True Roommates Check Your Hair For Invisible Lice

To put it as mildly as a spring sun strolling through scattered clouds, I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. I took my last final, possibly my final academic test for forever.

My motivation for studying plummeted while my chapped nose, used tissue hoarding, impossibly silent roommate huddled around the cheery music of The Great British Bakeoff. Add that to skirting the dread of fruitless sweat, and it seemed simple as to why I buried the hurried scribbles of corrected calculus to brave the more than evident germs so I could share Netflix and the couch with my sick roommate. I had studied much of the material for the past week so I didn’t have the same anxiety level as being chased by a bear. It didn’t stop my heart from racing at the site of the dangerously thin test either.

Polymer physics is by no means intuitive, the obtuse reasoning left me doubting every decision. Things only got worse when I started writing the wrong numbers. My brain would say one and my hand would write 3. I had no idea why I kept erasing and rewriting the same numbers over and over and over again. The thing that made my skin literally crawl was the slinking dot of friction moving through my hair. It couldn’t be a scary bug like a cockroach (the feeling wasn’t that large or leggy) but more like a single insidious parasite that could have thousands of children on my scalp.

I remembered feeling like this in the other precious vibrating hypomanias. I still couldn’t stop my hand from scratching dead flakes to fill my short fingernails. When I drove my roommate home after the test, I stumbled into a leap of faith and sheeply asked my roommate to check for bugs. Under the harsh bathroom light she patiently waded through the place where I had kept clutching my head the whole ride. She was monastically quiet through the whole thing because of her sore throat, yet that small action and reaction to the situation allowed me to not pander the fear that I was completely losing it. Gratefully the rest of the night has been creepy crawly free.


Avoiding Avoidance Tactics

After politely being declined funding and support to further my graduate degree from the university, wouldn’t you know it’s not exactly great for mental health problems? Actually that shouldn’t be a question mark. Easy fact: massive failure is enough stress to make even the most resilient person depressed.

I’m not exactly falling back into old missteps, but it did become very hard to leave my bed and do anything besides zone out to the soundtrack of six seasons of the Good Wife all with the occasional spurt of suicidal thoughts. So with the insistence of my psychiatrist, we upped my anti-depressant dosage. The results have been the most wild reaction that I’ve had in over a year to meds. I’ve gotten some nice insomnia (expected), loss of appetite (better than nausea?), hot flashes (my newest sleeping habit is covering myself in frozen peas) and paranoia about leaving the house (my personal favorite that I like to label as flavorful safety measures). Yet I’ve never had problems with dissociation during medicine increases or decreases.

I’ve felt a plethora of types of dissociation that are too long to go into now. But this- this is unbelievable. It’s like I can feel everything start to leave my body so I start screaming and trying to grab a disembodied hand. I plead to stay. I try to reason with it. I repeat the address and every fact that surrounds me. And true to over counseled patient form, I even managed to spill out the mantra that these are painful emotions but I cannot leave- dissociation is a coping mechanism and not a useful one.

It terrifies the living shit out of me. There aren’t enough rose colored glasses in existence to make the shrieking tears something that isn’t worrisome. If my therapist sees it as psychosis she’ll refer me to another therapist. I need to tell some one because the silence just amplifies feeling like I’m crazy.

I’m doing everything I can to not ever feel by nerves float away from myself again.