A Small Electric Light

From the dark and murky cave that entraps me, I can see a small light that shines with intermittent clarity.  I have been gagged, restrained, and tortured by the three syllable word so commonly used by psychiatrists: depression.  But now I can see a glimmer of hope, and maybe now I will be able to conquer this condition that holds me hostage.  In a couple weeks I will begin Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT) and my battle will begin.

My struggle with chronic depression emerged when I was a mere ten year old.  At the age of twelve I took my first psychiatric medication and by the age of fifteen I had tried them all.  Even though the various medications proved generally ineffective I continued to take some.  Now, at the age of 28 I take eleven medications regularly; over twenty pills per day.  My body's resistance to medication compiled by my body's desperate need for help led me, at the age of twenty, to my first session of electroconvulsive therapy.

At first ECT terrified me!  I mean, really, who wants to be put to sleep, electrified, then woke only to face the most severe headache imaginable?  The only thing I can say to this is: desparate times call for desparate measures.  As required by law, every part of the process, as well as all possible side affects was clearly described to me.  Various levels of memory loss, confusion and disorientation, head pain... the words were just white noise in the background; I needed help bad. 

I was first treated with ECT at Stanford Hospital which was later continued at Herrick hospital in Berkeley, CA.  To tell you the truth, I can remember barely nothing of the two years I spent as a human light bulb.  The headaches were bad but manageable, but the memory loss was both severe and tragic.  I was so taken aback by the damage that the help I received lay buried beneath tears of loss.  While my mother swore up and down that the ECT had saved my life, all I could focus on was the memories that were stolen and a now badly damaged brain.  While the ECT successfully kept me alive and safe from suicide, I struggled to mourn years of memories left behind.  99% of my childhood memories vanished and I would say around 60% of my older memories were gone.  In addition to the damage done to my long term memory, my short term memory was marred as well.  The only positive aspect of the memory loss was my new ability to watch and re watch fantastic movies as if each separate viewing was its first.  I eventually found the memory loss so severe I quit ECT altogether.

For the next five years I mourned the loss of my memories.  An analogy I would like to use is that of Johnny, a Vietnam war vet.  Unlike many soldiers he fought alongside Johnny survived, unfortunately however, an explosion left him without his legs and the ability to ever walk again.  Like Johnny, the depression did not kill me, but the ECT left me with few memories of the past and the inability to remember things using the photographic memory that once allowed me to excel in academics.  The brain that led me to study math and physics at UC Berkeley had been damaged.  While my sister was born with great looks and a body to kill for, I was blessed with smarts; and this gift, I felt, had been stolen.

So for years I fell into an even darker depression.  Unable to complete school, I drank alcohol and smoked pot in excess.  I wanted to die but was too scared of the repercussions that suicide would have on my family.  So I drank away the ideations and numbed myself with any high I could get.  I resented my mother for pushing the ECT onto me and blamed her for the memory loss that I was convinced had ruined my life.  For three years I wallowed in self pity; drinking, smoking, cutting... any habit that allowed me to forget what I had lost was welcome.

It was not until I reached the age of twenty seven that I was able to move past my losses.  I stopped drinking and began focusing on new academics subjects that were less dependent on memory.  Just like Johnny had the mourn the loss of his legs, I had to mourn the affected memory loss.  I can finally now accept the memories I lost and fear not any memories I may lose in the future. 

So now I return to the present.  I fear that the depression that now suffocates me may kill me, and I have too many people in my life to let that happen.  I have tried the new medications, but the depression just won't be beat.  And thus, ECT is the only option I have left, and this time I am ready for it.  My life has made me a stronger Michelle. Though I just might need to use lots of post-its and notebooks to aid my struggling memory, if I can do so with a smile on my face such consequences are worthy.

In a couple weeks I will resume ECT and I am ready to beat this depression that holds me hostage.  My loved ones refuse to give up on me, so I refuse to give up on myself as well.  I will beat this disease, even if I have to use electricity to do it. 

The Battle I Must Win

Aloha and welcome to apartment 206.

It has been many days; the depression that controls fights any and all productivity. Instead of living each day striving to catch those golden stars of progress, I spend my days full of anxiety, sadness, and death as a whole. This depression began following a discussion I had with my mother a couple of months ago in Seattle.

