Just writing to say that tomorrow marks my first day of the infamous "whole pill o' Zoloft". So far, no side effects have been experienced, but remind me to touch on the side effect that worries me the most later. And also to come, Chapter 2 of the Tale of Trich.
Work has got me tied up for the next couple days. Not literally. I'm not THAT kind of nurse. But because of the upcoming demands, I'll apologize preemptively for the radio silence.
In other news, I have a patient that I really, really dislike treating. But today, his wife told me that I was the best nurse ever. And somehow, it makes it okay that I have to look at his penis every day. Again, not that kind of nurse.
Monday, June 9, 2014
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Feels Like Dying
I'll make this a shallow and quick post. I haven't been feeling well yesterday and today. Today was bad enough to make me call in sick for most of the day and sleep until about 2:30pm. I don't think it's because of the medication. I don't know what it is.
But it's day 2 of the zoloft. I'm thinking about taking an ativan tonight to calm the many, many thoughts going through my head. I've got a full day of work tomorrow and need the energy to conquer it.
It's days like these that I'm particularly thankful for my little dog that keeps me company in bed. I just wish she could learn how to make me some chicken noodle soup.
But it's day 2 of the zoloft. I'm thinking about taking an ativan tonight to calm the many, many thoughts going through my head. I've got a full day of work tomorrow and need the energy to conquer it.
It's days like these that I'm particularly thankful for my little dog that keeps me company in bed. I just wish she could learn how to make me some chicken noodle soup.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Take the Blue Pill
Okay, we'll talk a break from the origin story for a minute. I went to the pharmacy this morning to pick up my new prescriptions. 1 script for sertaline (generic for zoloft) and the other for lorazepam (ativan). As an RN (oh yeah, did I tell y'all I was a nurse?), I knew about both extensively and the latter, even moreso. And the latter scares the bejeezus out of me.
See, ativan is that magic drug you give 5150's when they're a little schizo. Ativan is what you quickly push into an IV during a seizure, or if a patient is about to stab you in the face with a spork. Ativan is what you give in the psych hospital when your patient won't stop scream-singing "Sweet Caroline" at 3AM. Ativan is for the crazies.
So, beyond just the internal struggle in my head with the obvious question "Am I seriously that crazy?", I was just intimidated by the medication. Granted, it's a quarter of a full-on "that bitch be cray-cray" dose. It's an anti-anxiety med that is supposed to help curb my pulling until the zoloft builds up in my system. The zoloft, a common form of an anti-depressant, is starting off at half of a standard 25mg dose for 5 days, and then moves up to a whole pill daily. Tiny little blue pill, scored in the middle. The shade of blue is actually quite lovely. An Alice In Wonderland kind of blue, which I suppose is fitting.
"EAT ME"
Curiouser and curiouser.
I guess I better reveal what all I'm taking this for. When I was 13, I was diagnosed with trichotillomania, a disorder that causes me to impulsively, often obsessively, pull out my hair. It affects 2-5% of the general population and is still a relatively unknown disorder. But as time goes on, more and more people are becoming aware of it and self-diagnosing as well. It affects everyone differently; some people pull out their eyelashes or brows or pick at their skin or nails. I pull out my head hair, and haircuts are really, really uncomfortable now.
More on the subject: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trichotillomania
To be diagnosed, supposedly, it actually has to get to a point where the pulling causes "significant emotional distress". I don't know if I have that, I mean...I guess I do. But I've lived with it long enough, so I decided to see someone about it. And that nifty thing called medical insurance facilitated the process.
So now I'm popping pills.
I sat in my car outside the pharmacy this morning. Staring at this tiny blue pill. The zoloft. The SSRI that's supposed to fix my broken seratonin and dopamine levels. The one that takes 4-6 weeks to start working it's chemical magic. Doctor Man said not to take it on an empty stomach. I broke the pill in half, placed one side back into the bottle, and one half in my cup holder for safe-keeping. I hit up a McDonald's drive-thru and after eating a hash brown, I downed the pill with some diet coke.
If I'm lucky, the pill will work. If I'm lucky, I'll be taking this medication for life. If I'm lucky, it'll only change me for the better.
I'll talk more about my diagnosis, the symptoms I experience, and the prescribed drugs later. All I really wanted to say today was
I took the blue pill.
