A conundrum of pain and excuses

Simply stated, I've been having a lot of difficulty with my emotions lately and, as a part of my therapy to open up and vocalize instead of internalize my "darker" side, I agreed to share these feelings in a blog. Conversely, when the darkness recedes, I don't dwell on me but on the world around mine, beyond my reach for lack of a better term. Please understand that my forays into the darkness are not wanted, welcomed, nor appreciated. Frankly, they scare the hell out of me and that fear may be why I've yet to do anything so drastic that it couldn't be fixed.

As I'm sure you've sensed (or know first-hand) on some of my other posts and ramblings, tilting at my windmills as it were, I believe I have a lot to offer those who let me in their little corner of the universe, i.e., I think I'm smarter and more insightful than most, not all certainly, but maybe enough to offer a unique perspective in otherwise complex or interesting issues. But, just as my friend correctly commented, we're all human, warts and difficulties and foibles and everything in between.

True, my physical difficulties have caused immeasurable damage to my psyche, some of it self-inflicted some of the result of possessing the genetic code that predisposes me and my siblings to the development of depression and anxiety. My father, a functional alcoholic and successful investment banker, attempted suicide on at least two occasions as far as I know. One of his niece's committed suicide at 16. Before my father passed away at a relatively young age as the result of alcoholic cirrhosis, he was diagnosed as a Major Depressive with BiPolar attributes, a psychiatric diagnosis that explains, in part, why he self-medicated in such a self-destructive manner.

Right now, two of my three siblings are being treated for depression, anxiety, and or Type I BiPolar Disorder. I was diagnosed with chronic adjustment disorder with depression and anxiety about 2 years after the pain became a constant companion. Just prior to my retirement due to disability in April '07, I was suffering from hypnogogic hallucinations and was pretty much psychotic. My former employers twisted the thumbscrews b/c I was unable to physically or mentally respond to the challenges in front of me. For example of the symptoms I was experiencing, I was utterly convinced that a co-worker had snuck a chimpanzee into his cubicle. Although that may have explained the poor quality of this person's deductive powers as an analyst, there was no evidence whatsoever that he harbored or relied on another species of the great apes to do his work. Imagine my wife's alarm when I called to ask her if it were true.

On another occasion, I was dead certain that another co-worker had been raised as a girl. I had convinced myself that I had seen pictures of him with braided pig-tails and wearing a sun dress. No rhyme, no reason. As my psychiatrist summarized in his report to the federal Office of Personnel Management (OPM), he was "amazed that, given the chronicity and severity of my mental status changes caused by the severe, chronic pain, I had been able to work at all in the previous 12-month period."

Does this make me "crazy?" Well, at the time, I probably should've been under 24-hour medical supervision in a clinical setting, i.e., hospitalized in the bat factory. Those types of hallucinations have NOT returned, thank goodness. And though I joke about these events now, it was horrifying to realize at the time that I was quite literally going off the deep end. Believe me when I admit to the world that the darkness and menace of the abyss scare me more than anything I've ever had to contend with since my mom's boyfriend jokingly placed an antique chair over my head when I was 6 or so. I'm not morbidly fearful of wood or wooden objects used to set upon; but the spiders in the webs that suddenly covered my head and face caused me to panic. Remembering it now gives me goosebumps.

Why do I relate these boring and self-serving anecdotes now, to you, in this forum that may include an audience of 1 or 1,000,000? Because part of my recovery and on-going therapy is to "rediscover" who and what I am, what is it that I've become now that--in the middle of what should be my most productive years in my career as a person who analyzes medical and service data to determine whether a veteran is disabled due to an event or series of events during military duty and how disabled he or she is--I can't kick a soccer ball with my kids without risking shrieking pain in my low back, or take a walk exceeding 5 minutes without suffering back or hip spasms, or engage in the millions of things I used to take for granted. Like put on shoes and socks. Shave my whiskers. Cook a meal.

In other words, I've lost control in certain vital respects over what I can do. And that's the crux of the matter that my fucking MIND is having such a devil of a time understanding. It would be easy, I suppose, if I didn't give a shit. Unfortunately, I do. Too much I've been told at different junctures of my life by very different people who nevertheless understood that I was passionate about what I did and why I did it. While we're at it, I want to make something perfectly clear to anyone trying to sort out what the hell I'm talking about: I'm not creating a template from which everyone should read or follow. This is my journey and my decisions and my mindset with which I have to contend and adapt as needed. I would never presume to expect to have some secret access to the magical answer key in the back of the master textbook.  

So, here I am. Married. My eldest son, the product of my first marriage that lasted WAAAAAY too long, is out in the world, serving this infuriatingly and increasingly ignorant country of racist rednecks as a member of the United States Air Force. Closer to home, I am the father in a household of: a fish of unearthly vigor; two dogs; a cat cursed with the most rancid halitosis this side of the galaxy; one high-schooler about to get cooked in Catholic school for the first time after Montesorri and the hit-or-miss competence of the public school systems because they're based on mind-numbing, godless socialism*; one grade-schooler who loves Godzira movies as much as Wimpy Kid books; and an energetic, impatient (at times--ok, most times), intelligent, talented (she was named best actress in the former Confederate States of America or some such), green-eyed beauty who loves me still, warts, farts, alopecia, and all.

