January 1, 2005 Starting Again A couple of months ago, I noticed a small bump on my chin. It wasn't something that bothered me much, except that it sometimes got in the way of shaving. I'd catch the razor on it and bleed like a stuck pig while in the shower. But by the time I'd finished lathering, rinsing, and repeating, the blood would have stopped flowing, and I'd be able to go about my day. The bump, as bumps do, grew larger. I started to become a bit concerned, but also got a little attached to it. I'd scratch at it when things got stressful, like a professor stroking his grey beard. I learned to shave around it, avoiding the momentary pain and bloodletting in the morning before work. Still, it bothered me now, because not only could I feel it, other people were starting to notice it. It was a wart, of course, and as anyone who's had them will tell you, where there's one wart, others are sure to follow. Soon, smaller bumps were appearing on my chin, clustering around a much larger wart that was the original. I decided to call the dermatologist, so that he could take a look at the warts, and possibly remove them. The last time I tried to take care of warts was when I was a kid, and used Compound-W on them, which did nothing more than make them spread. By the time I'd gotten to the dermatologist, I had 58 warts, all over my hands. I used to joke that I could become a burglar, since I didn't have any fingerprints left. The dermatologist's office was booked until February, so I made an appointment and got onto the cancellation list, in case any earlier appointments opened up. I went along with my business, warts slowly spreading on my chin. I couldn't manage to shave without cutting myself ever, and they were becoming a serious problem on my face. The last straw was when a consultant at my company, a meek woman from Asia, told me that I should get a napkin, because I had "oatmeal" on my chin. With Laurie calling me "oatmeal face," I decided I'd go to my primary care doctor, and see if he could take care of the problem. At the appointment, my doctor told me that he couldn't remove the warts himself, but he'd get me an expedited appointment with the dermatologist. Sure enough, I got an appointment for the following week. When I got to the dermatologist's that week, he was very nice, and not only took care of the warts (by burning them off, which is kind of disgusting, smelling your own flesh burning, and also a bit painful, since Novacaine wears off on me very quickly), but pointed out that I had some sort of skin condition that caused my cheeks and forehead to be red and flake. I asked him what I could do about that, and he said to use hydrocortisone on my face every morning after showering. I went to the pharmacy that day and bought some hydrocortisone and dutifully applied it to my cheeks and forehead, feeling good that they would be taken care of, and I wasn't just a patchy, flakey-faced thing. However, when I first started using the stuff, it burned a little bit, and my face seemed redder than it did before. I figured it was just an initial reaction to the hydrocortisone, and besides, the guy that told me to do this was a dermatologist, after all, and I'm used to listening to the experts. Soon though, my face was fully inflamed. I had small blisters forming on my cheeks and my forehead was cracking and peeling. It wasn't a pretty sight. People at work didn't look directly at me; I felt lousy about myself, and it really started to hurt. I went back to the dermatologist and he looked at my face and told me everything was fine; that I was just making a big deal out of nothing, and to continue the medication he'd indicated to me. I did so, and spent a good couple of months in more and more serious pain, getting uglier by the day. I just didn't know what to do. I was following instructions, and the doctor was an expert, so why wasn't this working? The story above is only half true. Yes, I had a few warts on my chin, and yes, I did get them taken care of by a dermatologist, but the hydrocortisone actually worked, and now I have a better complexion than I've had in years. Honestly, who would intentionally put themselves through pain and misery at some obviously bad advice from a doctor who wasn't taking his pain seriously? Well...I would. A couple of years ago, the depression I felt on a regular basis started to get worse, and I found it interfering in my life. My work suffered, my relationships suffered, and I generally had a hard time seeing the point in life. I did what I swore up and down what I would never do, and sought the advice of a psychiatrist. After about fifteen minutes of conversation, she declared me bipolar and promptly put me on medication for that. I didn't quite understand the diagnosis, since I'd never felt the "high" of mania, but I figured she was an expert, so she must have known what she was doing. I rejected the diagnosis after I found that the drugs she was giving me weren't working, but I stayed within the system (i.e., a clinic that's basically part of a big HMO) and tried to get help for the depression. Again, I was talked to for a very short amount of time, and whatever doctor saw me was already influenced by the fact that the original psychiatrist said that I was bipolar. They put me on medications that didn't work for me, and my lowest point came when I found myself standing at the edge of a subway platform, waiting for a train to come so that I could throw myself in front of it. I made the decision to step back from that edge, and was put into an institution for three days' observation, at which time I was