Good morning, Readers. It’s zero-dark-thirty and I can’t sleep so I’ve been cruising statistics. Despite the fact that I haven’t posted for a month, I’m still getting an average of 45 readers a day. CPEP, Ativan and “Beyond Recovery” continue to be the blogs that attract the most readers.
My work on the book has slowed down. There are two reasons for that: I am feeling better so I am spending less time in bed, and I can’t get a home health aide so I have to spend what little energy I have on taking care of myself and my home.
The homeopathic remedy—now in its third month—continues to work wonders. Emotionally, no psych med I ever took has made me feel as good as the remedy prescribed by my homeopaths. One of the things that we have discovered is that the damage done to my immune system by antidepressants was massive. Now, the only tolerable dose of remedy is one drop in one cup of water and then only take one teaspoonful of this. One drop to one cup—I marvel at this. Imagine the amount of damage done every time a physician has prescribed a full dose of something, e.g., 250 mg. of antibiotic. Now—one drop, one cup, one teaspoon. That’s all my immune system can tolerate.
My nervous system is settling down. Month by month, I am quieter, calmer. No tranquilizers, just restoring my nervous system after all the damage wreaked by antidepressants. I still get depressed sometimes, but it is always because of something that society has done to me, for example, my home health aide walked out in the middle of his shift leaving the dishes half washed, a load of laundry in the washing machine and a pot boiling on the stove. How am I, in my wheelchair, supposed to cope with this? And the agency, instead of sending me another aide, kicked my case back to the county, which . . . Ah, well, it’s a long story, but one thing hasn’t changed: it’s about the perception of powerlessness. That’s what depression is.
It was amazing to watch as I started to sink into the abyss. I have firmly established such a higher level of functioning that depression wasn’t business-as-usual; it was a major, devastating crisis. Clearly, I have brain damage resulting from a quarter of a century of antidepressants. As that abyss opened, I could see it; I could feel it: I was tripping into some organic problem. But I pulled back. I’m smart; I’ve learned—and I’ve got a homeopathic remedy working for me.
Regarding the potentially fatal urinary tract infection that I reported a month ago: I don’t have one. What I have is an indwelling catheter that causes colonies of bad things to grow. Consequently, physicians who didn’t know much about catheters were misinterpreting the lab reports. As reported in http://annecwoodlen.wordpress.com/2014/07/15/good-news-chariots-comin/ the urologist informed me that he treats patients, not paperwork, and I don’t have an infection. (A nurse later commented that my paperwork needs to be treated.)
Because of this misinterpretation of the lab reports, I have stopped getting lab work done. Does it really matter what the lab tests report? What really matters is how the patient feels, and I continue to feel better. For a long time, I really felt myself to be—if not at Death’s door—then at least in Death’s driveway. A friend sent me a cartoon of a cat at heaven’s door, watching while St. Peter punched another hole in its nine-lives card. Yeah, that was me, but not anymore. Now I feel better. I feel solid, as if I am whole and have got a firm grip on life. And members of my care team—massage, chiropractic, physical therapy—who actually lay hands on me also declare that I feel better.
In three months, I’ll get routine blood work done again just for jollies. Meanwhile, my skin looks better, my smile is brighter, my mind is clearer, I stand up straighter—offhand, I’d say I’m doing okay. A far cry from healthy but an even farther cry from dying.