Perpetual Smile

I leave most doctor appointments feeling pretty frustrated, as if I’ve gotten nowhere and am starting over — all over again. Having an undiagnosed autoimmune disease means bouncing from doctor to doctor, telling my story over and over, and usually receiving a response something like, “Well, shucks, you’ve got a lot of symptoms, but fucked if I know what’s wrong! Also, all of your blood work is normal. You’re normal. Yay!” I try not to blame the doctors, but really — they’re doctors. They’re supposed to know, dammit!

I’m also always very hesitant to admit when I’m depressed. It’s easier to write about it here than it is to say the words out loud while looking someone directly in the eye.

But today — well, okay, technically it is now past 12am Saturday so this all happened yesterday — I shoved all of those fears aside and went to see Pam, my PA. And you know what? It wasn’t bad. At all.

Pam asked what I was there for, and I right away admitted that I’m having a hard time with my depression, and that things weren’t going too well with my rheumatologist. When I explained to her how I’ve been running through cycles — wanting to kill yourself one night and then being high on life the next two days is so not normal — she immediately agreed that I need to be tested for bipolar disorder and drew up a plan of action.

“I’d rather start you on medication used to treat bipolar disorder right away so that we can see if it works,” she said. We then discussed a few psychologists and a pain management specialist that she really likes, and narrowed it down to psychologist Dr. M and pain therapist Dr. P. We also decided that I would try Seroquel, a medication used to treat bipolar disorder. She explained that she has people start with 50mg for three days, then 100mg for three days, then 150mg for three days, then 200mg for three days, and so on, and that I would start to notice the effects within a couple of days. She also explained that people with bipolar disorder don’t normally respond to regular depression medication — or that it does odd things to them — which would explain why Zoloft basically made me a zombie and why Cymbalta made me hyper as a kangaroo on crack. She gave me samples of the Seroquel so that I wouldn’t have to pay for several different prescriptions, and said that she would see me back in two weeks to check on how the meds are working (and to call her in the meantime if anything comes up). I’m to call Dr. M before I contact Dr. P and am to start seeing Dr. M as soon as I can get in.

Then we moved on to my mystery autoimmune disease.

I told her that my aunt has Crohn’s, which I had apparently forgotten to tell her before. I also told her about the weird thing with my hands (I sometimes get little “spots” that are sensitive to the touch, as if I’ve been burnt or scraped, but there is nothing there). She confirmed my suspicions; this is another classic autoimmune symptom. She said that autoimmune diseases can attack the skin cells, so that is why I have that sensation. I’ve had this since childhood but never thought anything of it; I thought it was normal up until a week or so ago, when my hands were pretty much covered in these little invisible spots and I couldn’t let anything touch them because it fucking hurt.

We discussed me getting a colonoscopy to test for Crohn’s, and she said that she would contact my rheumatologist for his reports to see if he had any thoughts as to which autoimmune disease it could be before sending me to a gastroentologist. The last report he sent her was in September, and I continued to see him once a month through to November. I told her about how he didn’t really seem to remember me from visit to visit, and how each visit his ideas would change; one visit he would suggest that it was my birth control, the next he would send me for more blood work. From her face, I could tell she agreed with me that he is pretty out of it. (He’s a nice guy — don’t get me wrong! — but he’s pretty old. His brother was exactly the same way: nice, but very forgetful and a little cooky.)

Pam is going to get my reports from Dr. G (rheumatologist), and when I see her again in two weeks we’ll go from there.

I may not have gotten any solid answers this time, but I still feel like I got somewhere. I got the ball rolling on taking care of my mental health, which is ironically the easiest thing for me to fix (with counseling and medication, and with a diagnosis that will hopefully confirm my suspicions of bipolar disorder*), but it’s always hard for me to admit that I need to get help and to actually go get the help. I got the ball rolling on my physical health again, as well. I feel like I got a lot accomplished, because I took the steps I needed to take.

*Other people around me have also seriously suggested that I may be bipolar, including a social worker I used to see when in high school. Ms. Amenta, wherever you are, I miss you so much. You were the best.

PS: I should totally just make a “Depression” category.

I wonder what would happen if I started blogging every day?

