A Surprisingly Sane Blog

I’m about the most unlucky schmuck alive recently.

Internet, meet Boot.

“What did you do to your leg!?” One might ask with a horrified, pitying expression. To which I would answer, “Nothing. It’s my damn foot. I broke it.”

Kind of. There’s actually more going on.

About four months ago I was out DJing and went to take my dance shoe off at the end of the night only to find my big toe joint was so swollen that the straps were cutting into my foot. My feet always hurt after a night of dancing, so I hadn’t noticed that something special was going on.

I had a stress fracture from dancing years ago, and it felt and looked similar, so I iced it, downed some Ibuprofen, wrapped it the way my doctor had showed me the first time I’d injured it, and took about a month off of teaching private lessons and social dancing. I was worried when it didn’t seem to be getting better, but you have to understand that my only source of income is teaching and dancing and we rely on that money, so I didn’t see an alternative to toughing it out and going back to work.

Yes, I have been applying for a job for two years without avail. Let’s not go there. It’s a sore topic and I’ll go on for days with tears streaming down my face ’cause CAN’T YOU SEE I’M OVERQUALIFIED AND DESPERATE FOR A DAMN JOB AND FOR SOME REASON NOBODY WILL GIVE MY RESUME THE TIME OF DAY IN THIS DAMN PLACE?!

Eh hem. Yeah. Moving forward.

Boot.

So, well, anyway… I went all summer with my foot a swollen mess. I taped it up for every teaching job and have significantly decreased any dancing other than teaching. I used ice almost every night after working, took Ibuprofen religiously for swelling, soaked my foot in epsom salt time and time again, and took a week or two off working when I could afford it. And I always wear Dankso shoes- you know, those ultra therapeutic, orthopedic clog shoes doctors recommend? Yeah, those. I wear them everywhere with the rare occasion of one of my awesome pairs of boots or trendy shoes when I’m going out and planning to sit most of the time.

All that kind of worked. It seemed like it was slowly getting better. But then last week I realized that it seemed to be getting worse. I made an appointment with a specialist.

The doc took a look at my foot, poked at it, and I practically shot through the roof screaming while he apologized. X-Rays. Frowning at the bones in my foot. And finally, an open-ended explanation.

It’s highly possible that my assumption of a stress fracture was accurate. There’s no way of really knowing because they frequently don’t show up on an X-ray. The inflammation from the healing process was made worse when the swelling affected the arthritis-

WHAT?! ARTHRITIS?! But I’m only 30!

-yes, arthritis in that joint. The arthritis was aggravated when I had to walk incorrectly on my foot when I injured it to avoid putting pressure on the affected area. Using a joint incorrectly obviously isn’t the best thing for it, but if you have arthritis in the joint, it can really cause a lot of problems.

Diagnoses: probable stress fracture, severe inflammation in the joint and the surrounding area toward the second toe joint, and arthritis.

Meet Boot (again).

Boot was attached to my foot after a new taping procedure was taught to immobilize my big toe joint and allow the swelling and irritation to decrease. In two weeks I will go back to the doctor to find out if Boot did its job correctly. If it did, I will be fitted for custom orthotics that will allow the proper weight transfer and usage of the big toe joint. This should significantly decrease the chances and duration of arthritic flare-ups. If the inflammation hasn’t gone down like expected, that means I have to get an MRI done.

Surgery was briefly mentioned, and I held up the hand. No. He said not to worry, it rarely comes to that.

I wanted to cry. HOW THE HELL WILL I EVER WEAR MY DESIGNER HIGH-HEELED BOOTS?! Okay, I kid. The tears I kept gulping down from the back of my eye sockets were at the mention of “arthritis” and “possible surgery”.

I know what arthritis is and that it can occur at any age. And I know that my feet are always killing me after dancing. I just wan’t prepared to hear that I have it. I just can’t seem to win. Mentally I’m a wreck half the time, and now my damn feet have arthritis. FML.

Anyhow… so I’ve been in Boot for two days. My back is killing me from having to walk so funny, but I am not dancing for two weeks while this thing is on. So dammit, my foot sure as hell better be up and ready to run a marathon in a few weeks.

Isn’t it just so freaking great that my job is being a professional dancer and dance instructor? And now my foot’s all broken and shit. And I have arthritis in it. That doesn’t go away. It just gets worse.

