Zest: Trials with Chronic Lyme Disease

On the Rocks: From Thin Ice To Thin Blood

2009-06-03T17:46:00.000-07:00

The blood thinning drug has aided quite a bit with Biofilm reduction. I woke one morning and thought, "I can taste my own mouth!", which was then a somewhat begrudged luxury as I had vomited the night prior and could taste the acid from my throat.

Biofilm is a crucial element of the disease, a behavioral mine of community and coagulation. Numerous types of illness include such a phenomenon, which is characterized of bacterial colony within the barricade of protective glop. These centers of politic are formed of their own democracy over time, congealing strands of strain together through chemical communication. Most patients of Chronic Lyme Disease experience this plasma on some sort of level. Numerous patients experience only temporary relief from treatment due to the lack of awareness. If you refrain from dissolving the gel surrounding the formations of blood born bacteria, you can not effectively kill them. So I hear. Lyme is on a 'so I hear' basis because it differs greatly between those who exist with it. More information can be found here.

I began to see aspects of this particular ilk of secretion about two years ago when the "Depression" peaked in cycle.
"You know what's weird? Whenever I get depressed, my saliva turns to foam."
"I think they call that Rabies."

Ah, friends. Makes me smile even still.

From foam to phlegm to both, saliva is but one example. Supplements can be utilized for the treatment of Biofilm. My current regime includes:

1) Bolouke (Earth Worm protein extract- you can dissolve this in your coffee, oh how Seattle of you)
2) Wobenzyme
2) Plantizyme
3) Triphala
4) Heperin

Not a chance in hell. Too bad the bowels of Hades happen to be within my torso.

As of late, I've turned to Audio books to supply me with a little hipsteristential effervescence. I've currently finished 'The Metamorphosis' by Franz Kafka. If not for my bleeding heart, I would feel so utterly cool. I identify with Gregor, in a small way. Maybe I simply like thinking of myself as a beetle from the mind of an ambiguous social figure who bears an altogether separate meaning when experienced through his actual work. It feels as if you must read the novel alongside it's review, as if it were somehow beyond the grasp of the other than esoteric. Ah well, plenty of stretching room for either rumination, treatment is meandering quietly, asking those under its influence (me) to be patiently fruitful. I'm ripe already! For what you ask? I don't know either. There's a period when you feel as if you are going to burst, then burst, then discover the length of what is yet to be traversed. Prediction is futile, so I hear.

Proud

2009-05-29T19:47:00.000-07:00

I gave myself a B12 injection, which has not been uncommon. However, due to the current stability of my hand, the thought of puncturing my own arm is nearly as unsteady in confidence. I already feel better.

Last night, I saw a long time friend after a Dickens style living arrangement (tale of two cities). I've become increasingly anti social, though with Summer sprouting new foliage, it appears this will change. We sat under the balcony and spoke as I subjected her to a manner of edible ills (brown rice pasta). Then, we lapsed to languid silence as the sun set. It was nice.

The weather is glorious today.

SubLyme

2009-05-27T21:36:00.000-07:00

It has become difficult to recover from bouts of physical fatigue. It seems to fuel itself- strain to adrenaline to frustration to submission, then repeat.

Still, there's nothing like a picnic on the lawn and a good friend to keep you company.

Some things, like people, creativity, and the ability to function on a social level (or at least settle for the appearance) are worth the struggle. Others, like sugar and prolonged emotional restraint, are not. I've found bodily sensation to be a circumstance when under the jurisdiction of the moment. Illness implies a sort of past and future- reach, hope, fight, identification. These things are not requirements. In fact, they nearly present themselves as an obstacle to the awareness of the present. I may be infected with Borrelia, but overtime I've learned to disassociate with clinical diagnosis. For a period, I believed this to be evidence of apathy or lack of commitment. Now I realize it may have to do with a different sort of regard, as if it were an object as opposed to a belonging. I appreciate this. The inner solitude of surrender's influence, of flow, of deep regard of the self and inclusion of all things learned, experienced, or blocked contains within it the stability and yearned for solace of healing and time.

My body is a circumstance that will shift and decay. I do not maintain the energy to leave my house, speak to my companions over the telephone, read, or occasionally think. I've felt consistently suicidal for years and often (though less and less) disassociate with my life, bury myself in the numbing emotional pain echoed through physical suffering or otherwise. This fleshy weight has only become heavier and will continue to do so for an undetermined amount of time. Let it flow, let it exist so thoroughly you can't help but cave irrevocably. Difficulty is opportunity to delve further into this level of awareness. There is no ill. There is no wrong, no right, there only is. Harness all you've been given. Life is a teacher, illness is a gift.

As for suicide, as much fight as I've thrown toward such a sentiment, it seems like a somewhat logical response. To utterly disconnect through means of sex, materialism, violence, pharmaceutical or recreational drugs, is numbing. In a way, the longing that feels intrinsically human finds temporary refuge via the release within validation found through others. It's rational to me. Now, when I want to die, I attempt to interpret it as signal. Apathy inches you closer to investment in the present. If I fret toward future, goal, cure, age, and demeaning through lack of meaning, I am denying the self that exists beyond me, beyond identification, and beyond possibility.

To find this is a most precious ability. It allows you to completely accept and love all things without judgment or restraint. I did not know this was possible for someone like me. It is the greatest freedom, an awareness untouched by Lyme, maturity, emotional stress, optimism, or suffering. It also includes and nurtures sarcasm, which is relieving considering the near genetic sense of humor my family roots within.

As for treatment, I must wait a couple days until my body recovers from the aforementioned sunlit picnic. I'm very tired, so tired there is little humor within this post. Golly.

On a different note- protein craving is indicative of physical renewal. When the body heals itself, it begins to yearn for meat and iron. Beautifully, my Texan heritage has begun churning for beef, salmon, even blood (which I blame on dehydration and hunger as opposed to the Twilight phenomenon). Yes, blood. Odd, huh? Don't worry, I'll most likely de-fang once the Heperin assuages such gorific thirst.

All in all- better. Lighter. Happier. More frustrated. Happier.

Take that label-oriented medical industry!

Bowl Of Oranges

2009-05-27T21:33:00.001-07:00

"The rain had started tapping
On the window near my bed
There was a loophole in my dreaming
So I got out of it
And to my surprise my eyes were wide
And already open
Just my nightstand and my dresser
Where those nightmares had just been

So I dressed myself and left then
Out into the gray streets
But everything seemed different
Completely new to me
The sky, the trees, houses, buildings
Even my own body
And each person I encountered
I couldn't wait to meet

And I came upon a doctor
Who appeared in quite poor health
I said, "There's nothing I can do for you
You can't do for yourself"
He said, "Oh, yes you can, just hold my hand
I think that that would help"
So I sat with him a while
And I asked him how he felt
He said, "I think I'm cured
No, in fact I'm sure of it
Thank you stranger
For your theraputic smile"

So that's how I learned the lesson
That everyone's alone
And your eyes must do some raining
If you're ever gonna grow
When crying don't help, you can't compose yourself
It's best to compose a poem
An honest verse of longing
Or a simple song of hope

That's why I'm singing, baby, don't worry
Because now I've got your back
And every time you feel like crying
I'm gonna try to make you laugh
And if I can't, if it just hurts too bad
Then we'll wait for it to pass
And I will keep you company
Through those days so long and black

We'll keep working on the problem
We know we'll never solve
Of love's uneven remainders
Our lives are fractions of a whole
But if the world could remain within a frame
Like a painting on a wall
Then I think we'd see the beauty then
And stand staring in awe

At our still lives posed
Like a bowl of oranges
Like a story told
By the fault lines and the soil."

