In our series, ANONYMOUS RANT, we let ostomates groan and gripe about things that irk them.
For the last four days, I have quite honestly been manic AF. At first, I was concerned it was a mental breakdown (always consider the worst, right?) and now I'm a little calmer knowing it's my meds screwing me up, and not my own damn crazy self!
As of yesterday, I was on:
I mean, more than enough even for a family of Lumberjacks to be knocked on their @ss, right?
I’ve had, if even, four hours of sleep in the past four days. I've been jumping off the walls, running around like a crazed lunatic, and doing things very outside of my character. Very embarrassing things.
After the third night of no sleep, delirium, and mania set in. I felt like I took a bottle of Adderall. I can freaking do anything and I wanna do it all! I left my house Friday morning at 6:30am after being up all night. I don't come home until about 4:00pm that night to my husband and daughter who have been waiting for me all day.
For nine hours I was gone. I've been able to fit some pieces together but the details of what I did all day are foggy. It was like I was watching a movie of myself and unable to control the scenes. I'm very, very embarrassed by the things I did that day. I stop by my office to pick up random things such as my miniature Bop It game, fidget spinners, and a pack of Expo markers. Random right?
Next, I make my merry way to Chic Fil A because manic brain thinks, "ohhhh girl, you need that chicken biscuit!" While in the drive-through line, I finally get picked to try to win something on the radio after waiting on hold for forever! At this point, I'm next up to get my food once I go live on the air. I'm telling them to hold on while I get my biscuit, then I drop my credit card outside of the window, giving the listeners of Central Arkansas quite the show as I give a play by play feedback. Ok, biscuit in hand, I'm ready to win some concert tickets! The DJ tells me I have five seconds to name three Jon Travolta movies. Yeah, I didn't even get one. The next lucky b!tch must name three Christmas carols and wins my freaking tickets! I mean really, Jon Travolta?
My chicken biscuit eases the sadness as I sit in the Target parking lot waiting for it to open. Now I'm thinking, “Man, this is a good day!” I got my biscuit, got on the radio for the 5th time (it's a strange hobby), and I'm gonna be the first one in Target!"
The details of my HOURS spent in Target are extremely vague. Next thing I know, I'm rolling up to check out with an overflowing cart. A stuffed pony as big as my child, a lava lamp, a neon hanging cactus light, and about half of my daughters Christmas toys. I leave Target 300 dollars lighter. Now, the important thing to remember is, I didn't have 300 damn dollars in my account but that didn't stop me — my mind convinced me it was completely reasonable to spend money I don't have.
After loading up my car with my super exciting finds, I check my bank account and notice an almost 100-dollar charge from Zullily at 3am. I remember looking at Zullily but literally can't figure out what my mental state was like when I did that. I feel like I'm peering into a foggy window watching myself.
I decide I need to probably head home now considering I spent all our non-existent money. So, nine hours after mama left the house, she brings all her new goods home. My tiny car could barely fit all the loot. Everything feels like a total out of body experience. I believe 4 Non Blondes describes this day better than me with, "What's Going On?"
"And so I cry sometimes
When I'm lying in bed just to get it all out
What's in my head
And I, I am feeling a little peculiar
And so I wake in the morning
And I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And I scream from the top of my lungs
What's going on?"
That evening, I have the biggest panic attack of my life. My body is on fire, I literally feel the ache in every bone and joint in my body. My ankles are more swollen than when I was pregnant. The infection on my stomach makes we want to scream. The lack of sleep, the mental exhaustion, and the meds mixed just right for a level 5 catastrophic meltdown.
I Google my latest infection, "cellulitis around stoma site." It's within minutes of research that I legit convince myself I will die soon. My heart begins beating 200 beats a minute. I feel the blood drain from my head, and my body is shaking uncontrollably. He calls my Aunt, also my PCP's nurse (God bless her), to let her know that I am not okay. She wants to know all my scripts, so I write a list of meds and milligrams. She immediately notices the Phenergan and proceeds to explain that Phenergan is what led to my dad’s mental break many years back that ended him up in the ER with similar symptoms I'm experiencing. We immediately get rid of the Valium and Phenergan and decide to start on new, non-narcotic anxiety med.
Later that evening I finally got some sleep. Sure, I've been up since 4am but I slept longer than I have in the past seven days.
Damn, I'm exhausted just having to think about this past week and writing it down.
The first thing you should know about me and meds is that (besides being on so many) I tend to get all their possible side effects. My body hates chemically created medicine and I absolutely despise the fact that I MUST take them (rant TBC, I'm not done with you Big Pharma).
Since my "journey" with Crohn's began, it would literally be impossible to remember all the medication I’ve taken. Obviously, not much has worked considering the "aggressive nature" of this disease, as my gastro describes it.
The Humira shot I take every week makes my entire body pulse with pain constantly. Ativan causes me to hallucinate, which scared the living crap out of my family. Oh yeah, back in the day, good ole birth control literally made me almost attempt to take my life (for the 2nd time) due to a chemical imbalance in my brain with all the other meds. My anti-depressant, Lexapro, makes me incredibly nervous, anxious, and jumpy. But hey, at least I'm not crying all day, so everything is fine, right?
Next, I want to address the addictive component. I have been lucky not to become "chronically" addicted, but I do become dependent in shorter spurts. It wasn't until my first intravenous injection of Morphine that I truly understood addiction. Take a step up to Dilaudid, and I definitely understand why people want to chase that high. It's terrifying for me to be conscious of my susceptibility to the warm fuzzies IV drugs give me when I'm desperately in pain.
Now I address the @ssholes. The rich men sitting in their penthouse suite, sipping on their beloved 1912, 16,000 dollar bottle of scotch. Relaxing with their feet on the desk, leaning back, holding their head with their hands, provocatively stare at their assistant, with surgically altered 32D breasts and perfectly manicured face. She has no experience or education, but easy on the eyes and can at least read an email and answer a phone. The multi-millionaire CEO’s chasing the next dollar no matter who it kills as long as it's not them. Ignoring the fact that this Big Pharma operation doesn't care if the meds actually hurt you, not heal. No, this is okay because we just come back for more treatment and you become even richer. Let me ask you this: If your daughter was suffering as I have been for years, would you prescribe her a plethora of addictive-controlled substances with devastating side effects? Doubt it. You’d likely get her to the best medical, non-addictive, marijuana because the law can't touch you. Hell, the law is running through your back pocket.
Kiss my little front butt. K, thanks.