One Track Mind Tracks

When I have something on my mind, I mean really stuck in my brain, everything is about that thing. Songs and movies send me messages, the universe is collaborating and laughing at me because, even if I try, I will not get that thing, whatever it is, out of my brain. I'm not a paranoid schizophrenic; I don't really think the universe is conspiring, but it is easier to think that than to think my brain is stuck on something. (Although, the "shuffle" function of my iPod might be able to read my mood and create theme music for it... But I have heard other people say the same thing, so I do feel a bit less crazy for thinking it. Plus, you know, it is Apple... Isn't Steve Jobs kind of god-like? Omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent and whatnot. Maybe they figured out how to capture that in the shuffle function.)
The worst part of my brain's tenaciousness is when I am trying to figure out a person. Every thing they do--the way they move, what they eat, the set of their mouth, the color of their shoes, the music they listen to at the gym--isn't just a clue to me, but also a clue for me. Just for me. As if they know I am trying to decipher them and they decide to play along. I'm sure this obsessing is part of the reason why I find it difficult to make friends. I assume so much from the clues and I am so negative in general that these clues either add up to, "I do not like you, Kayly," or "I'm such a jerk, Kayly." Although, a few times in my youth, they added up to, "I'm a really great guy. You should totally try to date me." And the clues were so, so veddy, veddy wrong.
I've been in counseling a million times and know all about "negative thought patterns" and "dysfunctional behavior," blah blah blah. Cognitive behavioral therapy does not float my boat, though, and this behavior is so deeply rooted in who I am that I'm not sure I can change it or get rid of it, anyway.

O hai! Iz u my dokter?

OK, so. I hate being vulnerable, and feeling ugly or gross makes me feels very vulnerable. But I have this rash, these hives, this swelling, this peeling, burnt looking skin and it's not getting better. In fact, each phase has been uglier and more gross and more painful and humiliating than the last. So, I'll lay the whole thing out here for a few reasons.

• I feel like if I talk about my most vulnerable moments that I will eventually realize I shouldn't feel bad about normal bumps in the road.
• Maybe one of you has gone through this same thing or something similar and can share some advice.
• I'm pissed off about the whole thing and maybe putting it out there will calm me down a bit.

Early in the year I had a rash on my chin and the right side of my face. It looked kind of like ringworm which is not a worm at all but a fungus. It is related to the fungus that causes women's yeast infections, thrush, athlete's foot and the yeast infections babies get with diaper rash sometimes. I used several things to treat it and it went away.
I used the following treatments:

1. Twice a day I applied Skinbiotics Treatment Oil by Derma E which is tea tree oil and oregano oil, both anti-fungal and tea tree oil is also an anti-bacterial.
2. Twice or three times a day I applied Nelson Bach USA Pure & Clear Acne Gel which contains tea tree oil and calming homeopathic ingredients.
3. I continued my acne routine which is the kit by Nature's Gate called Natural Results Acne Treatment containing a cleanser, toner and lotion. I made to sure to remember to do the routine twice a day, every day, even though I'm usually a bit lax with it. The salicylic acid in the kit is anti-microbial and the ingredients are calming, soothing and moisturizing.
4. In between the toner and moisturizer steps above, I wiped a cotton ball with colloidal silver all over my face and let it mostly dry .
5. I drank 10 drops of NutriBiotic Grapefruit Seed Extract in water three times a day.
6. I took 15 drops of BioAllers Allergy Relief Mold Yeast and Dust Allergy Treatment under the tongue every four hours.
7. I drank a ton of water. Way more than my normal amount.
8. And I tried to cut back on sugars as much as I was able.
   

The rash seemed to disappear and I continued the treatment for about two extra weeks just in case there was still something in my system. That brought me to the middle of February.

Then, the weekend before last, I got a small rash on my chest. The area covered was about as big as my hand and the bumps appeared to be hives. They varied in size between two or three times the size of goosebumps to slightly smaller than a pencil eraser. They itched. Not horribly, but as much as you expect hives to itch.

