I cannot find the "trigger icon" which is to be used when the 's' word is mentioned. I am not suicidal nor do I know anyone who is. But there was a recent incident of suicide that has directly affected me and I need to let it out.

I can't recall the last time that I was here. It may have been as long ago as mid-September because it was then that my psychopharmacologist changed my medication again. Yes, I have been here since then. I requested an increase in Effexor from 225mg daily to 300mg daily. That's it. She stood firm insisting that 225mg was the maximum dosage for the Effexor IR tablets. When I showed her the FDA monograph that clearly states that 375mg may be used for those diagnosed as severely depressed, she again got in that "you can't believe everything you read on the Internet" and when I showed her that this was the real, honest to gosh FDA website, she said that "anybody can write what they want on there." So we had a huge falling out and my doc said that I could use another in the group if I wished. Which is what I'm going to do.

I can't believe all of the anger that I felt writing that paragraph. It made me nauseous. She gave me two choices – go to the hospital or start taking a new med and an increase of Seroquel. As my single greatest fear is spending even one hour on a psych ward, I had someone drive 60 miles, round trip, to pick up these 5mg tablets of Brintellix and 200mg tablets of Seroquel. At first the Seroquel made me feel goofy and high and sleepy. My doctor told me that the psychopharmacologist had prescribed that so that I could get some sleep.

I cannot recall ever saying that I was having problems with sleep (I am now... more to follow).

I'm getting my days mixed up... I'm losing days. I'm having days and nights that are worse than ever. I've weathered all side effects save one – my blood glucose levels are getting up to coma level. I have been in touch with:

Alice Flaherty MD, PhD
Dir., Movement Disorders Fellowship, Massachusetts General Hospital
Assoc. Prof. of Neurology, Assoc. Prof. of Psychiatry, Harvard Medical School

... about my hypergraphia and she has been kind enough to offer medication advice as well. In the email that she sent last Friday, she wrote:

"Since the Effexor seems to be working for you, another option is to add a mood stabilizer. Neuroleptics like risperidone or quetiapine are better for a quick response, but in the longer-term would be likely to worsen your blood sugar control. Depakote, oxcarbazepine, or lithium won’t interfere with your blood sugar; you could add the neuroleptic first, and gradually switch to one of the latter three."

So I'm on the quetiapine (Seroquel) now, but I'm not sure how to roll into the psychopharmacologist' office and say, "oh by the way...there's this renowned associate professor at Harvard who has suggested..."

I last saw my doc on 09/23 and was supposed to see him this morning at nine, but I could not get my ride approved. Why? Because someone in the organization decided that they couldn't give any information to Medicaid, my secondary insurer. I found this out on Friday. I called, downloaded a release form, filled it in and faxed it back asking that they call my direct contact immediately as I had a GP appointment Monday and my shrink appointment today. The psychopharmacologist, who seems determined to ruin my life, left me a message Friday at 6:39 PM telling me that she had left a voicemail for my direct contact. Like most state government employees, he doesn't work past five and, naturally, he's not in the office this week.

I don't know if it's the Seroquel or the Brintellix or just me going crazy but I can't sleep for more than one or two hours a day. I started crying in my doctor's office two weeks ago – for the first time in over 16 years – and I can't stop. Three weeks ago I would have said that I wish that I could cry, that I thought it would be cathartic. Now I will be reminded of the least of my losses and just start bawling.

Last week, for three of my one to two hour sleep sessions, I had dreams in which I was homeless and unemployed. Each period of time following one of those dreams I had feelings of worthlessness, I could not care for myself, how could I expect any woman to love me?

Everyone recommends that I go voluntarily into the hospital. I can pick my own date, be transported in any way I wish, etc. on "my terms." I've been in so many mental wards and full-fledged mental hospitals and my absolute greatest fear is going back. For those of you who have been in just a ward, you know what it's like. The hospital that my doc is associated with doesn't have bathroom doors wide enough for me to get through in my wheelchair. I took my laptop last time but they took away the charging cord. You're expected to either sleep the day through or watch some inane television show or participate in some kind of "group" activity which could be putting a puzzle together or some kind of frivolous "group therapy" with some wannabe CBT'er fresh from six weeks of training who wants us all to name our favorite color and explain why it's our favorite (and I always want to be the smartass and say that red is my favorite color because it reminds me of blood, my favorite food). And, if you're lucky, you'll see a doctor for ten or fifteen minutes who will try new medication cocktails and warn you that you're apt to be in for a couple of months.

