ET: The Hamamatsu Deaf Killer

Got another Executed Today entry for y’all, the first in quite awhile: Seisaku Nakamura, the Hamamatsu Deaf Killer, a teenage serial killer in World War II Japan. He didn’t prey on deaf people but was himself deaf.

Nakamura was able to rack up a considerable body count for his age. He was hanged at the age of nineteen.

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Still very tired

So as I said, while I was dog-sitting for Mom’s dog Kinsey, I slept on the living room floor. This was to keep her company. When Mom is home, Kinsey isn’t even allowed in the house on account of the cat. I let her in the house in their absence but in order to keep her company, and also to make sure she didn’t poop on the living room rug, I slept there. And she slept on the rug next to me. No mess was made.

Kinsey only knows about feral cats and views them as wild animals to bark at and chase. Baxter, Mom’s cat, is terrified of dogs. There was another dog Mom had, Sadie, Kinsey’s housemate and best friend, who was a real sweetheart but VERY small animal aggressive. Sadie regularly killed the aforementioned feral cats and probably would have attacked Baxter. But Sadie died in February (old age) and Kinsey (who is quite old herself) has been alone in the garage ever since.

(Not trying to pass judgment on my mom here. Just stating the facts of the dog’s living situation.)

Long story short, I’m going to adopt Kinsey. Mom is okay with this. I took her to the vet’s on Wednesday, before Mom got back home, for a checkup and to see why she was pulling fur on her butt. She has a huge bald spot there. I thought it must be boredom but the vet says she has fleas and flea dermatitis. (Otherwise she’s perfectly healthy, very spry for a 14-year-old doggo.) I have placed an order for a crate and some other dog things from Chewy.com. Once the items arrive and Kinsey’s flea treatment is completed, she can come stay here.

I think I can get her to coexist with the cats; unlike Sadie, Kinsey was never small animal aggressive. She barked and chased the feral cats but didn’t attack, and she’s a big respecter of territory. At the vet’s office she exhibited no interest at all in the office cat that was wandering around, because she understood it was that cat’s territory and not her own. Whereas a feral cat wandering through the backyard at Mom’s is on Kinsey’s territory and fair game to bark at and chase. Obviously this will still be a delicate mission and the crate is primarily to assist with introducing Kinsey to the cats.

So that is why I slept on the floor while dog-sitting. There is no couch or anything at Mom’s house to sleep on, only a horribly uncomfortable chaise lounge with cushions only slightly less soft than rocks. The floor was more comfortable than that thing.

During my time at Mom’s I had a rather awful manic episode in spite of being compliant with my four psychiatric medications. By Saturday morning I’d been awake for 48-plus straight hours without relief and was very confused and hallucinating from sleep deprivation.

It was awful. Your body really starts to hate you when it’s deprived of sleep that long. My leg muscles stiffened up and ached horribly and I limped when I walked. My glasses with the special ultra lightweight carbon fiber lenses hurt my face and ears too much to wear. I tried to sleep; I lay quietly for many hours, but nothing doing. I was zinging out the eyeballs, higher than a kite, despite being 100% sober. It sucked.

At that point if I had not had dog-sitting duties I would have checked myself into the psychiatric ward, as this was totally a medical emergency, but who would look after Kinsey then? So I gritted my teeth and basically waited out the storm. Saturday during the day I started to come down and slept for four hours. Then that night I slept for five. The next night for six.

Also, on Saturday during the day — and through Sunday, up till that night — I began vomiting again because the world hates me or something.

Though I was sleeping again, I was still noticeably manic when I went to the psychiatric clinic on Monday to tell them what had happened. Talkingveryfastlikethis and jumping rapidly from topic to topic and abnormally cheerful. I didn’t have an appointment to see my psychiatrist until next month, but when they found out what had gone on they were all like, “Wait here, he will see you in ten minutes.”

He’s changing my medicines and advised me to see a gastroenterologist about the vomiting. This Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome thing is a matter of great concern to me and to my psychiatrist because obviously I can’t remain med-compliant if I can’t keep anything down.

I finally stopped puking on Monday and have resumed taking my medicines. I’m very tired from what happened from Friday to Wednesday and don’t feel up to a whole lot. I hope to resume website work tomorrow.

That is all.

Home from dog sitting

So I’m back from dog- and house-sitting for Mom and I’m pretty much dead on my feet.

It is a long story (which I might share when I’m less tired) but during my time there I chose to sleep on the floor instead of bed. And so I got very little sleep, but this was mostly NOT due to the fact that I was on the floor.

See y’all tomorrow or Friday. I’m beat.

A pretty discouraging diagnosis

So last weekend I became horribly sick again. You know, less than a month after last time. The anti-nausea medications weren’t doing squat and I was afraid it was going to last forever like last time, I went rushing off to the hospital — the only place that was open over the holiday weekend. And they told me they think I have something called Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome.

As far as I can tell,¬†Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome is the same kind of rubbish diagnosis that New Daily Persistent Headache is: it basically means “you keep puking on a regular basis and we have no idea what’s wrong.”

The doctor said my stomach, kidneys, pancreas, gall bladder, etc., were all “happy as clams.” Yet I keep throwing up and I keep having these spells of throwing up and that’s been happening for years now. I had a scope done five years ago and nothing untoward was discovered.

I saw my family doctor on Tuesday and they think the same thing. They’re trying to figure out what to do about it and I’m feeling very discouraged. They tried to get me to swallow an anti-nausea pill in the office and the mere thought of trying to do so made me puke again. (After puking, I swallowed the pill and kept it down. Go figure.)

