So, there’s been a bit of not good on the post-concussion treatment plan front, leading to a lot of medication changes, additions, and reactions. One honest-to-god hypomanic episode (I never care to repeat it, thanks, even if it did produce a really interesting essay about part of my time in drama school – I might post it, for the posterity effect, once I can bring myself to go back and read it), an upswing in post-concussion headaches (very specific, and the current one has been hanging around for four days), a neurologist who sees no difference between my classic migraines and post-concussion headaches despite the different symptoms, and all I got was this lousy collection of prescriptions that do nothing. Well, we did sort the hypomania. Thank god.
Anyroad, that’s the why on the radio silence. I’ve actually been talking about this stuff in life a lot, in order to get it treated, which is good for the better-out-than-in function, but not much on the analytical end of things. Of course, my brain hurts too bad to analyze at the moment, so I’ll stick to the perfunctory report that I’m not dead, just over-doctored.
I’m having crazy anxiety mood swings today. I went from telling funny stories, loudly, with differentiated voices and wild hand gestures; to deciding that I HAVE to write the great American novel NOW because I have the Best Idea Ever; to a bunch of aborted Facebook posts about how I would rearrange my facial features if I could choose my own reincarnated form. (I may have been reading an article about the Dalai Lama before that last one.) It makes it hard to think with all this crap rattling around in my brain.
Thursday I woke up with a beast of a sinus infection, and spent the day away from my own day. This weekend seems to have made up for any relaxation effect that not worrying about everything under the sun for a day provided.
In addition to the DRAMA! that this weekend provided – anxiety provoking, to be sure, but in a perfectly rational, things are actually wrong but soon to be right sort of way – there was the driving all over creation. I drive like a little old lady, to be sure, but no one else seems to. On a daily basis, no big deal: I take a train/bus combo to get to work. I also live in the relative center of a sprawling metro area, so visiting friends in the suburbs at the weekend requires time on the highways. Not ideal, but there isn’t as much traffic, so that’s nice. I managed not to have too many mental collisions, even though part of the DRAMA! involved loved ones in actual collision. Score one for distraction?
Today has been devoted to self-care, and ended up in a one-woman slumber party complete with hair dying and dancing around the house singing along to Pandora radio. Not a bad way to let it all out.
Today is a bit of a cheat, because I didn’t so much worry as obsess over cool things. Which amounts to the same damn inability to think in a straight line, but with a much better mood. It’s like the difference between fretting over going to the dentist and anticipating attending a concert by your favorite band. The mood is different, but the frenetic energy leaves room for little else, and is replaced with exhaustion later.
(I may have a larger-than-normal problem with dentists.)
At any rate, it is very cool that the BBC Sherlock adaption started production on season three with a read-through today. It is probably not cool enough, however, to rate the fact that I went squealing to other offices on my hall, skipped back into my own, posted to facebook, then did a lightning-search of every social media website ever to find all I could about the filming schedule. Ten minutes of my life I’ll never have back.
It probably also didn’t warrant the fact that I spent hours trying to get my brain to stop following little pathways that stemmed from this one: comparing where the series is to what happened in the original Doyle canon to guess at plots. Then realizing that the theme of my favorite annual geek convention is British Invasion this year, and cheering because I’ll likely have whole panels to attend! Then speculating that I could cosplay something deliciously related, perhaps in Victorian drag, despite the fact that I don’t go in costume as a rule. Then I was stuck trying to pull my brain back from all of the potential Anglophile costuming goodness that could result despite having no desire or intention to execute any of them.
All of this, and I’m still giddy! Super excited! Really tired! And working at half power in the old lighthouse! Somebody flip the switch, I’m going to bed.
I’ve had anxiety disorders for as long as I can remember. The actual diagnoses are generalized anxiety disorder, social anxiety disorder, and panic disorder. The take away message is: disorder. My brain is an unholy mess.
Imagine holding your breath, counting to twenty, and then being told you have to name all 50 states before you’re allowed to breathe again. Now imagine that some jerk projectionist follows you around constantly and plays worst case scenario movies every time there’s even the remotest possibility of disaster. Finally, imagine you’re in the middle of a normal, predictable day when an axe-wielding psycho jumps out at you from nowhere, only no one can see him – including you. Congratulations, we’ve just gone to a party and made small talk, driven on the highway, and had a panic attack at work. Also, my brain is an asshole.
I’ve been this way as long as I can remember, to varying degrees. I’ve collected coping strategies throughout, and managed to get rid of most of the self-destructive ones. I started blogging in 2003 when grad school started making me nuts, and stopped in 2008 when I was the healthiest I ever remember being. It’s my favorite form of therapy, a chance to get the crazy out of my head without forcing my friends to listen to it. (Don’t get me started on actual therapy. That’s its own post.)
So why am I back at it? In October, I knocked myself on the head, had a concussion and a two-week-long traumatic migraine, and took for freaking ever to recover. I still have memory problems and headaches, and my anxiety is through the roof. I’m working with my doctor medically, but emotionally nothing mitigates the sound of the little jerk between my ears like pouring out it’s drivel into text. Because most of the things I worry about, when you look at them from the outside, are actually pretty ridiculous. There is really no way that the old man with the cane on the train platform is really a disguised assassin who is going to draw a sword from his cane and set upon the whole train-full of people.
My brain may be a jerk, but it’s a jerk with creative flair.