-Bright Eyes

Raw and Uncut: Diet and Lyme Disease

2009-05-22T20:11:00.000-07:00

Eating habits reflect the body's vibrancy and mental clarity. The closer you skim to your food's natural state of living, breathing life, the closer you are to deeply absorbing the energy of its stalk, grain, stem, and flesh.

The approach to feeding the body has an odd sort of stigma- either eat to gain emotional release, eat to loose weight, eat for vitality, or just plain eat. They all seem somehow separate from each other and a health conscious diet is difficult to achieve without proper information and preparation. In American culture, it seems health is entirely apart from beauty. Is beauty not an emission from the potency within? Sexual allure is security and source for opposite due shelf life, steady loss, and stimulation in terms of propaganda and manufactured ideals (women need to attract, men need to perform, etc).

Dietary habits are an intrinsic aspect to any health regimen (though your doctor might tell you otherwise). Each mouthful is a means to hydrate, invigorate, renew, balance, and ground while feeding and nurturing your sense of self. What you choose to eat is a reflection of how you regard your life.

A year ago, I began the Candida Control Diet- a strict set of rules catering to the over-fungal crowd. A statistic informed me 1/3 Americans have a Candida overgrowth within the body, though many practitioners deny the existence of such an occurrence altogether. Grr.

Candida directly influences bodily craving and as a result of their population count, your desire will maintain for quite some time. The manic form of need dissipated eight months into the process and occasionally reinvents itself and makes a comeback. Like Madonna.

Now that you've brought your yeast under the influence of their own lullaby, targeting inflammation is helpful. You've already eliminated any sugar, fruit, gluten, dairy, soy, and mushrooms. This seems to be the most stereotypical point in the procedure and your stomach will thank you, though you might miss Texmex once in a while.

I believe these steps to be imperative when treating Lyme. As "canser" guru and gutsy survivor Kris Carr once shouted from in front of a Whole Foods Market, "This is my pharmacy!". I agree! Food is enriching. Often, my body does not respond jovially to any sort of digestion whatsoever. The goal is not elimination of pain or discomfort but to have a deeper understanding of your internal self and your influence upon it.

I can be an overachiever, certainly. So, of course, I have hunkered deeper to nutritional benefit and set the salivation glands to a life force steeped in remedial power: raw food.

My "gut" is thoroughly infected with Lyme. Once the illness became stronger, difficult food combinations could occasionally result in nausea and vomiting. To me, this means listen. Inflammation and yeast are inhibitors, but then again, digestion and absorption can also present an issue.

Different foods effect the PH balance within the body in two main paths:

1) Alkaline

2) Acidic

The enzymes within the body, or more pertinently within the stomach, generate according to what is needed. Often, the acidic enzymes can neutralize the alkaline enzymes, inhibiting the body's ability to process properly, leading to long periods of difficult digestion and more waste distributed through the tissue (due to incapacity to flush excess within the stomach to the colon). Waste is unwanted, it weighs the body down and inhabits otherwise clean cells. In order to counteract this system, allowance of enzymes to exist as sole may aid in digestive problems and overall toxicity due splitting protein from brown rice from nuts.

As a person enduring long term antibiotic therapy as well as Die Off and physical impediment, the body can become a toxic environment. Allowing the body to cleanse itself through daily introduction of leafy greens and raw veggies is a powerful act.

I've begun to notice a change in craving- I no longer desire sugar or carbohydrate, but avocado, dark chocolate, and raw nuts. It's incredible.

With that I must retire.

Good night chickadees,

Lindsay

Tao De Zing

2009-05-20T13:42:00.000-07:00

In a way, medicine is but an allegory for healing. In a way, it's all placebo effect- to help the body help itself. Of course, there are exceptions, but for now, or more indecently, for me- the mend is of the mind.

I saw Dr. Susan yesterday for a monthly check up. Each appointment tills a fresh respect and appreciation for her practice. I admire her thoroughly and admire her tenacity. She is the professional version of my Prince Charming, its taken a glut of resource to find her.

I do have a blood coagulation defect- excess Fibrin and not enough Hemoglobin. This means good news as with the use of Heperin (a blood thinner of chic proportion), my little friend Borrelia and her gang of sultry cohorts (Ehrlichea, Babesia, Bartonella, Candida) will have little place else to hide (save muscle, organ, cells, sockets, my entire being, etc).

I say these sarcastic remarks because I am tired- of vulnerability, of fatigue, and of cycling through the motions of emotion/side effect. Usually Herx can give life to a fermented vacuole I had forgotten of- loneliness, depression (capital or lower case), anxiety, and paranoia. It scares me, which then births more cause and effect of this nature.

I haven't grown accustomed to the orbit of high vs low vs mania vs peace. I wrote the opposite, thought about it, then erased it. It's untrue, though it may have been in the past. As of right now, things have changed slightly (what a surprise) in a tangible manner I question the steadiness of.

Which brings me back to the notion of facilitated healing and the raucous idea that all medicine holds a more substantial benefit to the mind (which is blatantly false in some respects, but not as many as I believed prior). Antibiotics aid in the body's ability to defend itself- medication is not the source of restoration, it is fuel. This said, the mind's ability can be harnessed and used to house a more nurturing, remedial environment. This is the most frustrating aspect of healing to me, one of avoidance due to the fear and restless qualities that usually accompany it.

The creation of environmental peace is a skill, one that occasionally requires confrontation. Lately, I've begun to realize much of what I experience on a sentimental level is not sourced of fitful apathy, but shielding, a process also intrinsically linked to sensation and pain. Insecurity is only a block, a step, a mass of skin to cower under, resulting in shame and it's own sense of squaring the root. What of the bud? In order for the body to properly confide, you must act as listener.

After the body accepts outer solace through expanding an inner repertoire of abyss, a series of images will flash brilliantly, horrifically, and rapidly through my mind. They are consequence to the newly revealed nudity of what can only be described of as alarm. The visuals will echo frequently through the session, waning only slightly in intensity. I have a feeling these pictograms of agitation are a result of their own exposure, molting light of what they previously shed shade upon. This only makes me question further. I feel a deeper involvement now, though I am not entirely sure where I am headed or what I will find. How do I heal this body? I think the answer is presence. These mental figures feel as if they are other than cerebral, but I am not so positive as of yet.

"Do mind body stuff," my LLMD optioned last month. Well, I may be haranguing a can of worms (due Bolouke- Earthworm Protein Extract supplement used to treat Biofilm), but maybe I need to allow in order to release it. There is certainly a level of openness to the wealth of fear beneath the regard of unworthiness or otherwise.

Speaking of otherwise, I've been quite surprisingly stable. The level of Herx I am at is the bull's eye we had aimed for. I can't do many activities aside from eat vegetables, listen to audiobooks, and play piano, but I've felt satisfied. Thus, the commencement of antibiotics will begin (possibly) next month. For now? I'm doing just fine with my punk leather alternatives, herbs that is.

Take care and have a splendid evening,

Lindsay

Stand Up Comic

2009-05-14T12:40:00.000-07:00

...I seem to have misplaced my walking stick.