Today I looked up mental health care providers in my area and wrote down three names and numbers that jumped out at me. I was mainly looking for pain management, depression, and mood disorder specialties — and of course someone who is a chick. I just can’t picture myself talking to a strange man. Then again, it sucks talking to a strange anyone… Unless that anyone happens to be a cat, because they pretend to be good listeners. I say pretend because everyone knows that cats pretend to sleep, pretend to love you, pretend to listen, all while they plot your death for serious.

What was I saying?

I spent today kind of floating. I have a LOT of work to do, which is probably why I mostly just procrastinated all day. It’s overwhelming. Tomorrow is the last day to upload all kinds of content to Latest Client’s WordPress site, so that they can be all wowed and amazed on Monday. Meanwhile, my muse is screaming for me to write, to work on Secondhand Mom or the short story I started last week. Stupid muse. When I want to write, she ditches me. When I can’t write, she yells at me to write.

I wanted to do a lot of things today, and now I can barely remember what I did do. (Uh, nothing.) I really wanted to get a lot done and go to Mike’s so that I could hang out with Robbie, Jaysa, and Ciana (my new niece), but since I didn’t get anything done…

Tomorrow I’m supposed to be going to Mike’s to watch the Colts/Jets game, so I’m panicking because that only gives me a few hours to get everything done that I need to get done. I think today can be filed under LAZY.

Wednesday, I hid.

I called out of work. I threw on some headphones. I buried myself under my comforter, afghan, and fleece blankie. I stayed like that for about an hour or so, falling in and out of sleep while listening to Lacuna Coil’s “Shallow Life” and Silversun Pickups’ “Swoon”, my current comfort albums.

I thought about going to the hospital. I thought that maybe I should talk to someone, someone who would get it and would be able to point me to a therapist who would get it even more. I imagined being handed a prescription to try, that might give me more energy and a little more sparkle inside.

I finally got up to go get dressed and eat so that I could go to the hospital, but I could barely eat and didn’t have the energy to get dressed. I crawled back into bed for another hour or so.

I know it was bad. I know that I need to get my ass into a therapist’s office. I know that I need to be tested for bipolar disorder, put on some medication, and need to go through pain management therapy. I know all of this, and still I shy away.

I make passing references to the people around me about how I’m feeling, but I don’t go all the way and say, “THIS IS BAD. IT’S REALLY BAD. I REALLY NEED HELP.” I don’t reach out. Instead, I keep it all to myself. I drop little hints, enough so that I can tell myself I said something, but not enough for anyone to get really concerned. Because, if I did truly say how bad it is, they might be very concerned.

It’s been a long time since I hid like I did on Wednesday.

In a way, it was just what I needed. I needed to regroup. And yet, on Thursday I felt the same as I did the day before. I felt drained, like I wasn’t really here, but at the same time it felt as if there were little teeny jumping beans inside of me and static fluff in my head. I barely sleep, I barely eat, and I feel like I’m barely making it through the days. Thoughts race through my head, about everything going on: about Popi, about Dad, about my stupid mystery autoimmune disease, about my relationship with Mike, about my new niece, about my clients, about my day job. On Thursday I felt like, at any moment, I was going to split into two. Or four. Or nineteen-thousand.

Today, I felt sort of normal — if normal means being on the verge of tears one minute and wanting to laugh like a maniac the next. At the moment, though, I feel okay.

It’s not just everything that’s going on; I go through these cycles all the time, for as long as I can remember. Last week, I thought about killing myself. For two or three days after, I felt high on life. And then I dropped again. I didn’t feel like dying, but I still dropped.

Part of me is ashamed. Part of me admonishes myself. “This was supposed to be over,” that part says. “We don’t want to go back to therapy. We were already there. Things should have been resolved then.” But the other part steps in and say, “That therapist didn’t do her job, and neither did the second therapist we saw about a year ago. We need to be tested for bipolar disorder. We need pain management skills. We need someone to talk to about everything.”

And the argument goes ’round and ’round, until I’m so tired of hearing these thoughts wrestling each other that I consider cracking open my head and throwing a grenade in there. (That’s a joke. You can laugh. I’m not actually going to grenade my brain.)

The truth is, my friends, that I NEED HELP. I am drowning, and with all of the external things going on as well as what is normally in my head, I’m having a really hard time staying afloat. I don’t want to die. I don’t want my mental illness to kill me. I don’t want to be the zombie I feel like. I’m tired of faking. I’m tired of being afraid to say anything to the people around me, partially because I’m afraid they have enough problems of their own and I don’t want to be yet another weight on their shoulders.

