Where Your Narrator Nearly Goes Postal

This is kind of an ironic term, since I have been using the hell out of the US  Postal Service, and they have done a wonderful job for me. It’s even a delight to go to the Post Office, stand in line briefly, then have them tell me how much postage I’ll need. The beauty is, on most of the packages, the postage costs more than the gifts inside.

Anyway, I love the postal service.

A couple weeks ago, I started having little episodes where I would feel angry over things that didn’t normally anger me. Things like spilling ice cubes on the floor. Mild grr. As my Psychiatrist has adjusted my medicine–as of tonight, we’re now doubling my Lithium WOO-HOO–this has grown into severe attacks of rage. Yesterday, I spilled silverware on the floor, as I tried to be helpful and empty the dishwasher. I was alone in the house. I swore loudly and theatrically. I got to use what my friend Kellee calls my “scary evil boom voice.” A few moments later, I was trying to empty an ice chest, and I dumped a huge amount of water on the floor. Evil boom voice again.

What I’ve discovered, as my insanity worsens, is that I’ve started to have swearing fits more like Richard Burton. (Forward to 30 seconds)

Don’t listen to all of it, but when he bellows, by the gods, he bellows. And that’s what I’m doing.

I feel like a banjo string that’s been tuned four notes too high, like one pick on it will cause it to break. It’s not a good way to feel.

And God help anyone who sets me off. I will go all Richard Burton on them.

Today, I went to my therapist for our standing 3pm appointment. He called me last week on Wednesday to say he was on vacation, and thus would miss our long-standing Thursday 3pm appointment. However, he would be back next week–which means, by any possible interpretation of the English language, TODAY–at our usual time. So today, I was in the waiting room promptly at 3pm. I sat in the waiting room for 40 minutes. No therapist. I left him a note: “You should never make somebody with MANIC RAGE ISSUES WAIT 40 DAMN MINUTES FOR AN APPOINTMENT. I will call you at some point when it’s convenient for ME, and we will set up an appointment that I will expect to be ON TIME!  Tom S”

This is overreaction. I get that. I also shouldn’t have written it on the waiting room wall in permanent magic marker.

Well, I didn’t really do that. I wrote on the back of an intake form and left it on one of the chairs.

Shockingly–not–he called shortly after I got home and took two milligrams of Xanax. My dad brought the phone to my room. (knock-knock) “Yes?” “Phone for you.” “Who is it?” “It’s ______ the shrink.” “I will not talk to him now. If you hand me the phone, I will hang up immediately without a word. Another option,  you may hang up the phone on my behalf, which would save me turning around from my computer, or finally, you may explain to him that for me that I will call him whenever (and IF ever) I deem it convenient to me. I care not either way.”

My dad doesn’t do things like that.  He talked to the shrink. The shrink told my dad he was on vacation, and that last week, when he’d called from his vacation, he said that we’d meet again July 5th. I believe I looked at my dad and said, “Oh, horsepenis he said that. I’m seeing a zillion doctors, and I put appointments in my phone, so I’ll be reminded. I’m seeing doctors within a 75 mile radius. He no more told me July 5th than he told me CHRISTMAS. He messed up, and he lied about it.”

My dad wisely remembered some yardwork he need to go do.

One positive thing, by the way, is that I get this insane glare when I’m having a manic rage attack, and I can cuss at my parents. I try not to abuse it, but desperate times call for Richard Burton-voiced profanity.

The irony is that I dealt with competence today. I have been dealing with my insurance company, Aetna, and they have been reviewing updated medical information sent by my doctors. They called me with the details, and said they’d forward them to HSN immediately. I left a message with the proper HSN person, and she called me back. I get paid next Friday. At midnight. When it’s supposed to hit.

I’m calm now. I don’t know if it’s my self-calming techniques, or the 2mg of Xanax (making 3mg in 3 hours). I’m betting on my amazing self-calming…on the Xanax.

This illness angers me, because NOTHING angers me. Normal Tom doesn’t get “I want to destroy this office” angry, EVER. I deal with psycho yelling people on the phone at work, and I never get angry. I sit and play with my baseball–two-seamer, four-seamer, circle change, slider–and I’m fine.

Now, I feel this incredible, unstoppable anger for seemingly no reason. ‘

It’s my chemicals. I know that. My chemicals are waaaaay fucked-up. I called the Psychiatrist, Dr Borgia this afternoon. His receptionist said he would return my call after 5:30. He returned my call at 6:05. He asked how I was doing, and I explained that I was having the rage things a lot more. He said to double up on the lithium, and to keep taking my Lamictal and Xanax, and weaning off the Pristiq. He called in fresh prescriptions of Xanax and Lithium.  He and I talked at 6:05pm. At 7:17pm, I received an e-mail from Walgreen’s advising that my scrips were ready.

I got pissed because there was a miscommunication between my therapist–whom I like–and me–whom I really don’t like at the moment. I wrote him a truly vitriolic note, and I refused his phone call. I’m being an angry asshole.  But it’s how I feel. I feel like an angry asshole. I can’t fucking help it.

My parents were speaking to me briefly, and I shared something that had just popped into my head: if I were still drinking, I would be beating the shit out of  a lot of people, and probably be in jail. This is because I would have no check on my rage, no little guy in my frontal lobe pulling back on the brakes, going, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO! FOR THE LOVE OF EVERYTHING HOLY, STOP!!!!!” That guy would’ve been numb, and the rage center would have taken control.

