Why I am a crappy blogger this week
posted by bitchphd
Or, What it's Like to Live with Depression
In a nutshell, this suicidal depression stuff kind of sucks. I am not a big fan of sleeping 'til 2:30 and then having to summon all my will power to physically drag myself out of bed, and the insomnia and complete lack of interest in food don't really help matters. Nor does the fact that I have some work-related stuff due early next week, which has been hanging over my head all week (finally started doing it yesterday, and a couple more hours' worth of work will finish it up, so really, it's not a big deal except for aforementioned problem summoning will power to simply get out of bed, let alone work). This op-ed piece I'm working on is going to be pretty good; I have the intro written, know what to do with the rest of it, but same willpower problem is making it very difficult to do something that should take me about half an hour if I could just think.
That feeling, the not-being-able-to-think feeling, is a real bitch, you know? It's a very odd sensation, simply not being able to focus one's mind; kind of the mental equivalent of waking up and realizing your arm has gone to sleep and you can't feel or move it. It's there, but it just doesn't work. And it's frustrating for Mr. B., too, to ask me a question and have me not hear it, or hear it and not understand that it requires a response, or understand that it requires a response but have to take a couple of minutes to process the question, the answer, and anything I might need to do to find out the answer (e.g., go find the paperwork he needs). And of course his impatience with all that is absolutely overwhelming. Hell, feeding the cat is almost overwhelming.
And of course, there's the exhaustion of fighting for benefits and appointments. I've used up my allowed annual therapy appointments, and spent much of last week fighting with the HMO and then the university benefits people to try to talk them into giving me "extra" mental health care. Got my chair involved, which managed to convince the university office to grant me a very, very generous one extra appointment. (Sarcastic) Yay! I need to call them back and see if I can actually meet with them in person, see if I can get some kind of affadavit from my therapist saying that yes, I am, in fact, crazy, and that if they don't let me keep seeing her my job performance will suffer. Again, not all that difficult--one phone call--but I'm utterly worn out from the half-dozen argumentative phone calls I had to make last week just to get to this point, and am not really looking forward to yet another go round with the run around. I also can't see my meds doc until August, only it turns out I won't be able to see him then, either, b/c I have plans to be out of town. Which I don't mind, b/c I hate my meds doc, but which also kinda sucks b/c I probably could use the meds. Then again he wants to put me on Valporic acid, which annoys me b/c I'm not bipolar, I really don't think. So maybe it's best to just avoid his crappy diagnosis, which seems to be based exclusively on my own use of the word "hypomanic" to describe the effects of being on too much Wellbutrin and going off to a conference in a much sunnier clime somewhere that is Not Here and suddenly feeling So Much Better!, rather than on any actual history of mania or hypomania or, you know, any kind of actual tracking of my moods day-to-day. Sigh. In the meantime, I've embarked on the St. John's Wort self-medicating experiment, so we'll see how that goes.
There's gotta be some kind of exit plan. We're still waiting to find out if Mr. B. will get a job offer from Big International Corporation. I'm kind of holding out hope that this will happen, because despite being clearly batshit, I'm fairly certain that if I can just get the fuck out of here, I'll feel better. In fact, I suspect that my current problems stem, in part, from the fact that it's the end of July and I am having to gear up for another semester in case it doeesn't work out. Of course, if and when the offer comes, I'll have to struggle through the awkwardness of giving last-minute notice and seeing if I can get out of here without burning every bridge I've got; not sure how well desperate, half-panicked stressmonkey me will manage to do that gracefully. Though in the end I doubt it makes much difference to my employer if I quit and move, or if I have a breakdown and go on medical leave--they'll still have to scramble to cover my courses. I suppose it's possible that I'll end up here another semester while Mr. B. trots off to start his new job. Which would be a huge financial benefit and make things easier in that sense, although which of us ends up being the single parent for three or four months, I'm not sure. If I do move with him, I'm currently enjoying a nice healthy appetizer of guilt over the fact that I won't have a job myself, and would really like to give myself a little time to get unpacked, settled, and not-suicidal before jumping right into the ol' nine to five.
But of course, worrying about that is pointless (not that that ever stops me), since who knows if it'll happen, or how. That's the rescue plan. If it doesn't come through, plan B is definitely back on the meds to get through the semester.