Tripedal To The Metal

2009-05-13T22:54:00.000-07:00

Well dudes and dudettes, I think I have been officially ushered to invalid-hood:

I just bought my first walking cane.

Amethyst, rustic, steeped in breathless mystic and allure...

I'd call it a keeper. I'd also like to call it by another name, which will present itself eventually. I'm thinking either Shakespeare or the sweet smelling bud of an alternate moniker, like Miss Diagnosed or KroniK HrrXxX. It's the I'm-getting-to-know-you-period of unwieldy novel value, I don't want to make any brash movements and frighten it to oblivion through premature utterance of vowel. Speaking of movement, post the first obligatory cat-walk strut, I found myself questioning the method of pace with such an object. It certainly limits the stylized and ultimately embarrassing struggle-through-the-air-as-if-it-were-liquid routine or deeply improvisational-cling-to-the-banister-and-wink shtick. So, aerodynamics: point A as an actualized bedroom and B as my frequented kitchen. Where to draw the line?

As my mother was measuring me, wrist to toe, she said, "It's funny that my 17 year old son asks me to rent a tux for his prom, and my 19 year old daughter wants a walking cane."

I say if ill, why not accessorize?

2009-05-13T13:58:00.000-07:00

Something occurred to me yesterday that seems like a no brainer:

With each passing day, you are of greater health.

Lab Tech Small Talk

2009-05-10T13:27:00.001-07:00

Me: Blood is actually pretty, if you look at it.

Tech: Yeah, I guess you're right.

Me: Do you enjoy your job?

Tech: Yes and no.

Me: What made you want to be a Lab Tech?

Tech: I'm a people person, I get to meet different kinds of people on the job.

Pause.

Tech: You doing okay?

Me: Oh yes, I'm fine, aside from the obvious.

Tech: Okay, just wanted to be sure. I don't want you fainting on me!

Me: Haha! That would be bad! Does that happen often?

Tech: It can happen sometimes, you just need to be careful.

Me: Alright.

Tech: You sure you're alright?

Me: I'm actually feeling pretty dizzy.

Tech: You're almost done, we'll get you some water after you're finished.

I nod, observing the small ring of purple enveloping the pin prick of my inner elbow. It's my favorite color. I also watch the sporadic spurt of gore now leaking with sheepish intensity into it's designated vial, willing it to maintain flow until the flood lit vase is brimming with a substance I currently need more of. It looks thick. Perfect.

For some reason, it strikes me as odd that conversational small talk specific to the situation of drawing blood even exists. It isn't, it just seems that way.

I was checking for blood consistency and platelet count. If I have some sort of blood-related malfunction, the spirochetes could potentially house themselves within it. This means blood thinners for me. I'm not entirely sure what that would entail on a long term basis, but we shall see.

A Debate

2009-05-09T23:18:00.000-07:00

Life has been undoubtedly fulfilling as lately, I have started to, dare I say, think consciously.

I've begun to notice an issue that has been under direct culmination of my environment (and the stimulation by those around me, creating what those intellectual folk like to call society), simply because it is now more succinct thus more audible.

I was in the Bellevue locale of Quest Diagnostics Lab, a subcutaneous alternative to the concrete slab of beige and shiny surface that is Seattle's medical unit at it's needle-prod core, and used internal confrontation to shove along the dromedary minute that seemed to sift through its own sinew and leave little but bloody spillage. Appropriate.

I sat, listening to an audiobook via oh-so-self-reflective-black podular so-and-so, and thought for a bit. Now, this is not unusual for me, and the contents of said consideration were not so unusual either. However, for the first time in what seems like ages, I felt engaged. This engagement was voracious and enriching. To think that I, in my deliciously dry (aka bloodlessly humored) state am capable of experiencing my body despite such physical debilitation made me feel both:

a) alive

b) uncomfortable

Though the two feel synonymous and intrinsically connected, they are apparently not. It makes me wonder about the nature of the word despite, and whether it is appropriate at all.

Is hope a question of despite, dissatisfaction, or even morality? No, I don't think so. However, hope is a deeply personal reflection. I think when others say hope, I say awareness, etc, we are, in essence, referring to the same thing. When I think about the aforementioned moments before I unwittingly gave 13 more vials of bloody hell to some other sort of me, simply tutting through the mundane with deep observance of it, I think about the capability of the body I have today. For some reason this sounds so much more trite than anything I've told myself in the past, and yet, makes more sense to me than the visionary "inspiration" I hauled through the depth of my search. What about this moment (cue the need for orchestral accompaniment and Mel Gibson's face).

Is it truly fulfilling (or at least, indicative of garden variety idealism) to drive toward the acts that would never have satisfied us today, in terms of tomorrow simply because it means that one day we will be without impediment? You know? Yeah, it is in a way. Will it maintain itself in the future? I don't know. Illness or maybe just any sort of inability directly forces you to confront not only what it is you believed as 'given', but also to understand what it is that you once had and now do not. It's healing in that way, an ailment that cures you of deeper ill. I like that, bears a sort of ironic value.

On the other hand, why wait? College will be grand, as will travel, life without chronic debilitation, but won't those experiences filter through the conflicted and ego driven conscious that is the mind? What if you could learn to live through total awareness of the present, through complete inclusion, development, and acceptance of exactly what you feel now while letting go of the fear, aspiration, and future that seems to drive you away from the sensation of you beyond thought, emotion, and feel in your fingertips?

Living bears with it a mid-level cycle- attempted grasp toward safety through ego plants the seed for reaction. I believe opposites are congruent to their counterparts- pain is pleasure- and in order to maintain the imperative balance, one end of the spectrum can not exist without the other (think in terms of politics- radical tension builds contradictory radical tension). This is why I do not believe in the spirit or a god of any sort. I believe in the collective as I believe most religious texts are an allegory for said posse. The self does not exist independently, though to call the collective immortal is somewhat irrational if you consider the apathy and rate of destructiveness we are currently taking part in.

So, let me ask again, is it fulfilling to broaden the potential that wouldn't satisfy us anyway? I know that I am biased, for a large part of me is used to feeling entirely apathetic and suicidal. I also know that what I am writing could offend many people, if many people were to read it. I am not making character judgments of others with conflicting beliefs to my own. I am not openly denying anything, only considering the nature of said ruminations.

So, to summarize, is it truly an improvement, more admirable, etc, to think about things in terms of what you want in the future and the possibility of this coming to fruition, or is it more helpful to think about things in concrete terms, in true capability to see not only beyond your fear, but through it, and with direct inclusion of it? For me, I would say yes to both, but also, what about this instant? Peel it back, see what you'll find. Do your worst, readership.

Love, peace, and stuff,

Lindsay

S vs S

2009-05-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

It's morning, so my mind is officially in mud.

I'm beginning to respect Dr. Susan as I have respected her decisions. It must be difficult as a natureopath of a disease widely unrecognized. She is unmarried and invests the bulk of her leisure time in research.

Lately, Sheila has become what I interpret to be, territorial. We shall see where that goes.

Poetry

2009-04-30T13:36:00.000-07:00

"I live too near the slaughterhouse.

what do you expect? silver blood

like Chatterton's? the dankness of my hours

allows no practiced foresight.

I hear the branches snap and break

like ravens in a quarrel,

and see my mother in her coffin

not moving,

quietly not moving

as I light a cigarette

or drink a glass of water

or do anything ignominious.

what do you want?

that I should feel

deceived?

(the green of the weeds in

the sun

is all we have

it's all we really have.)

