life — Page 6

November 15, 2014 By Skyla Dawn Cameron 2 Comments

The Call Is Coming from Inside the House (On Side Effects & Perspective)

I am not an anti-medicine/science person. I’m staunchly pro-vaccine. I greet a lot of “alternative” treatment ideas with a raised brow without studies to back them up. Anecdotal “cayenne pepper cured my cancer” stories will drastically drop my estimation of your intelligence.

But I have been very vocally against medicine for me and my mental health for years.

Not for everyone. I know people with bipolar, depression, various anxieties disorders, and OCD who have benefited tremendously from being medicated. I support anyone adding more tools to their Coping Toolbox and I’m glad those tools are there.

I also know a number of people who take a cocktail of several mental health drugs and they’re, for lack of a more nuanced term, still pretty fucking nuts. Bipolar 1 can be very challenging to treat with its wide variety of symptoms and each of those drugs will have its own set of side effects to also manage. And though I have never been sick before with anything a GP couldn’t swiftly deal with, I have had bad reactions previously to very common drugs. For me the medication risks (and the cost of drugs without a drug plan) have never been worth the potential benefit since I’d still end up being crazy, so I have worked and worked and worked to manage this disorder without medical intervention. Poured countless hours into understanding and applying cognitive therapy, the effects nutrition and exercise have on the brain, etc.

And now after a lifetime of dealing with a brain trying to kill me without turning to medication, I have a body attacking itself with a degree of severity that requires…medication.

Yes, yes, the universe (or whatever deity you choose to believe in) has a wonderful sense of humour.

I was entirely prepared to try tackling this chronic illness thing without drugs but my specialist doctor says I already do all the right things. Besides cutting back on stress which would exasperate it, it’s out of my hands.

I need drugs. Drugs that have side effects. Drugs that increase risks of cancer and organ damage. Drugs I may not tolerate but we have to try them first. Drugs I have to pay for and will leave me royally fucked if I have a bad month and can’t afford.

The exact position I have worked so damn hard not to be in.

Thus began the process where I become a walking, talking encyclopedia on my illness and the drugs I’m taking/will be starting on. Where the risks are, what I can do to minimize the risks, what early signs to watch for, what I should be the most concerned about, what the prognosis is for the various cancers/illnesses I could get. I value preparedness and cope better with knowledge.

Despite all the numbers and figures I looked at, there was one batted around that kept popping up in my head during my research.

85% survival rate.

Not because my immune system is attacking me. Not because of the drugs I’m on to handle it. Not because of the other increased health risks.

85% survival rate. Of bipolar disorder.

The thing I already have.

If my life were a murder mystery flashback and the audience was trying to narrow down the suspect list as to who ultimately kills me, the most likely culprit is the one I’ve been living with the entire time. The one I’m closest to. The one I think I’ve got beat. My brain.

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The call is coming from inside the house.

Even now, the most serious side effects I’ve had to deal with on drugs have been three weeks of drug-triggered intense mania and a terrifying emotional, paranoid breakdown the first time I had to cut my dose by 1/8th (that I’m still not 100% recovered from).

The liver/kidney damage I worried about? The violent nausea I was terrified of? Even the potential bone marrow suppression? Sure, all risks that might pop up. There is lots to watch out for. But thus far, it’s STILL my brain that’s the problem.

And I’ve managed that fucker for over twenty years.

The rest of this? Coping with the disease and the mini pharmacy I cart around in my purse now? Well, in the immortal words of Olivia Pope:

It's handled. Perspective is a wonderful thing.

And so is my “rescheduled birthday” next week (more on that probably later).

October 26, 2014 By Skyla Dawn Cameron 7 Comments

Not Dead Yet

AKA “When’s that book coming?” Fall ’14 Edition and “Why the hell aren’t you online anymore, Skyla?”

So I’m not dead yet, despite recent appearances to the contrary.

I’m sick and I can’t be fixed, though. Which wasn’t really the outcome I was hoping for, since I already have a chronic illness called being bipolar that takes up a lot of my energy.

Thankfully after nearly six months, one nurse practitioner calling me crazy, one internist implying I was wasting his time, one fill-in doctor whose hands were tied, a wonderful surgeon, my own badass primary care physician, and my rockstar mum advocating for me, I finally have drugs to hopefully put me in remission and a referral to a specialist who will help me not get sick and lose sixty-five pounds again.

