#i ran out of my meds before my next psych appointment and it turns out they were working better than i thought they were

[skywalker42]

What people think ADHD is:

So I went to my room to grab sticky notes to leave my roommate a reminder on the dryer but then I saw my week old mug on my nightstand so I went to put it away and then when I was in the kitchen I realized there's no room for it in the cabinet and now I'm measuring the wall for shelving units.

Which, yeah, it is that. It's definitely that. But it's also this series of texts I sent to my friend this morning:

[henrycavell]

homecoming part 2

summary: Syverson has been medically discharged from the army after a suicide attempt. He’d been able to hide his deteriorating mental health for years from the men around him, but now he has to face it head on. Hopefully not alone.

word count: 1,899

pairing: Syverson x OFC warnings: none

authors note: this is another slow/kind of boring chapter!! sorry, i don’t want to make these chapters very long because i know when i read fanfics i prefer shorter chapters soooo, but i promise next chapter is gonna be sad and probably hurt your feelings <3

taglist;  @littlefreya​ @mary-ann84​ @wondersofdreaming​ @forthebrokenheartedthings​ @geralt-of-baevia​ @asylummara​ @dearlybelovedluke​ @promptandpros​ @mansaaay​ @daddys-littlewhitegirl​ @vacant-writings​ ​ @80scavill​ @kaatelyyynn

PART 1 | PART 2

So the first meeting with Syverson could've gone better. Penelope had better first impressions with Aika than the with the former captain, but she was determined to turn things around. Returning to his home the next weekend, Penelope knocked before letting herself in, multiple grocery bags hanging from her arms. "Hey!" Her voice echoed quietly in the hall, the only response she was given besides the sound of Aika's nails hitting the wooden floors as she came running down the stairs. Making a mental note to schedule her an appointment with the groomers', Penelope brought the groceries into the kitchen, setting them down on the table. 

Syverson's pick-up hadn't been in the drive today, but Penelope didn't think on it too much. Beginning to take the groceries out of the first bag, Aika went running up to the back door, placing her paw up near the door knob and whining. "Need out, girl?" Penelope asked, setting down the coffee she held in her hands. Before letting Aika run free in the backyard, Penelope checked to make sure the gate was secure and then disappeared back inside to continue putting up all the groceries she'd bought. Every few minutes, Penelope would raise her head to look out the window to make sure Aika was still in sight. She couldn't help but feel on edge, she was still in a complete stranger's home and it was even worse when she knew he was out. 

Her gaze moved around the kitchen, noticing a thin layer of dust on the window sills and in the back edges of the counters. The floors looked like they could've used a decent mopping and there was a small pile of dishes in the sink too. Checking on Aika once more, Penelope moved to open the back door and decided to leave it open, allowing the dog to decide when she wanted to come back in. Placing her phone on the kitchen table, Penelope played her favorite band as she moved around the kitchen, starting with wiping down the counters and sweeping, before making her way to other rooms in the house. 

♫ We get colder As we grow older We will walk So much slower ♫

Making her way down the stairs after cleaning in every room upstairs, Penelope held a basket of dirty clothes on her hip with the intention of taking them to the laundry. Aika sat at the foot of the step, with her leash in her mouth, her head cocking to the side when the two made eye contact. "What's up, Aika?" Penelope asked, stepping off the last step before reaching down to take the leash from the dog. "You wanna go on a walk, huh?" Dropping the basket by her feet, Penelope knelt and clipped the leash to the dog's collar, holding it tightly in her hand as she opened the front door. "Okay girl, c'mon!"

Syverson had been gone most of that morning and afternoon to a psych appointment. He hated Friday mornings for that exact reason, twice a month a doctor sat across from him and tried picking his brain apart. And then by the end of the appointment, usually his meds were switched around, doses were changed. It was all such a big headache. Shutting the door behind him, he let himself slump against it, his shoulders drooping as he waited to hear the sound of Aika's paws hitting the floor.

