Well, nothing, really.
[NOTE: I put this commentary under the fold so it is not mirrored all over the intertubes by those four or five content-stealing sites out there].
Actually, I have been trying to get a few things straightened out in my life so I can once again focus on writing for you — which is the only thing (besides my beloved parrots) that gives me joy.
Unlike most people, who can function in their personal and professional life under the most dire and bleak of circumstances (how do they do it?), I am ashamed to admit that I am not one of them. I sincerely wish I was. But when I am plagued by horrible nightmares and am otherwise sleepless and obsessed about how I am going to pay my basic living expenses, I find it difficult to focus on trivialities like writing a science blog, writing a book proposal, following up a lead for an agent, working as a volunteer background interviewer and story researcher for the Huffington Post, and organizing the trip-of-my-lifetime to London. But the good news is that I am making some progress. Plus, I have managed to keep some cash on hand so I can still hang out at my local coffee shop/internet cafe and use their free wifi, guiltfree.
Unfortunately, the big news is that the community hospital that was prescribing my psych meds is dumping me, so I have been going through withdrawal. Withdrawal from my meds — as useless as I think they are — is defintely not to be recommended. I have already stopped taking one of my two prescribed meds, the antipsychotic quetiapine (Seroquel), with few bad side-effects, but withdrawal from the second medication, the SSRI, citalopram (Celexa), is much more daunting. (I write these details here because I know that several people who suffer from bipolar disorder read my blog).
Withdrawal makes my thinking fuzzy, it makes me completely unmotivated and I just don’t feel well at all; dizzy and nauseous, agitated and short-tempered. I am not sure about this, but I think withdrawal has transformed my already frightening nightmares into something that is truly terrifying. For example, I woke up screaming at three this morning because my “parental units” (whom I haven’t communicated with since I was a teenager) were trying to drill holes in my skull with an exceptionally wide and long drill bit. It’s difficult not to scream when you are staring down the barrel of a drill bit like the one I was looking at. The after-effects of this very realistic dream took hours to wear off. Embarassingly, all my windows were wide open. I just hope my neighbors so deeply asleep that they didn’t hear me.
So today, I called the psychiatric hospital where I was incarcerated a little over one year ago, hoping to get them to appeal to the community hospital who prescribes my meds to continue to do so. That community hospital treats me like I am completely invisible, and always has (as my helaing shoulder fracture clearly indicates), so it is no surprise that many months of personal and telephone appeals to the office staff, front desk staff and to two of the psychiatrists there have gone totally ignored.
Anyway, not to tell bore you with embarassing personal stuff, but that’s what I have been wrangling these past couple weeks.