Sleep study redux! This time with superhero headgear!

How to keep your friendly neighborhood pharmacy solvent:

I mean seriously. And I take just as many meds in the mornings as well. Granted, about a fourth of my daily pill pile—which is a totally awesome band name—is OTC stuff with purported powers to control the side effects of all this pharmacology. But none of any of it seems to be working for shit. I'm still shaky and chompy and chubby-tummied and chronically, relentlessly exhausted. I'm still struggling to claw my way out of deepening pits of depression on an almost weekly basis. The unnerving and sometimes terrifying symptoms of my Cymbalta withdrawal seem to be escalating. And I'm weaning myself off of Abilify next. BECAUSE NONE OF IT SEEMS TO BE WORKING. Despite my many plans to the contrary, I pretty much slept my way through this entire weekend. I didn't go to a play I had tickets for. I didn't help my brother-in-law paint his house. I didn't do any half-marathon training. I didn't go to our neighborhood block party. I didn't even take a fucking shower.

But I have hope. And the greatest support network a bipolar person could ever ask for. And the ability to sit back objectively and make fun of the absurd and ridiculous stuff. And the delusion that I can stubbornly will myself to get better. But not, unfortunately, the ability to swallow two daily handfuls of pills without violently gagging. And clearly I don't have the self-control—or maybe just the self-sufficiency—to shut up about it all on social media. Which, on some levels, makes all of you part of my support network too. Which I suspect may be my subconscious goal with all this whining. So sorry to drag you all into my mental drama here. But thanks for playing along. I'm going to sleep now. Which I'm really good at; I practiced all weekend.

Cymbalta withdrawal is a bitch. Bitch Kitty is a bitch.

Cymbalta withdrawal gives me brain zaps, which are like blackouts with extra dizziness and lip tingles and confusion and disorientation but no actual blacking out. Bitch Kitty gives me the come-pet-my-soft-warm-exposed-tummy fakeout, which is like a real come-pet-my-soft-warm-exposed-tummy invitation but with growling and hissing and swatting and running away as fast as her waddly soft warm tummy will allow but with no actual soft warm tummy petting.

 
Cymbalta withdrawal brain zaps hit me then fade away then hit me then fade away until I'm exhausted. Bitch Kitty swats at me then runs away then swats at me then runs away until I'm tired of her bullshit.

Cymbalta withdrawal brain zaps will eventually go away and I will dance on their grave. Bitch Kitty will eventually go away and I'll actually kinda miss her.

Today was day 10 of s l o w l y weaning me off Cymbalta ...

... the act of which gave me seizure-like blackout thingies when we did it rapidly last spring. I should be completely Cymbalta- (and seizure-like-blackout-thingie-) free by the beginning of October, at which time we start weaning me off of Abilify. Because I'm on five psychotropics right now, and while saying “psychotropics" is fun and all, five (plus my thyroid medication) is a bit much.

Every time we change my meds (I mean psychotropics!) I get my hopes up that THIS TIME will be the magic bullet and I'll finally stop sleeping through life/binge-buying shit I don't need/growing an enormous gut/hearing noises in the other room/deciding nobody likes me/shaking like a hoochie mama in a bathtub with a toaster. And every time, my symptoms seem to shift around a bit but never totally go away. So now instead of adjusting/introducing meds, we're taking them away entirely. And s l o w l y. But like everything related to psychotropics (there's that word again!), results (or complications) take time. And we have to map out when those results (or complications) might manifest themselves so they won't interfere with things like vacations, projects at work, family events, theater commitments and Disney half marathons. 

Speaking of which, the Disney half marathon I'm running is the first weekend in November, at which time who the heck knows where my meds (and my brain) will be. But once again, I choose to think that by then I'll be clear-headed and focused and energized and bedecked in my red running shorts with huge yellow buttons on the front and—aside from the aforementioned shorts—perfectly normal. Just like all of you magically wonderfully perfectly normal people. (You'd tell me if you weren't normal, right?)

The natural progression of bipolar disorder:

Depression > deep depression > despondency > recovery > fogginess > exhaustion > functionality > public panic attacks > Oreos

How to survive a bipolar crash:

1. Ride it out. Sleep it off. Which I've been doing since Sunday afternoon.
2. Walk through a spider web and do the frantic spider-web dance. Which I did this morning. Bipolar depression is no match for the absolute mathematical certainty that there's a giant man-eating spider somewhere on your body. Or crawling into your shirt. Or down your underpants.

There's no real way to "fix" bipolar depression

You just have to ride it out. But sitting around with your parents, eating a malt made by your dad and listening to Widor's organ Toccata sure collectively go a long way toward making you better.

Beware the Withdrawal Effects of Cymbalta

I've been sailing along for months and months on a cocktail of four bipolar meds and one thyroid med with only two problematic side effects: unceasingly shaky legs and all-but-debilitating chronic exhaustion. So my doctor decided to wean me off of Cymbalta over the last week. Which, in retrospect, was probably not the smartest decision to make at the confluence of tech week for one show, early rehearsals for a second show and the week before I start an exciting new job. Throw in a dreamy new boyfriend and a paternity suit with a traveling stripper and I'd be Maury Povich GOLD right now.