I say let the monkeys dance,

let the monkeys dance

in the light of God.

I live too near the slaughterhouse

and am ill

with thriving."

-Too Near The Slaughterhouse, Charles Bukowski

Nineteen

2009-04-29T19:14:00.001-07:00

You know? Today was one of the best birthdays I've had in a long time.

I think back to this past year in a succinct and definable manner. Eighteen was tough, a year of sloughing off the apathy of lacking personal desire and clinical search. Today, I feel lucky. I know that I am treading the last leg of illness -which may be more of a book than a chapter- but is also in allowance of acceptance and relaxation. I feel that I am able to sink deep and breathe deeper due to where I am in the process.

That said, I found myself yet again in the hands of my semi-trustworthy OBGYN at 12:10 this morning. It was somewhat sentimental.

There is a large part of me that feels as if it is opening, though I know this will change. At least for now, I can accept it and appreciate it.

Check Up

2009-04-21T19:06:00.000-07:00

A break through on the medical front: Dr. Susan gave me a kindly embrace. We're at the hug stage, which is a comfort with this woman as I believe in her diagnosis and trust her vision. Oddly enough, she was literally blinded by the disease in her early 40s. She speaks from personal experience.

Today was check up day. I was hoping to start antibiotics next month, but it looks as if herbs are still my weapon of choice for the convoluted process.

A break through on the information front: Lyme Disease may have a direct correlation to a blood clotting birth defect. In fact, 83% of Susan's patients have differing degrees of said defect. I am thought to be one of the percent. This could mean tangible pallet degradation to pharma-technicolor: more meds for those under the influence, my cocktails of vengeance.

An issue many a Lyme Disease Patient must negotiate is one of "Biofilm", the thick, white sap of infectious saliva that is somewhat of a choking hazard. A factor in this Catch-22-Nectar is Fibrin, a molecule required for the coagulation of blood. Thus, the plasmatic gore may have something to do with the oral secretion. In other words: those who were unable to avoid the disease of Lyme upon the insight of infection may have been incapable due to excess Fibrin, plaque upon the arterial walls, and thick moving blood. Chemical Blood Thinners may aid in the treatment of Lyme Disease if you do happen to have this defect.

So, more pills for me, thus more excitement, and a general sense of hopelessness that seems to bloom to social anxiety and overall self-abasement. Ah, life, thou art gratifying.

On a different note: things are looking up. Though indeed the act of looking up is tiresome and unsustainable, I feel there is something to be said of the day to day present. I've been writing a script in Iambic Pentameter, dashing my fingers over the piano (including it's strings), and listening to 'In Cold Blood' by Truman Capote in an audiobook format. I've also grown tired of looking to the future for the replenishment of today. That worked when I faced denial and abundant ropes to gnash. However, due to the longevity of treatment and it's corresponding ills, future peeking idealism doesn't cut it. Now, it's up to today. I'm alright with that. It's different, I don't mind the idea of debilitating pain or even reaping it of myself, I don't see my situation as a "negative" as it has revealed much of what I am capable of as well as what I want. There is no comparison as there is no opposite. There only is, that is the grave where my faith lies.

Tough Gristle

2009-04-13T16:25:00.001-07:00

Today was tough. I've been taking screenplay classes from a longtime mentor. After years of lake hopping to his side of town (6 in total), he has been making the trek to mine. He has assisted me in many ways, acting as friend and confidant in times of difficulty.

We met for two hours, one and a half of which I spent in a fatigued stupor. Once he left, the full weight of the weakness hit. I very rarely cry from physical pain, usually only when it is degrading in nature. This was one of those occasions.

I often feel that I need to hide my sickness from others (as well as, for a period, from myself). It is a learned behavior that takes no mental acuity to click into. I simply do, which is both good and ill. Though it gives me a shield that enables me to function on a basic, social level, I resent it. I feel that I must maintain it in order to be appreciated and understood, behaving in a way congruent to my weariness would somehow draw sympathetic attention that would only make me feel inadequate and uncomfortable. This behavior (for makeup, bodily sway, and alert involvement can be used somewhat easily in a calculated manner to achieve said result) also keeps others from fully perceiving the depth of this day to day life, which seems important only because you shun their kindness in an effort to keep from needing another on an affection-based level. You need support, not sympathy, though this fact doesn't stop you for wanting either on any account.

Saying this, being aware of it and allowing it to exist without fiddling, is also difficult. "Just stop being afraid," is a piece of advice a friend once told me in response to the overwhelming anxiety. I don't know if 'just stop' is the answer, though that would be easier wouldn't it?

I

2009-04-11T17:21:00.000-07:00

You know why I'm here. I know why I'm here. It's to remind the masses of what is important in life. In light of this, I've decided to start a new segment: Biweekly Hot Guy.

Today's fresh catch is a French import (sorry locavores) with a seemingly intellectual nature and willingness to portray candid human behavior. Being of theatrical bent myself (acting was a great passion of mine for years), I admire his tenacity and courage in front of the camera. His name is Louis Garrel and he is of inspirational nature in more ways than one.

Au revoir!

An Update

2009-04-11T12:25:00.001-07:00

Ugh.

Muscle Testing

2009-04-09T14:11:00.001-07:00

Well, I have just come home from a visit to my most favorite of doctors, who has no nickname because Sheila is fitting enough. In fact, I accredit much of my current state to this woman, as her genius and earthy acceptance felt nearly an invitation to my own body during past hours of overflowing dim.

I have been searching for an alternative to Advil that doesn't include the letters ODINE, which is proving to be of sniveling difficulty. In light of this, I called Alternative Medical Practitioner Number Uno and asked for her advice.

"Do you believe in Muscle Testing?"

"I'm open to it."

After which, I found myself flat beneath her hands, a pair of herbal supplements cushioning the well stomached response.

For those of you out of the greenish tinge, Muscle Testing is an aspect of Neuro-Kinesiology and method of judging the interactions between a medication and the body. It is not scientifically proven, though to me "proven" fact through biased statistic, or lack of explanation based off said fact, is of little relevance when the act bears small repercussion or high risk of self renewal. Of the scattered mainstream truths I consider pertinent, the one that rears it's calculated head most is: the medical absolute is often interpreted by the cool kids. So, I tried it with disregard for the capitalistic. Insurance is going to love me.

She smoothed the blanket and motioned for me to lay on it. I settled down. She asked me to lock my arm as she pressed questions and replies simultaneously with said ligament and an alternating series of:

1) liver

2) adrenal glands

3) kidneys (?)

4) base of the neck

After which, she placed differing supplements on my stomach and repeated the pattern. If the stiffened arm can not hold the pressure of her push, the herb on your gut does not mesh well with your body. The regulars were a green light, but Samento was a no go. Oh well, I never could remember it anyway.

My body has always been a "sensitive" (this tangent has a point, I swear). I react strongly to medication or any sort of stimuli. I also am able to pick up energy with increasing decency, be it of another individual or an object (vintage stores are usually fun). As it turns out, this is a symptom of not only intuition, but Lyme Disease. It "erodes the mental boundaries". To be honest, I feel uncomfortable calling it disease, as that makes it somehow usual or widely acceptable. I have my doubts, yet the sensations remain, whatever their cause.

