Depression Is My Friend

I drove 700 miles over two days last week.  I have never seen my spouse work so hard as I did the while on the coast of North Carolina. While I went into town for a bite to eat and to escape the heat, I received a call that he had gotten a job offer. We had the discussion about if he should accept or not. I listened to him and his reasons for wanting the change.

The next day he went into work and it was clear that nobody was thankful for what he had done the day before.  He put in his two week notice and there is nothing his current company can do for him that will convince him to stay.  (Besides asking for a larger raise, but that ship has probably sailed.)  It’s interesting how everyone is sad to see him go but management couldn’t care less because they see him as a number and didn’t fight for him to stay.  I know, for a fact, that shit will hit the fan when he’s gone because he’s the only one that gets stuff finished.

I haven’t been having a great week.  I’m constantly sad and there’s nothing, besides medication, that can be done to make me feel better.  The last week was especially bad because I woke up on Sunday morning to find our second fur baby, Oreo, dead.  I woke up early on Sunday morning and I knew she wouldn’t make it through the night.  I didn’t want to believe it.  I wanted to say goodbye to her one last time but when I saw her mouth hanging open I lost it.  I’m doing everything I can to not think about Oreo, but it’s extremely difficult.  I see shadows moving and I think it’s her walking toward me but it’s the other cat.

I’ve been handed a lot of crap over the past month.  I’ve dealt with my feelings.  I can move on, but there’s that depression that lingers.  It’s the “I don’t give a crap” type of depression because I haven’t been taking care of myself.  I can barely do things I need to do, and I don’t want to do things I used to enjoy.  I explained to an acquaintance that I refuse to open up to anyone “new,” that I don’t have that one “best friend” since my best friend is on the autism scale and she can’t really relate to serious things I want to talk about.

One Week Ago

I’ve been debating if I wanted to post this publicly and after some thought I decided I would post it.  My reasoning is it may help someone who may be reading this, but I’m sure this blog doesn’t get many visitors.

Three weeks ago I was “looking forward” to my first visit with my new psychiatrist.  I was sorely disappointed.  It put me in a very low mood.  The doctor didn’t want to believe my medical records dealing with my mental health treatments and refused to put me on medications, saying he didn’t have a diagnosis for me and that unnecessary medications can cause side effects.  He told me to return in two weeks.  I left furious.  Silently suffering, more so than I’d ever be willing to admit.  I do not like thinking five steps ahead of myself.

My therapist was crucial in assisting me with getting a follow-up more quickly.  I went back last week at a time when my therapist was on his lunch break.  He called me during my appointment and I put him on speaker phone so he could communicate with the doctor about my history.  The doctor proceeded to YELL at my therapist about how he disagrees with his diagnosis.  I felt extremely uncomfortable.  I was looking at the door asking myself, “Should I walk out that door?”  I started to cry because I realized my doctor is another one of those unprofessional pieces of crap who shouldn’t be in the profession because he’s not helping me.  The doctor told me he was done talking to my therapist, shoved my phone into my lap, and shook his head.  I hung up the call, texted my therapist, “He’s not going to talk to you.”  I got an incoming text from my therapist which was the usual thing I have come to expect from him when stuff doesn’t happen the way it’s “supposed” to.

Meanwhile, I’m still in tears, my doctor asks me why I’m crying and how I’m feeling.  “Sad, low energy, tired and fatigued.” He’s looking for rapid cycling, which I don’t have.  During the consultation, he asked me for specific examples of things I’ve done while manic.  There have been a few I can recount since 2007, the last being in 2016 which should be proof that my past treatment plan was working.  But no, this doctor was trying to tell me my behavior was rational based upon what I told him.

Your boyfriend broke up with you?  It’s normal to be angry and drive 8 hours (one way) to find his car and slash his tires.  (I did not do this, but it was my intent.  Somewhere along the way I realized it was a stupid, stupid thing to do.)  The doctor explained to me that those in manic states are unable to control their impulses, so this one didn’t count.  Quit your job on the spot because of a small disagreement with your manager?  Normal.  No.  No.  No.  Quitting that job is probably one of the top five things I regret doing in my life.  I love-hated-loved that job.  You had a disagreement with your spouse?  It’s normal to pack up all your stuff and leave them.  Twice.  Uh huh, right.

I’m so happy I can see through this doctor’s bull.  As he’s saying these things, I feel like I’m being dismissed.  I AM BEING DISMISSED.  Oh, and when I walked out the door, he asks, “The acne on your face, is that a result of any medication you’re taking?”  No, it’s not, and THANK YOU FOR POINTING THAT OUT WHEN YOU KNOW I AM WORKING ON MY SELF-IMAGE ISSUES, ASSHOLE.

The doctor prescribed my two medications, gave one-third normal dose of one, but I feel much better.  My only issue now is that I can’t sleep and I would rather not take my Robaxin to achieve a great night of sleep when a better alternative, Trazodone, is available to me, yet the doctor refuses to prescribe me.  Sunday night I took my last Trazodone and I slept great.  Monday night I took a Robaxin and I could sleep but the quality wasn’t as great.  Last night I didn’t take anything and let’s just say I feel like I won’t be doing much today.

Another August Vacation

The trip to Los Angeles didn’t happen.  I’m going to leave it at that.  I’m applying the funds for the ticket to fly back home for a two-week stay.  I still owed the airline money, but thankfully it was less than sixty dollars.  As usual, the dates for my annual visit correlate with those of the Minnesota State Fair.  Instead of going to Los Angeles, I drove to Orlando.  I basically stayed in the hotel room all day, went to the pool in the afternoon, and enjoyed eating a lot of new food in the evening.  In the process, I wrote many reviews and shared my pictures on Yelp.  I also drank too much and got sick because tequila is gross and one sip of that nasty substance is all it takes to make me ill — proof that it doesn’t matter how much watermelon there was in that margarita, tequila and I do not mix well.  Going to the pool was one of the first times recently where I didn’t give any fucks about what people thought about me.  There were those lookers but I didn’t let them get to me.

As the days approach to my departure for my home, I’m reminded of many things I miss.  I miss bland food that I can’t find replacements for down here.  I’ll probably buy a couple half-baked pizzas and freeze them, just so I can enjoy them within the first few days of coming back.  (Seriously, I will.)  Frankie’s.  Fish sliders.  Oyster wings.  Jucy Lucy.  Clive’s.  Jin’s.  Wild rice soup with ham.  Beer cheese soup.  Caramel roll.  Walleye!  Walleye!!  Walleye!!!  This list of food doesn’t include what I get at the fair.  I thought I may return back heavier, but after overeating for a week in Orlando, I still haven’t gained.  I stepped on the scale for the first time in a month because I was sick of someone telling me what I can and can’t do to my body.  (In a passive-aggressive voice:  I get it, you hate fat people and you’re changing yourself, but you don’t need to go and shit on everyone else.)  I’m perfectly fine with the number because it’s just a number.  I feel great!

But then there’s the part of me that says, “I’m in trouble.”  I have an excess amount of energy which only means one thing:  I’m manic.  Have I ever voluntarily wanted to clean the whole apartment?  (The answer is no.)  I can’t sleep.  I’m moving around way too much.  (OK, this shouldn’t be a thing but it is usual for me.)  Next Wednesday can’t come soon enough.  The following weeks after won’t either.  It’s not necessarily a bad thing, I just don’t like the symptoms.  It’s incredibly hard to describe to someone how I feel if they’ve never experienced the same thing.