This is really annoying me, because I am not. Bipolar. I’ve never had a manic or hypomanic episode, and I had seen my old psychologist for 10 years and she confirmed that I’d never described anything like mania or hypomania. There’s a strong family history of depression, with me, my sister, my mother, my grandmother, and my great aunt (my grandma’s sister) suffering from depression. No mania, just depression. I told the psychiatrist this, and he said that he has seen people who don’t have their first manic episode until their 70s or 80s. Well, my grandma is in her 90s now. And depressed. With no mania.
He’s hanging that entire hypothesis on the fact that I like to sleep a lot when I’m depressed, and I lose my appetite. I guess it’s more common for people to have trouble sleeping. I looked up the American psychiatric treatment guidelines for depression, which said that these atypical symptoms are still consistent with depression, especially in women, and that it’s not that unusual. So I guess I’m going to highlight that and take it with me next time. Actually, he’s really hanging his hypothesis on the fact that because I’m not responding to the typical treatments, depression must not be what I have. So he gave me some samples of some new bullshit pill that I’m supposed to take until I see him next week.
At least he knows I’m feeling shitty, because he asked how I was and I said that I’ve been crying all the time. He asked if there was any particular time of day that was worse for me, because in the past it felt worse in the evening when there was still so long to go before bed. I explained that it didn’t make any difference anymore, that I cried in the bus on the way to work, at work, on the bus again on the way to his appointment, and then I proceeded to cry when I was there with him. Edit
He asked me how my suicidal thoughts were, for the first time since the hospital. I was already sitting there crying, so it wasn’t like I could pretend I wasn’t having them, so I said but I really love Depeche Mode, but that I wasn’t sure going for another 200 days until their concert was doable.
I’m trapped between a rock and a hard place. The world doesn’t give a shit, wait, let me start that thought again. The world only cares if I go to work and do my job, and pay my rent. The world doesn’t care how I feel about it. So either I satisfy my obligations to the world, or I don’t. The nurse therapist at the outpatient department heads suggested that we think about the hospital again, because I had felt better for a time. Maybe I would still feel better if I had stayed there long enough to finish instead of running back to work at my bosses command. It’s so absurd, I’m certain that my boss thinks everything is fine. He probably doesn’t even think I’m depressed anymore. And meanwhile the nurse or my psychiatrist could tell him that an hour ago I was fucking crying and talking about how I didn’t think I could go on living. Theoretically there are supposed to be accommodations, but when push comes to shove he actually just wants somebody who will punch in every morning, not disappear for weeks unexpectedly. If this gets to the point where I can’t keep working, what am I going to do I ask myself? Then I remember that I was perfectly ready to go to work, (OK not perfectly, I needed to shower and was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans,) but I was going to show up when I was planning on dying five days later.