:::sigh:::
I have been a very bad blogger.
I apologize.
But I have good reason-when I am not at home holding my couch down in the event of a gravity-reversal, I have been out and about, enjoying life.
I have kicked the Ambien habit. Woot, woot, as the hipsters might say.
I am staggering down on my Cymbalta. Another high-five. :::slap:::
I am working with my acupuncturist with some homeopathy that will compliment my traditional Lyme treatments. Holla.
I'm sleeping a TON, which means I am fighting hard.
I'm even thinking about ramping up my meditation practice, from oh, none, to maybe a teensy little bit, so that I am less likely to get so stabby when things don't go my way. Progress, right?
Even though not everything is going swimmingly, I am handling things pretty damn well if I do say so, myself.
I'm even getting to do things I thought I would have to shelve for a while.
I had the chance to go to lunch with Sky King, and some of my old trouble-making cohorts from my college days. We all met downtown, with plans to eat fabulous food, and drink fabulous drinks, all the while telling baudy stories about our late teens and early 20s.
Sky King's ears (and mental-image department) probably bled a bit. Sorry, Honey. I was young, and drunk. And under the influence of bad bad people that challenged me to do inappropriate things like skinny-dip in the ocean, and the like. I will try to not do these things too often in the future.
I do, however, want a pic of the skinny-dipping-I can't imagine I will ever look that good again. 20-year-old boobies? Sign me up! :::longing sigh::: (T---I expect a high-res image soon-I will sned postage if need be!)
As you may remember, I was convinced to go on a rafting trip with my friends, in full frontal sun, despite my recent addition of Doxycycline to the meds mix.
This was an amazing day. Not only because I did not wake up hungover the next day. Not only because I got to do something amazing that I didn't think I could. But because everyone was on board with keeping me covered, so that I could participate.
Later, when thinking of this day, it was that. That inclusion that touched me so much. The feeling that my friends were willing to accept a crazy-dressed covered-up nutjob on their raft, that they would remember to remind me to cover up and reapply sunscreen, that they were committed enough to me going they spent some time convincing me to go.
It gave me a taste of my "old life", of getting to do things again.
I no longer feel that I am watching life happen--I am participating.
And it feels freaking awesome!
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Hunter S. Thompson and Me
Drugs. I'm not a fan. Especially when I HAVE TA. I HATE having to do something. But when you are saddled with a bunch of crazy shit that half the docs in the universe don't believe in, AND your sun rises and sets on this imaginary hell, you learn to compromise.
And so now I am a pill-popping fiend.
But still, my anarchist tendencies rear their little pointed heads. Like when I realized I was addicted to Ambien. While the ride was fun, it was like a roller coaster stuck in FF. Eventually, the fun dies, and you want to barf in your best friend's lap. Ambien has been quite a ride---ups and downs, trials and tribulations, blah blah blah. Sky King will not miss it, I assure you.
Now that I have become such a seasoned junky, I can't help but think back to my time reading Hunter S. Thompson. It's like we are soul-siblings:
“We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers... and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.
Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream
You may recall I have a hate-hate relationship with Ambien. While I hate pharmaceuticals, I also hate not sleeping. And I can't get well if I don't sleep. Dr. Lyme was clear when he told me I would not get well if I could not sleep. And I can't sleep without help.
But the Ambien? It's not working as well as I'd like. So the next step, in Dr. Lyme's opinion, was to ramp up to something stronger. With the whole "get well" thing going on, I can certainly work with that. But, I'm not feeling the whole "add more pharmaceuticals" thing, especially when the "ramp up" suggestion is typically used to have crazy love-monkey sex with a comatose chick who would normally give you the stink-eye, rather than to induce happy dreams of candy and rainbows. Basically, roofies. He wanted me to take roofies. Ummm, no.
Part of my hesitation is that every time I add something, I go to the manufacturer's website. I look at the side effects, paying close attention to the "common side effects" and the "holy shit! Call 911, stat!!!" list. When the second list has side effects I ALREADY HAVE from some other drug, or some other ailment, I begin to feel a teensy bit angry.
Teensy, monumentally, potato, potahtoe.
So I decided that, Ambien may not be the only way to get sleep. I was done. DONE.
Maybe part of my success was related to my resolve?
Anywho, I switched to a natural herbal remedy that has no contraindications, does not trash my liver, and does not give me side effects. I weaned off the Ambien, slowly substituting my herbal, and BAM! I freaking sleep as well as when I'm on Ambien, if not better. And my dreams? Not nearly as vivid, or as creepy. Bonus.
Next up? I'm ditching my antidepressants. I just have to make it through my next period without a murderous rage, and I think I will be ready.
Wish us ALL luck. And a sincere lack of sharp objects.
And so now I am a pill-popping fiend.
But still, my anarchist tendencies rear their little pointed heads. Like when I realized I was addicted to Ambien. While the ride was fun, it was like a roller coaster stuck in FF. Eventually, the fun dies, and you want to barf in your best friend's lap. Ambien has been quite a ride---ups and downs, trials and tribulations, blah blah blah. Sky King will not miss it, I assure you.
Now that I have become such a seasoned junky, I can't help but think back to my time reading Hunter S. Thompson. It's like we are soul-siblings:
“We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers... and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.
Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.”
― Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream
You may recall I have a hate-hate relationship with Ambien. While I hate pharmaceuticals, I also hate not sleeping. And I can't get well if I don't sleep. Dr. Lyme was clear when he told me I would not get well if I could not sleep. And I can't sleep without help.
