New Mood, Who Dis?

I'm sick.

I'm really sick

I'm really, really, sick.

I live with severe mental illness.

I am continually fighting Bi-Polar disorder, Manic Depression, PTSD, an eating disorder, and mild to moderate Agoraphobia. Add the physical problems (diabetes, nerve damage, poor vision, morbid obesity, and neuropathy) to the mental difficulties then boil it down to a sound bite.

What do you get?

I'm really fucked up.

In the last year and a half, I’ve been fired for the first time, quit four jobs, spiraled into the worst depression I’ve had since 2011, gone into quarantine mode for months, and lost my son to suicide.

And I’m still here.

Now I know what you might be saying.

“Josh, we’ve already heard all of this. We feel bad for you, and you have our support, but enough is enough, buddy.”

If you feel this way, I don’t blame you. It sure does seem like I spend a lot of time whining about my mental and physical state. I swear to all of you I’m not fishing for sympathy or a mental pickup. Over the years, I’ve discovered that writing out and sharing my problems (my problems and not others unless absolutely necessary) is the only way to deal with my issues in a meaningful way.

But hold up, this is a hopeful essay.

I know, I’m scared too.

Three weeks ago, I scheduled an appointment with my doctor. It’d been a year since I’d seen her (I’m supposed to be in every 90 days. I needed to see her for the following reasons, Medication check, blood work, EKG (more on that later), my dreadful sleep routine (2 hours on four hours off on the best of nights), and my eating.

My eating is just horrid.

After a hug, because of my son, we went into what I’ve been going through. In the end, she added a medication called Trazodone to my enormous cocktail of drugs. The Trazodone is to help more with my depression and to help me sleep regularly.

Once the routine things were out of the way, it was time for the EKG.

Have you ever had one?

I’ve had more than I can count due to hospital visits. It’s a humiliating process for me. Shirt off in front of a stranger in a nipple, hardening cold room. Gluey sensors stuck to my blubber. The entire time terrified, they are going to find something. They didn't, but that was only a first step.

On July 10th, I go in for a real stress test.

So, here’s what I’ve been, not hiding just haven’t been talking about, I’ve been having chest pains for the last month. I’ve always had palpitations, at least for the previous five years, but never really flat out pain. At first, I dismissed it as gas. When that didn’t add up, I thought I pulled a muscle. My fear is compounded by the fact that my dad had an Angiogram when he was my age, and since then, he’s had heart problems and a minor stroke.

In the end, it was my fear for my heart that made me make the appointment.

The EKG showed nothing, and my doctor wasn't surprised. She said if I didn’t have an active problem, it wouldn’t detect anything. Thus, I have an appointment for the stress test in two weeks.

I know so far this has been a bleakness, but now I will reward you with good news.

I haven’t felt this good in a year and a half.

At first, I feared it was a psychosomatic reaction to the medication. But I’ve been on Trazodone for two weeks today, and I can’t believe the difference it’s made. I’m not saying I’m cured, but I feel, well, I guess I feel normal.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been this way, and to be entirely truthful, I want to cry. I’m scared I don’t appreciate it enough, and when it inevitably goes away, I will be worse than ever. I’m terrified this reality will disappear like all of the others before it. Those lost islands of normalcy floating in the storm-tossed ocean of my mind.

But right now, right this minute, I don’t feel crazy anymore.

I feel normal.

- Josh (06/022/2020)