I feel much better today, and was able to get some updates in, but the thought of this happening over and over and over and over again is very discouraging.

There are certain unpleasant physical sensations I can sort of put out of my head and carry on with life, but nausea’s not one of them. Furthermore, I am concerned about my medicine. I have to take four pills every morning and four every evening and that’s very important. I need to be able to take those medications and keep them down or, within a few days, I turn into a nervous mess and terrible things start happening. Once, like three years ago, I was throwing up almost every day for a solid month, and as a result could not take my medicine, and by the end of the month I’d slid into a terrible depression and the house was a tip because I was too depressed to clean it and I was a complete wreck as well.

So, I hope there’s something that can prevent this stuff from happening but I’m not optimistic.

On the bright side, I got a lovely email from someone working with the U.S. Marshals who complimented my work. I also had a lovely conversation with a lady who is trying to set up a database for missing Native Americans and wanted to know how it’s done, and I told her all my trade secrets.

Guest column

A week and a half ago, after the Cosby verdict was rendered, I read some absolutely vile stuff in the Facebook comments of articles on the subject. A lot of people calling his victims whores and liars and gold-diggers and saying if there was any truth to the allegations they would have come forward immediately and not waited. I called Dad and told him that if anybody said such things to him, he should tell them about the horrible things people said about me after I was raped.

Long-time readers of this blog will know the story: on June 16, 2009, I was on vacation in Virginia when I got lost and a stranger offered to walk me back to my friend’s place where I was staying and instead he took me out into the woods and beat me and choked me and raped me.

I blogged about it a few days later and was almost immediately attacked by jerks saying I was a liar. For the next month or so, as I was struggling to come to terms with what happened, I was also having to deal with the aforementioned jerks posting crap in the comments section of my blog. You read my entries in this category.

So I told Dad this, and he suggested I write a letter to the editor about it. I had previously written to the Lima News about gun control. So I thought Dad’s idea was a good one and I wrote another letter and sent it to them last Monday.

It turns out this letter was about twice as long as letters to the editor should be, but they wanted to print it anyway — as a “guest column” rather than a letter to the editor. The guy I spoke to on the phone was very nice. He said he was sorry such an awful thing had happened to me, and that guest columnists usually have their picture printed but given the subject matter if I didn’t want my picture in the paper he would understand.

Naturally I said a picture would be okay. The letter was published on their website last night, and in this morning’s paper. My dad is very proud. You can read it at this link or check out a picture of the newspaper below:

newspaper

Nothing much else has happened. Today I am playing driver, errand girl and nursemaid to Michael, who has had an extraction and a filling at the dentist’s. In a bit I’ll be running out to get his prescription at the pharmacy and also pudding and jello for him to eat tonight. Gotta be a good house-girlfriend, as I’m not much good for anything else.

General life and crazymeds update

So as you know, I had tummy troubles all last week and couldn’t do much of anything. Then on Monday I was feeling much better and I thought I’d celebrate with a tall frosty glass of milk. That didn’t end well.

After that I was afraid to put anything at all in my mouth which was kind of concerning because by then I’d been off my crazymeds for nearly a week. The very thought of trying to start taking them again made me panic.

I called my doctor’s office to ask for advice on how to resume regular eating, drinking, and medication-taking activities and the nurse I spoke to extremely concerned when she found out I was off my meds. She insisted I come in the next day for an appointment.

So I went, and they gave me some general advice on how to deal with it. They thought my extreme anxiety about the prospect of swallowing anything was probably related to the fact that I was off my meds. They said if by the next day I was unable to take them, I would have to come back and they would have to figure out something out to get them into me.

So the next day (which was yesterday) I was able to get my medication down in the morning, but in the process I spat pop all over my new silk shirt. I was not thrilled. Mentally muttergrumbling to myself about needing to dry-clean the shirt, I called the doctor’s office to tell them I’d taken my meds.

The secretary insisted I needed to be seen that day anyway, and I insisted I did not need to be seen because I had taken my meds, and round and round we went, and she finally transferred me to the nurse’s desk. I tried to explain to the nurse that the secretary had the wrong end of the stick, that since I had taken my meds I didn’t need to be seen. And she was all like, “Well, we’re all very worried about you and you seem agitated.”

“I’m agitated because my silk shirt has stains on it and I’ll have to pay for it to be cleaned,” I tried to explain, “and because there’s no reason I should be talking to you.”

“Well, you need to take your medication.”

“I just did!”

“You know it will take some time for it to start working again. You need to take your medication EVERY DAY for it to work. You can have a happy normal life if you just take your medicine blah blah blah…”

“This is unbelievable,” I muttered to myself. She heard me and thought I meant I didn’t think the meds worked. She started again on how great my life will be if I just take my medicine, and I had to explain that it was unbelievable that she was telling me this NOW. I’ve been taking psych meds since 2008 and I got diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 2011. I know all this stuff already.

Finally I got off the phone and suddenly felt really woozy. I had to lie down and sleep for like five hours. One of my medicines I take has a strong sedative effect if you’re not used to it, and I had missed eight days’ worth of doses.

So right now I’m waking up around seven or eight, doing whatever for a few hours, taking my medication at ten a.m., passing the heck out, not waking up for four to six hours, and then doing whatever for a few more hours until it’s time to take my nighttime dose at ten p.m., after which time I pass the heck out again.

What FUN.

There’s no way out but through, unfortunately. Once I get used to it again I’ll function normally.

Stupid stomach flu.