So, the basis of Muscle Testing is this idea of energy and how it translates healing to the body. If the vibration of the medication reverberates poorly through a specific area, the bolstered arm will give in slightly to the weight of your practitioner. If not, your capability to resist will remain intact. This is due to the energy's play off your nerve endings, then brain, then brain's response in the designated region. For instance, my arm endured resolutely until the pressure upon base of the neck and liver, to which it could not hold Sheila's push.

After finding medication that provided a stable response, we began to focus on dosage. Now to me, this is where I have most skepticism. Sheila concentrated on a number: one, two, three. Then, she went through the choreography yet again. Bob Fosse would be proud. Three was my number, three twice a day.

We spoke for a short amount of time about the other parameters of my life, what I was doing. She told me, "Lindsay, you will get better. You know, this is just a short time in your life that you'll look back on. I think you need to hear that." She pulled me into a hug and said, "I love you." I said it too.

It's funny, I have two Alternative Medical Practitioners (AMPs, for their sound is one of unlocked focus, not distortion). One, Susan (who has no nickname either), is a brilliant LLMD who maintains an apathy for social grace and had Lyme Disease herself. The other, Sheila, is a nurturing maverick who will act quickly and without suspicion. Both graduated from Bastyr University. Both are different of basic function and craft, which is needed on your medical team. It took me a while to find them and a lot of rope to gnash through. I came across Sheila when I had run through my options and no where else to turn. Aside from that, the massive emotional distance I experienced from myself due to the undiagnosable itch/fatigue combo (a happy meal with extra bite) had led me seemingly further from my goal. I was alone, I couldn't let myself voice the needs to my loved ones because they would remain voracious thus unmet. They wouldn't pass upon emission as they felt independent of their own reality. My Fibromyalgia Doctors were under financial duress and could barely keep the company stocked of a secretary, let alone return the amounting phone calls from their cast of patients. I saw specialist upon specialist (vampires who needle prodded and sucked vials of blood to no avail), who did not openly deny my symptoms (well, save a few), only placed them under whatever psychiatric diagnosis I was influenced by: Bipolar, Depression, Borderline, Anxiety (a hybrid of eco friendly compaction). I was spent and dry. This full body crawling seemed to double on itself and spark anew, the direct opposite to my emotional disquiet. I was invalid, my pain was a statistical illusion, yet I was unable to function due to its presence. I remember hours spent in front of a mirror, at first dead tired, then undead awake, trying to negotiate my way to an imbalanced, upward tilt of a mood.

"This itch is a symbol for the itch in my soul. Yes! I can use it to fuel me, this agitation is an energy I can use to find someone who will help with it. It's the burning desire I have toward gleaning a replenishment. It's my passion, it's a good thing. I will fight this, because in fighting it, I will win, regardless of outcome. If I fight, I win. If I win, the pain no longer matters because the pain is symbolic, too."

It was a numbing process.

After converting strain to adrenaline, which is a costly and accosting sort of de-purge, I hit a new level of degradation. Day after day (or, rather, night after night, considering the fact that I have been and still am completely nocturnal) I found light in murky hope. I don't know if I had to, but I know that harsh shove toward goal is a factor in what led me there. The self abasement is something I have yet to shake, as it is a pattern that blends nicely to my many emotional states. Each time I thought I couldn't smack the pavement harder, I fell again. I don't know if I believe in "rock bottom" anymore. I think there are many ways to achieve that sort of depth. I've hit a couple of them, or so I think.

You only feel frustrated until you forget what it is you've lost. You only feel hope until tomorrow quits to matter.

I knew Sheila was the end, if she didn't work, I didn't know what I would do. Part of me thinks suicide, part of me thinks I would continue pushing, I think I would've fought both for a while.

Sheila was the first person I've met to see me beyond my own self portrayal. Needless to say, she was the ultimate in what I needed after a drought of professional amateurism, really. She was open, she was full of promise, knowledge, and acceptance of otherwise in certain angles. She wasn't petty or self involved, a real character of wisdom and encompassment.

"Let me say first, Lindsay- I believe you. I just don't know what it is yet."

Which was more than the empty diagnosis and barrage of medication I had received in the past- it was honest, unimpeded truth. So when she asks me, "What do you think about muscle testing?" I say, "I'm open to it," because what was the process if not testing of strength?

She determined me of the Arsenica personality type, a system based on the characterization of plant, mineral, and animal substances. I was of poisonous mineral, which I found pretty hilarious and actually kind of validating. Apparently, my body did not. I wanted to break out the spiked choker and smoke my way to the nearest body modification parlor. I settled for a short walk through my neighborhood under the over-influence of about 20 (?) pellets of said mineral. I wore my pleather jacket.

Shortly after the night of debauched vision (aka paranoid, floor-bound writhing and other oddities), I tested positive for Lyme Disease through an Igenex derived query from the Fibromyalgia Clinic. Sheila was relieved but also disappointed that she had missed the chance to test me about a month prior. You think, what's one month in a sea of quadraweekly bait?

A month is a long time, even for an illness of 15 years.

Sheila has remained a staunch provider to the battery of Susan's blunt, worst-case scenario speak. Each have their quirks (well, they are alternative doctors). However, I wouldn't understand the meat of their approach if not for the context. I wouldn't say the process was worth all it has reaped, but I will say this: a doctor capable of suiting your time revealed needs may exist. If they do, they're worth their weight in Kinesiology.

Nothing Fancy

2009-04-07T21:53:00.000-07:00

Today was a fab-u-lous.

I've started to dribble more medication into my morning brew after the disappointment of communicative mistake. Who, verbose moi? Yes. I had been taking one drop each of the six prescribed herbs for the length of one month, when in fact 30 had been the desired dose. It was a brash let down as the intrinsically dashing Mr. Herxheimer was indeed welling the pours of my chest to pink epitaphs of anonymity. Something was amiss.

For those outside the hippest of curves, the Herxheimer Reaction is a set of symptoms that are a result of toxins released by slain bacteria into the blood. Which toxins? Free radicals of rebellious taint, aka- the kind that fight back.

As luck would have it, the supposed die-hard Die Off (synonym of Herxheimer) was only a decrepit kung-fu, court marshaled by the Lyme Disease itself, pulling a Shakespearean farce like it's well bred counterpart: medicine. Mixed messages seem to be a running theme this month.

This is a lot of talk for something as base as dose uppage and the resulting fumbling. I considered rewriting the entire entry in pig Latin. Luckily, I chose to refrain. Fluency in such matters is best kept quiet. I prefer espanol del swine any day.

Peace, compadres.

-Lindsay

Swan Stone

2009-04-07T07:37:00.000-07:00

Quite frankly, I am tired of inspirational quotes and feel good jibes. So, in light of this, I will illuminate a bulb of an artist instead. This singer/songwriter/harpist somehow embodies the fragile chill of illness based isolation, runs craggy and raw toward the swilling harpoon of a climax, and weaves back to the delicate, imploring solace of weakened flesh. Her lyrics have been a great comfort to me when I have been most sick. Her name is Joanna Newsom.

"We sailed away on a winter's day

with fate as malleable as clay;

but ships are fallible, I say,

and the nautical, like all things, fades

And I can recall our caravel:

a little wicker beetle shell

with four find maste and lateen sails

its bearings on Cair Paravel

O my love,

O it was a funny little thing

to be the ones to've seen.

The sight of bridges and balloons

makes calm canaries irritable;

and they caw and claw all afternoon:

"Catenaries and dirigibles

brace and buoy the living-room--

a loom of metal, warf- woof- wimble."