Yes. I know. I need a day job. Anyone have any leads? I’ve got nothin’.

Current Mood: Alarmed

Welcome to my life.

Did you ever look at your life and wonder how the hell you got where you’re at, how the heck you became such a pushover/doormat when you used to be so strong, how you could be so mentally unsound when you’re so damn smart? Yeah, me too.

We’ve been trying for the better part of a year to find a second drug to accompany the Lithium in my daily pill dose. Everything I’ve tried has caused some kind of (major) negative reaction. Stupidly, my body is just ridiculously sensitive to medication. I mean, I’m the person who takes half the dose of any over-the-counter medication because the full dose knocks me out. Imagine what it feels like to have your brains turned into scrambled eggs and your body gone manic for a couple days while you desperately back off the dose of some powerful drug and have wait for the remnants to leave your system. It’s a nightmare.

If I could take the 1200mg of the Lithium, I would probably be better off, but unfortunately, every time I’ve upped the dose I’ve run into Lithium poisoning, which is just one of the most disgusting feelings I’ve ever encountered. If I could sum up my life in a list of pills, it’d go something like this: Fluoxetine (Prozac), Wellbutrin, Lithium, Resperidone, Abilify, Seroquel, Geodon, Oxcarbazepine, am I missing one or five? Probably.

My psychiatrist has explained that while the mania (my primary symptom of the bipolar disorder) is, for the most part, under control, the Lithium isn’t targeting the depression enough, or perhaps it isn’t getting rid of the mania enough to keep my mind from falling hard into the trap of depression- it’s impossible to really know. Where there is either mania or depression in my psyche, its counterpart will always breakthrough with a vengeance eventually. Lithium does wonders, but it’s limited, especially since my body cannot handle the most therapeutic dose.

I’ve been through the whole round of atypical antipsychotics used to combat bipolar depression (the same drugs used to fight major depressive disorder and- ugh- schizophrenia) and moved onto the world of anti-convulsants, drugs sometimes used in addition to Lithium to control mania. The last drug I tried a few weeks ago was one of those. It did its job a little too well because before I knew it, James was threatening me with the crisis center and calling the psychiatrist extremely concerned for my well-being. I couldn’t even see it really, but I plummeted into horrible depression that stuck even after I stopped taking the Oxcarbazepine.

Enter “try Seroquel again”. Round two. I think, unfortunately, it was kind of a desperate situation in the worst kind of way. Being suicidal doesn’t mean you’re planning it. I just means you’re a ticking time bomb. I’m starting to understand that.

Seroquel almost killed me the first time around. Nope. Not exaggerating. The dose was far too high, and it got to the point where James was staying home from work while he tried to wake me up. It was too sedating and was extended release, which built up in my system and left me unable to wake or respond. Another day or two on that dose and I assume I never would have woken up. One my sister’s extended family members died that way, so it was a pretty scary realization when I unknowingly overdosed under a physician’s care. However, the first day after I had started the drug I was in good spirits. Drowsy, but doing a bit better than I had been doing. By day three I was too drugged up to do anything but smile. Clearly, some positive effect was seen amidst the inability to wake up or talk.

This time, I started at 50mg instead of the 150mg that I started on the first time. James said he saw the effects immediately, though after three days it was clear it was still too high of a dose. I could wake up, but I was slurring my words and struggled to get out of bed for a good hour or two. He was staying home in the mornings while I slept, unable to shake the drowsiness. After three days of that dose and positive effects in my mood, my doc phoned in the lowest dose of the drug- 25mg- and said I could even cut those in half if necessary.

It’s been a few days on the 25mg, and guess what?

For the first time in my entire life, including my childhood for as long as I can remember, I have fallen asleep quickly and slept soundly and have woken up feeling rested and- holy shit- thinking “I can do this today.”

It’s like I’m taking a sleeping pill except it also clears the depression fog from my immediate view. No more insomnia. I’ve slept solid every night since partway through last week. HOLY SHIT WORLD, ARE YOU HEARING THIS? I’VE ACTUALLY BEEN SLEEPING!