It’s also because I am partially ashamed of going back to therapy. I don’t want to. I tried it again, with Kitty Bhide, and she sucked. I know that if I just try a few different people, I’ll find the right person. But then I make the excuses of, “Well, I don’t have that kind of money,” and “It’s going to take forever to get in anywhere, and by the time I get in, I won’t feel this way anymore.” Even though that’s true — hi, that’s why I need to be tested for bipolar disorder — it’s still not a good enough excuse, because I still know that soon I will feel this way again.

I go through this, every time.

And it’s draining.

I want to tell you all about so many things, like Christmas Eve, my latest bout of depression, the Nintendo DS I bought myself as a treat, all of the pain I’ve been having lately, the insane workload I’ve been carrying, and a few other things. But when I sit down to write, all of my thoughts blow away like clouds on a clear summer day. I could tell you about how I lost my appointment card and have no idea when my next rheumatologist appointment is (or was). I could tell you that I feel like it does no good to go anyway. I could explain to you how amazing Mike is and that without him I would not have made it through the last few days.

I want to tell you how badly I want to reorganize my life right now, because it feels so messy and everything I want feels so out of reach. I want to tell you that not every moment in my life has been gloomy; I’ve had some good happy moments lately, too. I want to tell you all about how my family is doing, the love, the fights, the eggshells.

I just don’t know where to start, my friends.

I’ve been reading everyone’s blogs and it seems like we’ve all been having more than our share of ups and downs. I can barely get my thoughts together enough to leave a comment worth reading let alone encouraging. Everything feels so chaotic right now. My own head is a mess and my heart is lost. There is so much to fight right now, but I feel like every time I swing, I miss by a wide berth. (Can you tell I’ve been running around as Link in the latest Zelda game for the DS?)

I know that the end is in sight. I tell myself that, as soon as I finish my big client’s project, things will get a little better. But I know it isn’t just the project that is weighing me down. I spend so much of my time worrying and stressing that when it comes time to take action, I freeze. I think this is defined as ANXIETY. I know that I should probably grab a phone book and call a therapist. I know that I should call my rheumatologist’s office and find out when my next appointment is (or was), since I’m worrying myself sick that I might have to pay a fee if I missed it.

I worry, worry, worry.

I wish that someone would guide me through this, like some sort of magical creature that will say, “Okay, do X and Y will happen, so then do Z and it’ll be all set.” I wish someone would take care of me, even though I am old enough to take care of myself. I need a rope, friends. A thick, knotted rope that I can climb up to the top where I can see everything.

Or maybe I am already able to climb up and look. Maybe I only need to let myself SEE. Maybe I have become so comfortable with the bottom that I’ve allowed myself to stay there. To quote Silversun Pickups, “I don’t care, I’m still here, everything seems perfect from down here.” Except it’s not.

I wish that I only had to handle one thing at a time, but that’s not the way life goes. Maybe if I put everything out, examine everything that I’m dealing with, and SEE it for what it is, then maybe I can figure it out. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to do that. Let’s see:

• The big project. This project is HUGE and is making me a lot of money, which is awesome. The not awesome part is that I’m stuck on a couple of things with it, and being stuck makes me freeze instead of taking action. This needs to stop. I need to figure out how to fix the issues I’m having with the coding. I need to force myself to sit there and work through it. Standing still is not going to help. Letting the anxiety of the Impending Deadline stop me in my tracks is not going to help. If I don’t say “fuck you” to the anxiety, I’m going to be frozen until the Impending Deadline hits me right in the head. I need to remember that it is not only me that will take the hit if Impending Deadline comes and the project is not done. I need to also not let that scare me into frozen fear. I need to keep saying “fuck you” to the anxiety and work through the stubborn code.
• The pain. Whatever the hell is wrong with me has been pretty aggressive lately. A few days ago, both of my hips flared up, with the ache radiating back and forth, so that my whole front hip area was in agony. The next day or maybe the day after, my right hip flared up, then radiated to my back. The back side of my hips and my lower back were a big glow of RED pain for maybe an hour or two. I fell asleep some time after it started, and when I woke up it was gone. This morning, from the front of my hips all the way to my toes ached so badly, I could barely walk. All I wanted to do was lay down and go to sleep, but I had so much work to do and also had to go to work. It quit around the time I went into my day job, so I’d say it lasted at least three hours, maybe four.

