Burning down Ortho-McNeil-Janssen

I haven't written in a while, but there are times that require some unburdening.  This past week and a half have been the worst days of my life.

My family and I are not known for being able to tell the "short story," but I'll do my best.  There's only so much room allowed on a post before it becomes your whole page!

For the past three years, I have suffered from chronic pelvic and leg pain, muscle spasms, and, within this past year, an arm tremor.  I am being treated with "opiate" therapy, which is exactly how it sounds.  Basically I'm a walking poppy garden and have a tendency to talk for hours, giggle, and spend incredible amounts of money on the internet when that garden is . . . overwhelmed with blooms.

In order to attempt to stop the pain without using addictive narcotics, we have tried acupuncture, nerve blocks (my last one was 21 shots into my belly with a three-inch needle - I wore black nail polish in order to show how bad-ass I am), surgery, and, of course, nerve medications.

Nerve medication is a special animal.  My friend and constant life-saver and angel, Aimee decided that the word "stuff" could replace any word in the English language because the drugs cause a person to constantly say:  "I was walking down the . . . the . . . oh, what's the word for the place with the sand and the people wearing inappropriate, tiny pieces of clothing they should never wear?"  You basically become an idiot.

And, not one of them work for my problem, it seems.

My recent medication, Topamax, caused many joyful side-effects while not actually helping me in any way (a.k.a., edema that made it painful to get out of bed in the morning and also decreased the shoes I could wear in my closet, full-body joint pain, bouts of random crying,  and . . . what's the word . . . ???).

So, I made the decision to get off the medication.  I went off the "Dope"amax the way the doctor told me to and immediately felt relief in my joints and could finally wear those cute shoes!  Unfortunately, one day after finishing the medication I was slammed with severe depression due to the withdrawal.

I have discovered how much word "depressed" is overused and misused by people who have had a bad day.  True chemical depression is nothing like having a bad day.  It's the most world-ending, soul-crushing, painful experience I have ever felt.  Never in the three years of chronic pain have I come close to feeling this type of sadness and apathy.  To make matters worse, Ryan, my amazing husband who can make everything better, was out of town and I ended up having to go stay with my Mom.

I am a very independent person, but this withdrawal has turned me into someone who cannot be alone without bursting into hours of tears.  I didn't want to see any of my friends when it was at its worst because nothing, nothing will cheer you up.  You can't just "think positively" with true depression.  It is like asking someone with a broken leg to just imagine it's healed and go take a run.

And all I can do is wait.  Wait for the withdrawal to end.  Hope, when I'm having a good day, that the next day won't turn around and slap me across the face.  Hope that the next time Ryan leaves I don't turn into a puddle of mush.  Wait until I become the person I have always been; someone who sees the glass half full with a yummy milkshake.  Someone who, in spite of definitely milking it in order to get babied by the hubby,  has not allowed any physical pain to destroy her like the mental anguish of these last days.

I'm drinking my body weight in water hoping to flush it out, taking long walks, and enjoying the one benefit of depression as my clothing gets too big on me from the lack of any interest in food. Of course, I only enjoy that on the good days.

So, this all goes to explain to many friends and coworkers why I've been absent the past two weeks.  I couldn't bear being around anyone but my Mom.  Sometimes only a mommy can help you through this type of bone-deep emotional pain.  I was so afraid I would go to a meeting and start sobbing, ruining all my credibility and likely starting another rumor that I have a bun in the oven.  Which I do not.  Unless it's the remnants of the many cinnamon rolls I ate in Crested Butte last month.

My apologies for a rather "down" post.  But sometimes the bad things have to be pulled out, examined, played with and written down in order for the healing to finally have a place to settle.

Here's hoping . . .