Doctor, Doctor Give Me A Pill; The Prettiest Collection I've Ever Seen
DOCTOR, DOCTOR GIVE ME A PILL
THE PRETTIEST COLLECTION I'VE EVER SEEN!
Back in November, I met with a new psychopharmacologist. This isn't anything new for me. Though I wish I could see a prescriber who also is my therapist. I think some things get lost in translation, but alas, this is the way things have to be for now. Maybe I can change things up in the future. It's not that I don't like both of the women that I see now, I just think a two-in-one bundle might make things a little easier. But that's a choice and decision for future Dan.
I got to a point where the depression was wholly smothering me. I was having rage outbursts rather than usual manic ones. I was up and down. I wasn't behaving myself at work. Breaking things out of frustration, tearing down displays that were done wrong and at home, I was kicking holes in the walls and screaming over the smallest things. I was losing my grip and my control of my emotions and my life.
I made an appointment to meet with someone in the upstairs clinic. I didn't know what to expect. It didn't go all that well at my last mental health clinic. A lot of mental health clinics leave a lot to be desired. I've been to and in ones in the UK and the US and both are pretty well shit. Understaffed, underfunded and overburdened. People want to increase quality of life? Make mental health services more accessible to everyone not just those with money to push their ways to the front of the line. There might just be a correlation to mental illness and poverty, acts of violence, cults and more. Oh, wait, there already is. Fucktards.
....
I watch the rain splash against the windows of the car as I sit waiting, my rage building. I feel completely alone. There is a coldness filling me and I don't think I will ever warm to it. The sorrow leaks from me either in the form of tears or blood; the warlords of bipolar depression never pleased with my sacrifice. When will what I give be enough? Everything I give is to please them. I know they stand in polar opposites to one another, but there needs to be a little give and take. I'm tired. I don't have that much more in me to offer. I didn't sign up for any of this. I'm too young to be this exhausted by life.
I tell all of this to my new psychopharmacologist. She's a small, cute little geeky woman with big glasses and a bright smile. I take a liking to her instantly. She's warm and calming. She definitely lives her life in colour. Her hair is a rich auburn colour that almost always matches her outfits. I'm not sure how she does it, but I'm going to go with witchcraft. There can't be another explanation. I mean, she could just purchase clothes around her hair colour, but that's too rational and I want to enjoy a little bit of fantasy.
We talk about my serious depression, the ups and downs in mood, the lack of proper sleep and the increased anxiety that I've been feeling. Sometimes I can't even pinpoint why I'm depressed, why I can't sleep, why I'm anxious or even why I feel so good. Events, mental illness, memory. It all comes together in a thick porridge that trudges through my veins making me behave and feel certain things. It feels completely out of my control. To some extent it is. I don't tell her that sometimes I feel guilty over the way that I feel.
She types everything into my patient notes, adding to the already colossal file that defines my mental health over the past now 11 years. They must have needed to deforest one of Europe's oldest forests to be able to contain all these notes. Sometimes it feels like I'm just wasting everyone's time, that I will never get any better. She's concerned about the depression. And she doesn't even know how bad the suicidal thoughts are. I've touched on them, carefully explaining how I feel. I don't have an active plan, but there always is one. There is always the ol' reliable escape plans. I have a little notebook of methods that are less painful to the most painful. It's kind of a comfort. There's just something calming about knowing I could do it at any moment. The worst part is when the fog lifts and I have the ability to act. I have acted before, slicing, pills, jumping off the roof. Each providing their own level of catharsis for different reasons. The rush is always different.
...
We're working on a new combination of medications. I stare at all the different coloured and shaped pills lined up in my pill container, the vials perched on a shelf next to my bed. Orange, white, shaped like a paper aeroplane, small, large, green and white. Some are capsules, some are tablets. Each one of them designed to help me. They're not helping me. We've upped dosages, changed the combinations, we've removed other chemicals from the equation. To some degree, I feel like an experiment. We're both struggling to see the bigger picture, failing to combat the illness that threatens the well being of someone. A human life. Do I even count as a human? And who decided that human lives are worth more than that of animals? Or even plants? My head swims. Both of us are trying so hard, but when will we reach the point when we realise that it's empty. Everything is meaningless. That there is nothing either of us can do. Some people are just born to suffer. In over a decade of medication, counselling and I've only gotten worse. Yes, I'm happier since coming out and being open about that, but in some ways, it's caused more hardships. I feel like a constant joke now. I just want to transition but the depression, the thoughts that I will never be enough, that this pain will never end, that I will always be alone weighs on me constantly.
