The Epic Quest for a New Prescriber

At my last psychiatric appointment, my prescriber of nearly 3 years (an awesome advanced practice nurse) informed me that she’s retiring – and the community mental health clinic where I’ve been receiving care isn’t hiring a replacement. There wasn’t any offer to help me find a new prescriber or set me up with one. She just gave me a list of numbers to call, and sent me on my way.

I knew I should’ve started the search immediately, but I was stressed out by the idea so I did what I do best: I procrastinated. I got distracted. I focused on just about everything else. To be fair, “the incident” happened soon afterward; I needed time and energy to recover from that. (Things are going well, by the way, update pending.)

Two months have passed.

Somehow my lamotrigine & clonazepam prescription refill cycles got de-synchronized, so I’m in a kind of weird situation. I used the last lamotrigine refill a few days ago; “additional refills require authorization.” I have 26 full doses left, including today’s. There’s still one more refill on the clonazepam.

So it’s crunch time. I need to find some way to refill these medications – preferably before I run out or resort to cutting pills in half. I honestly fear for my life if I have a disruption in access to my meds – if not my physical life, my ability to continue my activism and maintain healthy relationships. Perhaps more importantly, I fear losing the ability to do the things I need to improve my life – such as completing my degree, finding a job that pays a living wage, consistently functioning well in that job, and learning how to keep my home from becoming an unlivable nightmare. Even more importantly, I fear losing the ability to take care of myself, which includes the ironically (read: cruelly) daunting task of accessing and engaging in treatment.

These fears are among the most potent triggers for my worst depressive symptoms.

Oh, and by the way, my state just cut funding to community mental health. Clinics are closing or cutting whatever (whomever) they must to try and stay afloat. My current clinic no longer serves clients with private insurance, and it had to let go of its front desk staff.

jiFfM

Star Trek: Next Generation characters Picard and Riker both facepalming. The text reads: “Double Faceplam. For when one facepalm doesn’t cut it.”

So, yesterday, I began The Search. My counselor (who helps me with behavioral approaches to wellness) had suggested that my primary care doctor could possibly authorize refills, so I called his office. They said he “might” be able to, “depending on [my] situation,” so I made an appointment. I’m hoping he can authorize a one month supply of the lamotrigine, and if necessary I can return to him for a three month supply of both medications. (Clonazepam is a controlled substance, so any ‘new’ prescriptions not filled within 30 days expire and need to be reauthorized – at least in my state.)

Even if my primary care doctor can help me, seeing him for psychiatric consultations is not sustainable. I don’t have, nor do I anticipate developing, the rapport I’d need to literally trust him with my brain. I need a specialist who really knows what they’re doing, especially if and when it becomes necessary to make adjustments to my medications. (Which may be soon, I’m still trying to figure out to what degree my current problems can be addressed through music therapy and changes in behavior, vs meds.)

Ideally I’d like to switch to the other prescriber at my current clinic, whom Fox has been seeing and seems to like. If not her, perhaps someone at another location in the same agency – surely that would provide some consistency of care, right? I called the intake office; the person who answered seemed surprised I hadn’t been referred to another prescriber. “Well, you might want to call the other numbers on your list, because we’re currently scheduling for September.” “September?” “Yes.” I hung up on them.

I started making some additional calls. Bad number. We don’t do that. We’re not accepting new clients. We’re currently at capacity, but may be hiring someone, you can check back.

newprescriber1

My to-do list item on Habitica.com with several steps checked, reflecting the efforts I put in yesterday.

There are several additional numbers on my list, but most of the clinics are in urban areas that may be … inconvenient … to access. Middle class suburban snobbery aside, I anticipate that these locations are even more likely to be “at capacity” or otherwise struggling to serve clients for whom they’re the only choice.

So I’m gonna try calling intake for my current clinic/agency back, see what they can do for me. (I realized later that September is only about a month and a half away.) Hopefully my doctor can set me up through August, maybe September as well; if there’s any interruption in my access to meds it will hopefully be short enough that I’ll be okay. And I’d rather have this set as a backup in case my doctor can’t help me and/or I can’t find a prescriber elsewhere; the longer I wait to make the appointment, the later it will be and the more likely this is to become devastating.

