Where is the dopamine?

It looks like I’m sliding into crying all the time again. Friday at work I started crying because of a work conference I had decided not to go to because I was scared I would get a migraine. I went down to the Parkade, thinking I would cry in the backseat of my car, but I forgot my car keys. By this time I was already crying hard, so I didn’t want to go back upstairs to get them. I called the employee assistance program, thinking that maybe there was an off chance that they would have an opening for a counselling appointment. They didn’t, but the gal who answered the phone thought that I sounded so upset that she patched me through to a social worker who was on crisis duty. He was very nice, and said that he could barely understand me between the echo of the Parkade and how hard I was crying. He recommended that I just give up and go home, and give work another try on Monday.

So Saturday I was OK. I did some laundry, and some dishes, and cleaned the bathroom, and I totally thought to myself that if I didn’t have a migraine on Sunday, I could wash my make up brushes and do a bunch of things that were sort of on my to do list but not really urgent. Of course I had a migraine on Sunday, so that was the end of that.

The migraine extended into yesterday, so I ended up not getting into work until 11 and then leaving at 4:30. That’s totally more like half a day then a day, but if I stay there I would’ve just been physically there but  unproductive. 

So that brings us to today, where I went to the hospital for ketamine. I started crying after the infusion had begun, and I can’t even really point to a specific reason. I just felt desolate, and kept thinking of poems like 

Come to me in my dreams, and then by day I shall be well again. 

For so the night will more than pay the hopeless longing of the day.

And then I got upset about thinking how the day was filled with hopeless longing. I guess about halfway through the infusion I started to feel better, in the sense that you read about ketamine being used for really acute depression, and then manage to have a bit of a nap afterwards. Then I headed to my psychiatrist, where I started crying basically right away and explained to him that it was one thing to not be able to go to a work conference, but that I didn’t even get to wash my make up brushes, boo-hoo hoo. 

So he increased my meds and gave me a prescription. I took the bus to the pharmacy to find out that they had to order one of the drugs in, so then I took an Uber home and had a shower, because by that time I was just feeling red-faced and wrung out. Then I headed into work, not getting there until 2:30 and leaving at 7 because a colossal thunderstorm started and I was worried that I was going to be having trouble driving if I waited much longer. 

So now here we are, I’m heading into the middle of the week and I don’t feel like I have any of my shit together at all. My skin is horrible, with huge fucking zits because I’ve been eating chocolate and cornflakes with sugar and not much else. I had bought some pierogies, and I think the sour cream I bought to go with them is expired. Because apparently boiling water to put perogies in is too much cooking for me to manage. So that’s pretty pathetic. I think that I should buy some bag salads or something, but I don’t feel like fucking bag salads. I feel like cinnamon toast with warm milk, and candy bars, and waffles with syrup, and always comforting high carb things.

Anyway, I’m not really feeling too hopeful at the moment. My brain has all kinds of drugs being thrown on it, and it just devoured them all and then shit kicks my neurotransmitters anyway. I’m still averaging 2/3 of my time with migraines, which is depressing in and of itself. At least I have a counselling appointment for this Friday, only two days away.

Left psychiatrist without a prescription.

I went to my appointment today and explained that whatever I had taken was making me really really tired. He said “hmmmm” and started flipping through my file, asking me what meds I have been on in the past, before I came to see him, which I really don’t remember at all. Then I said why not just leave well enough alone, because I thought things couldn’t get any worse but when I couldn’t make it through a workday, that was actually worse. And that the world only cares about whether I go to work and pay my rent, the world doesn’t care how I feel about it.

So he said maybe we would leave it for a week, because I just tried two medications that didn’t go well for me, and that he would see me next week. I cried on the bus on the way to the appointment, and then pulled myself together to sit in the waiting room, and although I started crying when I was with him I still kept it mostly together. I think I know where that I have to go right back out in the waiting room in a minute so I’m trying not to lose it. I wonder if this gives him the impression that I’m doing better than I am, though. Or maybe now that it’s been two months since I got out of the hospital, that this is a sustainable level of emotions. I don’t know. He did ask me when I was seeing my therapist next, and the answer was today, as I had an evening appointment.