And a thimbles worth of milky moon

can touch hearts larger than a thimble.

O my love

O it was a funny little thing

to be the ones to've seen."

I feel this song has some relevance. It is called 'Bridges and Balloons'. In sum- you don't need to bear the full weight of your roaving faith to glean what you must from lavish lack.

xxx

Lindsay

Mental Illness and Lyme Disease

2009-04-06T19:01:00.000-07:00

Well, I suppose now is a good a time as any to begin talking about the deluge of diagnosis regarding mental state prior to that of a physical one.

I've heard of many reduced to the diagnosis of Schizophrenia (who in all actuality had Lyme Disease), which both frightens and saddens me. Luckily, I was not one of the many.

I began to see the emotional symptoms of Lyme in more obvious terms when I reached the age of 15. After a decidedly difficult stint through more circumstantial land mines, I caved to the possibility of psychiatric medication on a regular basis.

After years of social anxiety met by the unfettered attendance of stress and teenage insecurity, I began to have real doubts regarding that of human kind. I became more and more distanced from those around me, shutting out my loved ones and companions until the driveway melded to a barrier that kept me in. I didn't leave my house for months due to emotional fear.

Panic attacks and crying episodes spouted frequently and with greater intensity. I woke myself at night to the sound of my own screams. Nightmares buckled on themselves and flooded my everyday life as vice versa.

After 8 months of gregarious mood swings, I crossed the threshold and began seeing a woman by the name of Bosenberg, who had little apparent patience for those outside the norm. I hated her. I felt threatened by her. In some odd way, I feel she too was intimidated by me. Not for my unbearably stifling intelligence (wink), but for my absolute belief in the morality of what I commit and undeniable defense of self.

By this time, I started to experience the epic, frost bitten depression I would come to fear. I knew that somehow, I was intrinsically flawed. I decided what I deserved was what I saw of others- hurt. I started to cut myself, which never inflamed to the degree my therapist would proclaim, but became a substitution for a need that is easily forgotten. The cutting allowed me to control the emotional pain without the skill I would later acquire. It also allowed me to validate my own sense of suffering, which I now believe also had something to do with my illness and it's symptoms fallen to deaf plunderings.

By this time, I felt a constant sort of suicidality (as there are many sorts). It was punishing and demeaning, something that I wouldn't later regret, but link to the ignorance of those years and resounding virginity of those shattered surfaces.

This is all frivolity really, these words.

I'd like to call spending a night in the hospital after fooling my would be saviors into false relaxation a turning point. I don't know if it was, really. I actually don't remember much of these periods. I remember shreds, which is appropriate for a "cutter" I guess.

The depression worsened, as did the anxiety, which became closer to paranoia than I had felt prior. Since I was very young, I've felt something watching me. It began as a game and as I aged, became more serious. I felt violated by this watchful predator. I didn't always believe in its presence, but I have always felt it. Only lately has this sensation subsided and given way to a greater sort of fatigue.

The panic mounted, as did the attacks which were followed by gut wrenching and whirl-wind feelings of grief. It was a cyclical process. My relationship with my mother became strained, then gutted, as the blame and terror slaughtered, then resurrected themselves shamelessly.

I word it in this way because at the time, I did not consider it my responsibility to manage. I felt it my duty to feel unimpeded and respond unimpeded. I still carry the guilt of this regard. I do blame myself, even as I write. I've considered erasing the body of this text, but somehow that is beside the point.

I hoarded the sleeping pills I had been prescribed, an act later to be caught by my parents. I was fully nocturnal at this time and remain in that ilk of frame currently.

Prescription: Lexapro.

I was fearful when swilling the first dose (for I could not swallow pills, the taste reminded me of a sweat shop, though I believe it was menthol flavored- my favorite). I was also unready for the medication to work. I still had sobs of unrequited sadness to unfurl, and this flame of a dose would only weaken its ability to escape.

Outcome: Negative.

The depression only clenched further as suicide became a close reality to the one in which I lived. I wanted to die, I planned the deed, I wrote lists and letters. Then the velvet of medication was swept from under my footed thought, and I was left once again, to my own devices.

Prescription: Zoloft.

Already pumped through medication overload, I was no longer pensive as to the process but hungry for it. I craved the pain that forced analyzation of my life. I wanted it, I needed it, I was fueled by it.

Outcome: Negative.

Next came an altercation to which Bosenberg would not survive. Her diagnosis however, would remain intact for a couple years to come. She had labeled me with A-Typical Anxiety Disorder and Cookie Cutter Depression, along with insomnia and traces of paranoia. I was reticent.

Traces of Mania laced to my sensation as blood bloomed of water. It was this period that I fell to my own demons and became wrought with an altogether different sort of instability. Yes, I was inarguably suicidal, but the fear and depression became that of a paralyzing sort and overrode most momentum toward such an act. I was tired of the dizziness and inflammation I associated with the disorder. The physical pain became vividly blatant and was discounted as a result of my chemical disquiet. I did not question my doctor as I did not invest in the brevity of her definition. I wanted her specific classification, as it shed thick skin upon the flesh of my anxiety. Cutting became a catch all for my emotional needs. That and bingeing on the foods that fed my disease.

This became commonplace for me- a polarization of behaviors. I was quiet or abundantly cacophonous. I starved or binged. I slept through the brightest of hours or starred bleary eyed into the depth of the night. I've never been a person of moderation.

I began to see people, shadows, ghouls, alcohol, knives, and dismembered body parts that were not apparent to others around me. This was obvious to me when I was nearly disconnected with a wide variety of life. It was only dangerous when I held faith they were indeed a visceral reality.

Luckily, there was someone in my life who was available throughout the endeavor as a genuine support. He convinced me to eat when I sobbed naked and starving on the floor into a dirty pillow. He helped me structure my day to a schedule that provided a semblance of functionality and did not judge me when I chose not to manage it. He sat through panic stricken vows to slit my wrists, despite his own fear. At 16, he held my hand and at 17, I held his back.

I left Bosenberg, we never meshed. I found another- Dr. Kwon, who I would later rename Dr. Kwontify due to his lack of quality and relevance toward quantity. He prescribed 8 SSRIs, none of which worked and all of which caused a mental dilapidation of some sort that took a month to straighten to "normalcy". He also diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder, much to the chagrin of my relatives. I was now a patient of:

Borderline Personality Disorder

A-Typical Anxiety Disorder

Chronic Melancholic Depression with traces of Mania

It was fun.

I latched to the labels I was given, as they provided hope. Not one that would mold my stability to that of your average Joe, but that my feelings of pain were more credible than incredible. I was not alone. I was not unique. I bear the likeness of those around me. I bear the likeness of those around me.

I was given an anti-psychotic, a lovely drug named Abilify. Maybe due to its uplifting name, thus market friendly appeal, I would find my feathered blades of glory and reach my ultimate height.

Outcome: Negative.

I was used to this response. It felt that with each drug, a new set of symptoms revealed themselves. I was left to ponder: was I really under the simple duress of complex mental disjoint? My body ached as it never had and brain seemed under a haze of something other than chemical influence. Hm. What to do? I know- turn to whom I can trust, the medical industry!

"There seems to be nothing wrong. It's probably just your Depression. How has that been going for you?"

"It's been tough, I'm still searching for an anti-depressant."

"Well, if you need to talk, I have a number you can call."