I forgot to refill my prescriptions until I ran out – of course on the day I was running late and had to rush out the door. I tried to put in the refill request for the clonazepam first, but was unsuccessful; somehow my prescriptions got de-synchronized so I was out of refills with that Rx number and I didn’t have the new one to put in. I was in crazy anxiety rush mode, so I didn’t try refilling the lamotrigine – even though it had 2 more refills with that Rx number.

I asked Fox to go to the pharmacy for me and he did, because he’s wonderful. He said (they said) they didn’t have anything in the system for me. I was tabling at a pride event and he had to leave for work and it was Sunday, so there wasn’t really any opportunity to follow through on anything.

On Monday I realized I should’ve tried to refill the lamotrigine, better to have one of my meds than neither, right? That was no problem, but I had to speak to a pharmacy representative to deal with the clonazepam. The person I talked to at the pharmacy had an irritating tone to her voice and was too nonchalant, like there was no problem with them not having the information necessary to make sure I have access to a medication that keeps me alive. She didn’t even try to be polite like saying ‘sorry’ – but she did offer to fax my prescriber. And she explained that the clonazepam prescription had expired because it’s a controlled substance, so it has to be filled within 30 days.

I walked to the pharmacy with my inner voices screaming, an irritable mess, barely holding myself together. By the time I got the lamotrigine my ears were ringing and my eyes were so full of static everything was in a darkened haze and I couldn’t think straight and everything felt completely WRONG. That was after missing one dose – and it’s not even that high a dose. I took the dose – better to at least take one of my meds, right? and everything cleared within minutes. The difference was noticeable to Ron over the phone.

I had to play phone tag with my prescriber for a couple days, but I was able to refill the clonazepam today. I didn’t notice as much as an effect when I took it, except that maybe I’m a bit calmer? And I was rather sleepy, I attributed it to waking early from a bad dream, but the medication is known to make people drowsy. Ron seemed surprised I’m able to function at all taking [my dose] of it every day.

To be honest, between what ze’s been telling me about it and what I’ve read online, I’m a bit wary about staying on the clonazepam. Apparently it’s habit forming and it’s better not to take it for extended periods of time. But my prescriber added it for a reason – I think because even with my mood stabilized I was still struggling with anxiety. And I don’t know if I wrote about this yet, but my prescriber is retiring, so I need to find a new one within the next month or two. I’d rather not change my meds until I’ve developed a good rapport with the new prescriber.

So, yay, I’m back on my meds! I anticipate that going a day without lamotrigine and two days without clonazepam will have thrown my levels off; it might take a while for them to get back to normal. And I’m a bit shaken by how profound my (withdrawal?) symptoms were before I took the lamotrigine. I’d come to accept that I’ll probably be taking these medications for the rest of my life, and I’d rather do so consistently than risk going back to how things were before I started taking them. Still, this was a rough reminder of how dependent I am.

The Power of Music and Metaphor

I had one of my most intense and effective sessions ever with Wakana last week. She supported me by alternating between A Major and A minor chords on the piano, adjusting her style & chords to complement the emotions I was expressing. I sang, nonverbal melodies at first and words as they came to me – statements and images and raw expressions of anger, grief, triumph… She sang too, reflecting and supporting and occasionally making suggestions. It was very intense; we peeled back most of my defenses as I became more and more relaxed.

It’s one thing to know, cognitively, that one’s self-judgment is the result of early, most likely pre-verbal, experiences of being judged and found lacking. Of not having one’s emotional needs meet sufficiently, and so on. It’s relatively easy (now, after studying psychology for over a decade) for me to connect my current emotional difficulties and insecurities to past experiences. (And yet I’m still surprised how often certain ones come up in therapy.) I’ve built this narrative about my life that organizes the chaos, giving it purpose and meaning; I can reflect on it and pat myself on the back for all the things I’ve overcome.

Yet, time and time again, Wakana tells me the same thing: “You’re too hard on yourself.” She asks what it is I dislike so much about myself. And other than this nonverbal sense of being Wrong, I can’t really answer her. Not in straightforward prose, anyway.

It’s another thing entirely to go through the process of seeking the cause of my self-judgment as it exists deep within my psyche, much as one might search a room for an item one has lost. Several years ago I moved into the other apartment in my mom’s 2-family house; she had been using its closet and cabinets for storage but was happy to have me move back in with her. As Banji helped me clean and re-organize, we identified items that were not mine. Then we moved the items to a space where Mom could sort through them without entering my apartment. We called the items “someone else’s problem,” which made it easier to remove them from my space.

