Coming back to myself

Today marks one week since I started taking 20mg of Latuda per day. It hasn't been a great week, but it hasn't been a bad week, either. I've dealt with some expected side-effects, including an increase in body aches and some reflux, but those seem to be starting to ebb. Today, I feel more like "me" than I have in several weeks, perhaps months. I don't know if that can be attributed to the new medication, yet, but I am hopeful. Matt observed that despite the fact that it's been hard for me to do things, I've still been doing things, and that's good. I'm certainly not looking for, nor expecting, a magic pill. I know from experience that any adjustment in medication comes with a tough period of adjustment for me. I am cautiously optimistic that Latuda will ultimately benefit my quality-of-life.

There has been an significant development in my personal life. Two nights ago, I spoke to a friend I'd had a serious falling-out with back in October. This was done against my better judgment, yet also at the behest of my therapist, who also happens to be her therapist. I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about it. However, what does make me feel better is that we actually apologized to each other, and, at least in theory, have forgiven one another. It's a start, but trust takes a very, very long time to rebuild. I remain very guarded. I still do not feel confident that we will ever have the same level of intimate trust we once shared. I'm not ready to confide too many things, and we did not discuss any of the more recent events that have placed me in the middle of a conflict between her and another friend of mine. I'm allergic to drama. It makes me cranky and prone to smash things.

Yesterday, I saw my pain management doctor's assistant. I much prefer to deal with her than the doctor himself, since he has a stiff, emotionless demeanor that rubs me the wrong way. His assistant, however, is personable and caring, and listens to my concerns without seeming to pass judgment. I had run out of pain medication, and that day I was dealing with pain levels between 7 and 9. I was having trouble sitting up straight and holding up my head. She gave me new scripts, and praised me for getting down to an average two Percocet per day (as opposed to three or four.) I explained to her that, though I was seeing her for my low back pain, I have many other sources of pain that need to be dealt with. She said that she understood that physical and psychological pain directly affect each other, and empathised with my situation. She was even kind enough to give me the names of a couple of doctors who may be able to help with my shoulders and my knees. It's little things like that that give me confidence in my care providers.

On the way out the door, I ran into my physical therapist, whom I haven't seen in a couple of months because I have been waiting for health insurance approval of further treatment, including my surgery. I told him that if they drag their feet for much longer, I'm going to request another script for PT. He could tell I was in monstrous amounts of pain, since I wasn't even holding my head up straight. I got the feeling that he really, really wanted to help me, and he would have dropped everything to work with me then and there if it weren't impossible because of protocol. I miss going to see him. He has fantastic instincts when it comes to pain and working through it. After my surgery, I will definitely request to work with him again.

To have my pain legitimized makes a huge difference in the way I handle it psychologically. After so many years of having my pain downplayed, blamed on being overweight, or relegated to hypochondria, it is refreshing to actually receive treatment and empathy.

Matt and I have recovered nicely from our concurrent breakdowns. Sex has returned to the relationship, after months of near-celibacy. Between our illnesses, psychological issues and just plain business, there wasn't much room for it. What this means in my own head is that I am starting to like myself again. I am starting to come back to myself, and to like who Morgan is and will become if I keep working at it.

I am okay.

Bad emo poetry

It's never a good sign when it's been this long between entries. Writing is how I most effectively deal with what is going on inside and outside my head. I began a depressive spiral a little more than three weeks ago, and this was compounded by an illness that forced me to postpone a lot of things that needed to be done.

This entry is likely to be very triggering for certain people, as it contains an account of self-harm, so take that warning accordingly.

There are thirteen neat, parallel scratches on my right arm from where I dragged the dull blade across my skin until beads of blood oozed forth. I didn't count the scratches as I was doing it, or anything, but now that I look at my arm, it's like bad emo poetry. I am pleased to say that the shame that led to cutting is, for now, merely a cardboard cut-out of a concept in the back of my mind. The guilt for having done it dissipated more quickly than it would have in the past. Still, I have not harmed myself this way in seven years. The last time I did, I ended up in a mental hospital for four days.