This conversation became common place, a sort of textbook response betwixt the textbook judgment that excluded a feeble norm I fell into. My psychiatrist, of course, had little else to say. I knew something was wrong, I discounted it as my learned superiors had and continued with the regime that only left me panting. It was this period, numb to the process and half its blunders, I began to leave my home of my own accord, toting boyfriend and dog as a shield to the stabbing ache left within those confines.

I warmed to the idea of my mother, who had only been giving me what she thought best. I also began to measure the intensity of my own denial. I punished myself for it through cutting, sex, diet, and neglect of need. By this time, I was by all definition, addicted to sleeping pills. There are certainly worse things. My methods of choice were Ambien and Trazadone, the former causing Acid-like symptoms that worsened the depression and gave what I like to call, the most surreal of experiences. It was not entertaining.

The dreams and hallucinations dissipated as a numbing discount of emotion took place. My feelings were not invested in statistical reality, thus invalid. These feelings of invalidity are sensations I have yet to shake. My psychiatrist, who held to the notion that I was entirely untrustworthy and incapable, despite my increasing effort to make positive choice and grasp it's fruit, told me that I would never find a medication and would never truly be capable of rational thought. I crushed my thought process and implemented a new pattern, one based on hours of sifting through former assumption and replacement with logical train, under his guidance. I stopped cutting. I let go of the filler relationships that held my social anxiety both intact and at bay. I tried with what I could to shove away "negative" thought and broaden "positive" conclusion. I'd like to say I complete my goal, despite the fact that there was no true change. Only the short term work I fisted together stuck like flies to glue and parchment. Regardless of my constant work, the desire for suicide never faded. The anxiety was only numbed. I turned to self-mutilation through alternative means- blasting my ear drums with fugly melody, forcing myself out when I needed confinement, punching myself in the stomach until I felt I had to vomit in order to set free the dearth of stagnated symptom. The feeling was no longer valid, clinically or personally. It was equated to a word that no longer exists, only a definition partially forgotten. Dr. Kwon likened my growth and attempt to a crooked branch, saying I had to be broken if I was ever to be fixed. Any work that I had accomplished or will finish would never be enough. Never enough. After a consistent argument lasting around six months, I left him and found my own path of alternative bent. It is a decision I am grateful for.

At this time, I was leading a structured life. I had graduated high school a semester early and started working as a technical writer for my father's company, a three-month endeavor that broadened my relationship with him in a forgiving manner. The polarization evolved further- there was my social, respectable life, and that of the foggy darkness I had little recollection of. I was one psychiatrist down, attempting to get my priorities in line through reinvestment in a chronic reality. I couldn't shake the social anxiety, often trotting to the bathroom to breathe lustily or use a sharp ring to penalize my wrists. No matter, untruths have no place but the toilet. They settled to hibernation once more as I settled to my own. I had also left the aforementioned boy to his own devices, as the relationship descended to more of a Dystopia than anything else. I needed to do this alone, that was my only real way of reaching the pinnacle of what I wanted: stability. I no longer had desire for happiness as it was (and still is) associated with the cracked emptiness of social disturbance.

I picked up a volunteer position (ironically) at the local hospital, working as a patient visitor for the rehab center and neurological unit. I listened for hours to women and men reminiscing of their lost youth, their lost desire for life, and their lost appetites. I know this was when I noticed something peculiar about myself: it was not empathy that I felt, but anger and a hatred running deeper than the base of their fear. I hated them for wanting to give in. It was a pure feeling, riddled with nothing but my own sense of self. As I steadily wadded through jam packed slots after my shift, within the lot I called Cloud Nine, I did not attempt to shed the feeling. It was a new regard that bore within it a heavy reflection that aided in my own discovery. "The way you regard yourself is the way you regard others," someone once confided in me. It's a basic piece of insight that revealed itself in a new light at this moment. Yes, there was something aloof. I had forgotten the degrading pain of my former years, declaring it childish and of abominable wrong while maintaining its base emotion, anesthetized to the rest. I was in pain, this I knew, but was it true? Was it worth dealing with if it would only lead me to a dissatisfied existence?

My moods began a constant flux and rarely shut down. They were of violent rage, craving, purge, suck, lust. They were of plunging frostbite, need. to. die., need to punish, metallic bite. They were of intestinal knot and of terror. At other times, they were empty and devoid. This was soon normal, though the most painful of all these states was a result of my own disregard: the feeling that despite what I attained, I was never enough. I felt that I was constantly making excuses by letting myself feel the swing of sensation. I was copping out. I was unworthy of anything beyond my body and should treat myself as such. I was whoring myself for the validation I needed. I was forcing those around me to pick up the slack I refused to tug at. I was unworthy of my life. I should kill myself, not because I would save others the trouble of dealing with my issues- that would be dramatic. I should kill myself to prove that I'm brave enough to attempt it. I should kill myself because I have nothing better to do. I should kill myself because despite the fact that I am capable of dreaming and waging a conversation between those desires and my reality, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters, even if it will tomorrow. Life is too painfully droll to continue and I simply can't.

Once I allowed myself to acknowledge these thoughts, I felt a relaxation that let me continue with my life. I earned an internship with a theater downtown- a nonprofit organization that produced brilliant pieces of work. It employed mostly young people of witty insight and willingness to discuss artistic developments. It was a flirtation that left my desire to explore intact. I pushed myself in this place- the grunt work provided a petty escape from the dwelling fear I felt in response to the social atmosphere. I met incredibly talented actors, directors, set designers, and producers. It was nothing short of fabulous until my illness began to flaunt itself of brash discoloring. After four months of steady attendance, I quit with the promise of later continuation and embarked on an altogether different journey.

Post the jarringly prophetic conclusion of my Fibromyalgia, the unqualified doctor (Dr. Freida Eng, I lovingly call her Dr. F*ing) who had assigned herself to me, deemed my emotional trauma:

Bipolar Disorder!

And I was instilled with a new hope, yet again. Maybe the medication would, dare I say, work!

A female psychiatrist recommended to me by said clinic was to be my third attempt. This will work, I know it. I am ready for this to work which is untrue of my other stints. Yes.

Dr. Calinoiou, of Romanian descent and wicked fashion (of differing definition than those of her former antagonists), was a woman who broke my unfettered doubt with a flash of savory sarcasm I had yet to see from a doctor of her position. Her office, one of crimson paint and a mod black sitting area, was inviting in its darkness. I've since given her the pet name: Dr. Rockstar. Yeah, she deserves it.

She diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder and accredited the symptoms of anxiety to Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I remember a feeling of freedom. Now, for the medication.

I was to be placed upon a mood stabilizer and an anti-depressant. First up, Lamictal.

Outcome: less than desired.

In fact, the swing of mood featured a more prominent role. I was disheartened. In tandem with this newly instituted medication, I was also on 26 medications. After the steady and voyeuristic deterioration of my body, I could no longer maintain and dropped out of never never land (that of psychiatrics) to pursue the pummeling plummet of questions surrounding my health. After four tough months, I found my answer.

Diagnosis: Lyme Disease.

Currently, I am on Lithium Orotate under the supervision of a Lyme Literate Psychiatrist, which has had splendid results. I do feel suicidal at times and I only expect that to worsen as treatment continues. However, I have since replaced cutting and self harm with grasps for self respect. That is all I can really manage right now, which is difficult to admit.

