Braingunk

My name is Anna and my favorite color is blue. 

"I will be a good boy and never tell you the bad things I think about, the dirty little things. I keep them to myself." 


We all live in public, to a certain degree. Social networking sites allow us to expose our most interesting, inappropriate, and immodest intrigues to anyone bored/voyueristic enough review them. Most people skew the data in their favor by posting pictures of themselves with impossibly attractive people, highlighting their professional triumphs, or uploading a hundred pictures of their most recent vacation to Disneyland or some such shit.

Debbie Downer sez: "We all know said photo was taken in a booze-fueled haze in which will result in regret (and probably vomiting) the next morning, professional triumphs are exciting until you slump back into the drudgery that is your day job, and the omitted Disneyland photos most certainly picture one (or several) family members throwing tittybaby temper tantrums because they were too short to ride on space mountain."

Hopefully, I am not the first person to tell you, dear reader, that the world is not filled with too-tanned women contorting their cherry-red lips into the dreaded duckface pose in an attempt to look sexy. These people exist only on Friday and Saturday nights...when Monday morning rolls around, it's back to the dead eyes and smile-less lips.

The human experience is a never-ending roller coaster of ups and downs. Of course we want to present our best face to the world, but I find that to be dishonest. We all have flaws, both physical and emotional. And yet many of us feel uncomfortable when we witness a family member, friend, or acquaintance publicly discussing something painful, even if we have been through something similar or experienced something profoundly painful.

There will always be a faction that takes secret pleasure in such things - "I'm glad that isn't my life." While those people are assholes, I can't blame them. There is nothing wrong with appreciating the good things in your life, but it's more than a little fucked up to only be able to be thankful for your good fortune while watching someone else suffer.

There is another faction who wishes for public meltdowns. My heart breaks for these people. How empty your life must be to wish sadness and pain on others! My plea to the world: Gossips - please think twice before you revel in someone else's pain.

***

About two years ago, my life fell apart and I am still sifting through the rubble. At first, I was literally terrified to tell anyone about my experiences or true feelings for fear of being judged. Even if a well-meaning person asked how I was doing, I would turn red, clam up, and mutter "of course I am fine." I have since decided that continuing down this past is the most dishonest way for me to live. Not to mention that keeping everything bottled up almost caused me to implode. 

Yes, I am depressed. I have anxiety problems and PTSD. Oh, and let's not forget about the terrible insomnia. 

These things do not control me, though. Sometimes, I have bad days and go through "rough patches" Other days, I can function at the same level as the "norms." For what it's worth, every single experience, good or bad, has helped shaped me into the woman I am today. Even considering all of my faults (which I will willingly admit to), I like the person I have become. And I am not at all ashamed to talk about my faults, fears, painful experiences if I feel like it will help someone who is in a dark place. 

Moral of the Story: Be true to yourself. Don't be ashamed of anything you think or feel, especially the "ugly" stuff. Don't be afraid to ask for help. And do not allow yourself to be controlled by negativity or pain. Even though it can be difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel, it is there and you can reach it. But do not ever be ashamed to ask for help. 

Navigating a Ship in Rough Waters: The Emotional Impact of Physical Illness

My mental state pictured in one convenient graph

For fun, let's take a look at a parenthetical slice of my life - say, the dates of 05.28.2013 to 06.01.2013, the present day. For many, any given five day period is mundane, but not unpleasant. Beds are slept in, meals are eaten, work is completed, fun is had, etc., etc. Hovering over the baseline of complacency is never a bad place to find oneself.


Prior to lunggunk, I would like to think that I established a pretty nice emotional baseline for myself. After the stress of being in a mental hospital had passed and I had once again become reacquainted with my routine, any point above or below my baseline was not a make-or-break event that would determine the overall climate of my day. If something unpleasant happened, I would brush it from my shoulder like I would a little ladybug who chose the wrong landing pad. If something good happened, I would bask in the happiness that a pleasant experience evokes and then return to the commonplace task with which I was previously engaged.  It was a relief to feel like a normal person again. And then...

