Category Archives: health

Dopamine Fasting Is Really A Thing

Thanks to co-morbid mental health concerns, I am a person with considerable dopamine issues. So when I saw a headline in the Inverse Daily newsletter about dopamine fasting, my interest was absolutely piqued.

“A dopamine fast? Clue me in, Inverse!” I said out loud to no one. (Did you know cats have the ability to roll their eyes?)

According to the article, it only takes a single day of abstinence from, well, most everything you’re used to flooding your senses. We’re talking social media, advertisements, entertainment, conversation, podcasts, audio books, video games, pretty much anything on the computer. No board games, no poker, no hate-watching reality TV, no re-writing librettos to make them pornographic – you see where this is going. And of course: no drinking, no drugs, no smoking, no sex. No junk food, no dessert. No gossip, no schadenfreude if you happen to witness your grumpy neighbor stepping in dog poop. Basically, nothing from which you derive some sort of pleasure or gratification, especially the immediate kind. Anything that makes your receptors fire off that sweet, sweet dopamine is off-limits.

Illustration of the Dopamine Pathway

Image: Inverse Daily

Presumably you can do stuff like wash dishes,  get a root canal, or build a pyramid. (But don’t take my word for it – Read more about exactly what they mean by “dopamine fasting” here.)

My imaginatory vagueness led me to come away with the idea that this fasting period sounds a lot like the idea of stillness, put forth by the Stoics and recently highlighted by Ryan Holiday in his new book, Stillness is the Key, which – oops – I haven’t read, because it’s a new book, and I’m a Poor – but I do get his daily newsletter, and I’m down with the concept, as the amount of information, disinformation, static, sound, and noise that is pelted at me daily is overwhelming. I’m a delicate flower, also known as a Highly Sensitive Person (HSP).

(If you are also one of these HSPs, please don’t be offended. It’s good to be a delicate flower. There are just some drawbacks, like getting Stressed The Fuck Out™.)

Hear tell, there was once a time where a person was not reachable 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, no matter where on Earth they were. Hear tell, there once was a time when folks were lucky if the person they were trying to reach had one of those fancy new-fangled answering machines. You had to wait for the beep, is my understanding. And there was something called a “busy signal”. If you can imagine. Don’t even get me started on those party lines and “Emergency Break-throughs”.

iron lungs in the polio wardYeah. People also used to get polio and chill in iron lungs. And while I’m sure those were very good times – times that apparently anti-vaxxers, among others, are nostalgic for – this is the Modern Age. Remember to please tip your stagecoach driver!

So we need to actively seek out stillness. Because in this high-speed society, we no longer idle at Idle.

As far as my stress-addled brain can tell, dopamine fasting has a lot in common with stillness, insofar as shutting out the excess, the chatter, the constant flow of non-stop unnecessary information.

Do I REALLY need to know that Khloe Kardashian thinks it’s super-important that she puts herself first? Aside from this tidbit’s glaring, nauseating self-evidence, it doesn’t seem particularly useful to anyone except Khloe – and, I suppose, Kris Jenner, the most ‘extra’ stage mother since Rose Hovick. Furthermore, this (can I really call it) information is taking up room in my brain that could house something more important, an example of which I cannot cite, probably because I know the names of at least three Kardashian babies. And I do not even LIKE these people or watch their frickin’ show.

What sort of growth do I find in knowing the particulars of the latest Online Outrage War? Which feeds my soul more: letting my inner gestalt consist of the changing-by-the-microsecond Tilt-A-Whirl thoughts and obsessions of others as I swipe through my Twitter feed, or sitting with my own brain and choosing, very precisely, with care and consideration and intent, what material goes into it?

Whether it’s a dopamine fast, the path to stillness via Ryan’s book, or the wisdom of Aurelius and other Stoic philosophers, putting the brakes on overstimulation seems like a pretty good idea to me. At best, you may find some peace and some clarity. At worst, you may learn a few tips for life that you would not have otherwise, AND you will probably get higher than giraffe genitalia once your dopamine fasting is through, because tolerance is a thing (and the struggle is real).

 

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Damn, Life, Knock It Off Please – But Don’t Kill Me, Okay?

I am so anxious.

The ankle has been swollen now for, I think, 3 weeks? And it’s been at least 2 weeks since I saw the Nurse Practitioner about it, and she deemed it “cellulitis”, which I am gonna look up now because I really have no idea what the hell that is.