Except he didn't. And the air around him had a slight scent of lemons to it. Pulling his brow together, Syverson stood up straight again and looked down seeing a laundry basket that he surely hadn't left there. "Aika?" No answer. Even though he was telling himself not to panic, Syverson could feel his heart start to pound heavy in his chest. Moving through the house, he stepped into the kitchen and saw things had been moved around, the dishes had been washed and new things sat on the counter like a fresh loaf of bread and a new box of cereal.

"Penelope?"

Still no answer. Sliding the back door open, Syverson stepped out onto the porch and called once more for his dog before his hands started to shake. Panic ran through every vein as he turned on his heel and returned back into the kitchen. If he could've just paused, taken a deep breath and just thought logically for just a second, he would've realized there was nothing to worry about. That it was obvious the volunteer from the VA had been here, that Aika's collar was missing from next to the front door, that they were just on a walk. But the only thought running through his head was that Aika was gone. Just gone.

Just breathe, he told himself, forcing his feet to carry him into the living room where he sank down on the couch. He let his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling as he took in deep breaths through his nose, trying to focus on how his chest would rise and fall. Closing his eyes, Sy told himself to wait, to try and relax before he spiraled out of control.

Penelope had only taken Aika for a short walk around the block. It had only been about ten minutes after Syverson arrived back home that they came in through the front door. The door shut behind Penelope and Syverson rocketed up off of the couch in the living room, no longer able to listen to the voice in his head trying to calm him down. Penelope unlatched the leash off of Aika’s collar, and the second she was free, she darted straight up to Syverson, whose entire body was tense and rigid. She licked his hand, but he didn't respond, instead, glaring a hole into the side of Penelope's head, waiting for her to give him her attention. When her eyes lifted to meet his, he launched straight into screaming. "You don't take my dog anywhere!" He stepped forward, backing Penelope up against the door. Aika whined, laying down in the floor on her belly, hiding her eyes behind her paws.

Caught off guard, Penelope pressed her back up against the door, lifting her hands up by instinct, her eyes widening in fear as Syverson seemed to grow in size, bulking up on her. "What’s the matter? I just took her for a walk-"

"I don't care!" Syverson shouted, feeling like his face was on fire, sure that it was blistering red. He didn't trust Aika with anyone, certainly not a weak looking thing like Penelope. Syverson only knew Aika to listen to him and he didn't even want to think about half of the horrible scenarios running through his mind had she broken loose from the girl. Aika was more than just a dog to him. Hell, Aika was the only thing keeping him alive, especially on his bad days. His hands tightened into fists by his sides, veins popping out and running up his arm. Penelope could feel her heart hit her stomach, watching the anger on the man's face as his chest swelled. "Get out," he growled.

"W-what?" Penelope frowned, pulling her brow together as she looked down at his fists. She could feel her heart in her throat, wondering briefly to herself if he was the type to hit a woman. His fist alone seemed like it was the size of her head and she didn't really want to think too hard on how it might feel to be hit by a man his size. Aika was getting back to her feet, coming up behind Sy's legs, nudging her head against his knees in an attempt to comfort him, hoping it would help him to cool down.

"Get. Out." His voice had lowered now, though Penelope could still hear the exasperation in his voice. The man took a step back, his hand reaching down to scratch behind Aika's ears, trying his damnedest to get himself under control. Penelope felt frozen, her feet glued to the floor as she felt hot, burning tears in her eyes. For the last few hours she had worked hard around his home, nearly finished with everything besides his laundry. "Don't make me tell you again, girl!" Syverson stepped back towards her, feeling his anger spike once more. The sharp gaze he gave her was enough to startle her into jumping forward, slinging the front door open.

He slammed the door closed behind her and she heard the locks falling into place. Her hands were trembling as she looked over her shoulder towards the front door, slowly moving off of the porch. This time, Penelope had no intention of coming back. There had been plenty of times where she found herself in arguments or uncomfortable situations with other veterans she helped, but never had she felt directly threatened. Penelope kept her head down as she hurried to her car, not taking a second glance back.