See, ativan is that magic drug you give 5150's when they're a little schizo. Ativan is what you quickly push into an IV during a seizure, or if a patient is about to stab you in the face with a spork. Ativan is what you give in the psych hospital when your patient won't stop scream-singing "Sweet Caroline" at 3AM. Ativan is for the crazies.
So, beyond just the internal struggle in my head with the obvious question "Am I seriously that crazy?", I was just intimidated by the medication. Granted, it's a quarter of a full-on "that bitch be cray-cray" dose. It's an anti-anxiety med that is supposed to help curb my pulling until the zoloft builds up in my system. The zoloft, a common form of an anti-depressant, is starting off at half of a standard 25mg dose for 5 days, and then moves up to a whole pill daily. Tiny little blue pill, scored in the middle. The shade of blue is actually quite lovely. An Alice In Wonderland kind of blue, which I suppose is fitting.
"EAT ME"
Curiouser and curiouser.
I guess I better reveal what all I'm taking this for. When I was 13, I was diagnosed with trichotillomania, a disorder that causes me to impulsively, often obsessively, pull out my hair. It affects 2-5% of the general population and is still a relatively unknown disorder. But as time goes on, more and more people are becoming aware of it and self-diagnosing as well. It affects everyone differently; some people pull out their eyelashes or brows or pick at their skin or nails. I pull out my head hair, and haircuts are really, really uncomfortable now.
More on the subject: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trichotillomania
To be diagnosed, supposedly, it actually has to get to a point where the pulling causes "significant emotional distress". I don't know if I have that, I mean...I guess I do. But I've lived with it long enough, so I decided to see someone about it. And that nifty thing called medical insurance facilitated the process.
So now I'm popping pills.
I sat in my car outside the pharmacy this morning. Staring at this tiny blue pill. The zoloft. The SSRI that's supposed to fix my broken seratonin and dopamine levels. The one that takes 4-6 weeks to start working it's chemical magic. Doctor Man said not to take it on an empty stomach. I broke the pill in half, placed one side back into the bottle, and one half in my cup holder for safe-keeping. I hit up a McDonald's drive-thru and after eating a hash brown, I downed the pill with some diet coke.
If I'm lucky, the pill will work. If I'm lucky, I'll be taking this medication for life. If I'm lucky, it'll only change me for the better.
I'll talk more about my diagnosis, the symptoms I experience, and the prescribed drugs later. All I really wanted to say today was
I took the blue pill.
Zo-lofty Ambitions
Last post in this online confessional: December 2013. Yep...sounds about right. I am nothing if not consistent in my complete lack of consistency. So what drew me back, Sports Fans? What lured me again into the echo-ing walls of my cozy little blog?
PSYCHOTHERAPY (qu'est-ce que c'est?) fa fa FA fa fa fa fa FA fa
Soon and very soon, Kennedy Kent shall embark on the great American adventure of SSRI's and anti-anxiety meds. Am I crazy? Not in the straight-jacket-iest of ways, but maybe enough that I find it important enough to sort out my feelings on the issue.
I met with a psychiatrist for the first time today. In a clinical setting, of course. Not, like, for coffee and small talk and exchanges of stock tips. The experience was revelatory, terrifying, validating and awkward. I've been thinking about it for the better part of today and I've decided I'd like to document the next few weeks of my life extensively. Because, as the good doctor said just hours ago, "This could be the doorway to a whole new chapter in your life." And despite the twinge of confusion and disappointment I felt for his chosen mix of metaphors, I desperately wanted to believe him. I realize, if this is the beginning of the end of my life as I know it, I should get some things down on internet paper.
So, if you'll allow me.... I present a story -- one probably long-winded and nit-picky and fit for several chapters over several days via several emotional states. A story -- if only to document that I was here, in this space, in these moments, for all (and me) to see. This is the story of a girl.
Chapter 1: It Ain't No Thang, Mom
When I was maybe 8, I discovered Sleeping Beauty. I also discovered that if I pulled gently on my eyelashes, some would come out onto my fingertips. Stay with me now. I swear it's related. My developing mind compared myself to Aurora, the beautiful Disney princess with long brown lashes and gorgeous locks of thick, golden hair. I came to the conclusion that those eyelashes of mine that had been plucked so easily from their homes were inferior to the other, stronger lashes that were steadfast and sturdy. The weaker hairs were horrid deficiencies, mutant follicles and they needed to be removed immediately, separated from rest. Somewhere in my head, I would only be a Disney Princess if my lashes were beautiful. And they'd be beautiful once I had proved their strength.