I have spent many years of my life dealing specifically with the sexual abuse I endured as a young child. I battled post traumatic stress disorder and the reoccurring flashbacks that haunted me for years. Following two years of intensive inpatient therapy I dealt with the abuse and by the time I left Island View Treatment center I felt relieved that I had finally put the past behind me – most specifically, the childhood trauma.

Following years of ECT treatment, not only had I put the past behind me, but the memory loss I suffered erased many memories of my past, both good and bad. It is hard to explain, but it feels like Michelle of the present is a different person than the Michelle of my past. Up until a couple of months ago I rarely thought about the events of my childhood and hardly felt a pang of emotion. Living a life split between the present Michelle and the previous Michelle, I drifted and further and further from any type of union the two parts might make. The feelings I had toward my past were unemotional and disconnected; so detached I started to wonder if anything ever really happened in the first place.

A couple months ago I went on a trip with my mother to Seattle. We visited my grandmother, uncle, and aunt. It was a lovely visit that commenced with a discussion that has since kept me hostage. I really don’t remember how the topic came about, but eventually my mother upon the history of a letter she received when I was away at high school in Connecticut. It was a letter written by our former live-in babysitter Carol – a woman I despised as a child. I remembered most how she would threaten to tell my dad lies in the intention that I would receive a spanking. I never liked her, but I never knew how much I really should have hated her.

Carol wrote a letter to my mom that would later shake the foundation on which I stood erect. As a recovering alcoholic, part of the twelve steps is atoning for behaviors that drinking and drugging often led to. So in Seattle I was told of this letter. She wanted to apologize for the incidents that occurred when her boyfriend at the time was around. While I am unclear whether it was soles the boyfriend, or if Carol was involved, she admitted to physically and sexually abusing me. I was shocked when I heard this news. For years I had dealt with this unknown abuse. I dealt with the flashbacks and the shame of sexual abuse that sucks the life out of your soul. But I felt I had finally won – regardless of knowing the people involved or the exact circumstances – I had put it in the past, and in the past is where I expected it to remain.

When I first heard about this letter I thought it would be the last leg and completion of a very long race. I thought the news would finally let my abused past disappear behind the new Michelle who focused on the future and how I would get there safely. However, not too long after I noticed that a dark cloud was hovering just west my apartment and I knew it was headed for me. As depression slowly seeped back into my life, I also experienced extreme self-hate and a specific shame that made my skin crawl. Fully embraced by this new depression I write to free myself. Only by facing my present depression will I ever fully get through it and grow strength that will crush any daring depression in the future. This depression is more focused on death than any before it and is strongly considering a return to the ECT that robs my memory blind. I have fought too long and too hard to just let this depression take me away forever. While my past will always be fuzzy, one thing I will always remember is fighter I am.

I want to get better so I can love the people who stand behind me and chase the dreams that were once thought impossible. And this I'll do.

A Dark Blanket

Aloha and welcome to Apartment 206!

So I finally got out of the apartment for the first time in five days. Sometimes depression comes and suffocates me like a thick wool overcoat. Bombarded by thoughts of sadness sometimes I don't know what to do but lie in my bed and wonder what the hell to do with myself. While the sun shines beyond the drapes, I hide in my darkness hoping that with time my thoughts will pass. So today I finally got out.

Benny

Belmont Hills Hospital

October 19 – November 3, 1995

Benny had a large sore the size of a silver dollar in the middle of his forehead. The doctors had him wear a baseball cap, or other type of hat, as an attempt to restrain him from his harmful compulsions. Benny was at Belmont Hills Hospital because he had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. He had been at Belmont longer than anyone else. Two months was a long stay since Belmont has not considered a long-term treatment center. Most of the patients were at Belmont for suicide attempts. After such an attempt, the patient is put on a 72 hour hold, and then it is not usually long before they were released. But Benny was not at Belmont for suicide watch and was not packing his bags to leave when I arrived.

Benny's sore was a result of his obsessive rubbing. He tried to explain to me as not being able to stop doing something once he started; his compulsions created an inability to restrain himself. Benny had to be accompanied by staff when he showered, brushed his teeth, or even just washed his hands. Without staff intervention he might end up washing his hands for hours. The availability of Belmont staff was not generous, and so when I arrived Benny had not showered in five days.