That evening, Penelope had been quick to submit a report on Syverson, detailing his sizable outburst and how she had felt threatened. One of her counselors had asked if she felt comfortable continuing to see the former captain and she had answered no. 

"I'm sorry this happened," he sighed, closing Syverson's file and pointing towards the door, seeing Penelope out. "I'll have you a new client on Monday morning." 

It didn't feel good giving up on someone, but she told herself that she had to put herself first, her safety first. Penelope had never found herself in a situation with a man where she felt in danger, but now when she closed her eyes, her brain was just sending her into what if circumstances, the image of his tightened fists and clenched jaw permanently etched into her mind. Penelope just nodded, trying to keep her head held up as she left the counselor's office.

Out in the hall, she was having a hard time shaking this sinking feeling she had, like guilt was already beginning to eat her alive and she had only made her decision mere moments ago. Heading out into the lobby, Penelope stopped by the front desk, leaning her elbow against it and letting out a heavy sigh. The receptionist, a girl named Katherine, looked up at her and gave a confused look. "You alright? Ready to sign out, girly?" At the same time, a psychiatrist came walking up to the desk to check back in from their lunch hour. 

"Not really-" Penelope sighed, hearing her phone ding in her pocket, but for the moment, she ignored it. "When do you get off today? Wanna go get drinks?" she asked, picking up the pen to scribble her name on the sign-out sheet. 

Outside, the sun was already beginning to hide behind the horizon and storm clouds were rolling in. There was a heavy scent in the air, like the smell right before it rains. Penelope had been disappointed to hear that Katherine was pulling a double shift as she sank into the driver seat of her car. It seemed like she was heading to the bar alone.

Ding! Her phone went off a second time, reminding her of the message she had ignored only a few minutes prior. Her eyebrows raised slightly when she saw the the name that popped up on the small screen.

𝚃𝚎𝚡𝚝: 𝟽:𝟸𝟹𝚙𝚖 𝚂𝚢𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛.

[hide-the-cutlery]

The next two days are going to suck.

I’m out of pills. Well, not completely out. I have about 8 of my anxiety pills left — to last me 3 weeks. I’m supposed to take 3 a day. So I have those, and some otc pills that take me out of myself a little, but I have to be careful with those, because, for me, they can trigger panic. I can pick up my pain meds in 2 days, but they usually makes me puke. I thought I was doing better this month with my usage, but I guess not. Then there’s more anxiety pills that supposedly help with my alcohol cravings, which aren’t a controlled substance, so I can probably get those next week. None of this really matters, because I don’t have shit now.

I’m so medicated. Even if I took everything as prescribed, I’d probably be an incoherent mess. I’m a master manipulator with doctors, which I’m simultaneously proud of and ashamed of. I know how to get what I want, within reason. It’s all about building a rapport with them and finding that sweet spot where they believe you need what you’re getting and never trying to push for more. I tried a few times to get another of my anxiety pills a day, but my psychiatrist pushed back and changed something else instead, so I knew I had to drop it.

What boggles my mind is that I’m a fucking alcoholic (addict), and these medical professionals still throw potentially dangerous, addicting medication at me. What pisses me off is how much they don’t listen. I saw my psychiatrist yesterday and brought a list of things I wanted to talk about with him, since the appointments go so fast. I wanted to explain my racing thoughts keeping me from completing simple tasks. My complete lack of impulse control. My delusional beliefs that the universe is trying to get back at me for being a shitty person. That I’ll stay up all night (sometimes for 2-3 nights in a row) and do things like clean. Even if I lay down, turn off everything, and pray for sleep, I just can’t. The fact that I didn’t finish my cleaning (or whatever I started) gets in my head and makes rest impossible. His solution? Let’s increase your seroquel again.