For what seemed like hours, at least to a prepubescent, I pawed at my eyes until all strands obediently remained in place; no more loose ends, no more weak lashes. The lashes that survived the pulling test deserved to be there, I thought. They would be the beautiful lashes that would grow and stay strong and never weaken at the root, so future hair-icide would be unnecessary. Never again would I see lashes on my fingers. Royalty was within reach.
The next evening, curled up Indian-style* with my favorite white stuffed bunny (her name was Megan), a wandering, almost sentient hand ventured back to my lid. Fingers swept over the lash line. Absently I looked and lo, stray lashes were stuck there to my finger pads. The inferiors had returned. They had infiltrated. They'd spread their unworthiness to the others. They must be eliminated.
After a few evenings of this would-be cathartic ritual, I was appalled to find a small bald spot forming near the outer part of my right eye lid. I had climbed up onto the upstairs bathroom counter and was kneeling reverently in front of the glass. I gasped, fogging up the mirror in front of me. "How could this be?" I panicked and I tried to reason with my brain. "No, no, no. You misunderstand me. I was making myself better, prettier, stronger. The crap lashes are gone! Only the strong remain!" But the proof was in the pudding--I had pulled out enough of my eyelashes to create a void in my once thick lash line. I was horrified. My maybe 8-year old heart let out an audible whimper.
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP
My mother barreled down the hallway of our two-story house. She wasn't the most light-footed of women. Her petite but hefty frame rattled the floor and walls.
"K? K??" She called with an absolute unneeded level of panic in her voice. She was dramatic like that. "What is it? What's happened?"
She pounded on the bathroom door. I quickly hopped off the counter, wiped the glass clean and put on my happy face. I left the bathroom, skirting past the troubled parent, maimed eye turned away from her. "Just tripped over myself! I'm okay!" I ducked into my room. As if by divine intervention, preventing further inquiry, whatever my mother was cooking downstairs abruptly started to scorch itself and she hurried away to prevent a kitchen fire (the kitchen fire would not happen for another 5 more years).
Alone in my room, I caught my breath. My heart pounded. My face was flush. And I eventually became aware that I could feel my hand traveling, moving cautiously but with purpose, directly toward my left lash line.
Coming soon....Chapter 2: Blondes Have More Fun
__________________________
*Shut your PC pie hole
PSYCHOTHERAPY (qu'est-ce que c'est?) fa fa FA fa fa fa fa FA fa
Soon and very soon, Kennedy Kent shall embark on the great American adventure of SSRI's and anti-anxiety meds. Am I crazy? Not in the straight-jacket-iest of ways, but maybe enough that I find it important enough to sort out my feelings on the issue.
I met with a psychiatrist for the first time today. In a clinical setting, of course. Not, like, for coffee and small talk and exchanges of stock tips. The experience was revelatory, terrifying, validating and awkward. I've been thinking about it for the better part of today and I've decided I'd like to document the next few weeks of my life extensively. Because, as the good doctor said just hours ago, "This could be the doorway to a whole new chapter in your life." And despite the twinge of confusion and disappointment I felt for his chosen mix of metaphors, I desperately wanted to believe him. I realize, if this is the beginning of the end of my life as I know it, I should get some things down on internet paper.
So, if you'll allow me.... I present a story -- one probably long-winded and nit-picky and fit for several chapters over several days via several emotional states. A story -- if only to document that I was here, in this space, in these moments, for all (and me) to see. This is the story of a girl.
Chapter 1: It Ain't No Thang, Mom
When I was maybe 8, I discovered Sleeping Beauty. I also discovered that if I pulled gently on my eyelashes, some would come out onto my fingertips. Stay with me now. I swear it's related. My developing mind compared myself to Aurora, the beautiful Disney princess with long brown lashes and gorgeous locks of thick, golden hair. I came to the conclusion that those eyelashes of mine that had been plucked so easily from their homes were inferior to the other, stronger lashes that were steadfast and sturdy. The weaker hairs were horrid deficiencies, mutant follicles and they needed to be removed immediately, separated from rest. Somewhere in my head, I would only be a Disney Princess if my lashes were beautiful. And they'd be beautiful once I had proved their strength.