I felt like I was doing that again as I searched for what could possibly be so “wrong” about me. What did I find? The Single Thing I most want to change about myself is this feeling like there’s something inherently wrong with me, which makes me depressed and anxious and keeps me from fully living my life. It keeps me from loving myself. I judge myself for judging myself for judging myself.

… Or so I thought during the session last week. The judgment is definitely what I want and need to change, but I’m still judging something about myself… Perhaps something that doesn’t need to change after all. As I wrote and re-read the above, I realized that I judge myself for having intense emotions – especially when they come up at inconvenient times. The sadness, grief, anger, fear, anxiety, etc. take over my body all too often, usually at times when my “rational side” considers them to be utterly inappropriate.

Today I tried to acknowledge and accept how I was feeling without judging or fighting it. I felt anxious while getting ready to leave the house and considered taking the medication my nurse practitioner prescribed, but decided instead to accept that I felt anxious and continue getting ready. I felt tears welling up in my eyes during conversations and let them flow, inwardly acknowledging why they were there while continuing to share my ideas and experiences.

The problem isn’t my emotions. The problem is that it is risky to allow one’s emotions to show in most social situations. It’s that I have been judged and punished from a young age whenever I expressed strong emotions – especially if my doing so inconvenienced the adults in my life. It’s that, until recently, I haven’t had the support and tools I need to express and manage my emotions in healthy ways, instead of suppressing them.

My emotions are inextricable parts of me that serve vital functions, even if they’re often not what I want or (think I) need at the time. The judgment isn’t mine. It belongs to cultural norms that should be obsolete and caregivers who internalized those norms. As humans we both create and adapt to our environment (society)… and we have an uncanny knack for creating unhealthy environments for ourselves and our children. Self-judgement and internalized stigma are two related ways in which we adapt to some of the most toxic elements in our environment.

(I feel the need to include that not everything in Western society is toxic; some aspects are actually quite awesome. Also, just as we create our environment, we can change it for the better.)

The thing is, it’s one thing to know that cognitively, to think it and talk about it with other people. It’s something else entirely to, as in the movie Inception, delve deep into one’s own mind and find something that was placed there by someone else. Wakana helped me do that last week; now I’m looking for the “someone else’s problem” box.

Therapists

First off, I’d like to apologize for disappearing for 2.5 months. I’ve been caught up in the Skyrim Let’s Play, other games, working on my thesis proposal, and other stuff. The blog has been on the edge of my radar, but it’s only in the past week or two that I’ve started seriously thinking about posts again. I guess we all need a break from time to time?

Anyways there was a long time when I was first gushing about how much I’ve benefited from my work in music therapy with Wakana, then avoiding her. I’ve been sort of considering termination, but I don’t like the idea in part because that means I’ll stop seeing her and in part because I have this nagging suspicion there are things I still need to work on.

Then I finally met with her in person last week and did that thing you learn about when training to become a therapist that clients often do because transference and it’s awkward and wrong and you definitely can’t act on it… I, well, I started saying things that implied I’m interested in a romantic relationship with her. I even thought the words “I love you,” then pushed them back because I can’t love my therapist, that’s a violation of the boundaries we need to maintain a good working relationship and of ethics and ugh she knows, doesn’t she? Fuck. I have a crush on my therapist. I couldn’t even look at her for the rest of the session without being taken aback by how vibrant and radiant she looks. Why the fuck did this have to happen?!

I can deal with having crushes on many if not most of the people I meet and/or have been friends with for, gods, over a decade. It happens. It’s healthy. It’s kind of fun. I can enjoy the good feelings and focus on enjoying our interactions, which most likely are not romantic. But that’s okay because I’m crushing on them because their personalities are what I find most attractive, and I get to enjoy their personalities when we’re being silly nerds and geeks. (It doesn’t hurt that I find them visually attractive, too.)

But my therapist?

I told Wakana about the crush when I met with her over Skype on Wednesday, because I knew there was no hiding it from her. I just wanted to deal with it so we can get back to the therapy I’d been gushing about because it’s really helped me so much. I feel whole, or at least a lot closer to it, and stuff that used to cause me a ton of emotional turmoil is so much easier to deal with now. I’m actually quite happy with where I am in life and confident that I’ll work out the stuff that still needs a lot of work, such as (finally!) applying for internships so I can begin my career.