Scary things are starting to happen. Sometimes I go on a “bender” in a store(s), and I don’t remember when, how, what I got, etc. My memory needs to be jogged sometimes. This past time I got twelve bottles of body wash, for a total of 29. And that’s not including hairspray, hair gel, hair accessories, dry shampoo, lotion, makeup, nail polish, and a fuckton of clothes. I am out of control. It’s funny — I want to lose a little more weight (I just lost ~25lbs), but then all the clothes I’ve acquired won’t fit, so the fruits of my labor will be spoiled. I’ll have to start over. That is literally my thought process, and it’s so fucked. Stores know me. They watch me. They follow me. They know my fucking name and know what I do. And honestly, I just don’t care. I mean I care because I don’t want to get caught again, but the odds are seemingly in my favor. Even the LP woman where I actually got the cops called on me said “we’ve been watching you a long time, but you’re too good.” Not saying that as something to brag about, just recalling what happened. Also, I recognize when someone is trying to manipulate me. She was trying to get me to confess to other things because what they must have had on me would never hold up in court. I am not stupid. I don’t know what I did that time to allow them to catch me, but clearly I slipped up somewhere. Either that, or they just went with it, hoping I’d confess. Which I did. I cooperated; hopefully it helps me in the end. I was watching trashy tv this morning, and a woman mentioned she went to jail for two months for petty theft. The host of the show even seemed shocked by that. Maybe she had priors or other factors that played into it. But yeah, I can’t go to jail! It’s not an excuse, and if you look at my actions alone, yeah, maybe I deserve to go to jail, too. But (prepare yourself for some massive excuses) I’m sick. I don’t do it because I want material things. I don’t think I am above the law. I’m not trying to make some pathetic stand against capitalism. I just can’t control my impulses, and I’m sick. I’m working with my therapist, my psychiatrist (at least I make an effort to), and some women in AA to get help, and nothing is working. I thought after I got caught, I’d stop, and for a while, I did. But that apparently wasn’t enough, either. It’s a compulsion — fighting it is futile. It actually started out as excessive spending, but I ran out of the means to keep that up, so now it’s this. I know it’s because of my issues with addiction and mental health. I don’t see it any differently than drinking, drug use, sex, or whatever. It’s an alternative to drinking. I can’t do that anymore, so this filled the void. Every time I have spent money excessively or done this, I haven’t been drinking. The object of my addiction (for me, at least), bounces around until I can’t do that thing anymore, and my brain holds up a sign that says NEXT in glowing, red letters. Like a “no vacancy” sign at a shitty motel.

I know before I went on that little tangent, I was listing some things that are scaring me. Sometimes, after I wake up, I’ll check my phone and find that I tried to write, but it’s total jibberish. Sometimes I feel like I’m losing time. I don’t know where the days go; I wake up and (try to) go to bed. I’ll start to do something, my mind will go blank, and I won’t remember what I was doing. I’m stumbling all over the place. I’ll try to have conversations (usually in the morning), and I’ll be able to hear myself slurring. I seem to talk without thinking. An example: I’ll be in a room with only one other person, talking to them, but it will feel like part of myself has separated from me and is screaming “You LIAR! Shut the fuck up! That’s not true and you know it. Quit pulling things out of your ass and tell the fucking truth. Drop the whole facade; you have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, nor do you believe what you’re saying. You’re pathetic. Spineless. You’re fake.” I swear I couldn’t pick myself out of a lineup sometimes.