told that I should have listened to my original psychiatrist, and was put on Lithium. But the pain didn't stop. I felt lousy all the time. I couldn't concentrate at work, I couldn't have discussions with people, my sleep was lousy and all my relationships suffered. I seriously considered suicide many times while I was on that drug. Then my mother told me about a therapist in Boston named Jane who specialized in dealing with gay clients. I figured I'd give her a shot, even though she wasn't covered by my HMO. The first few sessions with her were largely unimpressive, and I thought I might be wasting my money until one day, she stopped me in the middle of a conversation and said, "Why is it that you think you're bipolar?" "Well, because that's what the doctor said I was," I replied. "Do you have the symptoms that she described to you?" Jane asked. "Not all of them, especially not the manic ones, but the doctor told me that what I have is rapid-cycling bipolar-II disorder, and my manic phases are harder to detect..." "That's a load of crap," Jane said. "I've dealt with bipolar patients before, and you're no more bipolar than I am. I think you should see another psychiatrist." I told her that I had seen other psychiatrists, but they were kind of swayed by the idea that this one doctor's original diagnosis. "Then go see someone who doesn't have those records," she said to me. She recommended a couple of psychiatrists in Boston who were covered under my HMO, and I went to one of them. His name was Dr. B., and he spent well over an hour and a half just talking to me, asking how I felt. Whenever I'd use a term like "depressed," or "bipolar," or anything at all clinical, he'd stop me and just ask about my feelings. It was a very different experience than I'd had before with a psychiatrist. He told me that he wanted to take me off the Lithium and try me on very tiny doses of Zoloft, because he believed that while I definitely suffered from depression, he suspected, from the way I presented myself and from my history, that I was also suffering from incredible anxiety. The Zoloft came in liquid form, and I was to take very very small amounts to begin with. I did so, and slowly, as I increased the doses, I noticed that things were starting to change. I was also opening up more and more to Jane, who wouldn't spend twenty minutes in a session asking me if I wanted to hurt myself, but rather had lengthy conversations with me, occasionally pulling out an observation that made me think about things in a different way. I started to feel better. I started to look at the world differently. Gradually, work became easier for me. I started to laugh more. I could write again, and concentrate enough to watch a movie or read a book. My friends and family noticed that I seemed happier and less "on-edge." Which brings me to today. The last time I had a journal, I titled it "Are You Happy NOW?" It was a question I kept asking myself over and over again. Could I be happy? Was there even such a thing as "happiness"? I hadn't felt it in a very long time, that's for sure. But now that question is answered, only not in the way I expected. Yes, I am happy now. In fact, I haven't been known a happier time in my life that I can remember. But happiness is something completely different than I thought it was. Happiness isn't just a state of mind, it's a conscious choice. It's a way of looking at the world, and it takes a lot of work. It isn't one continuous state of joy, but rather a state of being able to look at life and realize that I'm lucky to have all that I do. I'm more patient now. I'm more focused now. I'm lighter and sillier and more talkative now. That crushing weight I've felt ever since I can remember has been lifted off my shoulders, and even though I know it lurks in the distance, I know that if it comes back, I've gained the tools to deal with it, and know enough to seek out the help that works for me, rather than taking advice that doesn't really sound right to me. I'm just plain happy now. I decided to start writing online again for 2005. I hope to write every day, just like I did when I started my original journal in 1998. Since it's January first, I figure it's a good time to recap what I've learned in the past year: I'm grateful and lucky to have a wonderful family and group of friends around me, whether they be here or somewhere far away. Things don't have to be perfect in order for them to be good. I don't need to be defined by my job, my looks, where I live, or who others perceive me to be. I really don't need to be defined at all. Laurie (some people reading this might remember her as "Lee." I've decided to stop using pseudonyms, because they're extremely difficult to come up with, and I don't intend on telling anyone else's story here) is truly the best friend anyone could ask for. She's been patient and there for me when I needed her, and I hope I've been patient and there for her when she needed me. The same goes for Becky, who has been here for me even though she's not physically near me. Anyone who cheats on you for three nights in a row while you're locked in a psychiatric ward is nothing short of an asshole. Writing is something I need to do, and having people read what I write is something that I need even more. I'm capable of doing great things, even if I don't currently think I can. That's enough for tonight. I've missed being online, but I'm glad I've been away for awhile. I hope some people decide to tune in and see what I'm up to, but either way, this journal will be here, because it's something that I've missed very much. Happy 2005!