So it’s a skin infection that enters via a cut or crack. Can be caused also by scratching itches. I do not have a cut or crack and have not at all in that area in the past more than 1 month. I have not been scratching my ankle. So, here are the other things it could be:

But feet and ankles that stay swollen or are accompanied by other symptoms could signal a serious health problem, including:

  • Pregnancy complications
  • Foot or ankle injury
  • Lymphedema
  • Venous insufficiency
  • Infection
  • Blood clots
  • Heart, liver, or kidney disease
  • Medication side effects

So, yeah. That looks scary AF, doesn’t it? And yet, no one seems to think it’s a big deal. And no one actually believes that I have any kind of concerning issue – except for the NP at Urgent Care, who said, my unexplained body aches and feverish feeling could be indicative of problems with my heart, and that he tended to believe people who insist that it is not a panic attack, that they know what that feels like and this ain’t it.

Given the symptoms – and in addition the troponin test being seriously flawed/giving false negatives due to Biotin intake – if I were a doctor, I would be concerned. My therapist is concerned. She is well versed in anxiety, and, again, this ain’t it.

Also, I got the flu, unrelated to the weird feverish feeling, which was not accompanied by any flu symptoms. And the flu kicked my ass for nearly 3 weeks, as well.

So okay. Did I mention I am so anxious?

I am so anxious.

I have an appointment tomorrow with the GP, who brilliantly, as I watched him write the Rx for my nuclear stress test, apparently called me “Edith Santos”. And checked the right ankle instead of right knee to be x-rayed, right after he’d told the nurse, no, not the ankle – she needs the knee x-rayed. Does this make me trust in his diagnosis? Not particularly. Then there is the hospital’s lab woman who said, of the FDA report, “Well, I am SO GLAD you have that information” sarcastically, after telling someone else that “SOMEONE told her” – meaning me, I am the “her” in that phrase – about the flaw in the troponin test, and I corrected her and said, hey, it’s not SOMEONE, it’s the FDA. A governmental agency. (Has she even fucking heard of it?) You’d think, even if they did not tell me what test was done on ME, which I have a right to know, I believe, they would have at least a LITTLE concern about the fact that these tests are invalid. That they would want to investigate that further. But, no.

I am fucked [image of Gene Wilder meme]

Nevermind that my blood pressure has been normal my entire life and now I have not Stage One but Stage TWO high blood pressure. And high cholesterol. And weigh too much. And have had three cardiac events preceded by intense jaw pain (which hey, that happens to be a heart attack symptom, how ’bout dat?). And now the ankle. But yeah, I am sure a swollen left ankle is indicative of PANIC DISORDER, which is what they all say – the hospital, the Primary Care Provider, the shrink, for fuck’s sake.

I have an appointment with the shrink tomorrow. I look forward to showing him my ankle and saying, hey, check out the panic disorder in my ankle!

Because panic disorder is so totally listed in that list above. See it? Oh, wait, IT’S NOT THERE.

It is easy to believe that I am not being listened to.

Further evidence of this: my floors are caving in. The floor under the fridge POPS intermittently. That is not a good sign. I read an article about a family whose floors completely gave way, and that was preceded by much popping. The floor in the kitchen has a dividing line between the floor that is slanted downward – which would be the floor under the cabinets, sink, stove, and fridge – and the non-slanted floor. It creaks when you walk on it. It doesn’t not feel stable. The bathroom floor has indentations in several areas I can feel with my bare feet and it is not particularly stable – of course I received a work order about the bathroom floor when I reported it marked ‘complete’ when they didn’t even LOOK at that floor.  Not to mention that the living room floors are also caving in – bended and warped and they do not at all feel stable and one of my dressers tilts forward and cannot be put against the wall, because why? The floor is warped, unstable, and in the process of leaving this Earth.

They have known about everything except the bathroom floor since this summer. The maintenance guy said contractors would be out to appraise the situation. But. Has anyone ever come out? Nope. And that completed work order? Said “floor is contractors”. Okay, does that mean that I am supposed to hire a contractor? Because it sure sounds like they are doing nothing about this. To wit: They have been putting lease renewal notices on my door, and they raise the rent each year. It seems to me that they have been in breach of this lease for half a year, because I did not sign a lease that said I agree to rent with unstable flooring. So, they are going to raise the rent, but not fix the floors. They are ignoring the floors. In fact, they have ignored my last THREE emails to them.