I feel that third presence with me frequently, but recently it hit a new level of intensity. I had a few job interviews a couple weeks ago and I found myself exaggerating the truth so much that it made me feel uncomfortable. All I could hear in my head was “LIAR LIAR LIAR”. (And forcing myself to make unwavering eye contact made me feel ill.) I tried to tell myself that’s just how interviews go, and that they weren’t really lies at all, just maybe a few embellishments, but I cannot listen to myself when I’m being rational. Irrationality is really all I know lately. I ended up taking a position with a company that seemed sketchy as hell, but I was desperate. I’m tired of being broke and needed the money so badly that it would have been absolutely foolish of me to decline the offer. The me who showed up to those interviews and got hired was not the me who showed up on the first day. The embellishments and feigned self-confidence were gone — all that was left was pitiful, anxious me with one foot out the door in case I had a panic attack and who won’t look you in the face, much less make eye contact. The more and more I learned about the position and the company, the more I wanted out. It turned out to be door-to-door sales, which was not how the job was described in the interviews. If there ever were a job that wasn’t for me, that’d be it. The leader of my team obviously noticed and basically let me quit. So I’m back to being unemployed. Oh well, it was a life lesson. I’m also back to being broke (not that I ever wasn’t). I didn’t even get paid for my training! I’m doing worse and worse things to get a few bucks here and there. It’s shameful. I would have declined the position on the spot, but my family is pushing me so hard to go back to work full time that I couldn’t in good conscience say thanks, but no thanks. I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t think I’m ready. Sadly, you can’t look at someone and see what’s going on in their mind. If they could do that, I’m pretty sure they’d back off. I’ve been telling them I have to make my own decisions, and my priority is getting some help with my mental health. That didn’t really go over well. They think I’m capable because I had my shit (somewhat) together a few years ago, but it’s not a few years ago anymore. I’m still recovering and struggling. The tension in this house is almost tangible, and it’s completely my fault. Well, it’s my fault in the sense that I’m not where they want or expect me to be. It’s not that I don’t want to work or contribute financially. I do. I want a normal existence, but “this life I loathe is in my way”.

So because of all this, I’ve decided to look at getting a complete psych evaluation. I’ve never been given any kind of diagnoses aside from issues with depression, anxiety, and substance abuse. I know that’s not all that’s going on. I’ve had potential diagnoses thrown around like bipolar disorder, BDP, OCD tendencies, suppressed memories of trauma... I’m sure the pills don’t help (“but it sure is funny”). I take them because I can’t handle day to day functioning. Every day it feels like there’s a crisis, and I’ve felt this way long before I ever took a swig of vodka or popped some pills. When I discovered those things, nothing seemed as intense anymore. I stopped jumping at my own shadow. No wonder I’m an addict.

[imaginarycircus]

What it’s like to explain that you have ADD to a new psychiatrist...

(this is a long and messy to illustrate my point. you do not have to read this unless maybe you’re stuck in a peat bog waiting for someone to come rescue you. if you are one mobile? I am sorry.)

Because my psychiatrist suddenly quit his practice with no warning and the practice didn’t contact me--I’m scrambling to find new doctors. I have time to do it so it’s not a total disaster so far. But I hate having to break in new psych/medical people. I either feel like I am making stuff up and exaggerating OR I forget important things like, “I have a history of epilepsy and asthma. Did I tell you that? Ooops.”

My mental health and cognitive situation is weird and hard to explain. It just sounds ridiculous. I have inattentive type ADD, sensory processing disorder, some anxiety, and chronic depression. I have a history of ptsd stemming from childhood abuse. So that sounds like too much and I immediately want to distance myself from it and pretend I am totally normal. Look at me. I am a normal. I can totally process what you’re saying despite that weird humming sound of some electronic device or those overhead lights. No. I wasn’t just randomly making sounds or humming while trying to think. I totally did NOT just swap all the letters or syllables around in what you said or what I wrote to make new words and phrases. And I am not laughing at them at all because then I’d have to explain that I am giggling about words turning into other words and I’m sorry were we having a conversation?

If you’ve been hanging out here a while you’ve seen what happens in my tags. I’ve tried to explain before. That is literally what it is like in my brain all the time: Here’s three thoughts. You can finish two. The third will lead you on a meandering path and hopefully you won’t stumble into that fen and drown. Those peat bogs are deadly from what I hear. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I need to spend an hour reading about how to make it through a peat bog so I don’t drown.

lol do you think I am kidding?