I am raging one minute and crying the next. The irony is that I am just too sad and hopeless to feel any anxiety. This is a new feeling. The Brintellix is supposed to help with depression? If that's the case it isn't doing a thing. The Seroquel is supposed to help with psychosis? It's working for the most part.

But the fact is that I no longer know what needs 'fixing.' When I first dropped into this latest breakdown, I (and everyone that I spoke with) saw the trigger straight away: I had the remainder of my left leg amputated, I had never grieved losing my limbs and in trying to deal with this 'latest' loss, I was being overwhelmed by ALL of the loses that I had never properly grieved. It sounded very simple. Name the losses, grieve the losses, get on with life.

It just wasn't that simple.

I had no problem naming the losses. Nor adding more as I thought about it. My problem was that I could not find a way to grieve the living and, apparently, absurdly bright and happy son. Nor his mother, my ex-wife, the absurdly happy wife and the happy and loving family that they had created. All of my friends who had abandoned me? We had nothing in common any longer.

Just these past weeks I have wondered what I could do if it was not grief that was causing my despair? What if it was something even more complex and less likely to be healed?

Regret.

And I have spent the last couple of weeks thinking about all the things that I regret and all of them, in some way, fit into that pile of losses. I have thought, with regret, two other women whom I could have married, and much earlier than I actually did, and could have had their two and three (respectively) as my own. I regret waiting for the 'perfect' woman to come along. It turned out that she wasn't so perfect and that the younger two created beautiful and loving families.

I could take each one of my losses and boil it down until it was a skeleton and that skeleton would be regret. What can you do with a handful of regret? Not a single thing. There is no cure for depression caused by regret. I can't go back over thirty years and marry one of the other girls. All that regret means is the lack of our ability to go back. "If I knew then..." Everyone has a twinge of it, I think. I don't know. I see high school and college friends on Facebook, many grandparents, that write of their continued love for one another, their kids and grandkids (pardon if I have written this previously – I write so much in various places). Yes, they're old, but so am I. They've worked hard, they have nice homes, some are already retired. They walk, hand in hand, just as they walked away from the altar some 30-35 years ago.

My ex-friends, not all but most, have more joyful memories than I. And far, far fewer regrets than I – I cannot think of a single memory that did not end in a regret.

And it is far too late to rectify any regret. What's the treatment? I don't know. I don't even know if I will be taken seriously if I tell my doctor that I have stumbled upon a new 'reason' for my depression.

What do you call someone who regrets every major life decision? I can't think of a term right now. Those dreams of being homeless and unemployed? Are they symbolic of anything except worthlessness? I don't participate in life, that's certain.

My caregiver would have normally been here this morning. But because I had an appointment, I told her not to come. So I steeled myself and rolled down the hall just to check my mail just before five. There was a new tenant checking her mail. She introduced herself and I did so in return. "Isn't it just awful about Mr. Love?" she asked. I didn't know what in the world she was talking about.

Mr. Love was one of the first tenants that I met when I moved from a nursing home to this apartment complex over three years ago. He went out two or three times daily. Monday through Saturday he always took his previous days clothing to be dry-cleaned and laundered and on those same days he would go to the grocers to get the fresh food that he would cook daily. Earlier this year his 1988 Cadillac finally broke down beyond repair and he bought a new Buick.

Mr. Love and I didn't talk a great deal but he did ask me questions about being in a nursing home. He turned 87 last December (when I was still getting out of my apartment occasionally) and we had a small gathering in one of the activity rooms. For 87 he was quite spry and got around remarkably well.

I asked this woman what had happened to Mr. Love. "He blew out his brains with a gun!" she told me. I gave some sort of vocal acknowledgement, turned in my chair and started crying as I wheeled back to my door.

And I'm crying right now.

He had always said that he would never go into a nursing home. He had no family and his only friends were the dry cleaner, grocery and McDonald's merchants. Around seven I called one of the four people in my building who look after me and asked what had happened. It had happened last Friday but they were going to keep it from me until I 'got better.' Last Friday morning Mr. Love had confused the bathroom door and the front door and had stumbled and fallen, naked, into the hallway. He was very bright. He knew what this would mean for him. He had a handgun and he used it and evaded the nursing home.