  I’m so tired of bouncing from doctor to doctor, spending so much time and money when all I get are no answers. It all feels like a huge waste of time, and once again I feel like they are never going to figure out what is wrong. I think I’m going to spend the rest of my life bouncing between mind numbing flareups and a very thin time slot of remission. What I’m experiencing is the definition of rheumatoid arthritis or some other autoimmune disease, and yet all tests come back negative — except for that one double stranded DNA, which is supposed to mean I have some sort of autoimmune disease, but so far my rheumatologist has been unable to determine which one. I know this requires a lot of patience, but I am not the most patient, and I think after almost three years of pain, pain, pain and a slew of other symptoms, most other people would also have lost their patience.

  I’m also tired of A Certain Person scoffing at me when I complain, as if I am just making this all up. I want to be taken seriously by A Certain Person, but I get the feeling they don’t because they can’t physically see any of my symptoms. I’ve gotten to the point where I mostly say nothing when I’m around them and experiencing symptoms. And anyone who deals with chronic pain knows that it’s so hard not to say anything. Since I spend a lot of time around A Certain Person, I spend a lot of time not saying anything. (And no, it isn’t Mike.)

  I know what I need to do. I need to push the fears of never finding an answer aside once more and I need to call my rheumatologist to either reschedule my appointment or get the date so I can go. When I do call, I need to be adamant about getting in sooner, and I need to stress that my symptoms have once again gotten worse. I need to not let the fact that I feel okay right now get in my way. I need to remember that “okay” can quickly turn into agony and that by speaking up and being a little more vocal, I might be able to get closer to the answers and treatment I need. I need to remember that I do NOT deserve this.

• My wish to write. While I spend most of my time working, I yearn so badly to get back to the novel I started during November. I know that my client’s project has to be done before I can get back to the novel. I need to remember that the sooner I finish this huge project, I will have more free time and will be able to spend that time finishing my manuscript so that I can start editing it.
• Taking the time to relax. I absolutely NEED to do something nice for myself once this project is done. It’s time to use that spa gift certificate my uncle gave me for my birthday so that I can go get that massage. I have been treating myself with DS Zelda breaks, but I also need to remember that too many breaks kills productivity. I need to remind myself that I do deserve the breaks, but should try to get more work done first.
• Popi. This is the hardest of them all, because there is nothing I can DO. Instead, the worry about his health pushes down on me. I don’t know what to do. I do know that I am so scared of losing him.

  His second round of chemo went well. He was only at the hospital for three days, and came back home on the third day. He hasn’t experienced any side effects. He’s just awfully tired from fighting so hard. I am so proud of him for being so strong. His strength makes me want to be strong, too.

  I am having a hard time fighting the worry, though.

Whew, glad that’s all off my chest now. I really need to stop bottling everything up and keeping it to myself. I have a hard time vocalizing the worry, though; I force myself to carry it all on my own.

If you’ve read this all the way through, thank you. I’m so glad that you were here to listen. Now I want to return the favor. Tell me, how are YOU doing?

I’m VERY goal-oriented, but I tend to take on HUGE things and pile myself with too much to do. Recently, I’ve tried to break that habit by setting smaller goals at smaller intervals. Every month I set a few small goals that are more achievable and less stressful.

Last month, I tried to:

• Write a novel — and FINISH it, dammit!
• Finish designing Freaking Bookworm.
• Give Perpetual Smile a face lift with a customized design.

I managed to write about 60% of Secondhand Mom, my NaNoWriMo novel. I also started working on Freaking Bookworm. With a whole lot of life thrown at me all at once (chronic pain/disease getting worse, work, and finding out that my Popi has cancer), I got pretty slowed down on these goals. BUT — and I say “but” very loud and proud — I did accomplish a lot. I got very close to two of my three goals, so I can’t complain.

With everything that is going on, I need something to focus on, WITHOUT OVERWHELMING MYSELF EVEN MORE. I have a hard time not overloading myself. The last thing I need right now is to send myself to the ER for a nervous breakdown. BUT — and I say “but” very loud again — I need goals like a junkie needs heroin. I’m a goal junkie. An overachiever, if you will. So, how to get my fix without overdosing?