I’m not sure how evident this has been because I don’t talk about it much, but we’ve found that my sanity is directly related to the amount of sleep I get. I have struggled with insomnia- severe insomnia- my entire life. I have NEVER been able to get a good amount of sleep or fall asleep quickly for more than two nights in a row at any give point in my life. I remember in eighth grade the night I actually got eight hours of sleep for the first time since I started noticing hours back in second grade- I couldn’t believe how good I felt. I have always struggled with falling asleep, frequently taking several hours for that illusive darkness to take over just before needing to get up for the day. The more exhausted I get, the more panicky I feel, and the more I struggle to fall asleep or wake up at odd stressed hours of the early morning. It’s a vicious cycle.

Well, the Seroquel is indeed a sedative, so I take it at night along with my Lithium.

Yup, the horse balls are the Lithium, and Seroquel is the penis, since, you know, dick feels good when used correctly.

I am not out of the woods yet. It’ll be a little while before we know if this is the right mix of drugs and the right dosages, but at least I’ve been sleeping and being alive has not been unbearable the last few days.

Cautiously Optimistic.

Humankind sickens and disgusts me.

What the fuck is wrong with a group of people who horribly and painfully mutilate a perfectly beautiful and completely innocent human body? Do yourself a favor and never google female circumcision. Or Chinese foot binding. Or holocaust.

It’s one thing to make the decision to make minor changes to a body by choice- piercings, tattoos, cutting one’s hair and changing its color, but it’s a whole other kind of sick, twisting mindfuck to actually slice parts of a child’s most sensitive body parts off while they scream in agony. There’s a reason shit like that is being fought against. What on EARTH is wrong with cultures who continue to practice that kind of horrific abuse?

There was a student at one of the schools I worked at who was believed to have been subjected to female circumcision before moving to America. That poor kid was so messed up in the head it was devastating to watch. She refused to learn, laughed at bizarre things and couldn’t drop the hysterical behavior, and was an all-around trouble maker all while staring at things in space that only she could see. She knew too much for her young age, and there is no way she will ever live a normal life.

The stupidity of the human race is unfathomable. Today, I am disgusted.

I really need to stay away from googling awful topics.

Current Mood: Angry

I saw what appeared to be a massive funeral procession driving south on I-5 on my way home from downtown this afternoon. Perhaps it was something else, but cops on motorcycles with flashing lights chaperoning a slew of vehicles generally equals funeral, right? Except it wasn’t a procession of cars… it was one of what looked like four charter buses and a just a few cars.

I drove alongside them for several miles, and thanks to my new glasses, I didn’t accidentally run into them or any other cars while I was busy casually gawking and trying to peer into the dark windows. Just a bunch of people wearing suits and other dark attire. Yeah, probably a funeral.

Which made me wonder.

When my life is over, will there be a huge funeral celebrating the end of a miserable, unhappy life, or sadness of a pathetic life gone passing? Will people show up wearing modest black clothing, eyes teary, will they pull out their most uncomfortable heels and dress shoes to accompany their suits and dresses? Will people actually have warm or funny things to say about my charming personality, and will most people be clueless of my mental hardships and illness that dictates every second of my every miserable waking moment?

When I was a kid I was terrified of death, but not for the reasons most are. I was petrified that once I died my soul would continue to exist forever just as God promises. I didn’t want that. I wanted to die and cease to exist. Yes, as a child. Dying wasn’t the scary part. It was the knowledge that most likely some kind of continuation exists, and I didn’t want that.

I worry about my kids and I feel sorry for my husband. Sometimes I wonder who the hell he pissed off in another life to get stuck with a wife like me. I am such a horrible human being. And no, this is no pity party, just the truth. I absolutely cannot imagine what it must be like to be in love with someone who’s life is a mental black hole. I’m fine one moment, and a switch flips the next and I’m blankly staring into space and sweeping the mess off the kitchen counter onto the floor. The screams and yelling about calling a crisis center because “I’ve lost it again” are enough to snap me out of the trance enough for me to realize, shamefully, that my illness is once again in control.

I’m a good faker. In public, I just reach for the outskirts to avoid the conversation and dizzying triggers surrounding me. At dance competitions the amount of stimulation is so overwhelming that I usually end up drinking to dull the pounding in my heart. It’s a race: me against the bipolar beast. Except we are one of the same, always, and running from myself is pointless because I will always be right there, in the moment, beside myself.

