Shell shock

I have a doctor appointment this evening. I wasn’t really prepared for the slot to be so soon, but I said OK to the booking. I need it. My feelings on readiness are irrelevant. Either I go to this appointment or continue to suffer and cause suffering in those closest to me. There is no choice.

Yesterday was Hell.
I’m writing this in the hazy stupor of shell shock. I had multiple, major depressive events yesterday where I was absolutely helpless but to remain motionless, snot and tears pooling below my face onto my desk, or at one point – as I crouched in despair looking into our corner pantry cupboard – onto the floor. Sobbing like this is typically reserved for the grieving; for me, yesterday, it was my average state of being.

I suppose I am grieving, to a certain extent. I am not at all what I can be. I am the dead Jen who wanders this house, this life, this village, feeling like a sack of cement tied to the backs of my loved ones. Hell, I’m that to myself as well. I am unfit. I mean that in a broad sense – I cannot seem to get myself into proper physical shape, financial shape, emotional shape. I am a factory second and should be red-tagged and sent back for rework. Problem is, I am my own factory and my brain staff is incapable of much more than waking and breathing right now. That’s what depression has done with me. And it gets worse. It feeds itself and my anxiety and ADHD are like the little cartoon dog bouncing next to the tough bulldog saying, “Hey, Spike! What do we do next? Let’s get ‘er!”

You know what I hate most about all this? Being a fucking whiner. I am the combat boot wearing Tank Girl of days gone by. She may have been a mess inside, but somehow her girl balls got her through. The past twenty years have chipped away at that, little by little, and I can say that without a doubt, the last four years have been the hardest of my life. I lost my mom. My marriage is in trouble. My career is anything but successful. I feel trapped and helpless. A river of doubt, pain, and despair runs though me where my blood belongs. I am the walking dead.

I have a goal in my visit with the doctor this evening: change medications. I’ve been on a cocktail of Strattera and Citalopram for years. It’s been helpful in that it has kept me alive. Beyond that, I am little more than semi-functional meat limping through each day, some more successfully than others. I was on Adderrall XR in the US for a couple of very productive, largely happy years. That drug has not been widely available in the UK, hence my cocktail. In fact, it wasn’t until I moved to Cornwall that a GP would help me at all with adult ADHD. I went untreated for many years, and to counter my depression and anxiety I was put on Citalopram. I remain on it, and am terrified of what I might be without it, if it is doing its job at all…
Regardless, this treatment isn’t working anymore, if it did at all. The beast in my brain has taken advantage of my personal life, crushed my self-confidence, and has made me feel like a rabbit in a snare. I cannot continue to live like this. I cannot have another yesterday, or the years of emotional hell that have made up the past few years.

Things I need to heal:
Proper assessment and medication. Now.
Business success to feel independent and capable.
Physical fitness.

If I can stop sobbing long enough, I will achieve what I am born to do. I am an artist, and a damn good one. I will be successful and financially independent. I will have the body I want with the peaceful mind to drive it. I have had these things in part in the past and I will have them again. I’d say, “or die trying,” but that shit ain’t funny right now. I remember when my mom was dying, she asked Neil to take care of me. I know she meant well, but she kind of jinxed things. I feel like a burden and a failure, and Neil is saddled with those words. Independence feels like a place I can only reach in my dreams and I’ve been attached like a tumour to a relationship that should be healthy and full of love. Instead, I feel like a poison. It sucks.

At least by typing all this out, I’ve stopped shaking at the idea that I have to go explain my brains again to a health professional. Nothing is quite so horrible for a bipolar, anxious, ADHD person as trying to get a doctor to understand your brand of crazy. I’m depressed, nervous, forgetful, and skittish. I will probably be put into therapy again, and that’s ok. It’s not particularly helpful as I tell the world how I feel already, but the doctors do things to a script for the most part, and I know that I’m actually not a special little snowflake in the grand scheme of things. I’m just another nut in the bowl.

Time for me to find my old pill bottle for Adderrall XR. I’ve kept it (and a last pill or two in it) for years. It’s like a lucky penny reminding me of a time when I had more control over my life. I wouldn’t trade these years of experience for anything, but I sure would’ve liked them to have gone a bit more smoothly. I’ll take my file of therapy notes from the US and my lucky pill bottle to the GP tonight. Hopefully they will speak for me when I can’t find the words.
I am ever hopeful.

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