I started straight up full on crying in the waiting room, and continued crying during the whole session, and the therapist clearly gets how bad I feel. He manages to say stuff that makes me feel better, or at least understood, and I end up not really being able to remember anything specific after I leave. Like, I’ll talk about how I don’t see how I can go on, and he’ll say something like “you’re just surviving right now, but you feel really bad” and I’ll be like yes! That’s it exactly! 

He must be concerned for me, because this is through the employee assistance program, and I know those programs have a limit on sessions. If you have more than just a handful, you’re supposed to be in a special program where are you also have a limited number of sessions, but you fill out questionnaires about your symptoms and a bunch of other stuff. I was in that last year, but he just said not to worry about it and is happy for me to go see him every week, so he must be keeping the company off his back somehow.

It just occurred to me on the way home and I’m going to make a note of it to tell my psychiatrist next week, but my parents didn’t ask me if I was OK when I told them that my car was written off. My mom emailed me and asked if I was all right the next day. It didn’t occur to them at the time, because all they give a shit about is money, and when they heard the insurance was paying it that was all they cared about; that, and yelling at me. But really, when I say I was in a car accident and the insurance is writing it off, that could’ve meant that I was in a real wreck. I could’ve been talking to them with casts on my arms and legs. I’m sure if I put it to the bluntly, they totally would deny that money was important to them but the proof is in the pudding; their daughter told them she was in a car accident that resulted in the car being written off, and they didn’t even think to ask me how I was until the next day. So fuck them. Fuck them SO HARD.

Migraine season is starting.

I’ve had a migraine every day since Tuesday. The weather has been really up-and-down here, and barometric pressure is a sure way to give me one, as if the stress weren’t already enough. I use the Migraine Buddy app to track my migraines, and last night there were almost 20,000 other people in my city with one, which is the highest number I’ve ever seen. 

My boss said I didn’t have to go in today to make up the time I missed yesterday, which is so awesome of him because I wouldn’t be able to look at a computer today. I’m so glad I can dictate blog entries and emails with my eyes closed. I have to go get some groceries, because I have literally nothing in the fridge except condiments and a small block of cheese. I’ve had a Percocet and a muscle relaxant, and I’m hoping everything kicks in soon, because it’s really stressful for me to feel like I only have one day to prepare for the work week when I leave everything until Sunday.

More concerning me though, I’m wondering if it’s beginning to shift into the summer weather pattern and if I can expect far more migraines far more often. I haven’t been tracking as diligently as I should have, lately, but I looked up last August and I had 12 migraines during that month. May to August was just horrible, because of the weather. I don’t feel like I’m in any shape to start having migraines all the time for the next for five months. 

Doctor thinks I’m bipolar.

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.

Me rn.

Got to work at 9 am. Just on the bus now, at 8:55 pm, to go home. I am tearing up and saying sternly to myself, don’t cry on the bus! Do. Not. Cry. On. The. Bus., dammit!

I have to go to work this weekend; I’m so far behind on hours. Probably 3 or 4 full days by the time I miss next Tuesday for the ketamine.

EI (unemployment insurance) fucked me over today too, but I’ll write about that when I’m not on my phone. For now: don’t cry on the bus.

Never a good time for a migraine.

I spent the weekend basically in bed. I had intended to go into work, and just couldn’t muster up the energy. Then today I woke up with a migraine, which is awesome because tomorrow I have to go for the ketamine  so basically it will be Tuesday at the end of the day before I get a chance to check in at work.

I talked to Beth last night and she went on about being optimistic, and how everybody has problems, everyone. Yes. I am aware that everyone has problems in their life. But what I’m going through isn’t just a problem like everybody else has. This isn’t normal.  Being clinically depressed isn’t normal. Her refusing to hear it is totally not helpful. Saying “but you sound good!” isn’t helpful either. What the fuck is that supposed to do for me?

I’m worried my boss will fire me as soon as we wrap up the project that I’m on.  We’re behind schedule, and it isn’t my fault, but it certainly easier to blame me because I’m at the bottom of the totem pole.

Concert = reason to live?

I’m getting Depeche Mode tickets in two cities. I will either go to both or neither. If (*If*!) can manage the next 7-8 months and still have a job and enough money to make the trip, I will go to both. If I can’t scrape up a couple hundred bucks to make it to the next town I am sure I will be too depressed to want to go to the concert in my town alone. Can I power through 200-odd days based on my love for a band? Guess we’ll find out!