I sometimes get tired of sticking rigidly to a single topic. Sometimes I just want to type freely, to let the words flow in an automatic-writing sort of way. A lot of my posts end up being about alcohol simply because there is so much content and so many stories to share. If people don’t like that, then close this now—well, that was a bit harsh. What I meant to say is you are free to leave this blog at any stage; nobody is forcing you to stay.
This space also contains music and what I call ‘poetry,’ often rubbish poetry, I admit. I once wrote a lengthy post about music, but there’s only so much I can say on that subject; unlike alcohol, music doesn’t come bundled with a thousand anecdotes. I drop a piece of ‘poetry’ every few blogs, but who really has an interest in reading it? Not many, it seems. I’ve been clear from the start about my intentions for this blog, yet I’m beginning to question whether I should continue sharing some of my alcohol rants here. I watch people's testimonies on YouTube, where individuals lay bare their struggles with addiction—mostly alcohol—and don’t hold back. If they can face it and speak so openly, then I can do the same. I’m fairly certain I haven’t posted anything offensive, but I know it could influence how others see me; that is the risk I accept.
Sometimes I protect my blog with a password because, during bouts of paranoia, I feel the urge to hide anything that reveals too much of myself. I have been sober now for five weeks. I wouldn’t have received the good news on my blood results today if I had still been drinking after the doctor’s warning, I might not even be here to write this post. I haven’t used cannabis in three or four years; that was a minor addiction, but the lessons I learned then apply to my relationship with alcohol as well. I don’t miss the paranoia and panic attacks I used to get when I smoked; that feels like a closed chapter.
At the moment I’m living at home with my parents and brother, which leaves little room for drinking and many hours filled with doctors’ appointments and recovery-focused routines. I have put my mum through a lot, and I don’t think there is any room for a relapse with alcohol or pot. I wouldn’t be very popular if I went back to those habits. How my folks have put up with me over the whole… well, my lifetime, I will never fully understand. The least I can do to repay them is to remain sober for a decent, sustained period. Alcohol is something I will never return to. I’m not going to list them here, but there are dozens of reasons not to drink. Pot carries far fewer negatives, yet it wasn’t healthy for me, especially as someone who lives with schizophrenia. It’s encouraging to see people around me dropping their lifetime of drinking too. That gives me hope.
I’m going to have to get back into my painting — a passion I keep putting off because of the expense and because I don’t have clear ideas of what I truly want to create. Right now I’m fixated on money. I know it isn’t very “artist-like” to put money above art, but I’m also a realist. I have a few large canvases in the shed that I could start on at any time, but I just don’t feel ready.
Lately I’ve been too absorbed in looking after my health, which depends heavily on my sobriety. During a period of major concern about my kidneys I started drinking a lot of water. Today someone pointed out I shouldn’t be consuming more than three liters — I’ve been drinking eight to ten. That was a wake-up call I didn’t expect. Who would have thought there was such a thing as consuming too much H2O?
When I last saw my GP he sent off a referral to my old psychiatrist, and I’m not comfortable with that. He was my psychiatrist for 14 years, and I haven’t seen him or anyone else, for that matter in a very long time. Too much time has passed and I don’t feel comfortable going back to him now. It was made clear to me today that I need to see a psychiatrist again to sort out my medications, which are all over the place at the moment.
Today’s visit with the doctor has thrown a spanner in the works: more medication changes have been suggested, so I have two GPs making adjustments but they are too afraid to tinker with my antipsychotics and SSRIs. They’re leaving that side of things to a psychiatrist. I’m to call the rooms of these doctors tomorrow to see if it’s possible to see someone different. I’m really uncomfortable with this, but it has been stressed that I need to. I’m also booked to see a neurologist because I have a tremor that won’t go away. It’s more than a tremor it’s almost as if my hands are convulsing, and it’s pretty bad. The other day I had to ask a shop clerk to type in my pin on the EFTPOS machine because my shakes were so severe I couldn’t even use the keypad. I can’t make a coffee without spilling it all over the place, and it’s embarrassing. I can’t live life like this. I’m hoping it’s related to my medications, but it could be an early onset of Parkinson’s disease. Great! As if I’m not already burdened with a stack of other health issues.
I’m getting to the stage in my life where all of this is finally catching up with me. I’m 43, so I’m no spring chicken, whatever that even really means. I’m living with my folks. Up until recently I’d been in shared accommodation, which wasn’t a terrible setup, but my parents pleaded with me to move back home so they could keep an eye on me and help manage the ever-increasing medication changes and doctors’ appointments. Mum was a nurse, so she knows all the medical lingo and handles the paperwork; I don’t know what I’d do without her. I love you, Mum. All of this gets on top of me sometimes, and it’s incredibly reassuring to have someone who understands medications and who sorts out my referrals to different specialists.
The doctor I saw at Frankston Hospital was absolutely wonderful. She devoted a great deal of her time to help me and carefully explained what needed to be done. There was a lot! The only thing I didn’t agree with, or chose not to undergo, was an endoscopy — that terrifies me. She was even okay with my vaping; her greater concern was whether I smoked cigarettes, which I haven’t for years. She also advised me not to drink beer, which isn’t an issue. All of this consumes my life, and my mum’s.
My kidneys, my liver, my heart, my lungs, and my uric acid for my gout — which shows its ugly head two or three times a year — are all where they should be. Not bad considering that just a few days ago I was one hundred percent sure I was dying and was preparing myself to face my mortality. When I went to the last family gathering, everyone knew a bit about what I’d been through and that I was unwell. Two people commented that I looked awfully pale and I was getting sympathy from everyone. It felt like a goodbye, Dave. Small things like this stress me and my mind immediately jumps to the worst-case scenario. I’m pale because I lock myself in my dark bedroom all day, every day, writing stupid blogs and entertain myself by watching you tube and get no vitamin D from exposer to the sun. After getting an almost clean bill of health, I’m not too concerned about those comments.
I mentioned I’m living with my folks — which is a pretty sweet deal. The only expectations placed on me are that my bedroom is kept in an orderly state and that I don’t drink. As I write this at 12:45 a.m., I have my heater on, I’ve taken some of my benzodiazepines, and I’m enjoying writing this blog. I feel like I have the world to myself when keeping hours like this. I have my meals made for me and I pay a tiny bit of board. It was my parents’ call for me to move back in with them. I think my new antidepressants are finally kicking in. I’m feeling good, not over the moon, but simply okay. Life is ticking along nicely. Cheers for reading this. I hope you have a really good day!