Of course I’m not stupid and know all of the steps that contributed to developing a chronic illness–while I don’t have the usual risk factors for this autoimmune disease and was extremely healthy when it developed, I have stress. Lots of stress. I’m wound very tight and I try to do everything and work miracles for people and worry about rent and volunteer and think about my pets being sick and don’t ask for help and constantly feel like the sky is falling and it’s going to kill me at some point. Like probably literally.

So my primary concern for the next forever is prioritizing my own health over everything (except probably my pets because I’m still me).

I’ve already taken a big break from social networking because I haven’t been well enough to sit at the laptop all day (and also because I can’t listen to people talking about dieting while I’m basically starving to death) but now it’s a mental health concern; I simply can’t do this always online thing. I’m overly sensitive and get easily overwhelmed by bad news; I get exhausted by the constant drama in publishing; I get anxious trying to keep up with everyone. Now, Facebook I hate to begin with, so I’ll just continue to avoid it; Twitter, I adore, but I’m going to have set daily limits. Pinterest isn’t bad because I don’t have to talk to anyone. I’ve already deleted GoodReads from my bookmarks because it’s too tempting to look and see who hates and has pirated my books today while updating what I’ve read.

Basically, if you want to talk to me, send me an email.

Of course, that’s the next area: I’m having set times for email-answering and that’s it. It’s distracting when I try to work and I can’t do this available 24/7 thing. Email if you like, so long as you’re not fucking creepy, and I’ll hit you back when I can.

Also, if you’re asking me to do something for you and you’re not going to pay me well for it, my answer is “no”. I’m practicing that. I have a medical reason now to be a selfish bitch so no no no no no noooooo.

No. (I’m getting the hang of it.)

Now, since this is my blog, and I’m a writer, and I have readers, here’s that update: this means I don’t even know wtf for books.

Being sick for a long time with no answers, it’s really easy to assume the worst, especially when I have NEVER been sick like this in my entire life. And while I try not to worry because worry is completely useless when it’s over something out of my hands, periodically out of nowhere an uncontrollable fear vortex would start and sweep me up in it. Everyone and their mother was telling me I had lupus. Strangers were remarking on how sick I looked. A lot of my symptoms were similar to misdiagnosed women who ultimately had ovarian cancer so there was lots of OH GOD WHAT IF I’M DYING.

Like I could feel the hard plastic of the chair in the doctor’s office, smell the recycled and vaguely antiseptic air, and see the doctor’s steady gaze as this bad news was delivered–in my very overactive brain–and I kept thinking but I have stories. Thinking about my worst case scenario, THAT was my overwhelming concern.

I have stories to tell. They call to me and need my focus. And I know I could live sixty years, six years, or six weeks, and I will still die with more stories to tell, and that thought is more upsetting than anything else I could face.

But I’m not dying yet.

It’s a very weird place to be in, with your gut telling you to be happy but knowing happy = starving. I have to pay bills and every month I’m one emergency away from not being able to pay rent. It would be nice to be in a privileged position where I could say fuck everything, I’m going to spend all my time writing the stories I love, but my reality is that following one’s bliss isn’t an option if that bliss doesn’t put food on the table. If you’ve never been in it, poverty is a really ugly cycle that seems designed to keep you in its clutches.

My urban fantasy doesn’t provide me enough money for the time spent on it. This causes me a lot of stress and worry. The re-release of River, which I put a tremendous amount of work into rewriting and promoting (while I was very sick and in a lot of pain), has sold 32 copies*. That is far below what even the re-released Demons of Oblivion books sold their first few months last year and River has traditionally been WAY more popular than those books, so I dunno. And that’s okay–I put out a book and if people don’t want to buy it, that’s disheartening but understandable. No one is entitled to money simply for writing a book, myself included.

But this is why I have to say I have no idea what next year will bring given that I really have to consider my health now. Because publishing sucks the fun out of the whole thing and stresses me out, and e-serials don’t generate any income. As much as I want to get the rewrite of Wolfe done and released, and Oblivion written and released–all in a timely fashion–or release something fun just for fans, I also can’t put myself in another situation where I can’t afford groceries and get stressed out and get sick like last spring. And I’d rather be honest about this when I know people are looking for updates than throw out another vague “stuff and things going on, I dunno, be patient *hand-wave distraction*”.

So when is the next book coming out? No fucking clue. Either I wait until I have money saved up so I can cut back on paying work, I wait until I want to finish these projects for my own pleasure and can squeeze in the time, or…wait until the money fairy comes, I guess? (And my experience has been there’s a hook in the bait when a money fairy does offer.)