And let’s not even speak of the Black Mold that they have attempted to minimize by referring to it as “mildew”. Is mildew black and does it creep through surfaces into other surfaces? Like the picture of my deceased parents which I gave them for a milestone anniversary while they were still alive which they were thrilled by and which was very sentimental to me, and now covered with black mold that traveled through the back of the frame from the wall and further until it is now covering and ruining this picture?

Hi, I’m looking for Horton because I am a dust speck and apparently that elephant will be the only one that can hear me.

By the way – mortality rate on right-sided heart failure, the first thing mentioned on Google regarding a swollen left ankle? Less than a year to five years at best.

For over a month I have been able to count every single one of my heart beats without taking my pulse, because my body throbs in time with them, as if I have just finished an intense workout.

I went yesterday for a nuclear stress test, and after over an hour total, waiting for my doctor to fax an Rx with my actual name on it, I was informed that the insurance company refuses to authorize the test.

At least I got the knee x-rayed on my deformed, turned-the-wrong-way leg from the treatment I received for a broken ankle four years ago.

Also. I have lost five cats this year. Five. Most recently, the love of my life, Milhouse, my smart (though they are all/were smart) extra special guy. Before that, in September, Momo, who I thought would be the last one standing, my also quite special guy. And my heart is broken. I have a mausoleum on my bookshelves of kitty urns, footprints, and the ashes of my parents, representing a huge chunk of my loved ones.

And now I am concerned about Bear. He is not acting right. He is not eating much at all, is suddenly lethargic, seems depressed and not like himself. He needs to go to the vet. So does Tiny – she is a week away from being out of thyroid meds, putting her again at risk for a heart attack due to her sped-up, hyperthyroid-ed out metabolism. And I am a broke bitch. How do I do this?

And all this stress is so good for the heart. Oh, wait…

This is all some fucked-up bullshit, to use a technical term. And I really do not know how much more I can take, frankly.

I have no family to help advocate my cause(s). I am my only advocate. And unfortunately, the fact that my advocate has several psychiatric diagnoses sort of ruins my advocate’s credibility with these people. They just assume that I’m being histrionic, I guess. That is certainly what it seems like.

And. I have not been able to do my work for a month and a half now, because of these health problems and grief issues. So money issues. And big vet bills have been the norm for months now, with most of my kitties dying on me at once.

And ooh, I just noticed that to the right of this rant, there is an article from Science Daily, and the headline reads, “Chronic Adversity Can Dampen Dopamine Production.” Wonderful.

Fuck me running.

I am so anxious.

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After Everything, No Turtle Wax

I have been sick in one form or another this entire month. I’ve been in the hospital. I’ve been to the ER. I will likely be going to Urgent Care today. This is pretty much the first time in a while that I have been able to sit up for longer than a few minutes without just keeling over. There has been a cardiac issue, phlebitis from an improperly inserted IV (confidential to “Mean Eric” from the ER: it’s a vein, not a fucking balloon animal), a bad reaction to a flu shot, a now-you-feel-it now-you-don’t oh-wait-bitch-now-you-do-again UTI, what I’m guessing is an actual flu-shot-tempered-flu – but hey, I have no idea, because I could have become physically dependent on a shrink-prescribed-for-anxiety benzo and the withdrawal syndrome includes flu-like symptoms (if the grand mals don’t get you first) – severe pelvic pain, and headaches so intensely painful, when I try to think of a way to describe them, I just see Glenn with that popped-out eyeball, rasping, “Maggie, I’ll find you”, before Negan brings Lucille down for the final, fatal blow.

Welcome to Wheel of Symptoms, the game show with no consolation prize.

Having been unable to do anything income-generating for the entire month of October, my finances are completed fucked. I have to break in here and laugh bitterly at the use of the word ‘finances’, as that word sounds so high-rollin’. ‘Finances’ seems like a word you use when you can afford things like regular haircuts and transportation. Nonetheless, ‘finances’ it is, because ‘schmoney’ doesn’t really convey the gravity of my dilemma.

Is my failing health because of the black mold overtaking my apartment? Is it the aforementioned possible benzo dependency?  Is it all the stress on my shoulders? Are all systems failing because I am in the process of dying? Is it that fucking statue Greg found on the beach in Hawaii? A combination of all of the above? I consulted Dr. Google, as well as the Magic 8 Ball that I programmed while learning Basic Javascript, but surprisingly, came up with no definitive answers.

Meanwhile, it appears that I may be truly and sincerely fucked.