On first meeting, Benny and his sore had quite an uninviting character. It was easy to feel agitated or nervous just watching him obsessively pace or count ceiling tiles. Sometimes I just wanted to grab him and shake him in an attempt to rid himself of his jitters. But Benny was not a difficult person to avoid. He kept to himself and was uninterested in involving himself with the group. Like most other residents, If found myself, at first, not purposely avoiding him, but just making little effort towards engaging myself with him. It was during a Friday night movie when our two separate worlds would unexpectedly collide.

It was Friday – the beginning of another exciting weekend full of mandatory and monotonous movies. Don't get me wrong – weekends were the best days at Belmont – but still we were caged. I definitely felt that watching movies was a better waste of my time than sitting through redundant therapy sessions. Unable to any longer sit on the maroon carpet watching the stories of other people's lives in an attempt to defocus myself from my problems, I walked out into the main hallway. The alternative to watching movies was hanging out in front of the nurse's station – just where Benny always paced during movies. I watched him assume his nervous movements as he attempted to rub his pussing sore – my idle eyes seemed to dance his him. This strange boy, and the ideas that filled his head during hours of walking, suddenly intrigued me.

I'm not exactly sure how our conversation began, but it would last for over an hour. As I conversed with Benny, I realized he had some of the most incredible insight on his and other people's lives. His words were full of expression and clarity reaching much deeper than the shallow whispers shared by other residents. He shared with me his sadness and frustration from being transferred from hospital to hospital. Unlike me, he really wanted to get better and felt he was willing to jump through any hoop to do it. Due to different facilities understandings of OCD he had been sent from place to place in an attempt to place him somewhere where he could be helped. He was hoping to get transferred to Stanford Hospital, but was currently struggling to find payment since his insurance was unwilling to cover it.

I found myself opening up to this strange boy. I shared with Benny my fears and hatreds of being away from home; and Benny truly listened. While we talked, he did not pace and kept consuming eye contact. My conversation with Benny was the first I had had at the hospital where the main topic wasn't drugs.

From that day on, and until I left, Benny grew to be my one friend at Belmont that I truly trusted. I did not fear that he spoke to me through selfish motives. I spoke to him when I was upset, when I needed someone to listen, or when I needed to speak not a word. Benny taught me that a friend can be just a welcome away. The day I was discharged from Belmont Hills Hospital, Benny was still pacing the same hallways.

I Love to Never Forget

Aloha and welcome to apartment 206!

Today I want to share and recognize the amazing bond that Jason and I share: The history and love of Michelle and Jason.

Even though Jason and I lived around the corner from each other when we were young and ran with the same social group throughout junior high, we were merely acquaintances (that had onced danced as nervous twelve year olds!) And acquaintances we remained while Jason attended Palo Alto High School and I attended Hyde High School all the way across the country in Woodstock Connecticut. And then, years later we met, and fell deeply in love.

I have been sick with a cold for the past five days and Jason has just been an angel. I often take for granted the little things Jason does that make my life happy and complete. So I think it is appropriate to dedicate this blog to Jason and the love we share.

It was a little over a month after receiving my second DUI and I was slowly picking up the pieces of my messy life. I was drinking less and was focusing all energy on working double shifts and long hours. The last thing on my mind men – I was dealing with so much I figured no guy would want to date a girl with the baggage I brought with me. And then on a cold Friday night after a long night of waitressing our lives collided.

Fridays were my favorite night of the week. This was not because it meant a weekend of relaxation; as a waitress the weekends were mandatory. Fridays were my favorite because after work I would go over to my friends house where we would play poker until Saturday's sun began to peak out. So on this particular Friday, after getting off of work a little later than usual, I hurried to the bar across the street to change out of my work clothes and get a quick drink before heading over to Dave's. As I walked into the bar I was greeted by a handsome man who bellowed, "Michelle Hodges!" A little embarrassed by my memory lapse I smiled and he introduced himself: Jason Moore. I was in a hurry to get to poker, so we didn't talk much; however, the words were spoke I will always remember. Like me, he was recovering from a second DUI and immediately I felt closer and less embarrassed by the curtain state of chaos I felt had gulped up my normal life. We talked quickly, as I was still trying to get to poker before midnight, but I left the bar with Jason's number and a warm fuzzy feeling (which was not a reaction of the Irish Car Bomb a pounded while we were talking.

