On Patience and Its Price

"I want to let go but there's comfort in the panic." - Linkin Park

A big shift

As I've previously shared, since The Socialist came out, I've dealt with some symptoms of PTSD and sleep disorders. Therapy is great, but it doesn't 'fix' anything. If only I could take the edge off, you know? Something to pull me from despair into just sadness. Well, we've got it!

 

 

About 6 months ago I had a genetic screening done to see, based on my genotype, which medications would likely yield the best results with the fewest side effects. Essentially the top 100 drugs are grouped into:

 

Green: high likelihood of desired effects with minimal side effects

Yellow: high likelihood of desired effects with some side effects

Red: moderate likelihood of desired effects with a high likelihood of side effects

DO NOT: self-explanatory


5 months ago I received the report. my green list was pretty big. Yellow had several. Red & black, combined, had about 20. Not bad.

4 months ago I finished my research and consultation with my Dr. and decided on a popular SNRI to start with.

3 months ago magic happened:

• My relationship with little Smye blossomed - from something I thought was pretty great to absolutely heavenly.
• My depression lightened - it's still there, but it's no longer black, just slightly grey.
• My anxiety shifted. I'm still anxious, but when something bad happens, I am anxious and that's it. I no longer spin-up to the point of having made the 27 logical steps to how this will lead me to being dead in a ditch within a year.
• My tremor disappeared.
• My sleep improved - I actually haven't sleepwalked since the day I started.
• My nightmares went from every night to only once a month.
• My dreams are often good.

There's a lot of stigma around mental health and medication, so I've thought long and hard about whether and how to write this. But at the end of the day - yes, medication is a crutch. Just as a crutch is a crutch for a broken leg - your leg is still broken and a crutch helps you heal. Here my neurobiology is changes from a childhood of abuse and then a traumatic event, of course I need some aid. So I will just put it out there.

And at this point comes the PSA: Get therapy. Yes, you. The healthy, super awesome, no problems, sunshine and daisies reader out there. Do it. Here's why:
Mental health and somatic health are incredibly blurred: in short - mental health parity exists for a reason. We get an annual physical, why not an annual mental health screening? You're healthy? Great! Stay healthy. Let's catch any potential yellow flags while they're still yellow rather than waiting until they've become red flags.

Don't do this...

Dazed, confused, and narcoleptic

Recently I've veered away from discussion of my own internal processes towards a synopsis of my actions and pursuit of new relationships. And although I will absolutely keep you all updated on Trivia night, boardgames, mushroom cultivation, dating, etc., I want to take a moment to reflect on and hate some of the larger impacts this whole endeavor is having on my person.

Pros: I've had the opportunity to connect more with beloved friends. I've also had the chance to focus on celebrating and learning me, delving more deeply into my passions and interests. It turns out that having 3 evenings each week to dedicate to myself is allowing me  lot of growth, reflection, questioning, and general health.

Cons: I've developed a tremor, depression, significant anxiety, have started sleepwalking, and engaging in what my GP describes as "narcolepsy with automatic behavior." That's fun. Or not.

Let me try to explain by way of example.

As you all know by now, The Socialist moved to her own side of the house several months ago - we're now living truly as housemates and coparents. When Little Smye asked her if we're married, the answer was 'no.'

Anyway, one night about a month ago, The Socialist was getting home late from a hospice choir she sings in and heard strange sounds coming from the bathroom. She knocked - no answer. She knocked again and called to me "Smye, are you alright in there?" No answer.

Concerned, she opened the door to find me standing on the bathroom counter. Urinating. Into the bathrub. Across the walk way.

"Um, Smye. What are you doing?"

*Mumble mumble mumble*

"No really, Smye, I'm sure there's a reason, why are you peeing in the tub?"

"I've been elected to City Council. This is tradition good sir. I'm merely following in the footsteps of my forebears."

"What?"
"Sir, you mustn't interfere. This is a rite of passage into city government."

...

I have no recollection of this whatsoever. But she's filmed other weird instances of late-night odd behavior. And to those asking - nope. No sleeping pills, alcohol, or other mind altering substances were involved. Just stress, trauma, and sleep deprivation coupled with narcolepsy. Good times.

On the bright side, The Socialist was kind enough to guide me back to bed and gently inform me the next morning of my curious behavior. On the brighter side, even when sleepwalking I apparently have good aim and so had very little mess to clean up the next day.

On the brightest side - modern medicine is amazing and my GP and I are pursuing ways to correct my hynogogic arrests while falling asleep that lead to this erratic fugue-like state.

More to come...