You see, on top of all this “supine on the broken futon of ill health” fun, I have seriously failing dental work, thanks to the growth of something called a “bony tumor”. This will require surgery to remove as it is unseating my dental situation and eating has become extremely painful. Fixing this is going to cost around $5K. I don’t think I have ever even SEEN $5K. I have heard that this number exists, but it sounds kinda suspect.

If I don’t get this dental situation fixed, I can not only kiss eating goodbye, but say adios to the structure of my face as well. Which is going to lead to wonderful treatment by others, I’m sure, because you know how awesome our society is to unattractive people. If you don’t, allow me – with my lifetime of experience in that department – to clue you in. They are not. If you don’t meet a particular standard of appearance – which does indeed include possessing teeth – it’s a fast track to a Freaky Friday-type situation with Gregor from Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, which is to say you have the lovability factor of a fucking cockroach, and about as much chance of not being squished in disgust.

Three cats need blood tests. One cat needs his bottle of insulin. I sure as fuck could use a medical marijuana card to deal with my PTSD and all of this stress (this last thing, though, is a luxury, something to ease my ailing mental state. Currently, I’m sober as a… um… well, we can’t really complete that sentence with ‘judge’ anymore, can we? My point is, though, I’m not blowing my meager funds on The Pusher Man. Slumlords always get the first entry on the dance card. This is an important rule to follow, as homelessness makes it a bit more difficult to complain about your miserable life on the internet).

I’ve been up since 3 a.m. talking myself down from the ledge. It is now 7:12 a.m. I’m too drained, my brain is too scrambled, and my throat is too sore to tell if this has actually worked. There is a handsome cat who has insisted on holding my hand under his paw as I sleep for weeks now, because we are telepathic together and he knows I’m going through it (he is the one who needs the insulin – why the fuck is insulin over $300? If I were Carrie White, man…  the Dangerous Mind Power Carnage would be a sight to see around Lantus Town, trust).

So okay. Time to sleep, until another “you have to pee” nightmare wakes me up, an hour from now. The last one featured Susan Sarandon performing solo sex acts in a Walmart in a manner so horrific that it actually did not even get close to qualifying as a Sex Dream but instead sped like a bat out of hell right to Bad Dream classification. I don’t remember what department she was in. I’ll guess Ladieswear? Whatever. She’s on the Dream Grudge list and I’m never looking at her the same way again.

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That’s Life

SO.

I had a heart attack. I’ve got phlebitis – an inflammation of the vein – from the IV. I’ve missed half a month of work already. Two cats need vet visits ASAP. My apartment has toxic black mold, failing floors, and unconcerned management. I have no idea how I am going to get my cats to the vet or pay my bills for the month (except for rent, which is thankfully already paid).

I’m searching for remote jobs but most require specific experience in those fields and all want a sparkling resume which I would assume does not include involvement in the adult industry. Most also require a quiet space from which to work that has no interruptions. With the cats ailing, I am interrupted quite frequently for feline emergencies. I do not have a sparkling resume because I am a crazy person. I have skills, I can see where I could be ‘valuable’, but proving that on paper is, well, let’s say it’s a challenge, in the same way teaching a hamster quantum physics is a challenge. And of course, I lack specific experience. My experience is general, and apparently useless.

So. No idea how I’m going to get cats to the vet. No idea how to get the bills paid. No idea how to not let this angst and anxiety and feline heartbreak translate into ‘no stress’ for cardio reasons.

Bright side: I will get back to you on that.

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Hitting the Wall Like Lachrymose Spaghetti

NOTE: I wrote this two days ago. The positivism of it isn’t really a thing I am feeling today, but I thought I should post it nonetheless in case there is anything in here that might help someone. I haven’t proofread it, and it might be ridiculous and suck. You’ve been warned.

Excuse me while I have a talk with myself and get my fucking head on straight here.

Today started under the general category of Bad Brain Day but so far has been taking things several steps further down the spiral. It has essentially been a morning and early afternoon of bathrobe wearing, Klonopin taking, caffeinated beverage drinking, and copious crying. Also, cartoons.

Had I created a band this afternoon, its name would be Fumbling for Distress Tolerance.

This is not the sort of depressive episode that only hijacks you cognitively, giving you those hopeless gloomy thoughts. Nor is it the merely the type that demotivates you and leaves you apathetic and paralyzed. No, this is all that and more. This is that New and Improved Different Shit. With this sort of downward spiral, you get the added bonus of that literally physical pain in your very core, the one that feels like the deepest heartache, the most profound, fresh grief. And even if there is not one single negative thought or triggering rumination running through your mind, this feeling can be enough to make you search out the nearest ledge. It can be that painful, that intense.