A couple days later I called Jason and before long we were spending almost all our free time together. I was immediately drawn to Jason's sensitivity and felt immediately comfortable sharing with him items of my past that often sent other guys packing. Most specifically, on our second date I told him about the electroshock treatment I endured due to depression and the long-term memory damage I will live the rest of my life with. I noticed how well he listened and how well he understood chronic depression. While it took him a little longer to dump his baggage on me, we immediately connected and it felt like no matter how much time we spent together it was just not enough.

I now feel certain that Jason is the man I was meant to spend the rest of my life. I have never loved a man as I do Jason and I feel completely comfortable with him; I don't have to hide things from Jason because I know he loves me regardless of my flaws. While the entire past two years have not all been a picnic, he has been there for me when things were bad, as I was also there for him. Jason cares for me when my pain gets bad, running errands and taking hours of his time on the light rail just to pick up my medications from Kaiser. He has a giving heart and is always there for me when things get rough.

After being together over two years, I am more in love with Jason than ever. When he hurts I feel his pain, and when he laughs it brings me joy. Because we each suffer from emotional disorders and painful circumstances we are, together, able to stand strong.

 

When I hold Jason's hand I close my eyes and believe anything is possible.

I drew this with pens and colored pencils. It says "Jason Forever Michelle." See if you can find it!

My Mother's Hands

Aloha and Welcome to Apartment 206!

I want to commemorate my mother on this day of national celebration.

As a woman blessed with creativity, empathy, and inner strength, my mother has stuck by my side through some of the hardest experiences that life tossed my way. Having spent time consumed by the grips of depression herself, my mother is always there to help me crawl out various holes that depression has caused in my life. Even when I felt like giving up, never would my mother let me. My mother has been a rock that has remained solid and in place throughout my life. I only hope that I can someday return the love and commitment that my mother has showered me with throughout my life. I can only hope that I may be half the mother my mom is to me. The following poem is dedicated to my mother, Marta Thoma, and wirtten with all the love she raised me with!

My Mother's Hands

My Mother is an artist and My Mother is a sculptor.
Her hands are skilled with the gift of creation.

My Mother is a fighter and My Mother is a winner.
Her hands are scarred from bitter fights she refused to lose.

My mother is a giver and My Mother is a believer.
Her hands drip with unconditional love and integrity.

My Mother is a beauty icon and My Mother is a competitor.
Her hands shimmer with pink sparkles of ageless beauty.

My Mother is an inspiration and My Mother is a hero.
Her hands reach near and her hands reach far
supporting the dreams that others chase.

"Nicole" - Art by Michelle

A Short History of an Alcoholic

Aloha and Welcome to Apartment 206!

At the age of 28 I can finally say with confidence that I have rid my life of the alcohol that had handicapped so much of it.

For years I believed that without alcohol I had no reason or ability to live. My failed attempts of sobriety led to my own assumptions that I could never give up my freedom to drink and believed (and accepted) that eventually that freedom would kill me. But over a year ago I quit drinking and was able to, in my mind, bend the laws of physics that predicted a chaotic and sickly life run by alcohol. I can now see things with more optimism. If I could give up drinking anything is possible!

I believe I was born an alcoholic, a disease I inherited from my grandfathers on both sides of the family. I began indulging when I was twelve; the rest of my life would be forever changed. At the age of 15 I was taken out of my house and began three years of treatment for not only alcoholism and drug abuse, but for the sexual abuse I that has forced on my as a child. For three years (and the third being my first year at UC Berkeley) I remained sober through nail biting determination. But following a bad breakup I relapsed and things starting falling apart.

I tried to maintain school while I drank, but I soon discovered that it was one or the other. And I chose to drink. The years following were filled with depression, ECT, short-periods of sobriety, but were driven by my dedication to drinking. While others hated the person that alcohol made me into, it was the only way I felt comfortable in my own skin. Feeling like an ultimate failure when I was twenty-four, I finally gave up on any ambitions of an alcohol-free life, and accepted myself as the alcoholic I am.