I am exploring options as to how to make writing UF/non-romance more sustainable for me because you there reading this who loves my books, I love you right back, I appreciate you, and I do want to find a way to bring more stories to you–but right now that kind of problem solving is stressful and so it’s not priority. Paying bills, staying calm, and writing pleasure projects is priority.

I need rest and I need to not think about publishing.

I’m really tired of worrying and feeling guilty about it. So books will release when they release. The sky is not going to fall. I’m not going to feel bad or pressured about this. I love when you tell me you’ve enjoyed my work but please don’t email me with demands to hurry up. I promise I will tell everyone when a book is coming out.

Don’t expect news until next year, when I’ve been in remission for a while.

If you want to stay up to date on news, you can subscribe to the blog (on a regular screen, there’s a subscribe box to your right at the top; on mobile, I dunno where it is, probably toward the bottom of the page) and get an email when there’s a new post.

Gonna go practice my zen now.

* I included that exact number because there is so much mystery and vagueness around publishing and books, and I imagine “How low can sales REALLY be?” probably comes up. Well, folks–including the pirates always hitting my site wanting freebies–that’s the reality. I came from small press where there was little support, I now self-pub my backlist, and the number I gave is not unique to me. There have been thousands of illegal downloads and a handful of sales. It should be clear why I’m not eager to put out another book right now.

September 4, 2014 By Skyla Dawn Cameron

Print, Compromise, Gratitude

exhausted RIVER is now in print*, a few days later than expected. You’ll find it on Amazon here.

I ended up making some compromises on things I didn’t think I would. I was adamant, initially, that if I was going to put out a book in print, I’d use LSI. Their print books are excellent quality. That was the intention with RIVER. But besides LSI’s set up fees that require them to have a credit card on hand, there’s a fee to keep a book in print year to year. The yearly fee isn’t much per title but my print sales tend to be extremely low and RIVER in ebook has barely sold at all, so the odds of me making enough to justify keeping the book at LSI year to year seemed unlikely to me. I figured I’d eventually move it to Createspace anyway, which is free–and I already have an account there, so the more books, the sooner I get a cheque–and I might as well do it now.

I’m disappointed and as I’m ordering a stack of print books now, I’m hoping the quality issues I’ve heard plague Createspace don’t happen. But this was a compromise that made sense so I’m trying to let it go.

That’s the name of the game at the moment: compromise. I’m naturally, er, wound a little tight and I try to do All The Things and everything must be Just So and stay out of my way if Something Isn’t Perfect. But that’s completely impossible now. I’m still sick (I’ve lost forty pounds–my fucking yoga pants fall off now) and I’m not getting better, and now everything is prioritized according to how important it actually is and whether or not I have the physical/mental energy to devote to it.

Unsurprisingly, very few juices are worth the squeeze when you’re ill.

So this print book is that. If you hate or can’t order from Amazon, I am ordering extra print copies to sell here through my online shop for $10 + shipping, signed. Once copies arrive and I get shipping estimates, I’ll get it listed.

Other compromises had to be made with the tour–I had to bow out of a few stops and I didn’t get to stick around and reply to comments as much as I wanted. So for that, I apologize. Thank you to everyone who offered a spot and permitted me space to talk about the book, and thanks especially to Melissa for not just organizing everything AND advertising my spots when I’ve not been around, but for attempting to stay on top of me and ensuring I got my posts in to the bloggers. It was tremendous work for and pressure on her, and I’m extremely grateful to have her in my corner.

I think we could all do with some rest, though–I don’t ever want to hear about this damn book again.

——

*WOLFE, however, is *not* in print. Anywhere. Please, if you see copies available, do not purchase it; wait until next year when a cleaned up version is available.

July 18, 2014 By Skyla Dawn Cameron

This Thing I Learned at Age 31

So I’ve been sick for…a while.

Since the middle of May, in fact.

May was kind of a blur for me because I had a stress breakdown after the fundraiser for Julie, I couldn’t afford food, I had the therapy dog test coming up, Sophie had her six month checkup, and then Jilly-bean rapidly became ill and went down hill and died the beginning of June. It seems I might’ve had a virus or something and I probably didn’t notice because I was already weak and tired and constantly dizzy by the sudden drop in daily calories while I was rationing food. But one thing stuck.

The Cough of Doom.

The cough that lasted all day. And all night so I was getting 2-4 hours of sleep a night. The cough that got progressively worse. The cough that had me choking in fits so hard that I threw up. Frequently. (TMI? Fuck you, it’s my blog.)