There is a LOT that I want to do right now, a LOT that I need to get done, and a LOT going on in my personal life. The wants I need because I need to try to stay as happy as possible. This means satisfying the muse (writing the novel, working on personal side projects, etc). The needs, well, they need to get done because my clients want their shit done, rain or shine, whether my fingers and toes are attached or not. Plus, I’m broke and I need some money. The chaotic, shittiness of my personal life needs to fuck off, but it’s there nonetheless. That part of my life cannot be changed. I’m having a hard time with that, too.

So, goals. Right. Getting back on track.

• Go to my writers’ group, every week. This will encourage me to keep writing, be it THE NOVEL or other stuff. It’ll also keep me sane.
• Spend lots of time with Popi. Make him laugh.
• Buy a camera and start taking tons of pictures of the people I love, because for some reason there are no recent pictures of anyone.

There. Simple enough, right?

Here’s an updated version of the symptoms list I posted in June 2009. Same deal: for my reference, hoping someone might say “Ah-ha!” and diagnose me. Warning: some of this is gross. Don’t read it if you think I’m sexy.

• Dull and achy to very sharp, stabbing pain in fingers, hands, arms, legs, hips, knees, feet. Migratory and happens at random. Could last seconds or days.
• Jello, rubbery feeling in arms and legs. Sometimes I can’t walk.
• Weakness in arms and legs. Sometimes I collapse and can’t carry things.
• Occasional swelling (once in right ankle, several times in base of left thumb)
• Itchy, sometimes painful, clear bumps on hands (palms and fingers)
• Multiple styes in both eyes. I can’t get rid of them no matter what I do. I’ve just learned to ignore them and seldom wear eyeliner now so that I don’t aggravate them.
• Bumps on the inside of my mouth, usually on the inside of my cheeks. They’re not painful but they’re annoying and pop up all the time. They go away by themselves, but then end up coming back
• Hemorrhoids. It doesn’t matter what I do or don’t eat. I’ve just learned to suck it up and use a lot of A&D.
• UTI-like symptoms: trouble urinating, frequent urination, pain when urinating. This hasn’t happened in a while, thankfully, but it’s been so bad that I thought about going to the ER. Urinalyses always come up fine.
• Hot flashes. This is new. I get overwhelmingly hot, sweat beads at my hairline, I feel like I can’t breathe, and then it’s over.

Hooray.

Also? I’d like to add that I only add symptoms to my list if they’ve been hanging around for about a week. Sometimes I’m stubborn and wait a month to say, “yep, let’s add it.” I’m far from a hypochondriac and just wanted to make that clear. Just sayin’.

I’m not sure.

I love Southern. I loved being a part of it. The campus is beautiful, and the Student Lounge (complete with Starbucks coffee) is my favorite place. I loved sitting at a table or on a couch in there, reading, doing homework, writing, or just relaxing for a few minutes before moving on. I loved walking around the campus and enjoyed its beauty during each season: warm and open in the summer, colorful and vibrant in the fall. (I haven’t seen it during the winter or spring yet, though I did see it at the end of winter.)

I loved having a major, and used that major as my sole purpose. “I’m an Elementary Education and English major,” I would proudly tell people. I had never even been sure exactly what that meant. Really, it was more of a challenge for me. Yes, I love kids, and I loved working with them during my field placement, but I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to be a teacher. The doubt just kept creeping in.

Not only that, but I also couldn’t seem to fit in. I have always had a hard time making and keeping friends. I like to think that I’m a great friend, that I am a fun person to be around. Still, I can’t seem to fit in. The closest I have ever gotten to fitting in was my Creative Writing class in my last semester of community college. Those people understood me, and we meshed perfectly together. I also fit in perfectly with Mike, and usually fit in with both of our families (though there are some times when I doubt even that). It’s a hard thing for me to admit, but there it is.