For what seemed like hours, at least to a prepubescent, I pawed at my eyes until all strands obediently remained in place; no more loose ends, no more weak lashes. The lashes that survived the pulling test deserved to be there, I thought. They would be the beautiful lashes that would grow and stay strong and never weaken at the root, so future hair-icide would be unnecessary. Never again would I see lashes on my fingers. Royalty was within reach.
The next evening, curled up Indian-style* with my favorite white stuffed bunny (her name was Megan), a wandering, almost sentient hand ventured back to my lid. Fingers swept over the lash line. Absently I looked and lo, stray lashes were stuck there to my finger pads. The inferiors had returned. They had infiltrated. They'd spread their unworthiness to the others. They must be eliminated.
After a few evenings of this would-be cathartic ritual, I was appalled to find a small bald spot forming near the outer part of my right eye lid. I had climbed up onto the upstairs bathroom counter and was kneeling reverently in front of the glass. I gasped, fogging up the mirror in front of me. "How could this be?" I panicked and I tried to reason with my brain. "No, no, no. You misunderstand me. I was making myself better, prettier, stronger. The crap lashes are gone! Only the strong remain!" But the proof was in the pudding--I had pulled out enough of my eyelashes to create a void in my once thick lash line. I was horrified. My maybe 8-year old heart let out an audible whimper.
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP
My mother barreled down the hallway of our two-story house. She wasn't the most light-footed of women. Her petite but hefty frame rattled the floor and walls.
"K? K??" She called with an absolute unneeded level of panic in her voice. She was dramatic like that. "What is it? What's happened?"
She pounded on the bathroom door. I quickly hopped off the counter, wiped the glass clean and put on my happy face. I left the bathroom, skirting past the troubled parent, maimed eye turned away from her. "Just tripped over myself! I'm okay!" I ducked into my room. As if by divine intervention, preventing further inquiry, whatever my mother was cooking downstairs abruptly started to scorch itself and she hurried away to prevent a kitchen fire (the kitchen fire would not happen for another 5 more years).
Alone in my room, I caught my breath. My heart pounded. My face was flush. And I eventually became aware that I could feel my hand traveling, moving cautiously but with purpose, directly toward my left lash line.
Coming soon....Chapter 2: Blondes Have More Fun
__________________________
*Shut your PC pie hole
Saturday, December 14, 2013
(Writer's Block)^3
There has been so much on my mind lately. So much that it's difficult to put into words. So much that it's difficult to find the time. So much that I think about sitting down and working through it all but end up throwing back a Stella instead. Because, boys and girls, crippling alcoholism is easier than blogging.
But, I'm not unhappy. Not in the least. And for some reason that sounds sarcastic, but it's really really not. Get me? ...Nah, I guess I don't either.
But, I'm not unhappy. Not in the least. And for some reason that sounds sarcastic, but it's really really not. Get me? ...Nah, I guess I don't either.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
Insecurity is totally NOT hot.....
So, we're going to play a little game...It's called what would sexy, smart, self-confident Kennedy Kent do?
Apparently I tend to get a little inside my head, and then generally fucker up anything and anyone around me with tireless worries about whether I said the right thing about political unrest in Bosnia at dinner, or maybe I should've kept that vomit story to myself, or whether it seemed like I had skipped a couple therapy seshes when I outlined the very fine line between "bat shit crazy" and "whimsical".
I've gotta stop worrying about all that shit, right? No productive, normal, contributing member of society is so caught up with everyone else's perception of her. A functioning adult is a confident decision-maker, unwary of judgment or casted stones. Do I want to be a normal member of society? No....not exactly. Who wants to be just one of the crowd? But there has to be a way to be me, and not be concurrently crippled by my own inability to accept my own points of sheer awesomeness.
Well, one thing about this blog is that I can use it to develop my alter ego. And maybe one day, one sweet day, Kennedy Kent will become me and I will become her and we will be one [I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together (that's deep, yo)]
And then I'll be Kennedy Kent/Me......the girl who's seen it all, unafraid of backlash or consequence, lives without regret or worry. She knows not of anxiety or frayed nerves. She's cooler than a cucumber disguised as Samuel L. Jackson. She's hotter than the Arizona pavement in the middle of August. She captivates and enthralls. She's the motherfucking shit. And she's on her way to anything and everything she ever wanted.
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