You know what she told me? She said this is a normal stage that most clients go through and that it’s a good thing because it means I’m starting to love myself. She explained that she holds so much of me – everything I share with her in our sessions – and acts as a mirror for me to see the aspects of myself that have been hidden away for most of my life. I can finally see them, and I’m realizing I think they’re awesome, and now I can reclaim them. “These are mine, I’ll take them back now, thank you.” She said I can also let go of things that aren’t mine, such as thought processes I learned in childhood and adolescence that aren’t helping me.

We can totally work through this crush, processing the feelings I’m transferring to her, so I can focus my love on myself.

It almost feels kind of wrong. Selfish.

She said we could explore whatever fantasies I’m having – not do anything of course, but talk about them and what they symbolize. That was kind of awkward because to be honest I hadn’t gotten that far – and I’d really rather not go there. I almost don’t want to tell her I’m not fantasizing about doing anything specific with her, because I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She embodies much of what I want to be, and I’ve come to feel a strong connection with and positive regard for her. I guess if I’m having any fantasy it’s that I want to move away from our interactions being therapy for me, toward a more mutual emotional sharing through the music we make together. It’s hard to accept that we can’t do that while I’m her client. Maybe that’s why I’ve been thinking about termination: if I’m no longer her client, there’s a possibility we might make music together as a more mutual exchange in the future.

Shifting gears a bit (or perhaps not really) I have finally started meeting with the therapist who will hopefully use cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT) to help me overcome my social anxiety (so whatever anxiety I feel before/during social situations won’t hinder me). We just completed intake – so there hasn’t been much time to develop rapport, and we haven’t actually started CBT.

She seems nice and I like her, but I feel like I have more experience as a client than she does as a psychotherapist. I’m trying to resist the urge to ask her about her qualifications and experience because frankly it seems kind of rude, and I’d hate for clients to do that to me (in the near future). Perhaps I’m projecting my own insecurities about becoming a therapist, I don’t know. I don’t want to over-analyze myself.

The thing is, she keeps using stereotypical responses – the kinds of things we learn not to do in active listening. As I was answering the intake questions, she filled the pauses with “mmhmm,” always in the same tone of voice, which kind of gave me the feeling she wasn’t really listening. Then when I was done answering almost every question she said “okay” – again always with the same inflection. It felt like she was doing things she was trained to do or thought she should do, not like she was being genuine.

I want to tell her that these vocal habits are bothering me, but I’m not sure how. I don’t want them, nor my efforts to/not to talk to her about them, to interfere with therapy. I just want to go, do what I need to do, and come out feeling empowered to live my life the way I need and want to. Why must emotions be so complicated?

How Social Anxiety Fuels My Depression

I haven’t just been “out of sorts” the past couple of weeks. I’ve been moderately depressed. Tired, sad, unfocused; I spent an entire day watching The Legend of Korra on KissCartoon because I couldn’t get myself to do anything else (and I wanted to know what would happen next; it’s a great story). I’ve also been isolating, having self-harm urges, and occasionally thinking I don’t deserve to live. The abusive voice is back; when he’s feeling kind he just tells me I’m worthless.

I feel like I’m right back where I started: feeling depressed and overwhelmed by the prospect of applying for internships. (And jobs, but if I have to choose between a job and a music therapy internship, I’ll pick the internship. It’s the last major obstacle to starting my career.) There’s nothing else for me to do, nowhere else to run, no excuses. But everything feels wrong. I haven’t been practicing my instruments, it’s been over 4 years since I last worked with real clients, and I don’t have appropriate attire for an interview. I know there are relatively easy ways to fix at least two of those issues, but I’m finding it hard to get myself to do even something as simple as stepping outside for a few minutes to enjoy the sunshine.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been fighting with my health insurance since mid-June. This is a huge trigger for me; I feel like they’re threatening my very existence. We were a couple days late re-applying for our program, so there was actually a temporary lapse in coverage while our information was being processed. Fox was taking half his dosage to make his medication last for as long as possible while we waited to regain our benefits; that made it harder for him to cope with stress and he came home from work even more exhausted than usual. When we finally got our letter confirming eligibility, I rushed to the pharmacy to refill his prescription – only to discover that our HMO wouldn’t resume prescription benefits until August 1st. I didn’t know we could have our medication paid for directly by our state’s program, and I didn’t have his card with me anyway. I got ridiculously angry, started yelling, and had to use all my willpower not to become violent.