I plunged into a dark depression and excused drinking as the only thing that was keeping me from killing myself. I dreamed each day of suicide and alcohol was what I used to get through each dismal day. I was tired of bombarding my family with my depression, so I kept me thoughts a secret, self-medicating myself with vodka. Only Evelyn, a neighborhood friend, knew how low I had actually sunk.

My first DUI came and went, by my second DUI would alter my life forever. The last thing I remember of that night was having a glass of wine at a local bar; the next thing I would remember was waking up in police custody with my hands handcuffed to my ankles. I would later learn that while driving two of my tires had rolled off and I had driven at least a mile on the rims of my car. I then crashed into a tree in while driving on the opposite side of the road. My car was totaled, but amazingly no one had been injured. I spent ten days in jail for this incident and am forever grateful that no one was injured in the accident.

I finally started to try and claw my way out of a dreadful pit and I led myself into. I focused on work and tried to drink less. It was then that I ran into Jason at a bar I frequented. Jason and I had gone to junior-high together and grew up around the block from each other, but it wasn't until we were reintroduced that I fell hard for this handsome and thoughtful man. I would get so nervous around him and his family that I would drink lots (while also taking anti-anxiety medication.) I was regularly blacking out and Jason started to worry about me. Jason's mom had been killed by alcoholism, and when he told me that when I drank I reminded him of his mom, the news shook my world. I loved Jason so much and did not want to cause anymore suffering than already existed. I now understood myself as the awful drunk I was, but years of failure left me with little hope for change.

I was diagnosed with endometriosis and my world was completely altered. While the condition causes daily chronic pain that I might have to live out my life with, endometriosis also freed me from the chains that alcoholism had around my ankles. When I drank, the pelvic pain I would then endure was beyond manageable, and so my only option was to finally ban the evil poison from my life. I quit then and there. Giving up alcohol has left me with great strength and a renewed optimism. I truly believe that if I was able to give up drinking, anything is possible! I have taken back the confidence that alcohol falsified and, for the first time in my life, I truly believe that the sky's the limit!

"Jason and Michelle Forever"

Painful Words

Aloha and welcome to apartment 206

I am trying a new regiment of pain medication that is really helping my ability to function. Jason and I have not fought for two weeks. Without pain, we have few fights, and without hurt we have less regrets. Jason and I have been loving each other and getting along as the best friends we are. Fights and my awful part in them almost led to the end of Michelle and Jason.

For about six months we fought… fought… and fought. I would say that 90% of our fights are started by me and more than half of that 90% were days of breakthrough of break through pain in which an extremely cranky and hurting Michelle just took her own pains out on Jason. My emotions are all out of whack. Successfully communicating a hurt feeling without lashing out is an example of my dysfunctional communication skills. When I get sad or when I am struggling is physical pain, I get angry at Jason, and then we fight. I fight with hurtful and abusive words that Jason will never forget. Apologies don't erase the memories. The things I then say are words I will forever regret. When in this state I say things that I know will hurt him most; I say things that are not even appropriate for an enemy. And I say these awful to the man who has made me the happiest I have been ever been. But all the love for this man still doesn't protect him from my evil words that belittle him as a man and hurt his heart. I have been blessed with not only an extremely forgiving family, but the best fiance and best-friend I could ever dream to have. But I am sure that if I continue hurting the people who mean the most to me, I will end up alone and very sad. And the things I have said to my mom through an angry camouflage … if only they were words quickly past. I have screamed, or rather communicated horrible things to my mom, my dad, Nini, and Jason; I hurt the people I love most, and this is why I need to get help. Unless I plan on living a life alone I need to address and find help in managing my anger. Since Kaiser offers an anger management class I figure that will be a great place to start.

The Fine Line Between Physical and Emotional Pain

Aloha and welcome to apartment 206!

Without any fights and supported by unconditional love Jason and I share, I am proud to recognize two weeks of simplicity. For both Jason and I, the adjective "complicated" easily describes our daily experiences. So much of our daily energy is spent battling the conditions of both physical and emotional pain, how we have energy to battle each other at the end of the day is pretty much miraculous.

Behind a clean shirt are combed hair, Jason's daily battle against Obsessive Compulsive Disorder can be best described by word "chaotic". Every day when Jason awakes it is immediately interested in neither the weather or the news. After only ten minutes wakened minutes, Jason has already fought his first battle against the obsessions that consume him. Following this battle regarding his fear of hearing damage, he is prepared for another fight as be tries to protect his mind from an all-consuming anxiety that dominates his life.