....enter stage right (lung), my new best friend and bitterest enemy: BLOODCLOT.

The physical pain I have been experiencing has been documented in my previous posts. Right now, I want to get back to that parenthetical time period referenced above. Let's talk about 05.28.2013, my first day back to work after being off for approximately a week...

Consider the graph above, paying attention first to the baseline. On this particular morning, I awoke feeling indifferent. I groomed as much as necessary, ate my "breakfast" of anticoagulants and psychiatric medications, dressed, and began looking for my ID badge to complete my wardrobe. When I couldn't find it, it induced a state of panic that was disproportionate to the situation. In this game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, a little point can be marked on the graph below the zero degree baseline.

If misplacing a plastic badge can provoke my generalized anxiety enough to produce a panic attack, you, dear reader, can only imagine how a more "serious" event would make me feel like I was mired in quicksand, sinking into a whirlpool of anxiety that would require more than an ativan to free me. This five day period has been full of these moments - my moods have been cycling so rapidly and unpredictably that I am unsure how I will be feeling five minutes from now.

The pulmonary embolism diagnosis was completely out of the blue. I'm sure that my preexisting anxiety problems do not "help" the situation, but this experience has rendered me largely incapable of controlling my emotional responses to both positive and negative stimuli. I am now hyper-aware of my own mortality. Because of this, all of my emotions have become more intense.

My baseline has been re-calibrated. When it was previously complacency/indifference it is now stress/anxiety. I either feel positive stress (excitement, elation, etc.) or negative stress (impotence, incompetence, etc.).

I pine for peace. Indifference used to be odious to me - now I would welcome it with open arms. Eventually, my physical problems will pass and I'm sure I will feel "normal" again. As for now, I have to navigate these rough emotional waves the best I can.

***

When I was a child, there was a chinchilla for sale in a local pet store. A warning sign was placed on his cage imploring the shoppers to not "poke, prod or blow on" the little rodent because, presumably, his moods were unstable. Recently, I have been thinking about this chinchilla and feeling sympathy for him. I hope he found a good home.

Pulmonary Embolism Recovery: To ER or not to ER?

I want to rub his head for good luck. (That's what she said).

Surpassing "what is the meaning of life?" the above question has become the most profound and frequently asked by my little spark of consciousness over the last few weeks. Based on things I have heard from other pulmonary embolism survivors, this seems to be a common dilemma. So what is answer?

I haven't a clue.

When I was discharged from the ICU on 04.30.2013, I was thrown into an entirely new world in which every ache, pain, bruise, tickle, cramp, and flutter is a potentially fatal symptom that deserves immediate attention. As any anxiety-sufferer/hypochondriac will tell you, even the most seemingly insignificant unexpected bodily responses are symptoms of a disease that is murdering you from the inside out.

Even "well-adjusted" people who have suffered a pulmonary embolism rarely escape the experience psychologically unscathed. Trauma is trauma - some are better equipped to handle it than others, but it still leaves an imprint on one's mind. Anxiety is a totally normal response to an event that almost caused your demise.

So, to get back to the question - when should you go to the ER? I haven't found a good answer to this problem yet. However, the more I learn about my condition and my body, in general, I feel that I have become a better listener to my internal processes. I am becoming accustomed to the chest pain, fatigue, and shortness of breath. Over the past three weeks, I have paid close attention to the nature and duration of my pain. Deviations from the norm would be one factor that would invite me to consider the emergency room. Any new and troubling symptoms will probably prompt me to go without too much hesitation.

During my last ER visit, which turned out to be an intense flare up of my existing PE symptoms, the nurse told me that, even though they did not discover any new clots, it is never a bad idea to go to the ER when you are experiencing shortness of breath and chest pain. The fact that she said that made me feel much more at ease. I do not want to be the girl who cried wolf, but, I have decided that is better to be safe than sorry.

Also, it's not a bad idea to have a list of phone numbers you can call to ask for advice before you decide to take the ER plunge. For example, if my problems are related to medication side-effects, I will call my pharmacist. If the symptoms involve chest pain or shortness of breath, I call the nurse at my doctor's office or the NurseLine through my health insurance. These have all been effective tools to make the decision easier.