The eligibility letter was followed closely by a letter requesting proof of my citizenship and identity. I was furious – for two reasons. First of all, they required Fox to certify my identity and used the term “child” on the form; I found this exceptionally insulting because I’m the one who’s been doing everything to get and keep health insurance for us both. More importantly, the only reason I could think of why they would have trouble confirming my identity (but not Fox’s) is because I changed my last name when we got married. I updated Social Security and got a new driver’s license over a year ago, but for some reason they couldn’t make the connection themselves. It really wasn’t much of an inconvenience to send them copies of my certificates and IDs, but I felt threatened by it anyway. I was born here, I’ve lived here my whole life, we clearly marked that I am Fox’s spouse, and it’s a long-standing tradition for one partner to take the other’s last name when a couple gets married. They should have no trouble connecting my current name to my pre-marriage identity, it should be a normal part of their procedure.

I did nothing wrong, why should anyone question my right to be here?

That’s my problem: I question my right to be here. Bullying; physical and emotional abuse; living in a world that doesn’t want to admit non-binary pansexual people exist; having a body that is hyper-sexualized, censored, stigmatized, and discriminated against; persistent invasive media promoting impossible beauty standards… It’s hard to avoid internalizing messages that I don’t have a right to be here – or, at least, that if I want to exist I must do everything both inside and outside my power to conform. I feel like simply existing day to day (and being honest about who I am) is a radical act of defiance.

Radical acts of defiance take a lot of energy.

I’m tired.

This latest return of my depression – especially so soon after I thought I’d overcome it – proves to me that I must do something to directly address my anxiety. No matter how well I feel in terms of the depression, as soon as I try to start doing things again, my anxiety fairs up. It’s so bad I can’t do anything, so I don’t do anything; the depression sets in again.

It isn’t part of my official diagnosis (yet), but I’m pretty sure I have social anxiety disorder – which is described as “extreme fear of being scrutinized and judged by others in social or performance situations.” It explains most of my functional difficulties that lead to some of my worst depressive symptoms, particularly being late for class and the couple of times I’ve chosen not to show up for job interviews. Even just going for a walk outside is difficult: I don’t want to be seen by anyone because I expect them to judge me harshly.

Fortunately, I have an appointment with my prescriber on Tuesday. She has offered to refer me for individual therapy – I think within the clinic where I meet with her. I can will ask her to refer me to someone who specializes in cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT) for social anxiety disorder. (CBT is more effective than medication for treating social anxiety.) Hopefully I’ll be able to start with that person right away and gain the confidence I need to finally move forward with my life.

Being a Good Client

I’ve noticed a pattern: I spend a significant portion of my sessions with Wakana celebrating the progress I’ve made so far. On Wednesday I spent a third of our time together raving about my new, androgynous haircut; telling her I was able to separate myself from the agitation my mom was expressing; and taking about times I’ve been assertive. At one point I felt dangerously close to suggesting that maybe we’re reaching the end of our work together and should start talking about termination.

The thing is, I’ve been exhausted. Under my excitement, energy, and good news, a deep weariness was waiting; as soon as I relaxed, it would devour me. I felt it, resisted it, but couldn’t deny it.

She found a way in when I shared the insecurity that was keeping me from joining a new social group: I’m afraid I won’t be accepted as I am. I verbally connected it to childhood experiences; this was no gain in insight but a defensive, almost academic wall I constructed with each word I said. “Keep it intellectual. Don’t feel.”

Wakana is a music therapist. She’s all about the feels.

Somehow she got me to talk about what’s going on for me now: whenever I’m in a social situation, I feel like I have to adapt to the norms and expectations of whomever I’m interacting with. If I don’t know what those are going to be, I feel very anxious. If I can avoid the situation, I probably will.

The whole adapting to social norms thing is just reality to some extent, but I think I take it to a bit of an extreme. I hide who I am, presenting myself as a sweet, quiet, perhaps a bit reserved, easygoing person who is happy to listen and will comply with most requests. I let people touch my arms and shoulders even though I hate it. I smile and avoid interrupting people and don’t tell them when what they’re saying is factually inaccurate or logically flawed … or I just plain disagree with it. I feign interest in topics I couldn’t care less about and fade into the shadows when I can’t find an opening in the conversation. I’m basically the opposite of how I am on this blog. (The more comfortable I am with a group, the less likely I am to fall into this pattern.)