In a nutshell, this suicidal depression stuff kind of sucks. I am not a big fan of sleeping 'til 2:30 and then having to summon all my will power to physically drag myself out of bed, and the insomnia and complete lack of interest in food don't really help matters. Nor does the fact that I have some work-related stuff due early next week, which has been hanging over my head all week (finally started doing it yesterday, and a couple more hours' worth of work will finish it up, so really, it's not a big deal except for aforementioned problem summoning will power to simply get out of bed, let alone work). This op-ed piece I'm working on is going to be pretty good; I have the intro written, know what to do with the rest of it, but same willpower problem is making it very difficult to do something that should take me about half an hour if I could just think.
That feeling, the not-being-able-to-think feeling, is a real bitch, you know? It's a very odd sensation, simply not being able to focus one's mind; kind of the mental equivalent of waking up and realizing your arm has gone to sleep and you can't feel or move it. It's there, but it just doesn't work. And it's frustrating for Mr. B., too, to ask me a question and have me not hear it, or hear it and not understand that it requires a response, or understand that it requires a response but have to take a couple of minutes to process the question, the answer, and anything I might need to do to find out the answer (e.g., go find the paperwork he needs). And of course his impatience with all that is absolutely overwhelming. Hell, feeding the cat is almost overwhelming.
And of course, there's the exhaustion of fighting for benefits and appointments. I've used up my allowed annual therapy appointments, and spent much of last week fighting with the HMO and then the university benefits people to try to talk them into giving me "extra" mental health care. Got my chair involved, which managed to convince the university office to grant me a very, very generous one extra appointment. (Sarcastic) Yay! I need to call them back and see if I can actually meet with them in person, see if I can get some kind of affadavit from my therapist saying that yes, I am, in fact, crazy, and that if they don't let me keep seeing her my job performance will suffer. Again, not all that difficult--one phone call--but I'm utterly worn out from the half-dozen argumentative phone calls I had to make last week just to get to this point, and am not really looking forward to yet another go round with the run around. I also can't see my meds doc until August, only it turns out I won't be able to see him then, either, b/c I have plans to be out of town. Which I don't mind, b/c I hate my meds doc, but which also kinda sucks b/c I probably could use the meds. Then again he wants to put me on Valporic acid, which annoys me b/c I'm not bipolar, I really don't think. So maybe it's best to just avoid his crappy diagnosis, which seems to be based exclusively on my own use of the word "hypomanic" to describe the effects of being on too much Wellbutrin and going off to a conference in a much sunnier clime somewhere that is Not Here and suddenly feeling So Much Better!, rather than on any actual history of mania or hypomania or, you know, any kind of actual tracking of my moods day-to-day. Sigh. In the meantime, I've embarked on the St. John's Wort self-medicating experiment, so we'll see how that goes.
There's gotta be some kind of exit plan. We're still waiting to find out if Mr. B. will get a job offer from Big International Corporation. I'm kind of holding out hope that this will happen, because despite being clearly batshit, I'm fairly certain that if I can just get the fuck out of here, I'll feel better. In fact, I suspect that my current problems stem, in part, from the fact that it's the end of July and I am having to gear up for another semester in case it doeesn't work out. Of course, if and when the offer comes, I'll have to struggle through the awkwardness of giving last-minute notice and seeing if I can get out of here without burning every bridge I've got; not sure how well desperate, half-panicked stressmonkey me will manage to do that gracefully. Though in the end I doubt it makes much difference to my employer if I quit and move, or if I have a breakdown and go on medical leave--they'll still have to scramble to cover my courses. I suppose it's possible that I'll end up here another semester while Mr. B. trots off to start his new job. Which would be a huge financial benefit and make things easier in that sense, although which of us ends up being the single parent for three or four months, I'm not sure. If I do move with him, I'm currently enjoying a nice healthy appetizer of guilt over the fact that I won't have a job myself, and would really like to give myself a little time to get unpacked, settled, and not-suicidal before jumping right into the ol' nine to five.
But of course, worrying about that is pointless (not that that ever stops me), since who knows if it'll happen, or how. That's the rescue plan. If it doesn't come through, plan B is definitely back on the meds to get through the semester.
Posted at 1:35 PM
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