much . . ." He noticed I was gripping the weight-loss medicine. "But we'll keep you on this until you take the weight off. But just go cold turkey on the old mood-swing medication. Stay on the anti-depressants."  We talked about it, and I now stay on the anti-depressants because my brain cells can be nibbled away at any time. I only go on the weight-loss mood-stabilizers when I have to be on the steroids because my MS is flaring up and the steroids make me wacky and manic. So I decided he wasn't a lying bastard.

Last time I saw him, he asked if it would okay with me if I just stayed on the Celxa for the rest of my life.  Of COURSE it's okay. Its great. Just don't ask me that when I'm crazy.

I Go Insane: Part the Second

My insanity lay dormant for a few years. About the second week of June in 2003  my niece Arzanna-fay came to town. This is the girl child of Gary's flaky Muslim-convert sister and the Pakistani mail-order doctor husband. We looked through photos of her fifth grade graduation. One photo was simply surreal: Three eleven-year old girls in the '70s Charlie's Angels pose swathed in full Muslim head scarves and tennisshoes.

So she came to town and we (Gary, Arzanna-fay, Gary's sister Karen, her husband, and I) went to Six-Flags. I hadn't been to Six Flags for a while (too hot) but the weather was cool and there were no lines. Aunt Karen, who is a phobic of some type, sat out all rides that left the surface of the earth (leaving only the train and the Chevy Show). I got on the first ride, used to be called the Buccaneer, it's like a big swing that goes waaayyy up and comes waaaayyy down and evidently you are expected to use your survival instincts to keep in your seat. I screamed the whole time. Arzanna-fay explained, "Aunt Ellen, this is a baby ride."

So when I saw the Mr. Freeze ride looming in the distance I decided Arzanna-fay needed to have a strong female role model, and I decided to go on this ride, which is a loop-the-loop coaster that terminates with a track that goes 90 degrees straight up in the air, then you plummet down and go through the whole ride backwards. Since I decided to go on the two men had to follow or be emotionally castrated. Arzanna-fay and Aunt Karen were to stay outside.

I walked toward the ride a few steps, then dramatically turned around, walked back to Arzanna-fay, hugged her, and declared, "If I never see you again, know that I love you." Then I walked in the ride.

There was no line since it was Friday, so we only had to wait about five minutes. I was looking at the machinery, thinking, "This is a billion-dollar piece of machinery, not some swing I have to hold on to to keep from flying out." And I was comforted. Plus, the actual ride only lasts less than a minute. From the viewpoint of the person waiting in line, the riders are launched at almost 80mph, there is horrified silence in line, then the riders are back in less than a minute they same way they left and their hair is messed up. The girl behind me wanted to know if I'd been on the ride before. I said no, but it looked like a substantial piece of machinery and I was not afraid.

And it was a great ride. They clamp you in so tightly you can't breathe, so its good that its a 50-second ride. On the first upside-down part I thought, yes this is much better than the ride where I thought I could fall out. I'm not falling out of this. And by the time I'd formulated that thought I'd hit the top of the 90 degree peak and was doing it all backwards and then I was back where the line was.

