Why I’m Switching GP… (well, partly)

A transcript of today’s appointment:

*I walk in the door and sit down*

Him: Hello.

Me: Hi.

*a few minutes pass while he continues filling in a rather lengthly form, then he puts that aside and pulls up my records*

Him: Laura…

Me: No.

*confused look from my GP*

Me: Did you just say “Laura”?

Him: Yes.

Me: Well, I’m not Laura…

*another confused look. He turns back to his computer screen*

Him: Chouette?

Me: Yes!

*He pulls up my records on the screen*

Him: You saw R (my MHP) this week.

Me: No…

Him: …last week?

Me: No…

*looks more closely at screen*

Him: 4th August?

Me: Yes!

<cut some uninteresting stuff about my wanting another prescription of Mirtazapine, he offering to put it up to 30mg, and my refusing>

*I take the proffered green slip, thank him, and move towards the door, then stop in my tracks*

Me: There’s just one problem…

Him: ?

Me, baffled: This isn’t my address.

Him: Then you must have moved.

*I’m slightly taken aback by his assuredness, and double check the address just in case I had moved and had somehow forgotten about it(!)*

Me: No. I’ve never even heard of it…

I Don’t Know

So, I booked an appointment with my GP. 7.5mg of Mirtazzy seems to be suiting me, but hopefully it’ll be back up to the full 15mg on Tuesday. It gave me a wonderful feeling, and I want to return to that. I’m been realising over the past few days how much I miss that. A kinda “I can do it” feeling.

I need all the help I can get, from feelings or otherwise. With no CBT, I’m going to have to rely on the Mirtazzy to keep me well. It’s worked like nothing else has done before. For five or six years, I ducked the issue, and tried exercising, eating a better diet, going for long walks to destress, meditation… and perhaps those things helped to keep me afloat for that long. But I still got depressed, I just didn’t like to admit it, because there seemed to be no reason for it. And then came the suicidal thoughts, and the suicidal behaviour, and… well, you know the rest. I wound up on Mirtazzy, and it’s hopefully going to turn my life around.

But I still detest taking it. At the end of the day, I guess I’m taking it for other people. These other people have wormed their way into my life when I wasn’t looking. Regardless, I’ve been putting a strain on those other people - they worry about me, they pray for me, they look searchingly at my face to see if I seem up or down today, they listen to my voice on the phone and comment on my mood. I’m already plenty obsessed with the rising and falling of my mood myself, but that’s understandable - it’s the one thing I need to get a hold on if I’m to get anywhere in the future. When other people become obsessed with it, that’s the point at which I feel I’m being a drain on them.

And that feeling really really sucks.

Sometimes There Is Such a Thing As Too Much Choice

Hoping to fufil a long-cherished plan to “get active” (whatever that is) and “beat the blues with exercise” (cos being hot and sweaty feels great, huh?), I dusted off my old swimming costume, tried it on to check it still fitted, and logged onto the website of my local pools to check out their timetables.

Simple, yes?

Well then it got hellish complicated. My head is swimming (no pun intended) with all the options available to me.

There are two pools: Pool A and B. Pool B is 5p cheaper than Pool A, or 40p cheaper during off-peak hours, but only if I submit a passport photo and proof of address in return for a pass (which costs nothing, but allows me to pay the cheaper fare). It’s also a substantial walk away, whereas Pool A is right by the uni.

So, now you’ve got that straight, choose between a “Social Swim” or a “Wellbeing Swim”. Or a “Wellbeing Female Only Swim” (and there was me thinking females were the social sex). Or a “Lane Swim”. But the Lane Swim only happens at Pool A, and the Ladies Swim only at Pool B. And at Pool A the Social Swims are at a depth of 1.2m, and the Lane Swims at 2.0m (in different pools, I should add!). No shallow end or deep end business, it seems. I like to do lane swimming, but having not swum for three years or so, I know I probably now don’t have the stamina to do it without ever standing up. So maybe lengths of the social pool is the way forward… if the social swimmers don’t keep getting in my way like they often did back home. Hmmmm…

It seemed so much more simple when I was living in a rural area. You turned up, paid your money, changed, and dived in (or not). Yes, they ran lanes in the early morning, a family fun time on a sunday afternoon, a ladies night one day a week, and aqua aerobics one lunchtime a week, but I swear most of it was “General Swimming”.

