So, we're starting from the beginning. I saw my psych on Friday, explained to him the feelings I've been having, and he just looked at me thoughfully, rubbed his face and said, somewhat exasperatedly, "Well, everything you've just described to me sounds exactly like depression...which means the medicine (cymbalta) isn't working." I started crying and said, "Why does this keep happening to me? Is this normal, that every medicine I take, I eventually develop an immunity to it?" He said it happens to some people, so we went over the list of meds that I've already been on, to see if there was any hope in the marketable, cheap meds.
I mentioned that Celexa was what got me going after Mom died. He said that he wanted to try that one once more. At first, he suggested Lexapro, but then changed to Celexa, because you can buy it at Wal-mart for $4.
And, then we had a little incident on Friday from which Heather and Lee had to rescue me from. Let's just say, it's been a rough weekend. I slept almost the whole time, yet here I sit at work, and I feel like I haven't slept a wink (usually a good measure of the severity of my depression).
The only good news I have to offer is that when I went to see Stannard last week, there was more bone growing in my fracture site. The screw is still well-intact (I have to say, though...that thing is a BITCH and hurts terribly when I bump it), and my pain has decreased significantly. So, I asked, with a somewhat pleading note in my voice, if I could go back to the gym. He said yes, and I grabbed him around the neck, and he said, "BUT...you've got to be careful and use your common sense." In specific, I'm forbidden to do any straight-leg raises. Which is fine with me. I hated those anyway.
Also, what else happened? Crap, I can't remember. Another indicator for how I'm feeling.
I actually got called in to Chris' office on Friday to talk about the times I've called in. I made a note on my write-up that all of this is resultant of the depression I'm dealing with. Chris read it, and I told him that I know it probably sounds like a cop-out, but that I'd made an appointment with our EAP (employee assistance program) for sometime this week, and that I really am trying to fix this. He said, as seriously as he could, "You know, we want you to get better, and we'll do anything we can to help you. Because you're a good tech, and I don't want to lose you." I jumped up, ran to the door, and wrenched it open. I said, "Don't make me talk about it, or I'm going to cry (I already was)! I want to get better, too!," and ran out like I was on fire.
I absolutely can't talk about this with anyone, especially at work, because it's just too hard. It's too hard for me to explain, and it's too hard for them to understand. You know, because depression is a booboo - but it's not a booboo you can see. I'll be damned, though, if it's the only thing you can feel. And, I slept SO WELL last night. But right now, my heart is fluttering and flipping, my eyes are heavy, my whole body is heavy, like it's made of lead, and I just feel like any minute, I'm going to drop to the floor in a "Sleeping Beauty" kind of coma.
I have very brief lights of "me" things. Like I can get a little excited about something, but it's really short-lived. Other than that, all the rest of the time, I look like I've lost my best friend (no offense, Heather). Someone once told me that although I look happy at times, I always look like there's a touch of unconsolable sadness in my face and behind my eyes.
God, I can't believe it's not even 830a yet. I just want to go home and go to sleep - forever. I can't, though. I'm going to try to get the car and make it to the vet with the girls. They really need their checkups and shots, and Jammy needs to get her stitches/staples out of her tummy. Plus, I've got to ask them about their fatty underbellies. I love kitties, no matter what they look like, but making kitties overweight is just cruel.
Oh yeah, UB started dayshift today. She was already here when I got here. Now if only a crazy person would come through the department and kill me, life would be good. Or death. At this point, whatever.
Sooooo, back on the Celexa. Again.
Here's to new beginnings - again.
I'll let you know when life feels liveable. Right now, I'd rather be anything but alive. I'd even pay money to have one of those good, long, hard cries, to feel like I'm releasing some of this...whatever it is. Cry out my grey cloud. Cry out my pain and senseless suffering - there's nothing over which to suffer. You're just a spoiled child with a fucked up brain. You mean nothing to anyone, so you have to meaning.
Starting over - - - - - again.