This is where you usually hear the pneumatic noise of the ride releasing its passengers, and then you hear laughing as the people pile out of the ride. We heard no pneumatic noise. What WE heard was the high school kid in the Control Panel yelling "Joe - what does your panel say?" (Joe didn't answer). Then in a panicky voice: "Joe! Your panel! Is IT FLASHING RED?!"  "Joe" was occupied going from seat to seat checking if we were okay. Then, the guy in the panel switches to Calm Professional High-School Student Voice and says "Ladies and Gentlemen, I regret to inform you the Mr. Freeze ride has to be temporarily shut down. If you are waiting in line and you would would like to exit, please do so in an orderly manner." It was evident those of us trapped on Mr. Freeze would not be released from the death grip of the broken roller-coaster. Joe was going from seat to seat seeing if everyone was okay. My brother-in-law reported no, he was not okay, the seat clamp was pressing on the Chinese he had for lunch and he had to use the bathroom. Joe said "Can't help you." It was clear he was asking "Are you going to sue us," not, "Are you okay." I am thankful to report I did not have to go to the bathroom. Joe asked if I was ok. I demanded to be reassured the ride was NOT going to START ON ITS OWN and then I wanted to know what was wrong. Joe said, "You came back a little too fast." After he left Gary whispered "Do you smell a burning smell?" I did not, my fear was not burning alive, my fear was the roller coaster would shoot off again and this time not ... quite...work right. Nothing like the security of being clamped to a well-maintained roller coaster, and nothing like the panic of being clamped to a speed-crazed roller coaster with a mind of its own. "You came back a little too fast." What else could be say? "You left the track for a while there."

Mind you, all Arzanna-fay knows at the point is that people have streamed out of the Mr. Freeze ride and told her "something's gone wrong with the ride." She immediately assumes I have had a baby spineless pansy attack like her Aunt Karen and I am in some way responsible, as if I pulled the brakes in mid-flight.

Back inside the ride, there are actually some people so stupid they still want to ride Mr. Freeze, which is, allow me to restate, a broken malfunctioning roller coaster. I called over to the girl who had been behind me in line, "You know, it was really scary. Are you sure you want to get on?" At that moment the ride started to roll forward.

I would have screamed but like I said, this clamp was secure and I could barely breathe. Then I heard that sound of the seat clamp releasing, the loveliest sound in the world, and I got the hell off that thing.

Arzanna-fay, as I said, had been imagining the new reporters asking "So your Aunt Ellen, was she known to be afraid of amusement park rides?" or "So your Aunt Ellen, has she had a history of mental illness?" So when it was clear I had not been responsible I was cool. I was Cool Aunt Ellen then, (EVEN THOUGH THIS INCIDENT WAS LATER TOUTED AS POOR JUDGEMENT AND EVIDENCE OF MANIA) especially since I had enough energy to wear out an 11 year old at the amusemnent park (FURTHER MANIC ACTIVITY).

I was particularly Cool Aunt Ellen after she spent the night (don't let me forget, the trash-can corner of the guest bedroom points toward Mecca) and we stayed up till 1am. (EVIDENCE OF MANIA!)

So it was fun. I spent a fair chunk of money, however, not more than I had budgeted (EVEN MORE MANIA) and Mr. Freeze experience was an excellent test of my new and improved bowel function God or Allah has been kind enough to grant me.

The first week of June, I was at MasterCard and I cried because I was in an empty conference room that had no table so the fax had to sit on a chair. Poor fax. Unbearably sad. Also very difficult to explain when your client comes by and wonders why you are crying. When really, you don't feel normal sadness as much as you feel just distraught this fax machine is sitting here without a table, for pete's sake.

The next day I woke up and within 2 minutes I was screaming at Gary. Usually I have to be a little more awake before I scream, I can't work up a good scream-fest until late in the day even. Then I looked at the dogs and screamed at them. It was a brief scream, but I was shaking after it.

"Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?" Gary asked.

The dogs just stared at each other in horror.

I was driving to MasterCard and Holly called on my cell. I screamed at her and hung up. She called back and asked me what my problem was and I burst into tears. Then I hung up again. At that point I strongly considered taking a sick day, because I knew if I encountered any clients there was a good chance I would yell at them and they would fire us all. Holly called back again and said to come back to WestPort, the meeting location had changed. That just annoyed me, and I just had to fight the urge to run all the other cars off the road.

Back at WestPort, I attended the meeting ..and..laughed..and laughed. Funniest meeting I ever went to. I laughed myself sick. In my defense, everyone was laughing, except Holly, who just sat there looking at her watch wondering when we would be done with this silliness. I was relieved. My bad mood was lifting. That was the end of my bad day, and the rest of the week was normal. I know, because I kept track on my calendar -- I wrote an "E" for emotional for that day and the previous one.

