November Third Two Thousand Eighteen
In January of two thousand sixteen, my health problems began. Unbeknownst to me, a couple of uterine polyps had developed, which caused me to have prolonged period bleeding. By March, I was looking sickly and pale, and was having the occasional moment of weakness. By June, it had progressed to the point that even washing my hair, normally a low-impact activity for me, had become exhausting. I applied for Medicaid then, because I was frustrated by that point.
I was approved for Medicaid, and was able to get a doctor's appointment. All the while, I was getting steadily weaker and more weary. Finally, on September twenty eighth, two thousand sixteen, I went to my appointment with my primary care physician. I was diagnosed with severe anemia, and iron levels around four. Normal iron levels for adult females is around twelve to fourteen. I could barely stand upright for more than ten to twenty minutes, I was getting winded just climbing one set of stairs between floors, and I was so pale that it was obvious I was anemic as hell. I was allowed to get an overnight bag from home, and then I was admitted to the hospital for an infusion of three units of blood. I was also put on birth control, in the hopes that it would help stop the bleeding for the time being.
That night was the longest night I can remember experiencing, even with some of the conventions I have been to in the past. I would get woken up every so often to have my vitals checked, or I would get up every hour to use the bathroom, and it was generally unrestful. The IV line was in my right arm, because I had a vein that is close to the surface. To this day, I can still see the vein going through my arm, but I cannot find the spot where the IV went in. I think that is a bit odd, because I tend to scar very easily. Makes me a good candidate to get tattoos, because my skin holds onto pigment easily, too.
September twenty ninth, two thousand sixteen, I had an ultrasound to see if there were any cysts or other things that might have been causing my bleeding, but nothing was found. I was dismissed around one in the afternoon, and went home, with a birth control prescription, and an iron supplement. I spent the rest of the day resting and recovering, because I had an appointment the very next day with the gynecologist.
September thirtieth, two thousand sixteen, my mom drove me down to Shenandoah, Iowa, to my gynecologist appointment, then we went to Walmart and after Walmart, we went to eat at a Mexican restaurant. At the appointment, I had the standard "Well Woman" checks, and a pap smear. The gynecologist went over what the possibilities for what the cause of the abnormal bleeding (also called "menorrhagia") could be, as well. I was scheduled for an appointment the following month, to see how I was doing on the birth control dose.
That day was also my thirtieth birthday. I was a bit disappointed that my family did not make a big deal of it, because I had been looking forward to turning thirty on the thirtieth since I was a young child. I had cheesecake as my birthday dessert, but that was about it for celebration.
October came and went without much fuss, physically. Emotionally, however, I was starting to really slide into a depression spiral. I do not know if it was triggered by the weather changing, the fact that I was starting to have prolonged bleeding again, or both. All I know is that I was starting to have thoughts of killing myself. I even had a plan: to take a bunch of ibuprofen or acetaminophen and go lay down in my room. Even knowing I would likely hurt people if I tried or succeeded was starting to not be a deterrent for me.
November eleventh, two thousand sixteen, I had another gynecologist appointment. I was asked how I felt my birth control was working, and everything came out. All my frustration, all my upsetness, all my sadness, the fact that I wanted to kill myself, all of it. My gynecologist was not equipped to handle that, but she was able to get me in touch with people who were. I ended up going to a Crisis Stabilization Center a couple towns over from where I lived. I stayed over the weekend, getting a new, higher dose of birth control, and an antidepressant. I also went through a couple group therapy sessions, and by the end of the weekend, I was feeling better.
I went to my first therapy session a couple weeks later, and started making my way on the road to a better overall mental health status.
Thanksgiving came, and I drove to meet my boyfriend at the house his father owns. I asked him to come talk to me in private about something, and I explained what I had gone through weeks prior. To my amazement and joy, my boyfriend was understanding and incredibly supportive. I think having a clear idea of what was going on helped him better know what to do and gave him insight on why I might have been distant or unresponsive at times.
Having an answer to what was going on, and having it be something that is treatable and manageable through medication and therapy, as well as things like learning to identify my symptoms and when I might be starting to spiral have gone a very long way in helping me feel more like myself. I know I will still have bad days, but now, they are not as bad as they could have been.
Part of why I am writing about my mental health experiences this year for National Novel Writer's Month is because it will help not only myself, I will hopefully be able to help someone else who may be struggling. I may be able to convince someone who may be dealing with mental health issues to get help. I might be able to help save a life.
It may be a little selfish of me to admit that, but honestly, I no longer give a fuck. I want to help save people, even if it is just for my own self satisfaction. I would probably not brag about it, to be perfectly honest, but I would still feel really good about saving the life of another person.
As I have written about my past up to two years ago, I have had a few moments where I have broken down into tears, because some of those things were extremely painful or just so powerful for me to re-experience. I have always felt things very deeply. I guess that explains why I react so strongly to memories. Or at least part of why.
In May of two thousand seventeen, I had my antidepressant changed, and also got some advice about an upcoming trip. Instead of being on the generic for Prozac, I was put on the generic of Lexapro, and showed improvement in my overall energy levels. I still had strange hours, but I was not feeling the need to just sleep and nap as much.
I do still enjoy sleep. Especially as the weather gets colder, because it means that I can layer blankets on my bed and I can wear my favorite pajamas to bed as well. Right now, I have a winter sleeping bag on my bed, with a cotton flat sheet inside for a little extra comfort. It is very comfortable in the middle of the night, once it has warmed up with my body heat. I love how cozy I feel, though I do wish I was laying on a full sized or larger mattress, so I could build a proper blanket and pillow nest for myself.
With the blankets, there is something very comforting for me in having a steady weight on top of me. A gentle, consistent pressure and weight comforts and relaxes me. I think it may have something to do with me being Autistic or it may just be due to my anxiety. Either way, I enjoy heavy blankets on top of me. To that effect, I have many blankets that I have bought myself over the years, and once winter has officially taken hold of my area, I will likely be either piling them on top of the winter bag, or I will bring some of them into the bag with me.
I also have to have a plushie to tuck between my arms and my torso, otherwise I have a hard time getting to sleep. I have a plushie rottweiler and a plushie giant squid. The rottie is Doggy-Ironhide, and the giant squid is Sir Archibald The Second, Also Known As Archie Junior. Doggy-Ironhide was a gift from a friend, and Archie Junior was an Amazon purchase last Christmas. I got into a fight with my mother about having dolls and plushies at my age, and I told her to stuff her opinion. They make me feel safe and comforted, and they are not things that would hurt others or myself by me having them.
That is something I will never understand. Why people feel the need to try and shame people like me, who enjoy toys and such. There are way too many worse things we could be spending our time on, as well as our money. We are not harming ourselves by having toys and plushies, we are not harming others by having toys and plushies, and we are able to find others who share our interests in toys and plushies, so we are able to find ways to socialize. Just because the things people like me enjoy are not what "normal" society deems "appropriate", "normal" society thinks it is acceptable to mock us and try and shame us out of the hobbies and interests.
That sort of nonsense is irritating to me. We are not hurting ourselves or others, we are not participating in illegal activities, and we are happy and able to socialize when we feel like doing so. Society needs to stop seeing us as targets for bullying.
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