Throughout today’s joyride through the darkest recesses of my soul, there have been a litany of things running through one part of my brain, this tiny little healthy part that I try to nurture and grow. Because it seems to inexplicably know more than I do. What it’s doing in my brain, I have no idea. But in this one part of my brain are thoughts of different things I might be doing to take my mind off of the panic and the feeling like I’m going to burst out of my skin from this all-encompassing torpor within me. And though I can recognize that these things might be good and distracting, the caveat is that they would be good and distracting for someone who isn’t feeling so absolutely desperate for a relief from this ravaged core feeling they cannot even name.

I understand where the feeling is coming from. I’ve hit a wall. The ‘job’ I do to survive, to be able to pay the light bill and internet, has completely sucked all of the life out of me.  I feel utterly empty. When you cannot do your job any better because you have no budget to put into it, when everything you do looks the same and so every time you do it, it’s just this redundant crap over and over again, you feel like a hack. People look at your output and think that is the best you are capable of. But it isn’t. You could do a lot more, if, say, you had a fucking bedroom, for instance. But, pipe dreams, etc. Impossibility exists.

So the thing that feeds my soul – creativity, Art – is now alien to me. It has vacated the premises. I have done everything I can with what I have right here. If there is more that can be done, I can no longer see it, because my retinas are burned out from witnessing the atomic annihilation of my artistic integrity.

It’s not just that, of course. Mental illness does factor in. I am the only person I’ve read about so far that had a psychotic break and was never hospitalized for it. In fact, I never received any counseling for it, either. Of all the many therapists I saw after my break, not one ever said, “So you had a psychotic break, you wanna talk about that?” Not even the cliched, “How does that make you feel?” And there was no time off. It was basically – have psychotic break that lasts for four months until someone finally notices when I become homeless, live in a garage for 1 month with an abusive relative who tries to strangle me and then for 2 months without electricity during a winter it was actually cold in Florida, get put on an anti-psychotic that makes me sleep 15 hours a day and gain at least 50 lbs, finally find an apartment and hit the ground running to survive. No time off to process the experience, or figure out what the fuck happened, or heal/get better. Just break down, then go.

And I think that my brain and my body are finally rebelling against that, 11 years later. I’ve been struggling to figure things out and scrambling just to get by, all the while walking around like this open, weeping wound, consistently reaching up to keep the mask from slipping. The “It’s okay, I’m fine” mask that we mentally ill learn to wear, lest we fatigue those around us and in turn fatigue ourselves when we’re then on the receiving end of well-meaning but wholly unhelpful advice, like, “You should exercise.” Dear Darling Person, if I could do that, my ass would be off of this couch right now doing something productive. The problem is not that I need exercise. The problem is that I’m fucking STUCK, nailed down by hopelessness and anxiety, paralyzed by depression and anhedonia. “You need to think positive thoughts.” Well, see, that’s part of the problem. Telling someone in the throes of a depressive episode to think positively is like telling a diabetic to think their blood sugar to a manageable level, or someone with cancer to just stop having cancer. Wouldn’t it be grand if it really did work that way?

Believe me, I have tried to talk to this disease. I have reasoned with it. I have bought it presents. Shown it flash cards. Given it all the medication under the sun. The last thing helps rein it in a bit, and gives me some time here and there where I can actually breathe without it looming over me like the Sword of Damocles. But, at least at this point in history, there does not appear to be a single cure-all that takes this away from a person. This is a lifelong sort of thing, at least for me. And as such, that means learning to ride the waves of it without getting sucked under and drowning.

If you’re me – which, hey, count your lucky stars – one thing that’s helpful, is to plan ahead. In those flashes of light, those times when you are actually feeling good, you make a fucking plan. You make a list of stuff to stick around for and why. You figure out what things could be good distractions from the tornado making sticks and debris out of your innards. For me, the Cleveland Show sometimes helps, because it’s calming and there is not a single thing in any of the episodes that triggers me into remembering something icky. If there are medications that help bring you down from the ledge, you make sure you have those on hand, and you tell yourself over and over that should the time come, you will make sure to take them in the PROPER AMOUNTS, and you tell yourself this over and over so you make a new groove in your brain, a new little autopilot circuit which will hopefully kick in when everything up there is in chaos and on fire. Maybe you put together a little emergency box full of distracting toys and snacks and – hell, I don’t know, coloring books? – that will bring you some comfort in the dark. (I haven’t actually done that one yet but it doesn’t seem like a bad idea.)