I'm hopeful we can find a combination of medication that works for me, but I really just don't know. I know the contradictions have piled up here as my thoughts race, but I needed to get it out.
I got to a point where the depression was wholly smothering me. I was having rage outbursts rather than usual manic ones. I was up and down. I wasn't behaving myself at work. Breaking things out of frustration, tearing down displays that were done wrong and at home, I was kicking holes in the walls and screaming over the smallest things. I was losing my grip and my control of my emotions and my life.
I made an appointment to meet with someone in the upstairs clinic. I didn't know what to expect. It didn't go all that well at my last mental health clinic. A lot of mental health clinics leave a lot to be desired. I've been to and in ones in the UK and the US and both are pretty well shit. Understaffed, underfunded and overburdened. People want to increase quality of life? Make mental health services more accessible to everyone not just those with money to push their ways to the front of the line. There might just be a correlation to mental illness and poverty, acts of violence, cults and more. Oh, wait, there already is. Fucktards.
....
I watch the rain splash against the windows of the car as I sit waiting, my rage building. I feel completely alone. There is a coldness filling me and I don't think I will ever warm to it. The sorrow leaks from me either in the form of tears or blood; the warlords of bipolar depression never pleased with my sacrifice. When will what I give be enough? Everything I give is to please them. I know they stand in polar opposites to one another, but there needs to be a little give and take. I'm tired. I don't have that much more in me to offer. I didn't sign up for any of this. I'm too young to be this exhausted by life.
I tell all of this to my new psychopharmacologist. She's a small, cute little geeky woman with big glasses and a bright smile. I take a liking to her instantly. She's warm and calming. She definitely lives her life in colour. Her hair is a rich auburn colour that almost always matches her outfits. I'm not sure how she does it, but I'm going to go with witchcraft. There can't be another explanation. I mean, she could just purchase clothes around her hair colour, but that's too rational and I want to enjoy a little bit of fantasy.
We talk about my serious depression, the ups and downs in mood, the lack of proper sleep and the increased anxiety that I've been feeling. Sometimes I can't even pinpoint why I'm depressed, why I can't sleep, why I'm anxious or even why I feel so good. Events, mental illness, memory. It all comes together in a thick porridge that trudges through my veins making me behave and feel certain things. It feels completely out of my control. To some extent it is. I don't tell her that sometimes I feel guilty over the way that I feel.
She types everything into my patient notes, adding to the already colossal file that defines my mental health over the past now 11 years. They must have needed to deforest one of Europe's oldest forests to be able to contain all these notes. Sometimes it feels like I'm just wasting everyone's time, that I will never get any better. She's concerned about the depression. And she doesn't even know how bad the suicidal thoughts are. I've touched on them, carefully explaining how I feel. I don't have an active plan, but there always is one. There is always the ol' reliable escape plans. I have a little notebook of methods that are less painful to the most painful. It's kind of a comfort. There's just something calming about knowing I could do it at any moment. The worst part is when the fog lifts and I have the ability to act. I have acted before, slicing, pills, jumping off the roof. Each providing their own level of catharsis for different reasons. The rush is always different.
...
We're working on a new combination of medications. I stare at all the different coloured and shaped pills lined up in my pill container, the vials perched on a shelf next to my bed. Orange, white, shaped like a paper aeroplane, small, large, green and white. Some are capsules, some are tablets. Each one of them designed to help me. They're not helping me. We've upped dosages, changed the combinations, we've removed other chemicals from the equation. To some degree, I feel like an experiment. We're both struggling to see the bigger picture, failing to combat the illness that threatens the well being of someone. A human life. Do I even count as a human? And who decided that human lives are worth more than that of animals? Or even plants? My head swims. Both of us are trying so hard, but when will we reach the point when we realise that it's empty. Everything is meaningless. That there is nothing either of us can do. Some people are just born to suffer. In over a decade of medication, counselling and I've only gotten worse. Yes, I'm happier since coming out and being open about that, but in some ways, it's caused more hardships. I feel like a constant joke now. I just want to transition but the depression, the thoughts that I will never be enough, that this pain will never end, that I will always be alone weighs on me constantly.
I'm hopeful we can find a combination of medication that works for me, but I really just don't know. I know the contradictions have piled up here as my thoughts race, but I needed to get it out.
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