To tell you the truth, I’m scared. This is the most messed up my brain has ever been. I don’t know if I’ll be fixed enough to go to work next month. I don’t know if fI’ll ever be fixed enough to go to work ever again. It’s some scary shit.

With Fournier’s, it was an infection. They could do surgery, give antibiotics, do wound care, and see progress. The brain is a giant glob of “WHAT THE FUCK?” Nobody knows 100% how it works, or why. My Psychiatrist is probably the smartest doctor I’ve ever seen (I’ve seen some morons), and he can’t fix it yet. But he will. I trust him. I trust he’ll find the right chemicals  someday, hopefully sooner than later.

I want to be happy tom again. I have no rage now. I am incredibly numb. This is because of all the Xanax. Three migs is a lot for a two hour period, even for Hagrid.

Thanks for the good thoughts, healing light, prayers, whatever you got.

Happy Thursday.

ts

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18 Responses to “Where Your Narrator Nearly Goes Postal”

  1. You know my healing vibes and lovingkindness are continuously flowing to you all the time, right? I think I tell you this enough. 😉

    Maybe the rage is all the anger you’ve been not expelling? Like diarrhea of the mind? Or maybe not because I’m no brain expert. I just know that I tend to hold my rage in, rather than expel it in a healthy manner. Then, someday, someone will do a tiny thing (usually Justin or my Dad… or Allison) and I’ll just be SO PISSED OFF I CAN’T SEE STRAIGHT and I’ll go home steaming and angry and just “fuckin'” this and that and then I’ll be ok again.

    Of course, I’m not staring down a sneaky hate spiral (http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/05/sneaky-hate-spiral.html) on a regular basis, either.

    I’m going to keep the faith for you right now. I think you’ll get better. The “normal” Tom does make appearances. Maybe (when you’re ready to talk to The Baptist again) you can try and figure out a less frustrating way to deal with ragefits.

    You’ve just been too calm for too long! You need fits of righteous rage like I get when I read something sexist. ❤

    • tomzone Says:

      I absolutely posted your sneaky hate spiral (which is genius) on my FB page. I think I’ll be fine eventually. I just hope eventually isn’t too far in the future.

  2. Even Dr. Bruce Banner doesn’t like hulking out. It must be really scary to see your personality veer off in tangents you don’t recognize.

    Your sharing of your stories has now given me a little gift, though. I’m going to use the word HORSEPENIS wheneven I want to call bullshit on something. xo

    • tomzone Says:

      HORSEPENIS is a grand expletive, and technically not obscene. It’s a legitimate part of an animal (well, the male of the species anyway). You could have the Canadian franchise on, “Oh, HORSEPENIS! You are lying!” etc. Enjoy!

  3. So bummed to hear about these episodes — is has to be so frustrating and scary to feel that out of control of what seems should be in-control.

    That, or you seriously need to stop dropping stuff.

    • tomzone Says:

      I’ve always dropped stuff. (Except acid. (Well…)) I just haven’t tended to go all wonky about it.

      • I once through a large jar of applesauce at the wall. The jar didn’t have a mark. The wall, however, had a huge hole in it.

      • See the next comment from me? As it was “posting” I was screaming, no no, it’s threw….THREW!!!

  4. I’m so sorry to hear this, too, Tom. You want yourself back.
    You have had all the regular checkup type tests done, right? I know thyroid problems can cause rage. But, I assume the docs have all that checked out.
    Hold on by the skin of your (horsepenis) I mean teeth.
    When we are in the midst of these crises it always feels as if things will never be right again. THEY WILL.
    Love, Me

    • tomzone Says:

      Yep. Complete bloodwork prior to the Crazy. I’m going to have it rechecked next month, especially for things like jet fuel and model glue.

  5. Hang in there man. They’ll get something figured out. One of the best things a friend of mine did with similar problems was to go buy a heavy bag (punching bag) and when the rage hit, he would excuse himself and go out to the garage and work the anger/rage/horsepenis out of his system.

    Sometimes the only outlet is exactly that, just let it run it’s course, let it all out. He’d go punch the bag for half an hour, take a shower, have some juice and be okay. I know there have been times in the heat of matrimonial battle that I’ve held up a finger and walked away to go do something similar, like tearing out a cast iron furnace with a sledge hammer.

    The Missus knew when I was having a bad day and to give me the break, let me get it all out and behind me, then we could resume our “discussion” without all the angst and horsepenis. I’m in your corner rooting for yah, man.

  6. Now I’m forced to contemplate a size comparison between bullshit and horsepenis.

    • It’s easy to see that angst is much bigger than horsepenis. Bullshit and horsepenis….much more difficult to tell.

      • tomzone Says:

        I believe it’s impossible to get bullshit from a horsepenis. Then again, the closest I get to a farm comes wrapped in foil, nestled in a bun with mayo, ketchup, onions, and pickles.

  7. I know it’s been a while and hopefully hindsight is giving you more answers to this. I hope you have found a balance.

    I get the immediate instinct to cover you with healing mom-like light and vibes.

    • Thanks, GB. I’ll take all the healing mom-like light and vibes I can get. A hug too, maybe. Thinks are better than when this post was written, but good Lord this is taking forever to “get it back to good,” as Rob Thomas and Matchbox 20 opined.

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