Last night was the first time taking the full dose of my PTSD medication. I haven't seen much of a change in my dream patterns. It's interesting that I now wake up mid dream though. Last night I had a dream that my son was falling through an elevator shaft, the door had closed on my leg, and I was reaching for him desperately. I woke up flailing and in tears. The flailing doesn't seem to be helping me with my pain.
I have hopes that I'll be able to clean up a poem I began work on during my appointments last week. I wrote it in the waiting area. I hate that area. It's sterile, white, and wreaks of mental institution. I'm only mildly psychologically impaired and I felt like I had been committed; can't fathom what this would be like for an individual breaking at their psychological core. The room is complete with old fashioned television broadcasting some form of white trash project, unfinished puzzle on the single round table at the back of the room. The windows are covered with a metal mesh screen, and the men in white lab coats drift here and there collecting their next subject with the mild call of a name. You can feel the discomfort of others as they glance about wondering what form of hell they just stepped, or wheeled, into.
I set out to write a journal entry, but the only thing that came to mind was poetic in nature. I hope I can finish it and post it on my Shear's Shorts site. There's a link to the right that you can click to get to it.
My Fentanyl patches seem to want to only stick to my fore arms. I've tried to get them to hold on for their three day period in other places, but to no avail. I'm sure the appearance of the patches on my arms makes doctors question my use of them. Even when I try to explain they turn a distrusting eye in my direction. Since the appliance of the patches I haven't needed to be seen in an Emergency Room, and I think that should be a check mark in the 'win' column, but my sleep schedule is wrecked, if not non-existant, and some days I feel an unstoppable drag pulling me into sleep state while other days I can't seem to calm down.
Enough droning for one morning. I have words to craft.
My humblest appreciation to those of you still reading,
K.M. Shear
The psych meds will take awhile to show any real improvement. I speak from experience. And once they really start to work - you will hate them about as much as the effective pain meds - probably more.
ReplyDeleteThe only thing the fentanyl has done is kept you out of the ER. I hate how it makes you. I didn't miss Kevin on fentanyl when you were off of it. I tried to forget what you were like, but it is coming all back. You aren't our Kevin on that shit.
ReplyDeleteAnd reading how you described that waiting area gave me chills, how you described it is exactly how I feel about it. Cold and unfeeling place.
The crappy TV with the sign on it "Don't change the channel with out permission to do so". So you are stuff watching FOX all day. Felt like a drone in a communist land. Tried to read and only got distracted by that damn TV and the crap on it. Tried to sleep only to be jolted by the noises and smells of the area. Not a pleasant place to be.
I am saddened by Jhon's post about the psych meds. I hate what the original meds were doing to you let alone new ones. :(
Oh and I got to read what you journalized or you read it to me and I loved it just the way it was. No need for editting. It has character in its raw form.
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