But the Ambien? It's not working as well as I'd like. So the next step, in Dr. Lyme's opinion, was to ramp up to something stronger. With the whole "get well" thing going on, I can certainly work with that. But, I'm not feeling the whole "add more pharmaceuticals" thing, especially when the "ramp up" suggestion is typically used to have crazy love-monkey sex with a comatose chick who would normally give you the stink-eye, rather than to induce happy dreams of candy and rainbows. Basically, roofies. He wanted me to take roofies. Ummm, no.
Part of my hesitation is that every time I add something, I go to the manufacturer's website. I look at the side effects, paying close attention to the "common side effects" and the "holy shit! Call 911, stat!!!" list. When the second list has side effects I ALREADY HAVE from some other drug, or some other ailment, I begin to feel a teensy bit angry.
Teensy, monumentally, potato, potahtoe.
So I decided that, Ambien may not be the only way to get sleep. I was done. DONE.
Maybe part of my success was related to my resolve?
Anywho, I switched to a natural herbal remedy that has no contraindications, does not trash my liver, and does not give me side effects. I weaned off the Ambien, slowly substituting my herbal, and BAM! I freaking sleep as well as when I'm on Ambien, if not better. And my dreams? Not nearly as vivid, or as creepy. Bonus.
Next up? I'm ditching my antidepressants. I just have to make it through my next period without a murderous rage, and I think I will be ready.
Wish us ALL luck. And a sincere lack of sharp objects.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
The One Where I Cheat Mother Nature
I'm back on Doxy. Dr. Lyme apparently does not care if my mouth becomes foul with discoloration. Nor is he concerned with scaly itchy rashes that make people avoid my handshakes. And, he really doesn't give a rat's ass that it is summer in Northern Cali, and I can't have any sun exposure while on Doxy. None. Nada.
NO SUN EXPOSURE. This means, SPF 50 while driving. Horrifying shawls over my hands (and fingers) lest they wither in the sun's evil rays. Maxi dresses for my maxi ass. Sun hats that cover my beautifully RED hair. Can you hear my sulking?
So, when one of my besties from college coerced me (Sky King was involved, of course) to join them on a river raft trip, their pretty little sober faces pinky-swore not a ray of sun would besmirch my beautiful milky white thighs.
That's a mighty BIG order.
I promptly went to Wally World to find a swim shirt that would allow me to get wet, while still remain covered. Remember, I'm as sweaty as a buzzard's crotch these days, due to my Lyme-induced Peri-Menopause. So heat? Not a big fan.
I found an epic shirt. A prime-to-party shirt. I did have to pose briefly in the sun to show off my amazing find, complete with epic red hair:
I should have let the hair flow. My apologies.
Yes, those are barrels of beer on my shirt, and a frosty mug of beer accepting golden liquid glory. I have the most amazing drinking shirt EVAH.
And nice jugs? Pshaw. I have nice BARRELS. Sky King will attest.
Another pal from college also brought me a super cool, light and stretchy shirt, that would accept not only my ample bosom, but my criss-cross applesauce legs. My sis-in-law donated a fab hat, and I was the Belle of the Ball. Or at least, Riff Raff of the River?
No, I am not pregnant. Nor am I smuggling a heaping bag of doorknobs. I have somehow managed to hid almost every square inch of skin inside a FORGIVING white cover-up. They were NOT joking when they named this beast.
And the cooler? Filled with water. Sky King did NOT partake of the water.
That "borrowed from Monkey Boy" blue thermos-y jug? Filled with Vodka. And a splash of Squirt. Which he drank, after he provided an assist on the 72 beers that were in the other raft.
Final Score----
My skin: SPF 5000
My liver:1
Sky King's liver: 0
Enjoying life's simple pleasures: Priceless.
:::cue "awwwww":::
And, I was not couch-ridden the next day!
I wish I could say the same for Sky King.
NO SUN EXPOSURE. This means, SPF 50 while driving. Horrifying shawls over my hands (and fingers) lest they wither in the sun's evil rays. Maxi dresses for my maxi ass. Sun hats that cover my beautifully RED hair. Can you hear my sulking?
So, when one of my besties from college coerced me (Sky King was involved, of course) to join them on a river raft trip, their pretty little sober faces pinky-swore not a ray of sun would besmirch my beautiful milky white thighs.
That's a mighty BIG order.
I promptly went to Wally World to find a swim shirt that would allow me to get wet, while still remain covered. Remember, I'm as sweaty as a buzzard's crotch these days, due to my Lyme-induced Peri-Menopause. So heat? Not a big fan.
I found an epic shirt. A prime-to-party shirt. I did have to pose briefly in the sun to show off my amazing find, complete with epic red hair:
I should have let the hair flow. My apologies.
Yes, those are barrels of beer on my shirt, and a frosty mug of beer accepting golden liquid glory. I have the most amazing drinking shirt EVAH.
And nice jugs? Pshaw. I have nice BARRELS. Sky King will attest.
Another pal from college also brought me a super cool, light and stretchy shirt, that would accept not only my ample bosom, but my criss-cross applesauce legs. My sis-in-law donated a fab hat, and I was the Belle of the Ball. Or at least, Riff Raff of the River?
No, I am not pregnant. Nor am I smuggling a heaping bag of doorknobs. I have somehow managed to hid almost every square inch of skin inside a FORGIVING white cover-up. They were NOT joking when they named this beast.
And the cooler? Filled with water. Sky King did NOT partake of the water.
That "borrowed from Monkey Boy" blue thermos-y jug? Filled with Vodka. And a splash of Squirt. Which he drank, after he provided an assist on the 72 beers that were in the other raft.
Final Score----
My skin: SPF 5000
My liver:1
Sky King's liver: 0
Enjoying life's simple pleasures: Priceless.
:::cue "awwwww":::
And, I was not couch-ridden the next day!
I wish I could say the same for Sky King.
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