Girls who I thought liked me at Southern turned out to just be using me as a stepping stone. I fell so far in love with the idea of having a friend there that I tried to overlook the bullshit, but in the end it came down to the brutal realization that I was two months in and still hadn’t formed any kind of real friendships. I admitted to myself that I did not fit in with any of the other people in my program. Some of them were nice, but quite a few of them were smug and treated me like I was stupid. (I suspect this is because I don’t have a background in child education; I got my A.S. in Multimedia/Web Authoring, while they got their Associate’s in Early Childhood Education.) I tried not to let it bother me, but it did. I tried to just ignore it and do what I had to do, but it got awfully exhausting floating from one class to the next, passing by everyone else like a ghost.

In my English class, however, I fit in much better. There were a few English majors and a few other people pretty similar to my personality type. I had fun.

So last night, while talking to a friend I hadn’t seen since high school, I said that I thought I might start over again in the spring. I said that I thought I might just go for Creative Writing, like I had originally planned. As I lay in bed last night, I thought about it a little more. I would have to take ENG-112 once again. I would have to go through the whole registration process all over again. And will I still be dealing with the same health problems in spring? Will I have them under control through diagnosis and medication, or will they be worse, still undiagnosed?

If I were to not go back this spring, I would have to call my student loans bank and arrange to start paying off my loans. If I did go back, I wouldn’t have to pay them off until after I graduate.

What it all comes down to is, I’m not sure. Usually if I’m not sure about something, I just don’t do it (or buy it, or eat it). I don’t like to agonize over making the decision, and yet I do.

In the meantime, I’m really enjoying writing this book right now and I can see myself getting that B.A. in English for Creative Writing. I would enjoy it. It would be hard, but it wouldn’t be agonizing like Elementary Education was. (I didn’t want it bad enough to put up with the stress.)

Mike urges me to find out what’s wrong with me first, but of course my spontaneous ass wants to jump right back into it. I guess right now I just need to RELAX and focus on what is in front of me: appointments with the rheumatologist, writing a book, building websites, and figuring out how to afford presents for everyone this season.

I wanted to write an honest post about how I’m doing, but it scares me.

I don’t want to admit that I’m not doing well.

So instead, I’ll just say that I am so glad I have NaNoWriMo and this novel to look forward to. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t write.

I’ve always had a hard time admitting when something is too hard or when I need help. I’m stubborn and fiercely independent. I also tend to get hit with big ideas and goals, and then I jump into them without thinking them through.

During the last couple of months, I’ve constantly felt as if I could barely keep my head above the water. It wasn’t just school. It was also work, my health problems, my relationship with Mike, and a deep inner yearning to toss everything away and get back to writing. Every aspect of my life suffered, and I with it. I kept trying to ignore the problem, kept trying to look at the bright side. “I can do this,” I’d tell myself, and with renewed strength I’d plow on through. But several days later I would be back in the same position, tired from all of the swimming and barely avoiding the waves of my To Do list from pulling me completely under.

Tuesday night I did not sleep. My legs were wrecked with a pain so intense that I could not do anything other than toss and turn. I wanted to scream, but the people in my house slept soundly around me. I lay there for hours, trapped in a prison that is supposed to be my body, until I finally threw the covers back and got up. I did a lot of bitching on Facebook, which I sort of regret (but only because I don’t like showing any kind of weakness).

I popped in the last DVD of Dollhouse Season 1 and watched “Epitaph One” and the original unaired pilot. I watched a whole bunch of special features. And still the pain wore on. I could barely concentrate, and although I felt so tired, I could not fall asleep. Pain like that is maddening, and I didn’t think I could stand another minute of it.

I logged into Facebook again, wandering around aimlessly, when Mike messaged me. He couldn’t sleep either. We had each been awake for hours, fighting our demons alone, but a simple website had allowed us to come together. We talked on the phone for a long time, sharing our thoughts and soothing each other. I asked him the question that I have been longing to ask but too proud to put into words: “Why is this happening to me?”

“I don’t know. I wish I had an answer,” he said, and I could hear in his voice the frustration and pain he felt for me.

We talked some more, and suddenly the conversation turned to school. Suddenly, I could no longer hide the sensation of drowning that I had been feeling for the last couple of months. “I don’t even know where I’m going to be in five years,” I said, possibly unnecessarily morbidly. I confessed how stressed out I’m feeling, and how I just can’t seem to stay ahead or even on track of everything.

“Well,” he said. “I’m not saying this is what you should do, but maybe you should think about dropping out. Take the time to concentrate on finding out what’s wrong. You can always go back.”

