Since returning from holiday last week I've been in one of those deep pits of despair that only fellow depression sufferers will know. Floods of tears about goodness knows what whereby anything and everything seem to trigger some snot or other.
The day before yesterday I had my first encounter with the NHS, chronic pain service and my first impressions weren't great but then they could be somewhat tainted by the embarrassment of having cried on and off for an hour or more in front of a complete stranger! I think I expected some 'expert' input into my #Fibromyalgia alongside some guidance on appropriate meds. However neither was forthcoming as the service concentrates on pain management through methods other than medication so I think I felt a little misguided by my GP.
Then yesterday I had another appointment with the GP. I took along suggestions from the pain clinic nurse for him having specifically asked her she'd relented and given me 'off the record' advice on meds! The GP ignored it all with a flippant comment 'those pain clinics have some odd ideas' remark. In fact he then proceeded to remove the only #Fibro medicine I was on (gabapentin) after I asked to be swapped over to another before lecturing me as to the fact that Duloxetine wasn't even registered for pain relief, despite it's widespread use for Fibro by other patients! He then also decided for the second time in as many months to change my antidepressants overnight. This time to Mirtazapine, casting aside Sertraline the same way as Citalopram went not so long ago!
As I sat crying in front of him I couldn't help reflecting how humiliating it is to be out of control, especially as that is the second time in two days I've blubbed in public. He must dread me darkening his door!
I have painful shoulder joints due to calcium build ups on the tendons and he wanted to refer me for steroid injections and physiotherapy, I declined which seemed to leave him perplexed, 'why not?' he asked and the only answer I could find was 'I can't be bothered'
Which pretty much sums up the way I am feeling about most things this week, 'I can't be bothered', God help the Occupational Health woman on Friday if she starts with me, assuming I can see through the snot and tears. I'm bloody miserable and moody!
The GP asked me what I was going to do about work as he categorically thinks I'm not fit for any form of duties and look unlikely to be for some time. What can I say? I shrugged my shoulders despondently and told him there was another work case conference looming next week where they'd be asking the same damn question. What do I say?
Then he signed me off again until the 8th July and packed me off. That will take me over the half pay marker that's been set for the 20th June 2017.
I do know I'm feeling disappointment in myself that I don't feel like I am making any progress towards being healthier. I'm feeling guilty for 'dragging' it out if that's what I'm doing. I also worry about peoples tolerance for my continuing low mood, compassion fatigue must be on the horizon. Goodness knows I'm bloody bored of it myself, let alone anyone else!
That overwhelming feeling that there is no point in anything is back leaving me wondering as to why bother in the first place! That dragging misery getting out of bed in the morning knowing you're just going to have to do all the same shite again and that equally miserable business of trying to get to sleep in the first place and that's before trying to stay asleep. One thing I can guarantee is that I'll be comfortably asleep around the time I need to get up though!
I was drinking a lot of spirits last week on holiday, alongside the odd beer and I'm missing the sense dulling warmth that Jack Daniels brought to me, I drank a litre bottle in a week and that's not good is it?
I feel guilty for feeling so down when there are so many people with 'real' problems out there in the world especially after the horrific terror attacks. How can I be wallowing in self pity when so many are being so strong?
The clawing, suffocating vacuum that is despair.
I stare into space unseeingly, unable to achieve an awful lot really. The days trundle by with me managing the bare minimum of household chores necessary, whilst I waste time doing god knows what? In fact I'm surprised I'm typing this really as I shouldn't really be bothered! I need a tattoo for my forehead 'can't be arsed' !
Hopefully next week I'll be walking on the sunny side of the street again hey?! It's odd though to still have a sense of humour alongside the heavy suffocating feelings of misery. You'd kind of expect that to evaporate but oddly it seems fairly stable.
School pick up in an hour so there's another day gone and what have I achieved? A dog walk! Wow! I'm a zombie, I look like me but the insides of my head must have been hollowed out like a Halloween pumpkin and filled with expanding foam instead. I expect even if someone ever does try to put my brains back into my skull now they won't all go will they?! Let's face it when you scrape out potato skins they never all fit back in do they?!!
Anyway I reckon I've reached my ultimate level of concentration for one day, like a Buckaroo game that's about to trigger I'm feeling enough is enough. I certainly don't want to kick anyone!