I happened to have a dermatology appointment due to my ongoing hormonal acne (for which I am now trying spironalactone again; I had used it years ago for polycystic ovary syndrome) and showed them the rash. I mentioned I had had an unknown rash on my face a few months before and that this rash itched. They--the resident and attending--diagnosed me with folliculitis even though it doesn't look like folliculitis I've ever seen and this was on an area where clothes don't rub and I--obviously--don't shave. I have been around no new environments, tried no new products of any kind, had no new foods and didn't think I was under any new stress or anything. So I thought, "Fine, I'll take the two doctors' word for it and use the 10% benzoyl peroxide body wash" which is the first line of defense for folliculitis, though you may be familiar with it solely as an acne product. They said use it at bedtime and wash with my normal stuff in the morning.
The first morning I woke up with a slightly red, slightly dry and tight (even though I had moisturized with the advised cream), somewhat larger patch of rash. "Hm, maybe it has to get worse before it gets better?"

The second morning everything was the same as the first, but the rash had spread on my chest, and further up my neck. "Weird."The third morning my skin was "severe sunburn red," dry as hell, flaking, burning and painful. The rash had spread up neck to my face. That night the entire rash and inflamed areas itched like hell. I'm talking crazy making itching. Over the course of this rash I had been taking benadryl to no avail and it still didn't help. Not even the benadryl spray or hydrocortisone gel. I had an event to go to that night so I slapped some makeup on and tried to be brave. It wasn't to bad. [This picture is from Monday but is indicative of Saturday as well.]
Sunday and Monday were pure hell and the call I put into my dermatologist's office Monday wasn't returned until 4:55. I didn't hear the phone ring. I saw the message from the resident who said he needed me to call him back, but he was done at 5:00. By the time I called it was too late. Meanwhile all day and night for those two days, I continued using Aveeno Skin Relief Moisturizing Lotion for cooling and itch relief, Aveeno Anti-Itch Concentrated Lotion for skin protection and itch relief and moisturizing with La Roche Posay Lipikar Body Balm (which, incidently, costs the same for a huge-ass bottle in France as the little tube costs in the US: RIP-OFF!). The glycerin in the lotions always burns a bit at first as my skin is highly sensitive, but, let me tell you, I've never experienced burning this bad. But I powered through those first few minutes because it seems every lotion has parabens, glycerin, fragrance and/or petroleum derived products and they all burn, but glycerin is the only one I don't get a reactive rash after using it.
All the while, since shortly after the rash started, I have been waking up with swollen upper and lower eyelids and lips. The doctors did not seem concerned at all about this. Not that it wasn't related to the rash, but that it is perfectly normal to start waking up with swollen eyelids and lips all of the sudden. The swelling is worse on some days by others and looks not all that bad--but still noticeable--by the time I photograph it.

Friday:
Saturday:
Sunday:
Sunday:
Monday:
Tuesday:

This morning I called the dermatologist's office again and the girl I talked to yesterday (to leave a detailed message for the resident) told me that he said if the benzoyl peroxide was too drying then to use Cetaphil cleanser (which contains SLS, which I normally avoid like the plague as it also badly irritates my skin) instead and to keep moisturizing. "Great," I said to the woman, "And what do I do to get rid of the rash since I can't use the benzoyl peroxide and Cetaphil obviously will not clear up the rash, even if it is folliculitis, which I highly doubt it is at this particular point in time as I did when he diagnosed that." She paused and admitted he did not give any pertinent directions as regarded the rash. She asked me what drug he had given me for the itching. "Um, none? And it is about ten times worse than it was." She paused. Then she took thorough notes on the call and said either she or the resident would call me back today.

It's now 6:26. I think I'm not getting a call back. What do you think?
But just in case this plague is somehow related to the February plague, I've taken it upon myself to add steps four, five and six back in for now.
The phone literally rang as I typed that last sentence and it was the resident, who seemed to remember nothing about my case, insisted it was probably my "acne acting up on [my] chest neck and face." I said, "But it looks nothing like acne, it itches like hell and I've never had more than a half dozen to a dozen spots at one time in my entire life, much less a full face, neck and chest eruption resembling poison ivy at this point in appearance and itchiness even though I've been nowhere near the plant since last spring." Doctor: "Sigh." Me:"..." Doctor: "I guess I can fit you in tomorrow.Can you come around 3?" "No I have another very important appointment then, but it's in Hershey so can I come right afterward?" "Sure, I'll let the nurses know to put you in for about 3:45."
So. At least one more night of this hellish itching and Hellboy redness. Dude better give me something other than a damn wash or I'm kicking him in the balls and telling him that pain he feels is acne.