There. He’d said the words that I’d been too stubborn to even think about, but had known deep in my heart for several weeks.

“But, I don’t know if it will affect my GPA,” I said, still stubbornly clinging.

“Screw the GPA,” he said. “It’s just a GPA.”

(Twenty-four hours later, my mom and I would have the same conversation, and she would say the exact thing he had: “It’s just a GPA.”)

“Just think about it,” he said. “School will always be there.”

For the next several hours, while I lay in bed not sleeping, and then when I barely slept tossing and turning, I thought about it. I admitted to myself that the stress of all the things I had stubbornly taken on might be making things worse. I admitted that I’m doing horribly in school and that at this point it is probably too late. I admitted that I needed to really concentrate on me, and that only then would I be able to do well in school.

After talking to my mom and then thinking about it a little more, I decided to do what my heart has wanted to do for several weeks now. I began the withdrawal process yesterday, and already I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted from me.

I have promised myself that I am not going to do this to myself again. I’m not going to jump into an idea that sounds awesome without thinking it through first. I’m going to learn to concentrate on one or two things at a time, without overloading myself. I’m going to take care of myself and find a way to find out what it wrong with me. I’m going to stop taking on so much that I end up burning myself out.

And, more importantly, I’m going to do what I love: I’m going to spend the entire month of November writing a novel without worrying about exams and portfolios and lesson plans and math.

I have taken the first step: I’ve admitted that, while I do really love kids, I’ve had doubts about becoming a teacher and going through this program. While I like school, it’s been incredibly stressful for me and I just honestly can’t handle it right now.

And that is okay. Just hearing it from Mike and Mom, that it’s okay, makes it easier for me to believe.

It’s okay, and I’m going to be okay.

One month after yet another slew of blood work, and I still have no answers.

Mom came with me this time, and all of my blood work came back negative. Dr. Greco ran through the most recent and the last few tests to kind of bring Mom up to date. We discussed how I’d had mono and how certain diseases can contribute to later autoimmune diseases. We discussed birth control again and how the hormones in birth control can do all kinds of crazy things, like kill you or give you lupus. Dr. G admitted that he really is at a loss, but he really wants to help me.

“I can’t give you any answers right now, but I still want to make you feel better.” He asked whether I’m taking Tramadol still, and I told him that I haven’t been taking it recently because it literally fucks me up so bad that I can’t function; if I take it, I get stoned out of my mind. So he suggested Lyrica, which is just like neurontin (which makes me crazy and I refused to even try Lyrica). He asked if I am depressed. I almost didn’t tell him (because we all know what happens when you tell a doctor you’re depressed), but decided to be honest and told him yes, I am.

He said that some antidepressants can relieve pain, and gave me a free trial of Cymbalta. “You should not take this with Tramadol,” he warned as he slipped out of the room to go get the sample.

“I wonder if I should stop taking my birth control,” I said to Mom. “I’m going to ask him.”

“I would like to see you stop taking it,” he said, popping back in. He told us that he wrote a huge report on the effects that hormonal birth control can have on women, and told us that it can cause pain.

We scheduled a follow-up for four weeks from now, and I left with yet another batch of drugs (I should start selling my leftovers). So tomorrow morning, I’m not taking my Ovcon. (Somehow, not spending $40 a month on birth control anymore makes me feel a lot better.) I’m not entirely sure I buy the whole birth control thing, but it’s worth a try. I mean, at least I can say, “Okay, I stopped taking my birth control for a month or two and I’m still having symptoms.” I can’t knock it until I try it. And at this point, I’ll try anything, which is why I’m taking the Cymbalta without griping about how much I hate antidepressants and how Zoloft ruined my life, blahblahblah.

To be honest, medication scares the hell out of me. I’ve learned the hard way over and over that it affects me in really weird ways and, honestly, I have no idea what is in any of the shit that doctors tell us to take. If indeed my problem really lies with hormones in my birth control, I’m going to flip shit; no one ever talks about those kinds of side effects. (Note to self: Google that report.)

So I guess we’ll see. I’m honestly getting really freaking tired of this cycle, but I’ll give the no-Ovcon, yes-Cymbalta a shot. (Part of me wonders if he really does just think I’m crazy and pulled one over me by suggesting I take the antidepressant. But that’s the paranoid part of me.)