The same argument that culminated in this stupid, selfish act of self-loathing ironically led to Matt resorting to the same behaviour, simultaneously, in another room. I think that bothers me more than anything else- the fact that I drove him to it. If I am not careful, if I think too much about it, I will be standing exactly where I was three days ago, screaming and ranting and throwing my wedding ring at my husband, because I don't deserve him, because he will just tire of me anyway, because everything I touch turns to shit.

But I'm not thinking that way right now. Strangely, I feel a new kind of kinship with Matt. When I saw the scratches on his own arms, I realised that we had more in common than I gave him credit for. I know it sounds weird, but hear me out. I guess since I get along so well with his parents, and his family isn't completely broken and dysfunctional like mine was (before everyone died), I made assumptions. I assumed that he had grown up in a (comparatively) idyllic situation, with parents who loved and supported him, with friends who stuck by him, without pain or inner turmoil that even approached my own. Sure, I knew he got made fun of for being a fat kid, and I knew he and his dad had issues, but I didn't realise his pain could manifest the same way mine did. Despite his unconditional love for me, and his patience and kindness, I didn't think he could ever really understand the depth of my pain. Now, I know that he does, and can, and always will. All because we bled together, for each other, because of the fear of losing us. Yeah. Bad emo poetry.

I am in no way suggesting that screaming at each other and then going off to our separate hiding places to cut ourselves was a responsible, reasonable, healthy or mature way to handle our situation. I hope that it never, ever happens again, but the experience did bring us closer. The experience strengthened our bond. I have less fear now than I ever have that our marriage will somehow fall apart. We recovered quickly, and it wasn't by sweeping the incident under the rug. We immediately sought the help of our therapist. We talked it out. We explored why it happened, what our triggers were, and what we could do to prevent escalations like this in the future. The next day, we were being us again, making sorbet in the kitchen, talking about our favourite shows, making plans to get together with friends. We are okay. We aren't walking on eggshells, we aren't teetering on the razor's edge (pardon the pun) of another explosive argument. We're solid.

In the meantime, I am working on me. I feel much more like Morgan right now than I did three days ago. Today, I started Latuda, an atypical antipsychotic. I had a bit of a scare at first, because I got some chills about ten minutes after I took the first pill, but it could have just been a coincidence. I called a nurse hotline, and she assured me that the lack of other more serious symptoms indicated it wasn't an immediate concern. I will see if it happens again tomorrow, and if it does, I'll call my psychiatrist and ask what I should do. But I don't want to give up. I really want, really need this pill to help me. I need to believe that it will improve my ability to function in my household and in the real world. At the moment, I am feeling okay. Really okay. And that's promising.

So, onward. Last night, I finally had the sleep study done that I had to postpone twice because of a sinus infection. It wasn't an overly pleasant experience. I found it even more difficult to sleep than usual, knowing a camera was on me at all times, but I got through it. The electrode paste in my hair was the most annoying part. Eh. Conductive hair gel. Whatever. I haven't gotten the results of the study yet, but they didn't have to wake me at any point to put me on a CPAP, so that's promising. I do remember jerking awake several times, though. Maybe they can give me some insight as to why it's so damned hard for me to fall asleep.

Next Friday, I am having my tubal ligation surgery. This is a whole other subject that I am not going to get too far into right now, because I need to get some sleep, but it is a big step forward for me. Ultimately, it will free me from the anxiety of becoming pregnant, miscarrying, or having to decide whether to stop taking all of my meds in order to carry a child to term. Matt and I have discussed it at length, and both of us believe it is best.

As for my back surgery, I still have not heard back from our insurance about whether they are going to approve it, and this is definitely a source of anxiety. At least when I finally get around to it, it won't have been my first surgery.

Anyway, that's about it. I feel good for having written this. It's another step back onto the path of normalcy, at least, normal for me, and hopefully, the changes I am making are going to improve what "normal" for me is in the future.