Getting my new haircut was an act of rebellion against most of what my mother trained me to be. And yet, the pictures she took of me the day I got it are identical to every other picture she’s ever taken of me: I look like a demure pre-teen.

Practically everyone I interact with projects their interpretation/expectation of my gender onto me and uses the wrong pronouns, even if I’ve “come out” to them. The exceptions are Fox and Banji. Fox is generally awesome at using the correct pronouns, but he goes with the gendered terms that require the least explanation when in public. Banji respects my preferences by avoiding pronouns. I appreciate their efforts. Also, the LGBTQIA+ organization on campus includes pronouns in introductions, so it provides an opportunity to be authentic without singling myself out as “different” or “other.”

I made the conscious decision not to correct people the last couple times they used the wrong pronouns because I felt too anxious about it. However, the reduction in anxiety came at a high price. Such a basic part of my identity that most people take for granted, and I feel like it’s invisible – even with the hair!!! It’s exhausting.

(My pronouns are ze and zir. As in: “Ze wrote in zir blog that people regularly misgender zir.”)

Wakana finally seems to accept it; when I realized that it was a huge relief.

She beckoned me to the piano so we could vocally venture forth into the unknown. She asked what modality I wanted; I asked for Major. I sang a pretty melody about… something related to being myself or being assertive or whatever. Wakana’s accompaniment diminished, her head dropped, and then she stopped playing all together. It looked like she’d fallen asleep.

I poked her shoulder and said, “c’mon, it’s not that boring!”

That’s when she asked if I was feeling very tired, and I admitted that yes, I was. She was picking up on that so strongly she fell into a trance – and not for the first time during our sessions. I attributed my chronic fatigue to undiagnosed sleep apnea, but she said she thinks it’s because I’m repressing my emotions.

She got me to admit I was mad at my mom for telling me how I should style my hair and which picture I should use as my profile pic on Facebook! We banged on the keyboard and yelled things like “I’m not you!” and “leave me alone!” It was very intense.

I finally broke down crying. “I don’t want to be left alone. I want to be accepted as I am.” I sang about walking my own path and wanting someone to walk with me for a time – but without pulling me onto their path or invading mine.

Wakana yelled some more but then it hit me: I was treating her the same way I treated my mother. All the stuff about how far I’ve come in therapy… Don’t get me wrong, I’ve made a lot of progress and I’m proud of it! All the time I spent talking about it was an effort to assure her that she is a good therapist… while simultaneously keeping her at a distance. I was hiding my vulnerability. This happened as I sang, “I don’t need you to accept my emotions because I accept them.”

In a flood of tears I finally confessed: “I haven’t been doing better. I’ve been feeling sad and lonely and exhausted and I’ve been spending a lot of time playing The Sims 3. I didn’t want to tell you because you get so angry when I do; I didn’t want to hear it!”

She said I shouldn’t have waited until the end of the session to bring this up. I didn’t tell her, but I needed the work we did in the session to enable me to bring it up.

She conceded that perhaps it’s unfair of her to get so angry when I say I’ve been playing The Sims 3; she asked me to write down the themes that have emerged in my game so we can work with them.

She also said: “depression isn’t feeling sad. Depression is not feeling at all. You need to stop repressing your emotions and dissociating. It’s okay to feel sad; let yourself feel whatever you’re feeling and express it.”

I said I hate the cold emptiness of depression and would rather feel sad… but I also despise being sad for no reason. And crying. Ugh. I hate crying.

… but not quite as much as I hate being chronically exhausted.

Power Naps – Links

I suspect I may have a sleep disorder that keeps me from getting a truly restful night’s sleep. Until I’m able to remedy this, I’m inclined to try napping as a way to refresh during the day. So far 20-minute naps seem to be ideal.

Here are some links to articles about how to get the most benefit from naps:

How Long to Nap for the Biggest Brain Benefits
different durations for different benefits

13 Tips for the Best Naps Ever

The Secret (and Surprising) Power of Naps
WebMD article

How to Design the Perfect Nap

Sleep Calculator
helps determine when to go to bed or when to wake up for the best sleep/nap

Interactive Nap Wheel
helps determine the best time to take a nap based on when you woke up