Journal

Started with a new antidepressant over the weekend, on account of the original meds giving me uncontrolled teeth chattering for about five days straight as one of its side effects. This is irritating, because I’d more-or-less got to the point where the original meds weren’t making me restless and unable to focus, and now…well. Starting over. A new round of antidepressants means a new round of side-effects, which seems to include insomnia, a tendency towards listlessness, and some truly horrific dry-mouth.

All of which is still better than having your jaw vibrate at high speed for 120 hours straight. And, presumably, better than whatever horror-show was going on in my head two weeks ago.

It’s Monday. I want to be writing things. Doing so is frustratingly slow at the moment, full of moments where I have to step away from the computer. I have tried going with the notebooks, which usually helps in these situations, but even then my concentration tends to drift after filling a single page. My daily goals are ludicrously unambitious, and still difficult to achieve.

But it is not doing nothing. And that is probably a good sign.

Eleven days ago, when first I posted about being sad, my parents called and asked whether I needed to see a doctor. No, I said. I’m fine. I’m just sad. My mum pointed out that she’d feel a whole lot better if I went to a doctor. No, I’m really fine. It will pass, and I will cope, I said.

Then I removed my parents from the Facebook list I used to talk about stuff I’d only mention around close friends, so they wouldn’t worry when I posted there about the occasional crying jag or frustration with the world. I figured that was easier.

Things did not pass. I did not start coping better.

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Yesterday, I burst into tears at work when our office manager tried to have a conversation about taking leave and managing my stress levels. I’d been trying to point out that work was just one of many things stressing me out, and I just…couldn’t. By nine-thirty in the morning, I was hiding out in the toilets, in tears.

By eleven, I was heading home, except I knew home was a bad idea. Home meant sitting alone on my couch, brooding and crying more. So I went to spend some time with my parents, who figured shit was up ’cause I was meant to be at work, and after about two hours of discussing it I agreed to go see their GP.

First, because it would make my mum feel better, not because I expected it to have any real impact. Second, ’cause the number of folks getting in touch to ask if I was okay was starting to worry me. And third, ’cause there are certain friends I listen to when they suggest things, and one of them had just suggested getting shit checked out.

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It felt absurd to sit in a doctor’s office because I felt sad. It felt even more absurd to talk about the reasons, particularly the thing that had tipped me over the edge. Then the questions started about when and how long and had I felt like this before. Specific questions about the stuff that was occupying my mind.

We did one of those tests about the last four weeks, where I thought I was giving nice moderate answers that would result in see, nothing really wrong,  and the results were more along the line of well, it’s probably good you are seeing a doctor right now. 

Then we talked through options, short term and long term. And the pros and cons of each, based on whether what was going on proved to be situational or long-term. It was weird. I am not used to doctors taking that long with an issue, particularly one that I thought was pretty minor.

I walked out with the beginnings of a treatment plan while we figure out what’s going on, orders to stay away from work at the end of the week, and a month’s worth of antidepressants.

I am still vaguely pissed that my mum was right. And I am still vaguely pissed that it took me eleven days to acknowledge it.

Awake at 6 AM, sitting at the computer. Getting ready to write something, to put new content on the blog. One of those routines in my life that I’ve been ignoring for weeks now, but it’s time to get back to it. My body seems to have decided that 4 AM is the optimal time to wake up, so I may as well embrace that and use it to my advantage.

The last six weeks broke me, but that happens. I am breakable. Everyone is breakable, when life finds the right cracks and works upon them, and I have plenty of cracks that I’ve been ignoring for years.

And so this week is all about the small victories. Did I write a blog post today? Did I open the document for my work in progress? Have I eaten real food, instead of microwaving something and calling it done? Incremental improvement, rather than running at top speed.

Picking up the pieces of who I am and pasting them together again, until I start to resemble a real goddamn human being again.