Comment Gone Post

I just finished leaving a comment on a post by The Bloggess, and I thought that it actually might make a good post in, and of, itself. So here ya go:
I'm so out about my mental illness, people get sick of hearing about it. I do periodic posts about it, and my last was, as someone else had done, in regard to the shooter in Tuscon.
I've suffered from chronic major depression and chronic anxiety disorder for as long I remember, literally. I didn't get help until after my oldest son was born in 1994. They told me I had PPD. I didn't. I was just scared to keep going the way I had been since I now had a human being depending on me.
My worst episodes of depression have happened since I've had my children. The kind of episodes that are so black and so long that I seriously consider suicide, but I never act on it because I cannot do that to my children and I know how to get help now. Even though it is motherfucking, god-damned hard to get that help sometimes. Lack of insurance or time or fucked up policies when we did have insurance all were obstacles at times.
I've been on various drug regimens for almost 17 years, now. Currently I take an SNRI, an anxiolytic and a mood stabilizer. There is some disagreement between various of my doctors whether I have bipolar II or the chronic major depression *and* chronic anxiety combo platter, but they all agreed that either way, adding a mood stabilizer would help and it has.
And you wanna talk stigma? In February of 2008 and again in February 2010 I had a round of ECT. Five treatments each time. Feel free to check the tag "ECT" on my blog for an explanation of the process and dispelling popular myths about it. [Please read from the oldest post at the bottom to the latest at the top for continuity.] It has been a lifesaver for myself and my family.
I decided to do it after a very long depression did not improve. In fact, it got much worse and cycled up more panic attacks as well. I did a lot of research, chose to do the ECT, did it and was amazed that nobody ever mentioned it to me before. I felt wonderful and everyone kept telling how normal I was, which may have been a retroactive insult; I'm not sure...
The second round came after a steady two month decline back into the hole and I decided not to let it get nearly as bad as it had been the last time. I did it again and was glad, again.
Within weeks of the second round, I started one of the worst years (situationally) of my adult life. An old friend abruptly died; my best friend lost her father to cancer; I lost my grandfather (the man who was my father figure growing up) quite unexpectedly to multiple cancers that apparently had been eating him alive for some time; I put my dog to sleep after raising him from an eight-week-old rescue mutt to a 15-year-old family member alongside my sons while I was a stay-at-home mother; I was laid off from the study for which I had been working; I had flairs galore of my autoimmune illness; I've seen my children through some tough times this year; I had some female plumbing issues which I thought would leave me sterile; and I'm sure I'm missing some other things...
But you know what? I was able to survive it and come out with hope in my eyes because I started out from a point of virtual mental health. So ECT has saved my life twice, now. So I talk about it. A lot. It makes people uncomfortable, sometimes, but I think that's okay, because we need to chip away at all of the stigmas of mental illness and it's treatments.
I got this tattoo:to commemorate the ECT the first time. And when people ask me what it means, I tell them--even strangers--all about it.

Arizona

I'm still not ready to have a long discussion about the shootings in Arizona, but last night I wept for the all of the people affected by the tragedy in Arizona. All of them. Even the shooter. My belief (formed from the facts available so far) is that the shooter has severe mental illness. Everyone around him saw it. People were scared of what the illness had done to him. But nobody tried to help him. When one is that ill, it is almost impossible to get the needed help. Hell, it's almost impossible when one's mental illness isn't anywhere near that severe and the shooter was so ill that he didn't even know he was ill, so how was he supposed to do it without help?
This country treats mental illness as a weakness instead of an illness. Until we start recognizing it as an illness and stop stigmatizing those with the illness, we'll always have many people wandering the streets who are on the edge of this kind of breakdown. Had somebody reported their worries to a mental health hotline, impressed on his family the need to seek help, told the police that they believed he was a danger to himself or others, maybe 8 January would have been a normal day in Tuscon.
Here are some phone numbers for anyone who needs help or knows of someone who needs help.