You can also make a list for friends and/or relatives, a “These things are helpful when I am in a bad way” sort of list, that explains what they can say to be helpful, and what they should avoid so as not to accidentally make things worse. You make sure that you have that support system in the first place, someone – or preferably several someones in case the first one isn’t available – that you can call on if you need to talk, or if you’re feeling panicky and need help. You wrack your brain trying to come up with any little thing to trick yourself into hanging on. You think of any fucking thing you can, any tiny little hack, that might – when added to other tiny little hacks – be enough to keep you on this planet until the shit passes.

And you do all of this when you feel GOOD, when you think, “Oh, I will never need any of this shit, because I am FINALLY on the road to recovery.” Because part of recovery is knowing that sometimes it’s two steps forward, one step back, when recovery is a process instead of an endpoint.

And you keep some coffee on hand – Doubleshots are not a bad idea, they can be stored in the fridge so they’re ready to go – because it only takes 1 cup of coffee to keep you from killing yourself, this is what you’ve read, you can’t remember where. You just know it’s true. It works. Only, because Klonopin is your spirit animal during such tough times, you usually have more than just one Doubleshot. Because Klonopin makes you sleepy, and depression does the same thing. And while sleep is sometimes a good escape, you notice that sometimes it just makes you feel worse, because of all the wasted time, because wasted time has suddenly – as time seems to pass more and more quickly – become a big deal.

And when the dark times come, if you can do it – you might not be able to, and that’s understandable, and it’s okay, it’s the nature of the beast – you try like hell to find the humor in things. Because humor makes things so much more survivable.

The thing to TRY to remember is, just because you can see the horizon line, doesn’t mean you can see the whole world. There are things out there you cannot imagine. And so it is with your own life. There are things that lie beyond that metaphorical horizon line of which you cannot conceive, and some of them just may be worth sticking around for. You just can’t know for sure.

This is what I am telling myself, so that I can hang on. I’m telling myself that there is more than what I am able to visualize at the moment. I choose to believe I am correct in this – it is absolutely a conscious decision to be of this opinion, because it is in my best interest. I’ve gone through too much pain to give up now. I’m going to make it worth something. Which is all stuff that was decided during a healthier time, that I branded into my brain over and over, and propped up with gratitude for the good things in my life during the times I am able to feel it.

Surprisingly, there’s enough of an imprint made that I get through, or have, so far, and it passes. The coffee kicks in, the meds help, the storm somehow moves out because the fickle chemicals decide to change their dance steps.

And, because I am Bipolar Type 2, the depression will roar on back at some point or another – probably sooner than later, truthfully, because my job is really killing me, for reasons I have not mentioned here, so I am more susceptible to downward swings. And when it does, I will do my best, and I will tell myself it will pass, and I will more than likely cry my eyes out while fervently believing that actually it will NOT pass, but I will make myself stick around anyway, because that’s what I do now.

I tell myself that it’s gonna be okay – even if I don’t completely believe it – and I white knuckle it, I use whatever hacks I have mapped out, I cry until I can’t breathe through my nose anymore, and I just hang on.

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PSA: Levothyroxine and Your Hair

If you have hypothyroidism – a sluggish thyroid – your doctor may prescribe Levothyroxine to bring your levels of T4 back up into normal range. This is what my doctor did. And while your mileage may vary, my experience has been that

LEVOTHYROXINE CAN MAKE YOU LOSE YOUR HAIR.

This is not small cookies. This is in fact some bullshit. (Especially in my case, as I was never out of range to begin with – apparently my prescription was some sort of ill-fated preemptive strike.) There are other medications you can take besides this one. Because it is not a cool thing to look at your hairline and see daylight through it, especially when you are a lady-woman-female-chick (bald men are sexy, though I’m aware losing hair is traumatic for men as well).

Thankfully, hair lost to this med appears to come back, at least in my case it has. IF you stop taking the dastardly stuff, which I did. You know, provided that this particular side effect happens to you, as it has to all the people on this one forum I read when I Googled “Levothyroxine and hair loss”. And there were a lot of them.

But don’t go off your meds cold turkey. Do get in to see your doctor ASAP, and demand to be put on another medication.

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