The third week of June, I went for my yearly visit to the neurologist. I reported the irrational crying I'd had the first week of the month. I was expecting a prescription for an anti-depressant, and I'd made my peace with that, because I just can't be wandering around sobbing over the furniture arrangement of the MasterCard conference rooms. Besides, I have an illness that eats chunks out of my brain. I can't expect to have normal brain chemistry.

However, he didn't think I was just depressed. It seems your average depressed people (your "depresseds") stay depressed and become more and more depressed. However, other mental illnesses (your "bipolars" or "manic-depressives") get over their depressions and find they have lots of energy afterward . . . and they take unusual risks (thrill rides) . . .  and they stay up late . . and sometimes they spend lots of money on clothes. . . .

"No," I said "I'm not bipolar. My brother's bipolar." Well, kiss of death. Stamp my head with the big CRAZY stamp right there. Actually, he did convince me that I need to look in to it, because I know I did have that one major depression and right before and after it I'd had that sense of being incredibly healthy. Like the time I decided I could jog home from Chesterfield Mall. So, crazy depressed nuts + crazy healthy happy nuts = some type of bipolar nuts. So I said sure (heavy sigh with gritted teeth) I'll go to a psychiatrist and see what he has to say.

And in case you ever need to know, when a doctor gets you to say that, the doctor immediately picks up the phone with you there, calls the psychiatrist, gives him your phone number, then the PSYCHIATRIST calls YOU to make an appointment. (Because of course you can't be trusted, because perhaps one of your multiple personalities agreed to see the psychiatrist and the others weren't on board.)

I decided if I had to be called bipolar or manic-depressive to protect myself from another major depression I would. I don't want even a minor depression when I cry over the fax machine (and I've seen that fax machine since then and it looks perfectly happy).

So, I made a very involved spreadsheet chronicling my episodes of sadness and screaming and my other episodes of feeling excessively healthy. Gary said as soon as the shrink sees that he'll write down "makes overly detailed lists."

I imagine Dr. G_______ didn't get much out of the first fifteen minutes of our talk since I was crying violently and when I do that my voice just comes out making a peeping sound every few syllables. He's from Peru so I'm sure that doesn't help. I cried solidly for five minutes. Of the $200 for that initial visit -- that's what it costs the insurance company -- I ate up about $25 with "Enn neen ee snif ween shl kuh ee ooo snif" (That's "And then he said I should come see you.")

The mood-modification medicine worked. For about a year. Then everything went to shit again.

I Go Insane: Part the First

I often wonder if writers are depressed because they are writers, or if they are writers because they are depressed. It seems if you have been depressed, you have been to a strange planet and you come back needing to explain the chill in the atmosphere and the lack of color of the suns.

Normal people probably come closest to depression when they dream. I heard a theory once that your dreams are just random images floating in your brain, and the instant you wake your mind gives it reason and some logical structure. That's how you end up with "George Bush and I were at McDonald's in our underwear and they made us leave so we went to China." And depression is just as logical. You have a mind that is telling you that you are evil, and the part of your mind that needs order out of insanity says "Well, you are, and that's why you should drown your children. It's the only rational thing to do to protect them from being raised by an evil person like you."

I didn't start at 100 percent insane right after my colonoscopy  (see http://mocklog.typepad.com/queen_mediocretia/2005/11/i_go_insane_par.html). It took about five days. On day one, the pie chart of my soul was divided into 2 slices, a 99 percent me slice, and a one percent slice for the "still small voice" of my conscience. You know, we all have that little voice that says "What the - god, THAT was stupid. What were you thinking?" It's only one percent, you can shove it in the closet pretty easily.

On day two, the voice expanded to take up to twenty percent of the the pie chart of my soul. Larger than normal, but no larger than it gets when I've done something stupid. The next day - twenty five.