Mental Health Hotline Numbers and Referral Resources

It's eight pages, so click through until you find what seems to be the most appropriate number.

Not Happy About Today's Horoscope

I kind of believe and kind of don't believe in horoscopes. But the Yahoo horoscopes seem to consistently relate to whatever my current situation seems to be. Here is today's:

Daily Extended for January 7, 2011 (Today)

Capricorn

12/22 – 1/19

Overview

There's one simple way to make the next few weeks of your life easier: Let go of all the things you can't control. Yes, this is easier said than done, but once you start to make the effort, you will immediately get a taste of the freedom it brings. Sometimes, guilt can keep you from moving away from old setbacks, bad relationships or other unpleasant dramas. If you're feeling guilty, ask yourself why. There's no way to go back in time. The only option is to keep going forward!

I don't like. Where's the "don't like" button?

It's my job to worry.

I was trying to remember where I had heard a quote something like my title when, for no particular reason, I remembered one of the quotes I had to memorize for Mr. Lavelle's notoriously difficult AP English final in high school. In 1990. (Looking back, I realize now that the final was actually really easy. A gift to us, the students he had made think all year long, but we all liked the mythology behind "the hardest final ever" which never changed a single freakin' question from year to year.) Mr. Lavelle was my favorite teacher ever, so in his honor:

Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
[Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "The Charge of the Light Brigade"; Googled only for correct punctuation]

Anywho, that totally has nothing to do with this post, but it's weird what you can suddenly remember 20 years and some months later when you honestly can't recall what you ate today.

So, "Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!"

It suddenly occurred to me today that when I have my larproscopy on January 12th, it's possible that rather than finding nothing and leaving me to wonder what to do with this pain and other "stuff," or finding endometriosis and/or adhesions which may cause me to lose my uterus, that a third possibility is that I might lose it all. Or most of it. It honestly hasn't popped into my thoughts the whole time I've been agonizing over whether or not to have my uterus removed if they find nothing when they open me up. (The doctor said that sometimes some people find relief from pelvic pain of unknown etiology by having a hysterectomy. I won't be doing that as there are too many other things that might go wrong: cystocele, hernia, worsening of my IBS, greater surgery aggravating my autoimmune illness/inflammatory response, vaginal, vaginal vault, urethral, small intestine or rectal prolapse and, ironically, pelvic pain.)

This lead to a rather intense anxiety attack with much sobbing. The thought of taking hormones for the rest of my life, when I am not yet 40 and my family has a life expectancy of around 80 or 90 years, usually, terrifies me. I like the way I look, flaws and all, but I do not want to gain more weight, I don't need any drier or pimplier skin and I am not fond of synthetic hormones to begin with. (But the nearest bio-identical doctor is near Philly. Too far for me to travel for a doctor's appointment; I grumble over traveling to Hershey, for crap's sake!)

All of this on top of the mystical proclamation that recovery will take four to seven days to four to six weeks depending on what they have to do, leading me to wonder how employed people plan for this shit.

So, I worry, but that is nothing new. It's my job to worry.

MPT (Medical People Time)

So after more than two weeks for two blood tests (one of which was pointless as I'd just had it done) I finally called the gynecologist's office myself. His nurse just called me back and said everything is "normal." Bloodwork, ultrasound, etc. So I said, "Well, what's my next step? Because obviously everything is not normal in there." And she said she'd let the doctor know, but I should rest easy tonight knowing I don't have a tumor. Well, then, maybe they should have let me know that before two weeks plus had passed. And, also? DUH! Something is wrong they just don't know what it is yet...
ARGH!!!

The fog creeps in on little cat feet.