Behind a pink sweater and polished blond hair, my own personal battle against the demons of chronic pain can be best described as "unpredictable." While Jason battles the anxiety emotional pain, I fight a daily battle against chronic physical pain and strength I must summon when if that day is going to be a bad pain day. And alike Jason, my battle against unpredictable pain has already begun upon the opening of my eyes. My hands throb every morning I awake and my fingers are hard move. I quickly take my medication and pray that today my pain will be manageable enough to attend work

Years of therapy battling chronic depression, Insomnia, the consequences of early childhood sexual abuse, and severe alcoholism have made me a strong woman. In addition, my ability to quit drinking gives me hope that anything is possible. Three years ago I was praying for death, drinking like a sailor, and crying in secret. But the illness that freed me from the bonds of alcoholism keeps me jailed in another way.

Approximately a year and a half ago I began to experience pelvic cramping and pain in addition to periods that were already extremely painful. For almost a year doctors tried to determine the cause of the constant cramping and sharp pains that first led doctors to remove my appendix. Unsatisfied by an unanswered I did my own personal research and discovered information about a disease called endometriosis which bloody sores scatter the outside of the uterus. As I read more and more about the condition I grew was convinced that endometriosis has going to be my new enemy.

After an unsuccessful month of various medications and multiple tests, my own research had convinced me that it was time for surgery. With my mom along for moral support we had to pretty much beg the doctor to proceed with the necessary surgery. Though doubtful, he finally agreed to proceed with surgery.

The unresolved condition led to the immediate rejection of alcohol from my diet. Following a night of drinking, the extreme pain that I suffered the next day led me to a visit to the emergency room. While convinced that the drinking and the pain was coincidental, I experienced the same intense pain following another night of drinking. That was when I gave up drinking. The amount of pain that alcohol causes my already sore body just was not worth it anymore. And I haven't drunken, or really even wanted to, since.

To little of my own surprise, the surgery confirmed my diagnosis that I did, in fact, have endometriosis. During the surgery, using a very small laser, some of the larger sores were burned off leaving only the unmovable sores.

Already dependent on medication that kept my pain manageable most days I joined the chronic pain clinic that as offered at Kaiser. I attended a class for 12 weeks which met for 4 hours each week. It was incredibly helpful to learn that even a small cup of decaffeinated coffee has enough caffeine to cause breakthrough pain. Breakthrough pain occurs when the regular daily pain spikes to irregularly high level. I have learned from my own experiences that my only answer for breakthrough pain is staying in bed with a heating pad and the comfort that eventually the pain will ease. Episodes last sometimes only hours, but can last as long as three days. I have discovered nothing (pill-wise) that helps the pain reaches what I call the point of no return. The class taught me some useful information but still I struggled to successfully and reliably maintain the pain. Having already been forced by my condition to quit my job I got depressed; my depression led to more pain which in turn led to more sadness. The doctor assigned to me by the clinic was not only completely unhelpful, but was rude as well. He would tell me things like "you really shouldn't be in so much pain." Before I was officially diagnosed with endometriosis it was like every doctor was convinced that the pain was just in my head. And let me tell you, the only thing worse than bad pain is being told you're not really in pain and that the whole thing was in my head.

Unlucky as I am, I soon after developed cub ital tunnel syndrome in my left elbow and carpel tunnel in both right and left hands. Following another surgery aimed to release pain caused by my elbow condition I developed cub ital tunnel syndrome in my left arm and car pol tunnel in both hands half-way through the pain management class. After being told that because my hand and elbow symptoms did not appear until halfway through the class, there was nothing the pain clinic could do for the hand and elbow pain because it was for pelvic pain that I was referred to the clinic.

I stuck it out with the inconsiderate doctor until the class ended, after which my primary care physician, Dr. B, agreed to managed my pain medication.