Anyway, I've been off and on more meds than I can count with zero noticeable side effects ever. Until today, when I started getting hit by wave after wave of what I can only try to describe as shivery hot carbonation under my skin. It's like the waves of nausea you get with the flu … only there's no nausea. Plus it's like the prickly head rush and the near blackouts you get when you stand up too fast … only it happens no matter if I'm sitting, standing or lying down. A little Googling of Cymbalta withdrawal tells us this is actually a common side effect, but I was never warned about it. And after a conversation with the on-call psych doctor and a trip to one of the only 24-hour Walgreens in Cedar Rapids, I'm now back on a lower dose of Cymbalta for the time being. So the shows and the job are saved. And if you're a potential dreamy new boyfriend, you know where to find me. I promise that the traveling stripper meant nothing to me.

Never underestimate the power of bipolar depression

A relatively low dip brought me to my knees at work yesterday morning and—aside from a brief rally at dinner last night—I've been sound asleep for more than 24 hours. Full shutdown notwithstanding, this is actually progress; as little as six months ago, my shutdowns lasted around five days. This episode, however, comes with flashes of deep, excruciating pain from my right hip to my right foot. Diagnosis still TBD.

Here ends my boring medical update. To thank you for your time, I leave you with the conversation I dread having with my trainer:

I'm really tired of the tummy my bipolar meds gave me

REALLY tired of it. Cutting back on pop and sugar and fatty foods hasn't changed it. Taking HydroxyCut hasn't changed it. Adding a brutal abs workout to the end of every workout hasn't changed it. So I just hired a trainer. We meet for the first time in 10 minutes. And she's a girl. A girl covered in tattoos and piercings and filled with the kind of badassery I need to whip my midsection - and everything else - into badass shape. And I can't wait to get my ass kicked by a girl!

Pro tip:

Never clip your nails when you're jittery from your bipolar meds.

My shrink just put me on an 8th bipolar med that by far has the prettiest name

Introducing Latuda, a sassy girl with a heart of gold who just may end up being my drag name. I can't decide if she should have a last name—Latuda Pillpopper? Latuda Justment?—or just have an iconic single name like Cher or Jake.

Thank you

As anyone who spends more than a few seconds on social media every month probably knows, I'm bipolar. As probably nobody knows, my bipolar depression got so acute and so scary that I spent the week of Christmas in a psych ward. It was there that I decided I needed to move home to Iowa to help take care of my dad—who has lost his sight to macular degeneration—and where my family could take care of me. It was also where I told myself if I really did move to Iowa I'd get involved in the theater again. Now fast-forward four months. I've already done one show, and tonight marks the point where I am for the first time in my life doing two shows simultaneously. I start rehearsals for A Chorus Line tonight and I open Barefoot in the Park this Friday. Plus I have a kick-ass job. Plus my meds are working so well I forget what it's like to be manic until my increasingly rare manic waves hit me. And I honestly can't remember the last depressive episode I had. (Then again, huge chunks of my manic episodes are a blur too. Which is both a blessing and a curse of being bipolar.) I owe A LOT to so many friends and family members and social-media acquaintances who have believed in me and given me encouraging words and friendly hellos—and parts in theatrical productions—and I don't even know how to begin showing my gratitude. Which is a lot to say for a professional writer who usually can't shut up. So I'm showing my gratitude by living my life and enjoying what it brings to me and believing in myself even when I don't really believe in myself. I love my family, I love my friends and I love my life. And I send an epic thank you to everyone who's helped get me here.

I'm thankful to be home and cozy and safe ...

after a 300-mile adventure today with snow and sleet and beautiful hoarfrost and huge trucks barreling down the highway and stops to see my ex and pick up the last of my crap that had been lingering in Chicago and buy some shoes and celebrate the staying-awake properties of my new meds (yay, lithium!) and all the while sharing the day with both my parents, who remain my stalwart supporters and I'm so grateful for them.

Not to belabor the fact that *I Have Bipolar Disorder* ...

but my depressive crashes are usually marked by an odd compulsion to grunt repeatedly like a damn circus freak. Usually I produce just a simple beat—it's not catchy and you can't even dance to it—but sometimes I get caught up in an endless cycle of some snippet of a song, making my grunting doubly embarrassing. Or at least frustrating. The songs can come from anywhere—usually they're show tunes, natch—but tonight I can't get that damn dum da-DUM baseline from the theme to CSI out of my head … or out of my grunt cycle. 

Bipolar disorder is NOT for the weak. Or the unrhythmic.

I'm thankful for family and friends who believe in me fiercely, even when I don't

I'm thankful for new opportunities to participate and stretch and thrive. I'm thankful for productive dance rehearsals and honest sweats and meds that seem to work better each day and 5 Hour Energy when they need a boost. I'm thankful my mom cries when I have a good day and my dad hugs me freely, which we never seemed to do enough in the past. I'm thankful I have a safety net in my family when so many others with illnesses like bipolar depression don't. And right now I'm this close to being thankful for a deep deep sleep after an awesome day.

New week.

 New outlook. No endless depressive episode. Epic amounts of weekend sleep. 

It's go time!

BIPOLAR FUN!

Yesterday I was depressed to the point of despondency. Today I'm manic off my ASS. My mind is racing and I'm talking faster than a deranged auctioneer. Let's order a pizza! Don't you love pants? What's your favorite color? Squirrel!