When it hit fifty percent it became impossible to shove it into the closet.

When it hit ninety percent, it kicked me into the closet whenever I tried to have a rational thought.  And my soul stayed that way for about three months. I would sometime wake up at 3 a.m., moments before my no longer still or small Voice woke up, and I would think, "Huh - why am I awake at 3 a.m?" That would wake the Voice up and it would start in with "Because you don't deserve to be asleep. You are an awful person. You are a cold, heartless, uncaring person and anyone else who thinks differently is just falling into the deception you perpetrate against mankind. "

Happy thoughts like that filled every waking hour I was alone. I would be at work (it let me work as long as I didn't talk to anyone about it) until I left, and as soon as I would get into my car  it would start in with the guilt.

I know you're thinking how insane this sounds. Of course, I would have shrugged the Voice off if it had been still and small. But every thought was voiced by the Voice. I had no say. I understand that some depressed people shrink to only one percent, and the rest is not taken up by a Voice, it's just emptiness. And why not kill yourself, because you aren't there anyway?

Except, thankfully, after two and a half months of not controlling my thoughts I visited my friend Carol and she foolishly asked how I was doing and I suppose the Voice was napping, I told her what an awful person I was. Picture two hours of me crying and explaining how I was a cold, unfeeling person, standoffish, how I kept boundaries between myself and others, and that type of behavior is what causes wars. So, basically, I cause wars.

Carol started by asking if I'd had thoughts of suicide. "Oh, no, I don't deserve to kill myself!" I answered, "There's only three ways that could go. I could die and be eaten by worms, and that wouldn't be right. I can't get off scott-free. I'm awful.  Or, what if church is right and I would go to heaven, even though I'm awful." (Violent sobbing.) " That's not a punishment, and I don't think I'm so special God would make an exception for me and send me to hell. " (Big sniffle.) "If there's only a one-in-three chance of going to hell, which is what I deserve, I have to stay here and think about what I've done."

Carol and bless him, her husband, tried for quite some time to tell me I wasn't a bad person. "But you don't really know me," I complained.  "If you really knew what I was like inside, you would understand and you wouldn't be talking to me right now."

It was getting quite late and Carol took the tack of humoring the crazy person. "Okay," she reasoned. "Let's say you are an awful person. No one can tell. I think it's a great thing you're doing, hiding your evil nature from the world. "

See, reason. I couldn't argue with that. And I stuck to the idea that at least I was a good fraud for at least a month, until I noticed I was down to crying only once a week.  I'm not saying that Carol's humoring made me turn the corner, but it gave me another rational construct to hang my insanity on, while my damaged brain had a chance to rebuild itself and restore the balance of serotonin.

After I came out of it, I got a medical power of attorney and convinced Gary that if he ever wakes up and finds me crying at three am, and if the reason for my tears is that I am a horrible person, he must give me drugs. No point in fighting insanity.

Prelude to Insanity

Before I found out I had MS, I still had MS. Ah, so young. So arrogant, so diseased and oblivious. No doubt one thing worse than having MS is having it and not knowing it. I was pin-balling between specialists for a few years before I was diagnosed.  I saw an ophthalmologist for the optic neuritis, and had to see a urologist for the frequent bladder infections,  but I never thought I needed a primary care physician to put it all together. Because hey, I have the Internet and the big medical encyclopedia.

Well, at some point my digestion went south. It was, to say the least, irritable. It was also very, very active and made me very, very tired. I had to pad an extra 45 minutes to any 20 minute car ride to account for gas station visits.  So I recommended myself to a gastrointerologist, Dr. C___________.

His first question: "What are your symptoms?
I explained that my life was now spent voiding my bowels.

"What are your other symptoms?" he asked.

"Well, my feet tingle, for some reason."

"Do you have MS?"

"No," I chirped, IN BLIND IGNORANCE.