Being home alone or with the kids is the hardest part. Working is when I come alive, and not just the illness. Without the distraction of being held accountable by a multitude of adults, my illness leaves me feeling worthless and unable to reach out to find a way to pull myself back into reality.

When I die, I think I will feel sadness if I’m with it enough to actually feel. Sadness for the fact that I was a life full of promise at the beginning, but fell prisoner to an illness gone rampant without any real way to control it. Sadly, Bipolar I isn’t curable or even controllable. It can be muted by powerful drugs, but the mania and bipolar depression will always break through. Your body can only handle certain levels of medications like lithium, so while with a higher dose you could function as “almost normal”, your body stops you short of trying to achieve that.

Some days, if not most, I pity the people in my life who have to live with my illness more than I feel bad for myself. I know how much I hurt on the inside and just how much I would prefer to either live without my head screwed on backwards or to just finally rest in peace from the mental turmoil and strife, and I cannot imagine just how bad it is for my husband and kids to watch me struggle constantly. It’s a miracle they haven’t left me yet with all the horrible things I’ve done and said.

Some days, I wish that procession on the freeway was mine. Today is just one of those. But here I am. Alive. Sick. But here.

Current Mood: Sad

Maybe it was the lack of acne, but I doubt it.

I’m gonna give you a peek into my personal life today instead of the regular commentary regarding useless illnesses and lame struggles I deal with like I usually do. Aside from my girls and camping trips, I generally don’t blog about the current events I’m involved in because I try to keep a certain level of respect for the unsuspecting people involved in the real-life story. Most of them don’t know they could end up in the fiery depths of my inflammatory blog if they’re not careful, so I do them a favor and leave out those parts of my online life.

That’s why if you think one of my blog posts are about you, you’re probably just seeing yourself in it. However, if you’re seeing yourself in THIS blog post… yes, it’s probably you.

Burn. Here it goes.

I left town the day after my birthday to go hang out in Phoenix for the weekend. My mom and sister drove up from Tucson to meet me, and I spent the rest of the time at a good-sized West Coast Swing convention held there. I’ve been to competitions regularly since 2004, and I know most of the hundreds of people in any given event’s ballroom.

For everyone who doesn’t recognize who the hell I am unless I’m attached to the arm of the long-ponytailed husband of mine, fuck you. There is nothing more hurtful than having a minimum of eight people (those were just the counted ones by a friend of mine) stare at you and ask you who the hell you are when they’ve known you for several years. And when I say my name and add “James’ wife,” the recognition and phony “Oh my god! How ARE you! You look so different! You cut your hair!” that comes pouring out of your mouth does nothing but piss me off. Thanks for reminding me just how fucking unforgettable I really am. I cut my hair months before moving to Seattle, and I’ve spent the last two years in the dance world with short hair. It’s not the hair. And it’s not the clothes. I’m wearing the same damn black slacks from Express- in the same size- that I have been for the last seven years. It didn’t get a boob job, dye my hair pink, or get a brow lift. Side-swept bangs does not massively alter one’s appearance.

Do I just have one of those unforgettable faces? Am I dull and boring looking?

I had a lesson with a coach and when I asked which parts of my dancing I should be focusing to expand upon, he said, “You’re really beautiful. And you have curves- that’s sexy. Use them.” Good god. That made me feel warm in fuzzy for sure, but how the hell can I be this curvalicious beauty and so damn forgettable at the same time?

I’m usually with James when I’m out. He’s noticeable. A tall, outgoing half-Asain with a huge smile and a long ponytail is hard to miss in a room. Even a dark one. Me? I must get lost in the damn wall on the outskirts, even when I’m out dancing and competing in the higher divisions.

I make a point to remember everyone. Their names. How to spell them. I remember the conversations I’ve had and notice when they’ve changed their dress style or hair. I can ask how their mother in the nursing home is doing, and I remember their son’s age and school year. I can see past a damn makeup or hairstyle change and remember the face in front of me.

I wish I could make a point to forget everyone just as they’ve done for me. The fact that I’m that insignificant compared to my husband pisses me off like no fucking other. The world of plastic acquaintances leaves me with an understanding of EXACTLY why I’m generally disgusted with humanity and their selfish little worlds.

Forget you.

Current Mood: Angry