The last month and a half, people IRL have been giving me odd looks, because apparently I resemble death. I’m pale, I’m haggard and sickly. Not sleeping will do that to a girl. “Go to the doctor,” was the common refrain.

“But I don’t want to waste anyone’s time–I’m not sick. I don’t have a fever, I don’t have chest pain, I’m not wheezing. I just have a cough.”

“…that won’t go away. Go to the doctor.”

Dr. Dina finally threatened me, and she’s scary, so I went to see a nurse practitioner. And she confirmed I don’t have the plague but probably cough-variant asthma, and sent me home with an inhaler and instructions to come back in two weeks.

Twenty-four hours later, I’m better. I’m not coughing constantly. I slept–SLEPT!–seven hours straight. And as a result of sleeping, I could do things today like think and move and function and manage my moods and clean. Sleep is the foundation on which everything else is built; without it, my day loses structure, and without that self-imposed structure, I become chaos incarnate in a filthy house staring at a blinking cursor on my screen unable to remember basic things like nouns and verbs with no energy to even feed myself and unable to battle crazy mood swings.

And the magical inhaler fixed it.

So this is the lesson I’ve learned: apparently when you’re sick you can go the doctor and then they give you medicine and you get better. And sometimes you don’t even have to argue with anyone or roll your eyes at them for being stupid.

I am in awe of this concept.

I’m eyeing this “go to the doctor” idea warily still; the experiment might need to be repeated to be 100% sure (but hopefully not for a while).

In the meantime, I’m looking forward to being a functioning human being again. There is work, several meetings and a funeral next week, and also much to be done if I’m releasing a book next month.

(Speaking of, I saw an August 1 release date being posted around for River–uh, guys, LATE August. I’ve said that everywhere: LATE. VERY LATE. Aug 25th at the very earliest.)

June 20, 2014 By Skyla Dawn Cameron

An Update

So it looks like Sophie has Cushing’s (hyperadrenocorticism). Which is what we suspected two years ago, but tests are expensive and her health improved so we didn’t go looking.

Thankfully, it took only some brief refreshing before I once again became a walking encyclopedia on the topic.

All things considered, it’s not as bad as it could be, and she’s showing very few clinical signs so her quality of life isn’t being impacted at this point; we’re not jumping in to treatment, at least not for a few months. One of the benefits of the disease is that allergy symptoms lessen or are non-existent, so we’ll get through her current allergy season without her scratching herself raw before we look at dealing with it.

I am really appreciative of the people who have expressed concern for Sophie and pledged their support–that has meant the world to me. For the next little while, things are okay. She’s well enough to remain in the therapy dog program, and she goes for her first visit at the hospital Monday night. I’ll hopefully find a bit of time next week to blog about it, as I think it’s a wonderful program and I encourage people with dogs to contact their local St. John’s Ambulance group about it to see if they’re eligible.

The past three weeks have also been near-unbearable for me, and my sincerest thanks to everyone who sent condolences and checked in with me. I still miss Jilly-bean constantly and grief is suffocating at times but I’m trying hard to get back into social interaction and work (which I am catching up with as quickly as I can). I still can’t eat much, I don’t sleep more than a couple of hours once in a while, so my ability to brain has been severely impaired. As long as I don’t have to remember stuff like words or anything with great frequency, I can putter along.

Finally, the last blog post served its purpose, more or less, and I’ve decided to password protect it for the sake of those involved. The password will be my father’s last name, all lowercase; if you don’t know what that is, you don’t need to read it. 😉

It might’ve seemed an odd thing to post publicly, but then I talk about a whole lot publicly, don’t I? Here’s the thing: when you are raised to see your entire existence as some shameful secret, taught not to talk about things, to be silent, to anticipate rejection and resentment for things out of your control, you can go one of two ways: you can perpetuate the cycle of secrets and silence, or you can push back against it.

I’ve chosen the latter.

It never stops being terrifying, but I can’t seem to stop myself from chasing down the demons and things I’m afraid of. I suppose there are worse compulsions to have.

Huge thanks specifically to Danni for rocking the support as usual, and Lili and Shai for being quick to send their hugs. Y’all make me feel like the Tara behind the Slayer and pals.

(I mean, the less-hot, non-lesbian version of Tara.)

ETA: I”ve been informed I’m not less-hot than Tara. Okay, LESS-NICE. Because, let’s face it: I’m the Anya.