Pain has plagued my life since. I wake up with pain in my hands and go to sleep with pain in my pelvis. But two weeks ago I met with my doctor and we both agreed to put me on a long acting opiate that I take only twice daily. For the first time since the pain began, I feel hopeful that I will be able to return to work soon and stop yelling at Jason. Dr. B is very critical about using opiates for non-cancer pain and under his supervision I feel protected by the care he gives and the medication dosages he prescribes. The new medicine isn't filled with acetemetaphine like the Norco I was taking 7 times a day. While some people regard pain medication as poison, for me it is my savior. I can tell you right now that I would rather lose five or ten years of my lifespan in exchange for pain free years of quality.

The switch to the long-term opioid two weeks ago definitely factored into the simple week that Jason and I have enjoyed. Even though I was on Norco before the change, following a year at basically the same dosage I grew a tolerance to the medication and was experiencing breakthrough pain that conflicted with the job that I still hope I have and an embarrassing dinner with friends in which I was forced to leave early due to stomach cramps. I really hope to get off these medications and will definitely be good during pregnancy, but after long contemplations I come to the table with the opinion that I would rather live a life of free of pain, even if it costs me a couple years in my elderly age.

Without my medications Jason and my relationship might have also been a lost cause. When I am struggling with pain and the medication is failing to deal with it, I often make Jason have to deal with it. I become a critical and am just down right mean. I take out my physical pain on whoever is on my radar, which usually includes the people and family I am closest to. I am trying to change and now regularly address and apologize when I cross the line. While my parents say the medication is poison, without it I would surely drive them away as well.

I plan on attending an anger management class when I come up with some extra cash because I am truly scared that my inability to properly communicate with people could cost me not only the Jason, love of my life, but healthy relationships with my direct family. I am super sensitive and behind a tough exterior I hide my insecurities. So when I am racked with hurt or when I am frustrated with my medication's feeble and unsuccessful attempt while dealing with a pain flare up I yell and take out my hurt (whether physical or emotional) on the people I love most. Why I am meanest to the people I love most is a not only a confusing flaw, but flaw with possibly devastating consequences. I am lucky to have a caring boyfriend, a caring mom and a father I can only hope to impress some day. My mom, my dad, my sister Nini, and my fiance Jason are the people I love unconditionally. Most important, I am lucky to come from a forgiving family that has put up with the chaos I brought with me from my mother's womb.

One month ago I found out that in Redwood City there is a pain clinic that specializes in chronic pelvic pain. When I heard this news I wanted to cry with relief; but I don't want to I'm so excited to meet with a doctor who specializes in endometriosis on May 12. It's just too bad it took Kaiser over a year to recognize that I might need a pelvic pain specialist was right around the corner. Together I hope to at least lower the amount of pain medication needed to muffle the pain, but unless I get off the pills completely I will have to halt wishes of pregnancy and risk infertility.

The beginning... sort of.

Aloha! My name is Michelle and Jason is my boyfriend. We live together in apartment 206 .

For years I have dealt with depression and personality disorder. Since the the age of twelve I have been in and out of hospitals dealing with chronic depression and alcoholism. At the age of I began treatment for depression through electro consulsive therapy (ECT). By the age of 25 and after more than 30 treatments I was left alive but with severe long and short term memory loss. I met Jason at the age of 27 at a time when Alcoholism consumed me. A year later, I was diagnosed with endotriosis and stopped drinking. While I still struggle against the demons of depression, chronic pelvic pain has interrupted my life in a new and different way. Though free from alcohol, I am dependent on medication that, while allowing me to function, controls my life. With the medication I am free from the bonds of pain, but without it I can do little but lay in bed. I want to share with you my battle to get better.

And now I will given a little bit on Jason. Some people battle chlostrophobia, and others dread the thought of germs. Jason fears loud noise and ear damage. A year ago, an accidently experience in which one of his best-friends lit a firecracker nearby, Jason's mental state crashed from his fear and beleif that the firecracker did permanent damage. His battle with OCD began when we has a teen, but as he has aged his symptoms increased to his present state that has completely interrupted his life. When Jason was 22, his mother died from alcoholism; only months later one of his best friends was murdered. Consumed by so much anxiety and obsession Jason presently unable to work or properly attend any treatment his health care permits. At present he is eagerly awaiting possible treatment at the McLean Psychiatric Hospital is Massachussetts.

So that is a little bit of background on the people who live in apartment 206. Behind a red door we still laugh and love and this is what I want to share.