For months, I have been excited about a new study the University was going to be conducting on behalf of the Army and NIMH. The original job posting seemed to imply there would be travellers hired in addition to people centrally located to certain bases. The study is close to my heart because of both my own mental health struggles and my respect for our soldiers and my belief more needs to be done to protect their mental health. One of the big requirements for the job was public speaking experience, which I have in spades. The study was postponed so they could revamp a few things and then they reposted the positions. The new posting clearly states that a firm requirement of the job is living within 30 miles of specified bases. None of the bases are anywhere near me.
So the job search I had been half-heartedly conducting while I waited to hear about said study now must proceed in earnest.
The thing is, with no degree and the "gap" of having been a stay-at-home-mother and the tight economy leaving fewer jobs and even fewer people wanting to take chances on unproven workers--like myself--the prospects seem a little bleak. Add to that my unwillingness to go back to retail--oh god, especially during the holidays--and I am, in a word, screwed. (Nearly 25 years of on and off full- and part-time work in retail has left me with a horrible, nasty, disgusting taste in my mouth. After having done "real" and meaningful work, I just cannot go back to that hell.)
Between the health questions swirling around me and this new wrench in the work works and full-on Autumn pounding me over the head with its short days and dead flora...like the poet says, "The fog creeps in on little cat feet." He forgets to say that before it moves on, you need to figure out how to kicks its ass the hell off of its "silent haunches."
Thanks to a few reminders from my bestie I finally bought a light box to try to help with the seasonal aspect of my depression. I have noticed my sleep patterns shifting a bit back towards a normal person's. Maybe a tiny bit more energy throughout the day.... But it is hard to judge its effect on my mood, because I don't know what it would be right now if I were not using the box. Ah, the paradox of the afflicted. Is it me or the "meds?"
For now, I guess, ONWARD! (Meaning not that I might give up on living, but that I may fall prey to total inertia. So here's to one foot in front of the other, y'all.)

Mean mothereffin' reds...

The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of.--Holly Golightly

Drink Recipe: F*ck Me Gently with a Chainsaw

F*ck Me Gently with a Chainsaw
a.) On Election Night tell all of your Facebook friends this:

"couldn't decide if I should venture into the cold and cry into (an admittedly delicious selection of) beers or put my cozy jammies on and hide under a blanket on the couch. I've opted for the latter accompanied by a heap of Peanut Chews, a huge Iron Man cup of HFCS containing ginger ale and Hoarders and NCIS on the DVR. No live TV for me tonight."

b.) Immediately start checking Facebook, Twitter and online news media and commence live-blogging for close to four hours until everything is pretty much over.

c.)pour

• 2 oz Knob Creek into a shot glass

d.)then in a highball glass mix:

• splash of unsweetened orange juice


• 2 maraschino cherries, muddled and a splash of juice from the jar


• splash simple syrup


• 1-2 shakes Angostura Bitters


• 2 (or 3 or so) oz Knob Creek


• some ice

Directions
Shoot c, then sip d.

Alternate names for this drink are "shot of bourbon with ghetto old-fashioned back" or "Post Election Sorrow Drowner: Democrat Version."

blahg-er is blah

Words haven't been floating around in my head so much the past week or so. Images, ideas, pictures, maybe other people's words if I feel like reading for a bit but I'm just not chatty. Not in real life, not on paper, not on the screen. Or in a box with a fox eating lox.
I think the stressing out over the lady parts and the fact that I fucked up and missed my ultrasound on Wednesday and now have to wait until Election Day for the damn thing is just too much to think about so my brain has decided to just not think the way it normally does. Or I had a stroke. (Ah, just kidding. )
So Election Day promises to be... interesting? As I've said before, I do not have the good luck with which my husband has been blessed. For him November 2 is a promising day. For me? It's a terrifying prospect of Republithugs and hysterectomies.
On the other hand, if they see something during my ultrasound, even if it's not good, at least I'll have an answer and hopefully a treatment will be decided for me. Because if they see nothing then I have to decide if I want to roll the dice on a hysterectomy since "it may or may not help with the pain of unknown causes." I'll probably vote no; Nate feels the same. But we are both also hoping for an answer. Ack! This whole thing is just one big-ass conundrum. I don't want to have something "wrong" with me, but I know something is wrong because I don't feel "right." But the doctors--so far--say it is nothing, basically.


As a side note: I finally disconnected my Tumblr account from my Facebook account because I was overwhelming too many people with posts. I know I'm usually too prolific for some people, so the addition of tumblahgblahgblahg to my normal load of blergh scared some people off from reading my page at all anymore.