And I’m still trying to work out what makes a swim a “Wellbeing” swim, as opposed to your average non “Wellbeing” kind of swim…

Timeline of a MH Referral Round ‘Ere

After thinking a bit that I’d like to stand back and look at my year from afar, I knocked this up in EasyPlot

I clearly have far too much time on my hands (and please don’t point out the typo).

Does kinda show how long it takes to get anywhere.

Also makes my life look kinda sparse - there were plenty of other things that happened, obviously, I’ve just chosen to focus on the MH aspects for the purposes of this entry.

Ups and Downs

I can’t work out whether the moral of this post is “Take your medication as prescribed”, or “Sleep regularly”.

I only got to bed last night at about 6am last night this morning, and slept for about 5 hours before waking up again and failing to get any more kip. My sleep cycle has been up the creek for a few days, and I was hoping that staying up all night might have made me tired enough to sleep this evening, but it’s 11pm and I don’t feel significantly tired. Cold and wet, yes (went out in a thunderstorm with no umbrella), which might drive me to bed anyways for warmth reasons, but not tired.

Today has not been a great day, I’ve noticed a lot of intrusive thoughts (not triggered by anything, just the sort that hit you when you’re walking down the street thinking about what sandwich to buy for lunch, or something equally innocent). I’ve not been dwelling on them (too used to them), or finding them distressing, but it is a bit annoying. They’ve been words, not pictures this time, and it’s a bit frustrating to be trying to decide between chicken salad and hoisin duck (say), with a voice whispering nice things like “Hey, slash your wrists”. Although I definately heard one say “bread and milk” when I was shopping for jeans, which amused me. Especially since I don’t even like milk. (Perhaps it was one of those “you had to be there” moments). If only I could teach that part of my brain my shopping list, then that would make shopping a lot easier!

The dopiness continues. Half my pasta went in the bin this evening because I casually poured it onto the counter instead of into the bowl I’d put out for it. Clearly I’m going to need to think a little more about what something requires before I do it. Or sell tickets to come and watch me as a form of entertainment…

Haven’t got round to calling the doc’s today - so as of yesterday I’m only taking doses on alternate days in order to eek out the remaining pills I have, since my GP’s is bad for getting appointments within a week. Please don’t lecture me on what a bad thing this is to do - I’m doing it anyway.

I did get out and about today… I went to my local M&S factory store, to look at their jeans seconds. I have three perfectly good pairs of jeans already, but since I dropped another dress size they’ve all developed a rather annoying attraction to the floor. Even buying a belt has not stopped them heading downwards, so I bit the bullet and decided it was time to buy some in a size 14. Except that there weren’t many long size 14s. The only pair I could find had very little detailing on them, and looked more like normal trousers than jeans. But beggars can’t be choosers, so I bought them. I think I may have to cough up for a “normal” second pair from the city centre store, since I can’t be bothered to keep trecking back to the outlet just to check the new stock. The tram fees would soon exceed the saving on the price of the jeans!

They didn’t have much else in a size 14 either. I checked out their pyjamas, dressing gowns and underwear sections, and while there were tons of 16s, 14s were either noticable by their absence, or far far too short/skimpy. So all in all it was a bit of a wasted trip. And I had to run through torrential rain to get back to the the tram stop.

So, where are all the skinny tall people? Or do they just not shop at Marks and Spencers?

*sigh*

I really need to find some more clothes that fit, so I don’t look (and) feel like a kid playing dress-up in Mummy’s wardrobe!