So. To make a long story as long as I could possibly ever make it--I called the new psychiatrist and they want to interview me about my ADD. I am totally fine with that because ADD drugs are crazy and over prescribed... 

Sorry. I’m still reading about avoiding death in peat bogs...

No. Wait. I am making this tumblr post about my ADD. For fun I am also doing a cryptic crossword.

Without filtering very much in this post--this is what it is like for me. Though oddly I can sit down and do one thing for like 10 hours. I can read, or watch TV, or write, or think for hours and hours without moving. This is not good. Because I will not notice that I am cold, or if I am thirsty, or hungry, or in low level pain. I can sure read a lot or get a lot of writing done. But not in a particularly healthy way. You can’t write screenplays and novels if you die of dehydration half way through. Speaking of which. I need to drink this water, which I have had sitting next to me for three hours. Oh. Just realized. I forgot to take my meds. Which is why I put my pillbox on the arm of the couch next to me. Next to this glass of water. Several hours ago.

Today is a particularly all over the place day. Because my doctor quit and I ran out of adderall over a week ago. I now have some because my GP wrote me an Rx. I am going to take my very small dose and things will quiet down somewhat.

The thing I wanted to describe from the start is that I called the new psych office and spoke to them last week. We set up two appointments. And I knew I was getting confused when the lady was telling me dates and times and office suite numbers and jumping around. But I wrote it down and I thought, “No. It’s okay. You totally understood what she said.” So I didn’t clarify. And yesterday I knew I had an appointment today and I set up reminders because I live in fear of forgetting appointments or meetings of any kind.

My calendar today said: dr “smith” 29 002 12:30 PM

So here’s part of the problem. The woman told me to come 10-15 mins early to fill out paperwork. I don’t know if my appointment was at 12:45 and I noted show up at 12:30 or if my appointment was schedule for 12:30 and I was meant to show up by 12:15. So I showed up at 12:10. The problem? My appointment is next Monday.

And that notation? I know it looks odd. I wrote the street number, but not the street. (Which I know because I know the building.) I do things like that all the time and I don’t even notice.

What I’m nervous about is my whole history of being diagnosed with ADD. I don’t have paperwork from a previous doctor with a diagnosis. So they won’t prescribe meds for me without evaluating me. Which is fine and they should. But when I was 5, I made my first trip to a psychologist to be tested for various issues. The psychologist told my parents I was bright and very shy, but like whatever. And every year after that my teacher would be frustrated and send me for testing, insisting I must have a learning disability or something. I was never “working up to my potential.” The disparity between my test scores and my work was always extreme. And the testers always sent me right back saying, “Oh. She’s so smart. No problems.” And then my teachers were LIVID. If I was sooooo smart I must be lazy or willful or have some flaw in my moral character that made me bad at organizing and completing school work. This went on until I graduated high school.

After I graduated from college (which is a separate story) I had a therapist who kept saying she thought I had ADD. And I wanted to scream. I’d been tested for ADD like 18 times. And then I found out about being twice exceptional and I am still so angry about this. I am both gifted and learning disabled. And they fuck each other up and mask each other. So I either seem not as smart as I should be OR too smart to be learning disabled and completely inconsistent. If you have a headache from reading this--try living this way all the time. I mean, I’m used to it. I’m fine.

So now I have to take this whole MESSY history and dump it on a new doctor and hope they agree that I am not an adult seeking a very low dose of a controlled substance for nefarious reasons. I need it to make my brain settle down.

Oh. I was going to drink some water and take some meds. Ok. I did that. And you know what I was doing before I started making this post? I was half way through a cryptic crossword...

[audiodiaryofasuperhero]

About that Unannounced Hiatus...

Hi, y'all. Remember us? We took a pretty long unannounced break from… well, just about everything to do with the public side of this show.