I am still figuring all of this out and will probably never develop a 100% effective formula. I am learning to trust and listen to my body and, at this point, I think this is the best thing I can do for myself.

If there are any other PE survivors out there reading this, how do you make this determination? What prompts you to go to the ER? Or what helps you calm down enough to feel like you can treat your symptoms at home?

This is my blog and I will cry if I want to

HA HA!

Dammit, Life! Yesterday was so good! I even went to bed with a smile on my face. Why do you mistreat me so? 

It is almost comical when the stars align with such precision that every possible thing that could go wrong will go wrong and at exactly the same time. My day started with so much chest pain that I had to call the doctor to reschedule my appointment. Isn't that funny? I was going to see the doctor about my chest pain but my chest pain prevented me from going. Hee, hee, hee. 

I didn't even get to have my coffee yet before I began to roll my sisyphean bolder of anxiety up and down and up and down the imaginary mountains that exist in my brain. 

We all knows what happens when too much anxiety is combined with Pulmonary Embolism injuries - TROUBLE BREATHING! After a cute little bout of hyperventilation, I collapsed, exhausted, on the floor causing a very nice bruise on my very sore ass. (Well, it was more like my outer thigh, but I wanted to use a swear). 

All of these events were so absurd to me that I could do nothing but laugh. And then I started thinking about all of the minor annoyances that one encounters in day-to-day life, and felt pretty lucky I don't currently have an ingrown toenail. (Seriously, that shit would probably push me over the edge by this point). 

An appropriate response to a passive aggressive letter

Here is a list of mildly annoying things that did not happen to me today:

• A bird did not poop on my head
• The cats did not vomit in the bathtub again, bless their little hearts
• I did not receive one passive aggressive email today
• Nobody carved the word "ASS" into the hood of my car
• My professionalism was not insulted by men who think it is appropriate to address colleagues as "dear" or "honey" when you are saying something they don't agree with
• I did not find any severed digits in my Campbell's vegetable soup
• All urine and fecal matter made it into the toilet, where it belongs
• NO PAPERCUTS

So it wasn't all bad. Hopefully the universe is not spying on me to make all of my nonexistent mild annoyances come true!

Tomorrow's episode: Is an ER visit in our protagonist's future? Or can she finally make it through a week without having to take a trip to the hospital? Stay tuned! 

What is an Anxiety?

So, it's ok if I am vomiting bile?

I have been the proud owner of an anxiety problem since I was old enough to think abstractly. Those cyclical thoughts - "I need money, I don't have money, I need money" - have been a good friend of mine since I've been on my own. When I was a kid, it was probably more like - "I want a Milky Way Bar, I don't have a Milky Way Bar, I need a Milky Way Bar."

Anxiety over money is easy to talk yourself out of.

1) I have none.
2) I am not a stone.
3) Even if I were, you couldn't squeeze coins, blood, water, mucus, etc. out of me.
4) If all else fails, a good "go fuck yourself" works quite well.
5) If you really need money or whatever, I will trade you my three goats for six months of deferment. My goats produce the best cheese, I am not lying.

Health anxiety is an entirely different animal (please read this sentence in a Sean Connery accent). You can beg, plead, cry, offer sexual favors, etc. but your condition is really up to the gods. My tongue is made of silver and I have been able to talk myself out of every major problem I have ever had, except this one.

The fact that I have to deal with some type of object in my lung that is completely unwelcome is five degrees above stressful. There is something inside of me over which I have no control. Anyone who knows me understands that I am a control freak and I would remove the offending substance with my own hands, if  I could. This is not possible without blooding my nicest outfit. And as of now, my nicest outfit is my only outfit because I have neglected laundry chores.

The point is that I freak out, start having trouble breathing, start having chest pain, and then everything becomes worse because of anxiety. Anyone who doesn't believe that anxiety is real needs to listen to my heart rate at 140bmp when I am resting. Perhaps then they would believe it. Anyway, this cycle continues until I can control my stress.

How do I do this?

Ativan. God bless the Ativan.