I Want a New Drug

Through a circuitous route, I happened to take part in a clinical study run by a psychiatrist. (Go figure!)

It involved a lengthy telephone interview. I knew others who had participated in the study and as I was talking to Dr. A, he said, "Oh, and what was the family crisis that derailed you when you were twelve?"

"Oh, that was when my grandfather was arrested for molesting my friends."

Brief silence from Dr. A. "And did he molest you?"

"No. Just my friends and cousins. Not me."

Dr. A cleared his throat. We went off in another direction and at one point, he stopped me and said, "So why were you living with your grandparents?"

"Oh, my mom was in a car accident and was hospitalized for about six months when I was little."

"Six months?"

"Yeah. Six months."

On we went. There was some backtracking here and there, but in the end, Dr. A did a summation and said, "So. As I understand it, your parents divorced when you were quite young, your mother was in the hospital for six months when you were a toddler, various relatives looked after you, you had no contact with your father, your mother was physically and emotionally abusive of you as well as negligent. And as you were entering puberty, your grandfather was charged with sexually assaulting your friends and young cousins. Then..." Okay, then I kind of tuned it out.

Because stepping back from it, I thought, dang, and we haven't even gotten to the whole marriage to Xman and being laid off three times part yet. And although I've put everything that happened to me before, oh, age 45, into a box in the basement, it's kind of not-good when I think about this. I mean, this is a lot of stuff.

Dr. A inquired politely, "Are you in therapy?" And I thought, holy God, I should be.
I said not currently.
Dr. A asked if I was satisfied with my therapist. Then it finally dawned on me. "You know, I've been seeing Ari the Therapist for twelve years and I'm not any better at all than when I first started. So no, I'm not."

"Would you be interested in a referral? I may be able to find someone who can help regarding medication."

Well, sure. Sign me up.

To Dr. A's enormous credit, he got back to me within 24 hours. I now have the name of a colleague of a colleague. I have permission to drop names. "It helps sometimes," said Dr. A.

I'm going to call the number tomorrow. Because, um, honestly, if there's anybody out there still paying attention, I need a new drug. My old ones haven't been working for ages. I've been playing fast and loose with dosages. My head is doing things that scare me.

Like this...

Yesterday, because I wanted to feel like a normal human being, I went shopping. At my first stop, I found a pair of truly adorable shoes and I tried them on. I loved them, but they were a bit too big, so I moved on. Two hours later, in the same shopping center, I saw another pair of shoes and I thought, oh, I had a dream about these shoes! Then I realized, no, these were much like the shoes I had tried on only hours before.

It doesn't sound scary, does it? But it does scare me. Because for the past...I don't know how long...I've been living my life under a brain cloud. Sometimes I'll think I dreamed something when it turns out to have been real. Sometimes I think something has happened, when it hasn't happened at all. I feel unmoored, but I've been too terrified to admit it.

I lose things. Things slip through my hands like water. I'll be looking up something to put on my Netflix queue, then poof! It'll be gone. What was it, I think. A documentary. Someone who makes documentaries. What's his name? Not the fat one. Wheel. Spur. Horses? No. Mason Spurlock from Wheeling.

I'm lucky if I can keep hold of Mason long enough to look him up.

Honestly, after awhile, I've just given up trying to hold onto those things and I've been even more terrified to admit it.

I was talking to a friend yesterday who said she had a terrible time retrieving words when she had been depressed. Yes, I said, I've had a terrible time too. "Pen" has become "the thing with ink."

Look, I'm really tired of my adventures in psychiatry. I know I've been very depressed for years and very, very depressed for the last five years, with little hypomanic episodes tucked in. (They were nice. I miss them.)

I'm sick of being sick. I'm sick of the roller coaster. I'm tired of not having any friends, I'm especially tired of not having a job. I'm tired of a lot of things.

I hope Dr. Referral doesn't dick me around, because I honestly can't take many more of shenanigans a la Dr. Lavender.

That's all.

It Gets Weirder

Ari the Therapist? Not so much of a help anymore.

Tonight he said, "Well, it really does sound like you're going to lose your job. How much money do you have in savings? Maybe you should get a roommate. You should definitely be looking for a roommate and another job."

I just sat there, gobsmacked. This was supposed to help?

Then he said, "Hospitalization is a possibility, too, if you want it."

Who the hell goes to a therapist and says, oh, please, lock me away in the loony bin?

As if I could even do that, anyway. I'd lose my job for sure, it would take 90 days for short term disability to kick in, there would be no one to look after my cats and I mean, WTF?

He kept saying, "Well, we have a problem here."

And then it dawned on me. Ari the Therapist was spacing me. He was opening the pod doors. He was spacing me.

And so it has come to pass. I'll find someone within my network of health insurance providers. I'll find a shrink, too, because the meds aren't working anymore.

Work? I got pulled off the requirements thing altogether. Instead, I was able to devote my entire day to the data dictionary thing. Last estimate? 65% through with it.

But this didn't stop Fireman Fred from saying, "Well. It's still late."

My head hurts. Actually, I think I have a migraine. It feels like someone's trying to screw a light bulb into my left eye. Oww.