While we can’t go back & make this hiatus have never happened, or hell, even go back and handle it better, we can explain how & why it happened. If we can’t fix it, we can be honest about it. Maybe we can even bring about a little awareness in the process.

Note: This post is almost entirely about the past year & a half. We will write a separate post covering what’s going on now & what’s next for ADoS. We don’t want to cram those things onto the end of this long post when those are the things worth getting excited about!

Now, to do this, I need to address you as Laura Henderson, the writer/producer/nearly everything on this show. Because the reasons behind the Unannounced Hiatus of Suffering pretty much all have to do with things that were going on in my life.

Hang with me - this is a long explanation.

Some content warnings before proceeding. This explanation includes anxiety, depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm, mania, hypomania, dislocations, & doctors being shitty people who are bad at their jobs.

I made an announcement right before the hiatus, publicizing what was meant to be a small break in production while my household dealt with a clusterfuck of a moving process. What I didn’t mention was the fact that I was struggling with some worsening anxiety & depression issues as well.

As soon as we’d moved, when I was meant to be finishing episode six, three different things happened. 1) I got caught in one of the worst depression spirals of my life. Like, I hadn’t felt so terrible since middle school. I struggled with awful focus issues, self-harm, & suicidal ideation. 2) I got a promotion to sales lead at work. This sounds fancy, but it functionally means that I became the lowest tier of management at my store. With our staff numbers dropping post-Holidays, my hours ratcheted up to 35 hours a week. Plus school. Plus chronic illness. Plus mental health issues. Which all feeds into - 3) I wasn’t happy with the draft of episode 6. I needed that script to do five different vital things, & at the time, it did maybe two of them. I recorded that draft, but ended up deleting it out of frustration at what it didn’t set up for later plot. With everything else going on, it was easiest just to… put it down.

Spring came & my depression receded, although my focus issues increased. This was just in time for me to dislocate my knee pretty majorly. With EDS (an illness I share with Adira), dislocations are pretty commonplace. But most of them are small, slide back in nearly immediately with little to no intervention, & do very little damage to the tissue surrounding the joints. Others are major, where the joint slides farther out of place than usual & stays out of socket until manipulated back into place, doing a fair bit of damage to the surrounding tissues. This was definitely the latter. I was in pain for weeks, & all my spoons were spent trying to get through my shifts at work.

The knee eventually healed. My first night out dancing after it healed, some asshole stepped on my ankle & dislocated it. Not my foot, mind you - my ankle. (I am still very salty about it.) Wash, rinse, repeat from above.

Then things really started to go to hell.

In late June, I started seeing a psychiatrist for my focus issues. My dad has ADHD, & we’d begun to wonder if I may have inherited. The psychiatrist, understandably, chose to start by treating my depression and anxiety instead. She also indicated that she suspected I may have a bipolar disorder. She prescribed me Zoloft, & told me I should call her immediately if I started experiencing suicidal ideation or mania.

Lucky me, I got both.

By week two, I was drifting into a mixed affective state, where I’d be slightly uncomfortably energetic but also a bit depressed. By week four, I was on a little carnival rollercoaster. I was energetic, anxious, depressed, & had a very small voice in my head suggesting awful but non-fatal things I should do to myself. By week six, I was riding a Six Flags thrills rollercoaster, with celestial highs & infernal lows. I felt like I was going to vibrate out of my skin, I went from aggressive cheer to rage at minor provocations, and the voice in my head was nearly indistinguishable from my regular thoughts, telling me all the different ways I could & should kill my self. I was manic. I would have been suicidal if my friends hadn't been acting as voices of reason. I called my psychiatrist in tears & left a message with her receptionist. She never called me back. I stopped taking the pills.

Needless to say, I found a new psychiatrist, an awesome guy who believes in evidence-based practice. We started experimenting to find a good balance of meds. We started with the assumption that there was a low but substantial probability that I had a bipolar disorder, but that it was more likely that Zoloft was responsible for most of the mania symptoms. As the milder medicines mostly failed to stabilize me, we adjusted the probabilities of bipolar upwards, eventually concluding with a diagnosis of bipolar 2. 