3,000 Hits!

Huzzah.

I was too busy trying to kill myself when the 2,000th hit came along, so I’ll celebrate now instead. That’s roughly 1,000 hits a month, or 30 hits a day. Not bad for blog-therapy.

I’m not honestly at all sure why you guys have kept reading, but your support has meant a lot, especially during my recent rough patch, when noone else really knew what was going on. Thanks a ton!

Coincidentally, today is also the day I surpassed the “100 spam comments mark”. I’m also 2 posts away from my fiftieth post, and expect to have my 250th comment within the next few days (I won’t tell you how far off that is, lets’ see who gets it. It’s quite close…).

Here’s to more blog-scrapers, pr0n and casin0 ads!

Then and Now

I suppose it’s natural that I keep comparing “now” with “then”. It’s like one of those chidren’s picture books, that show both ye olde street scene (with lamplighters and hackney carriages) and a modern metropolis, and the reader is asked to spot the differences.

Trouble is though, I can’t quite untangle things. The Mirtazzy, my rising mood, my hormones, my “just me”… all collude to form a potion. And I was never really much cop at analytic chemistry.

Things have changed. Heads still turn as I walk down the street, but this time they just gape, rather than pointing and sniggering. I’ve tried to convince myself it’s not me they’re looking at, but there’s a limit to the number of times I can turn and stare at the empty space behind without feeling a prat. Two people tried to chat me up this week; someone else yelled “Hey beautiful girl!” at me, and looked like he might have said more had I not developed a very acute sudden-onset deafness, and walked off completely unaware of him.

I’m well on the way to loosing my depressive waif-ishness. I’ve gone from not understanding why anyone struggles to diet (it was more effort to eat than to not), to wolfing down so much ice cream that I start shivering and have to find a cardigan and a hot drink! There is a plus side tjhough - perhaps now I’ll stop half-fainting every time I stand up too quickly.

Incidentally, I’d been priding myself on not getting the “sedation” side-effect of Mirtazzy. Unfortunately, I’ve turned into a complete dizz… well, more so than usual. My friends are despairing of me. I’m despairing of me! It’s only just occured to me that this may actually be a manifestation of that. I’m somewhat relieved to think that my brain cells may not all be rotted away. It’s only a matter of time before I get arrested for shoplifting though - I keep forgetting to pay for things. Yesterday, I tried to pay for something with my paperback book instead of my bank card! The clerk was very nice about it, but he did laugh rather an awful lot.

I have to go see my doctor next week in order to get another green piece of paper for more Mirtazzy. I don’t really want to, and I feel so well I’m starting to wonder if it all really happened. Yet I have this blog for proof, and a couple of concerned friends. So the first step forward is to make the phone call and book the appointment. Actually attending the appointment is something I’ve got more time to talk myself into.

Any Guitarists Out There?

For the past few weeks I’ve been itching to start learning the guitar.

I’ve always had a yearning to try a musical instrument, but my mother assured me I “wasn’t musical”, and refused to entertain the idea. I grew up thinking she was right (in the way that children do), and it’s only recently that I’ve come to realise that, while my singing couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, I’m certainly not tone deaf. It would be almost easier if I was, then I wouldn’t be able to hear my bad singing!

But recently a couple of people exposed me to the idea of learning a few chords on an acoustic guitar, and it seems a good (if rather common) instrument to learn. Useful, portable, and good for accompanying other people with. I’ve been studying the guitarists at church, and reading up on t’Interweb, and I’m starting to get the idea of how they make the sounds they do, and watching how they do it. It does look like it requires co-ordination/manual-dexterity, which I do struggle with, but that’s never stopped me yet - it just takes me longer than average.

All in all, I’m quite keen - I haven’t had a “big project” for some time, and this looks like it could be a good one to get my teeth into… and more useful that some I’ve undertaken.

The thing that’s stopping me is a rather big one… I don’t, er… actually have a guitar!