I have no actual "friends" with the exception of a former heavy metal lead guitarist and present-day right-wing conspiracy theorist, Bible-quoting, tobacco spittin' hee-haw who's married to a beauty queen and is the (purported) father of two beautiful children, neither of whom he can remember the name of. But he'd give me his last nickel and I'd do same for him because for some odd reason, we love each other like brothers should.

All my other "friends" are virtual, they don't exist unless they venture out into the ether of the FaceBook social networking site and accept me into their club, like you guys. Now, I give FB a hard time, but truth be told it's allowed me to reconnect with people I've not seen nor heard from or about for 10-20-30 or more years! Like me, it's not perfect and can be difficult at times; however, it has, since the End of Chapter One of My Life, given me hope that there may still be enough thoughtful and honestly nice people out "there" to make the Next Chapter worth writing. (Segue coming...)

Now, spirits already perked up by trying to be funny and true, we, or rather I must determine the best, most efficacious way to anticipate and obviate the psychiatric and psychologic demons that prevent me from living as full and fun a life I can manage with my family and friends. When I refer to the "darkness" and "the abyss", I'm euphemistically acknowledging the depression that often leads me astray of my goals and desires. I regularly attend counseling with a social worker specially trained for veterans and our issues. Fortunately, she has a strong background in family counseling which is lucky for me and the situation I'm in. I also see a psychiatrist whose primary function in the VA system is to oversee the medicines prescribed, psychotropics in particular. Again, I'm associated with a very competent, compassionate, and caring person who's concerned for my well-being and long-term recovery. Honestly, I couldn't ask for a better team (why does this sound like I'm reading my acceptance speech for "Comeback Story of the Decade" and thanking all the 'little people" who made it possible for me not to blow my brains out?).

In any event, in case you're interested I take the following meds daily in the Herculean struggle to keep me here long enough to try and make something of myself and keep me in a good mood if possible: Cymbalta for depression and peripheral pain (Duloxetine is the generic name), Wellbutrin for depression (Buproprion), Valium for anxiety and panic attacks (Diazepam), and Lithium Carbonate for mood stabilization. I'm not looking for excuses, scout's honor, but just maybe this info will allow you better to understand that I'm not looking for an easy way out; otherwise, I'd not attend group therapy sessions for chronic pain sufferers in addition to the regular one-on-one sessions to help me stay grounded and under the watchful eye of Tea Party activists who want to cut my funding so they can have two HUMVEEs  instead of one.*

Before the actual preparations begin, I need to explain something to those of you who've never dealt with something like chronic pain. It bites. It sucks beyond all belief. Imagine, if you will, never having a moment free from pain. And here's another thing to consider that makes it such a nasty opponent to overcome: depression caused by chronic pain makes the pain even worse! (Same phenomenon in PTSD sufferers the poor bastards). So, the chronic pain affects the actual structure of the brain that makes the receptors for pleasure, like dopamine, unable to function properly. As a result, you start to question yourself, doubt whether its the pain itself from arthritis in your spine and herniated discs compressing nerve roots...or is it just depression making me feel even worse because it's being a dick for some reason, like a bullying older brother who just enjoys dispensing flicks to your swollen, reddened ear because he takes pleasure making you hurt, because he's a dick like all bullies.

Perhaps the most difficult thing about the whole business is the fact that many people, myself included, have no obvious physical abnormalities that give the rest of the disbelieving world a hint why you're in such a shitty disposition, or why your profuse sweating is caused by searing pain after you stay at the grocery 3 minutes beyond your limit to maintain some sense of decorum and not scare the babies and the elderly as you try as best you can to fill the GOD-DAMNED grocery bags Fast Enough before that fucking, snooty Lexus-driving bitch rolls her eyes at your pathetic, laughable little play for sympathy and disgusting perspiration continues to roll of your ugly, misshapen bald head (sweat doesn't exist in her little world of pate and vodka and sex toys named Lars). Honestly, for real, scenes similar to this, embellished for humor and the chance to say "Lars", occur every so often. Only one time in all the times I was encountering severe panic attacks and bone-crushing pain did anyone offer to help. Once. To add some perspective, I received 3 hate mails attached to my vehicle from anonymous pussies who disliked my political stickers. Spineless fucks, it's no wonder I'm starting to hate this place. The Abyss needs some "volunteers."

But, I don't want to hate it, I want to like or even love it. I want to take my beautiful Ell to the Eiffel Tower and a Tuscan villa. I can't boot a soccer ball 75 yards like I used to, but I can still enjoy a game of Battleship with my youngest progeny, or watch a funny movie with all of them. I understand I'm imposing my wishes and desires on you and I fully understand if you want to spend more time playing Bejeweled or telling us how much you hate your boss. That's cool, but I'd welcome your comments or sharing your stories. If you want to keep them btwn us, just lemme know and I can respect that. Then again, if you're reading my pitiful story it's because you accepted me into your world as a Facebook friend, and friends help each other out even when it's inconvenient or possess differing political opinions. Help me acknowledge the pain, dispense the guilt for making it bigger than it needs to be, and I'll do my  hardest to make you smile even if I have to grit my teeth while I type. Make Chapter Next the Best.

Even though you don't know it or hear it very often, I love you all and I mean it, but not in a corny, let's get married kinda way. Even if you're a Tea Partier!

*jokes meant in fun

xoxo--JR