Thursday, January 25, 2018

Hey, let's obsess about drugs and mental health some more!

[New Improved Editorial Note, June 14, 2018: Holy Mother of Goats, I am an idiot!  As you read, if you read, this post, not that I recommend it, please mentally replace the word "Zoloft" with "Ambien" everywhere it occurs in this post.  I am also on Zoloft, but as prescribed by my psychiatrist, not my PC. I don't even have a PC any more. He moved. I meet a new one next month, because this is all information of vital interest to everyone!]

 [Editorial Note: I just noticed that this blog entry is virtually identical in content to the immediately previous one.  Well, damn it, I put in the time, so it stays, and stands as more evidence that I am, pretty much literally, losing my mind.]

At my annual wellness exam, my primary care physician made it clear that what I have been doing to get myself to sleep for the past few years is dangerous, likely responsible for my recent problems with equilibrium, memory, and general cognition, and a suspected contributor to risk of developing Dementia.

Fine talk from the very doctor who prescribed enough Zoloft for daily use when my chart already showed that I was on high doses of another Benzodiazepine.  Yet, it is still my fault that I, against all warnings, added alcohol to the mix.

Clearly, at some level, I knew what I was doing.  After all, for awhile my nightcap to accompany Zoloft, Clonazepam, and sometimes Diphenhydramine (Benadryl) was my favorite skull mug filled with a combination of Nyquil, Vodka,  Kool-Aid, "Rescue Remedy" and whatever else struck my fancy.  I called it "Death Grog" so, yeah, that's on me.  Those are years without a lot of memories attached.

Essentially, what I was doing to get to sleep was roughly equivalent to what some people do to try to end their lives.

This led, of course, to stumbling sleepily through mind-fogged days, and a lot of napping.  When I was needed to be awake for some task, usually driving, my drug of choice was Monster energy drinks, sometimes two or more a day.

The vicious cycle this creates led to mental health symptoms that somewhat resembled Bipolar Syndrome, and more.  Alternately spazzy, irritable, prone to panic, cognitive deficits, and almost catatonic periods of disassociation.  That's probably not a complete list.

So, here's the good news.  Dropping Zoloft cold turkey seems to have no withdrawal symptoms.  I have long since abandoned Nyquil and Benadryl.  Eliminating bedtime alcohol and drastic reduction of caffeine intake, have all, one week into the process, proven easy.  I no longer have difficulties with maintaining wakefulness, so long as I am allowed to follow my natural sleep patterns (roughly 4AM to Noon), and my moods swings are less extreme.

Not to worry, I am still beset with depression and anxiety.  I feel completely worthless and unworthy, and can't handle noisy, bright, crowded situations, or any kind of direct interaction with people that lasts more than a few seconds.

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

The Latest Version of More of the Same

Maybe there is just enough story here to justify a return to telling.

I have a profound feeling of isolation and powerlessness, given that there are things that plague my mind which I cannot share with anyone, not even my marriage partner of over 30 years.   Not even with my psychiatrist, with whom I have an appointment "tomorrow" (later today).

I had an appointment with this same psychiatrist some months ago, arriving at least as burdened with needful, for me at least, things to say as I am now, but the very first words out of his mouth were "How is your lovely wife?"   You see, he had met her, and like everyone else who meets her, the fact of my existence became part of her, much more interesting, story.  She does not make this happen by intent.  It is just the natural response everyone has upon meeting her.  She is amazing, and putting up with me as a husband is just one more way in which she is amazing.  I know it sounds like I am resentful, but I really am not, most of the time, and when I am, I always come to realize that my feelings were wrong, ungrateful, and petty.

She is not the reason I have problems.  She is the reason I am still alive.  Her, and my granddaughter.

I would not be writing this if I believed that anyone, even my original singular assumed reader, was going to read it.  Paradoxically, I am motivated to write largely because I made a link to this blog the sole external link on my Bandcamp page.  I am still arguing with myself about why I would do such a thing.

Here's the story:

I have been having disturbing incidents in which it seems that my psychiatric medications do not appear to be working.   At the same time, I am noticing, subjectively at least, a decline in my general cognitive function.

I had already made this next appointment with my psychiatrist when I came due for an annual wellness exam with my primary care physician.  Much to my surprise and discomfort, they had a whole new questionnaire addressing, quite specifically, mental health.  I had been comfortable compartmentalizing my physical and mental health with two different care providers, but I felt an obligation to complete what was put before me, and to do so honestly.

Apparently, my honest answers set off some silent alarms, or the whole intake procedure for a wellness exam had been radically altered.  Once I was ushered into an exam room, a nurse orally administered a much more comprehensive psychological evaluation, followed by additional questions from my doctor.  The primary focus seemed to be on risks of suicide.  Maybe it is a risk management thing. There was more weird shit, but I am getting tired, and my window of available sleep time is narrowing.

Notably, however, I was taken aback by newfound warnings from my GP about the risks of Zolpidem (Ambien), which he had long ago prescribed to me.  Suddenly now, after at least two years of daily use, I am warned that this drug can contribute to both short term and long term cognitive deficits, and problems with equilibrium, including an elevated risk of developing full-on dementia. I am now terrified that the damage is already done, while also trying to cease use of Ambien "cold turkey".

Almost as if motivated by learning of my barely controlled anxiety and depression, he also told me that my decision to cease use of a CPAP machine several years ago was probably causing permanent brain damage, and would also increase my risk of developing dementia.

Hooray.

So, a lot to cover with my psychiatrist, if he lets me finish a sentence or two, and very little time left to sleep.

More than enough.  Goodbye.