I've written this entirely lengthy and slightly epic autobio not for the sake of garnering sympathy, attention, or support. Instead, I want others in my situation to see they are not isolated of similar struggle. I read many pieces of literature or online proclamations of positivity and joy despite physical degradation. I read of people banning together due to illness and finding their inner resolve, which is admirable and preciously human. However, I do not identify. I would like to, I have previously, but as of this up-past-my-bedtime moment (12:40 am, you night owl), I feel such attempts would wither of their own determination. I know that I no longer maintain the physical ability to reach out or even the dexterity to maintain said stretch. Six months ago, I felt a belief that hydrated momentum. Now, that belief is superfluous because despite what I do, I am dedicated to the longevity of my plot line. Optimism is baggage if you don't have faith in it. That's alright. I can only do what I am capable of, as can you, reader. So, this post is for the solitary, for those without faith, for those who don't mind the murky reality of what it is to be chemically imbalanced due to an infection of the brain. This is for you, unsung dissonance, for you inspire me more than any other. My faith is of your brand because you are a creature of despite. That is what true strength means to me.

A Fruitless Endeavor

2009-04-05T14:16:00.000-07:00

Juicing is a great way to bathe your thirsty cells in the nutrients they crave. Easily digestible, once this potent elixir hits your stomach, the healing benefits are immediately brought to fruition. Being a patient of not only Lyme Disease, but it's dastardly co-infections, I am subject to high levels of Candida (yeast) within the blood and other unmentionable organs. Due to this fungal reality, I must avoid gluten, sugar, and lactose (this includes fruit as well). So, without further ado, I give you: Victory Juice, the fruitless wonder.

Ingredients:

One bunch of celery
One bunch of kale (any variety)
2/3 a head of romaine lettuce
3 leaves chard
1 1/2 cucumber
2 lemons
Added Stevia for taste (a natural sweetener that doesn't spike sugar levels)

It makes around 30 oz of juice, which is best put to use on an empty stomach. I drink this daily for breakfast and it has been an incredible help for not only the fatigue of Lyme Disease, but also an odd sort of pain killer.

Note: The name Victory Juice is derived from the novel 1984, in which Victory Gin, Victory Coffee, and other victorious efforts are lauded as man-made replicas of their luxurious counterparts. These substitutes cause more harm than good, though the memory of say, real chocolate has nearly vanished completely. In other words, just me being me, reeking a most delicious spin on the simple mundane qualities of everyday habit. The most lucid of delights are those that make me happiest these days.

Alright, enough stalling. The juicer awaits. Bon apetit!

Drawl

2009-04-04T23:15:00.001-07:00

Well, my take on the situation has changed since my last post. Sadly, my body really hasn't. It's become difficult for me to deal with the purgatory of waiting for my body's readiness to take on the plight of Herxheimer and other toxins, so I've decided to cut to the chase.

I'm currently taking a lovely plethora of Chinese Herbs, including:

1) Mora

2) Noni

3) Quina

4) Stephania Root

5) Andrographis

6) Smilax

7) Samento

As well as a barrage of Imaginary Herbs, like:

1) Roar More

2) Nonihilism

3) St. Root Cause

4) Graphic Androgyny

5) Chillax

I, to my great disappointment, had been taking one third of my prescribed dose...for a month. I just found out a couple of days ago. I am now waxing my body onto what was supposed to be the double week kicker. To be honest, I'm at a precipice yet again. Last night, I felt alone and suicidal. It was the first time I had felt such a feeling for a couple months. For me, that was a lengthy amount of time to go without such train of thought. I thought to myself, "This isn't a feeling that breaks you, it breaks you in." Which still maintains its validity. If you feel that you will shred and shatter upon a sly enhancement of current pressure, you probably will. This doesn't imply a breakage of what you hold dear, only what you once believed you were capable of. Now crushed and set free of impeding weight, you can relax into your own debilitation.

I've never been to my current doctor (who I find a knowledge riddled and shrewish model of the other graveyard villains) and heard a good omen from her mouth. "This is bad news," is usually uttered at least twice. I'm presenting this in a somewhat sensationalist manner, which implies a sort of instant and gutsy response, but really is of slow build. I've realized how tired I am of hearing such blatantly fear-wrought preludes. I want some good news! When I hear it, which I still maintain the hope that I will, it will mean something to me.

I used to approach treatment with a cynical and oddly bitter sense of optimism. I would punish myself for feelings of frustration or pain of any sort. Now, I see no point in rushing the curtain call. I'm here as is my illness, and we are both creatures of longevity. I can react in appropriate style congruent to social norms regarding such matters, I can react with the vigor that still manifests itself despite fatigue, but I find myself rarely reacting whatsoever. This is my life, not this as in Lyme Disease, but this circumstance. It hasn't enriched my life so much as saturated it. I'm not going to give the response that would so relieve most involved, at least those in my mind. I'm not someone who is enriched by seeing the positive, as that is a direct denial of the feelings that I have shoved away for quite a while. I may become that make but currently I must ask the question that is so rarely placed upon the surface:

What makes my pain, physical or emotional, less valid than your happiness?

When I say your, of course I am speaking to a very particular set of someones. I also feel slight recoil in response to said statement. It is like a salt caked tongue- my pain, your happiness. What's with this idea of ownership? Why must I define emotion in such terms?

In any event, I am becoming dizzy and must retire before this spare begins to sag and leak noise over content. I have no bow, only ribbon.

Goodnight,

Lindsay

A Note

2009-01-17T12:37:00.001-08:00

I'll begin a two year saga toward optimum health by the end of this month. The protocol includes 15 differing supplements, four psych meds, pain killers, sleeping pills, two antibiotics, and one antifungal. I prefer to call them by their pet names:

1) candy

2) pellets of potential sunshine

It might seem immature or even mundane, but the fact of the matter is- one needs to find enjoyment somehow. Let me tell you, I can't eat sugar/wheat/dairy, I can hardly flirt, I can't use prettily scented lotions, I can't leave the house alone, and at this point, I can barely breathe. The odds at enjoyment are a sliver of slimmer.

I suppose my chatting in this manner may come across as petty, negative, or closed minded (ah, the three main food groups). I attribute this to not only the purpose of this blog but to the levels of processing.

When I first heard the news, I was in an altogether different state of mind. I had been working with the Fibromyalgia and Fatigue Center for seven months upon a hasty diagnosis that only left me panting. Note: if you have Lymes Disease, do not incorporate Magnesium into your daily regime, it feeds the bacteria. Note: the center prescribed Magnesium to me intravenously. The results were less than desired.

After months of foundering within a situation that left me with the legwork and the symptoms, I was tested for Lymes Disease from Igenex (it is extremely important to be tested by this specific lab, because Quest and the governmental tests search for a limited number of strains). Surprise surprise, it was quite positive. My first reaction was probably an eyebrow raise. For months I had been bombarded with differing labels that, in the eyes of many mainstream professionals, simmered down most likely, to only one: hypochondriac.

It's odd- doctors became a vehicle toward the medication I knew I needed. To diagnose oneself based on degree and shade of pain is a bizarre feeling. To have to defend another doctor's label against a medical professional (or should I say unprofessional) is difficult, especially when you are sick and untrained.

I went into a phase of shock, it was quite delicate. To have a treatment, to have not only a socket but a path, was at first a bit jarring. The Chronic-Depression-Bipolar-Anxiety is not a result of my inadequacy? I might be able to taste my own mouth again? Wait- I have the potential to rid my body of the bacteria surely causing the symptoms?

The answer is possibly. Possibly.