While we were still in the early stages of medication experimentation, & I was mentally stable enough to sort of function & get a bit optimistic, my body decided it was its turn to be a melodramatic little bitch. 

Everything started dislocating. Everything. 

My knees, normally prone to minor dislocations around 4 times a week or so, started going out constantly. And then my hips got in on it. And then my ankles. And my ribs. And my shoulders. I went from using a cane, to using crutches, to using a rolling walker. I usually had more joints out than in.

I tried to work through all of this, but it was a nightmare. At one point, I was sitting in my walker at the cash wrap, twisted around to grab something from behind me, and both my hips popped out with an audible “snap.” I tearfully handed the guest what I’d been grabbing for them, then backed myself away from the register to cry for a moment.

Right at the end of October, I asked for a medical leave of absence from my job, with the intention of seeing my rheumatologist to update her on the situation and see what could be done.

When I went to see her, I had a list of ten things that needed to be accomplished. I managed none of them.

When she arrived in the little room, I started explaining what had been going on with my joints for the past two months. She cut me off.

“I can’t help you with that,” she said impatiently. “I can’t help you.”

She went on to add, “But I see you’ve been losing weight - that’s excellent.” (I’d been in too much pain to eat.) “And I’m glad that you went dancing,” (referring to the ankle dislocation from June that had been giving me so much trouble since). “You should exercise as much as possible.” (Ignoring that I’d been trying to tell her I could barely move.)

At this point, I was very teary. My joint doctor was telling me that she could not help me with my joint condition.

“You should look into being treated for depression. You seem very upset.”

To say I left her office devastated is a bit of an understatement. I sobbed in my car in the parking lot for twenty minutes.

I called my auxiliary brain, my most rational, anti-suicide friend. 

“Please, come keep me company. Make sure that I don’t do anything stupid,” I pleaded.

He had some errands to run, but I sat in the car with him. On the interstate, I had to fight the urge to open the car door and throw myself into traffic.

But he got me through that awful day. The next month and a half was a long, drawn-out depression swing.

At the beginning of December, my manager called me. 

“Are you coming back?” she asked.

“I - I don’t think I can,” I admitted.

“I’ll consider this your notice, effective immediately,” she said. “Get better, Laura.”

Things slowly got better. My body calmed down. One of my psych meds was able to pull double-duty as a joint pain medication. I could walk again, even if I wasn’t quite comfortable dancing. I became happier, and if I was hypomanic or in a mixed affective state more so than even-keeled, it was better than being manic or depressed.

I withdrew from my college program, and applied to an online program. While the new program was not my beloved data science, combining information technology with mathematics was close enough.

I was accepted too late to start spring classes.

In early February, I managed to find a new rheumatologist, after calling four offices who explicitly said they weren’t comfortable treating me. She didn’t do terribly much for me, but she explained what she was going to watch for. She referred me to an orthopedist.

By this point, I was thoroughly bored of sitting around the house. I re-applied at my old work place, and was welcomed back with great enthusiasm.

Then my psychiatrist cancelled an appointment. It was nearly impossible to get ahold of his office to reschedule over the phone. Every time I went in person to reschedule, there was no one at the desk. I started rationing my medication, and then I ran out. Things, rather predictably, went pear-shaped.

A few weeks ago, summer classes started for me. I finally got back on medication. My work place started a big hiring push, which reduced my hours to my betterment.

After all that shit, I’ve finally begun to feel like a person again. It was rough and it tested me in ways I hadn’t been tested before. It made social media seem like an overwhelming prospect. I couldn’t manage a huge undertaking like my beloved podcast. But now....

Audio Diary of a Superhero never once left my mind, and now I’m ready to get it up and running again, better than ever before. I’m healthier, happier, and very motivated.

I’m not going to talk about what comes next in this post. But it’s coming. Look out.