"Are you of  Swedish descent?"

"No. Do Swedish people move their bowels a lot?" (NO, STUPID GIRL, THEY HAVE MULTIPLE SCLEROSIS MORE THAN THE AVERAGE.)

"Well they have other conditions that can cause it. Have you ever had any vision problems?"

"Well, I had optic neuritis once, but it went away." BECAUSE MS SYMPTOMS DO JUST GO AWAY SOMETIMES.

Of course, you can't diagnose MS just on random symptoms, you have to be suspected of having MS for a while.  The M does stand for Multiple. And its not good to be diagnosed with MS when you are on COBRA insurance. So I went through a few tests culminating in an endoscopy and colonoscopy.

The endoscopy went well, I suppose; they gave me a drug that almost made me forget it. It was the same drug they give you for wisdom teeth extractions. Versed, the drug, evidently breaks down the boundaries that make you discourage people from shoving tubes down your throat and up your ass. (Different tubes. I asked.)

The colonoscopy - well. Heh. It started with Gail, the technician, asking what I remembered about the endoscopy. All I do remember is nurses yelling at me to breathe and my being. very. annoyed. Snippy high queen hissing annoyed. Gail should have taken that as a cue to roll me out right then, but instead I think she chose to give me a little less Versed. So little I remember the whole colonoscopy experience, down to my appendix and back again.

Dr. C______ came in and started. The nurse had said, "We'll give you a drug that makes it like you've had a glass of wine at a bar." She should have said, "We'll give you a drug that makes it like you've had a glass of wine at a bar and a stranger comes up and shoves a tube with a camera up your ass." I was not civil. But I was soon distracted by the pretty colors. My colon is gorgeous. A pretty little pink factory. I was enchanted. At some point the TV monitor I was watching began to spin. I alerted them that the monitor was spinning and they said "that's the drugs."

"Oh," I realized,"that must be why you look like giant sheep." Technically, a large giant sheep wearing a lab coat and a stethescope and a slightly small female sheep. I suppose this was inspired by a very heavy-handed Daphne DuMarier story I read in my morbid youth called "The Blue Lenses" in which a woman comes out of an operation and all her doctors look like animals.

I told them they were giant sheep and they didn't seem too concerned. The the poor doctor had to navigate through some colonic dogleg and it hurt. I was clenching the rail on the bed. He apologized and I hissed at him, "It doesn't hurt. What on earth makes you think YOU have the capacity to hurt ME?"

"But it must hurt. Your toes are clenched. And I am sorry."

I snarled through clenched teeth, "It does not hurt. Stop apologizing. Do you think I am so weak YOU have to apologize to ME?"

Gail (the smaller of the giant sheep) bleated, "He's just trying to make you feel better."

I informed Gail she was just a sheep, what did she know? And she would hurt her head if she kept bumping it against the wall of glass bricks I could distinctly see growing brick by brick between us.

At that time we were turning the corner into the ascending colon. And I at that moment turned the corner from manic  to depressed. Suddenly I felt bad about how I was treating this nice noble doctor.  He changed from a sheep to a nice intelligent father-figure in a uniform who was just trying to help. And I changed from the bitch queen into a Very Bad Person. I would have mentioned this to the doctor, except the glass bricks were up to the ceiling and I was hallucinating the end of the old Get Smart show when the doors close one after another.

I was pensive all through my ascending colon. He tried to interest me in my appendix. They tried to engage me in conversation and I mentioned what a Very Bad Person I was.  Soon it was all over. 

As were my digestion problems. Any problems were superseded by my insanity and depression for the next three months, of course. I don't want to think the Versed (which they don't give for colonoscopies anymore) caused the depression.  I was a thirty-five year old woman with MS; I was a depression waiting to happen. However, the Versed did cause me to redecorate my bathroom with anatomy charts and photos of my friends colonoscopies, because internal organs are beautiful and fantastic.