I've been shaken up during the past couple of weeks. What I learned today hasn't helped things. Mr. Love was adamant that he would not go into a nursing home. I am equally adamant about never entering a mental ward or hospital again. I, however, am opposed to suicide and have no means to kill myself even if I had the inclination.

Had I been able to make my appointment today there are things that I have written here that I would have mentioned. Even crying, though, I don't feel much emotion right now. Too sad to feel anything except a notion that I may go mad again at any moment. Wondering if I had had a wife and family if I would have taken better care of my body. Wondering if I would have been a better husband for Susan or for Nancy. And which would have been the better wife and mother. Stupid, fruitless wondering. I can't go back and it is much, much too late to begin anything new.

The last dream that I recall in my homeless/unemployed series was with Nancy. I am judgmental even in my dreams – I have seen photos of my ex-wife, Susan and Nancy taken in 2015 and Nancy, by far, looks the best: she has aged remarkably well. She is, as she has always been, long muscled, lithe, coltish. Thin in the hips with a flat stomach, a slightly visible rib cage and medium to smallish soft breasts with perfect nipples. She doesn't walk but rather sways, sashays, moving like a small craft on gentle water. This is how I recall her and in the photo that I have she is wearing a short, sleeveless cotton dress. The dress looks as soft as she looks, her long legs still with those long muscles. I know little of her marriage except to say that I have been told that it has been rocky at times and that she did not stay in the same upper middle class bracket that we were both raised in. She seems to move every two years or so from one small rural house to another. She may be madly in love with her husband although they are now living separately.

I am too new to this to decipher what meaning, if any, is behind these dreams. I do know, I believe, that I must accept that my losses are regrets that can never be set right. Far, far too late for that. And there is no hope in making an effort to create a "new" category to be fulfilled. I'll not meet a nice widow at my local Starbucks who will fulfill my more mature years.

I have no legs. I cannot transfer from wheelchair to car and back. Transportation is a problem. I also fear leaving my apartment. I'm not exactly ready for a new romance.

I am dry. No more tears for a while. I understand why people sometimes use the word "numb." I've been slipping in and out of madness for the past two weeks. I'm calm now, no anxiety, but I have no hope of finding anything good in life. At some point I will find myself, euphemistically, where Mr. Love found himself but I did not prepare for that inevitability and I'll find myself in the mental ward of a nursing home.

When I dream of kissing Nancy's full lips, I am not self-conscious about having few teeth. I am with other women that I dream of kissing. I wonder why?

I'm not fishing for replies. I just came here, really, to tell the story of Mr. Love, which I would have told my doctor today.

I still have hypergraphia. Unfortunately, it is no longer a creative spark, just a simmering of longevity.

[Angelique67]

Hi ciderguy. I'm very sorry to read about Mr. Love, even though I never knew him. My mom is 87 and I worry about her health failing all the time. It's just awfully sad.

I wish I knew what to say about your struggles with regret. For me I guess it has softened into a quiet sadness. I think it's good that you're finally able to cry. It doesn't feel helpful now, maybe, but it should after a time. I wish I could say something helpful.

[Angelique67]

Oh, by the way, the trigger symbol typed out is:

[ trigger]put your triggering text between the brackets[/trigger]

So, precede with:

Possible trigger:

And end with

[Skeezyks]

Hello Ciderguy: Thank you for sharing this. I'm in my mid 60's & also have many regrets. I wrote in another reply earlier today that, somehow, I turned out to be someone I would not want to have anything to do with if I were another person. I often think to myself that I hope I could have been considered to have been mentally ill all of my life because, if this is not the case, then it just means I was a bad seed. Regrets? Oh yes, I have a cargo ship full of them. And, of course, you're correct, we can't go back. And, at this late stage in my life, there's nothing I can do about any of it. So I simply try to live in the moment. And I pretty-much just keep to myself. I know that anyone who really knew me would not want to have anything to do with me. And I don't really get along with other people well. So I just save everyone the trouble & keep to myself. It is my gift to the world. I send you wishes for deep peace.