Short of digging up a cast-off from friends/aquaintances (I’m still looking, but most don’t seem to have one knocking about that they haven’t already promised someone else)… where are my best hopes of getting a (cheap!) starter instrument? I don’t want to pay a lot, because I don’t have an income right now, but neither do I want something that’s so bad it would be better off as firewood…

Would be very grateful for any advice tendered!

Strange

I haven’t been blogging. I can’t pin one topic down for long enough to write a post about it..

I’m amassing a whole heap of partially-written drafts though. Hopefully they’ll see the light of day soonish.

Life is good, I’m actually happy sometimes, but it’s a frustrating goodness. Back to feeling like I’m playing to someone elses rules, but this time I’m willing to forget about it most of the time and conform to the game, be a good little member of society. I feel like an automaton - eat, shop, play Sims, sleep, eat, shop, play Sims… like a little Sim myself, doing what Big Brother wants.

After all, freedom is slavery… right?

When Thou Walkest Through the Fire, Thou Shalt Not Be Burned

And only You, the Son of man
Can take a leper and let him stand
So lift your hands, they can be held
By someone greater, the great I Am

Healing Rain by Michael W. Smith

I don’t blog about my faith much - partly because I don’t want to sidetrack the blog, partly because I’ve not had cause to.

Yet it seems a shame not to mention it, so here goes. If anyone dislikes me after reading this post, then I can only extend my apologies, and suggest that at least now you’re not under an illusion as to the sort of person I am.

I’m a Christian (as you’ve probably already noticed, given the quote at the top of this page). If you like labels, I’m an Evangelical Anglican. For the benefit of those overseas, I should point out that in England, the term Evangelical is not synonymous with “fundamentalist” or “Bible belt”. Rather, it defines certain beliefs I have about the Bible, Jesus’s death on the cross, and living out my faith. It also tends to imply a worship tradition that is plain, simple, and accessible - no “bells and smells”.

It’s not a crutch to lean on when times get hard, though I will not deny that it has brought me comfort.

It’s not a delusion for the simple-minded, for some of the cleverest people I have known have been devout Christians.

It’s not mass hysteria, for my journey to faith was a solitary one.

My life would be much easier without God. Yet to deny him would be like cutting off a limb. I can no more comprehend doing so than I can comprehend suddenly choosing not to breathe.

It’s not all that easy to be religious and depressed. There seems to be a way of thinking that says that if you’re a depressed Christian, you just lack faith. That if you have God, you shouldn’t need therapy.

Yet the Bible speaks many times of depression. There are whole psalms that center around how depressed the singer is.

I rejoice with those who have found healing, and pray that they continue to stay well. I’ve spent hours on my knees (both metaphorically and literally) praying “Why not me?”. But deep within I know that that stems from impatience. God works on a different timescale - to him, our coming and going is like the blink of an eye. And though I have and am finding healing, it’s an ongoing process, involving many different people, and stretching over decades. So I continue to concentrate on working out my salvation, in fear, trembling, and trusting. The illness will either go, or not - if I’m stuck managing it for the rest of my life, then so be.

There’s another aspect to it - if you believe in an afterlife, then suicide is a much smaller barrier. Many are the nights when I’ve cried, and cried, longing for a closer togetherness with God - longing to come home into the arms of the only Father who has brought me up and guided me since I was a child. My “suicide song” (if there is such a thing) is “And Your Praise Goes On” by Chris Rice. It really sums up how I feel. Because when I feel that life is just too much, that I can’t cope, that I want to throw the towel in, it’s not through lack of faith in God. If I ever do commit suicide, I want people to celebrate my life regardless. Because my memory should not be tarred by the manner of my death.

But the stillness moves and the silence yields
And not a single beat is lost
You can hear the chorus in the fields
Taking up where we left off
…
And when my final breath You lend
I’ll thank You for the life You gave
But that won’t mean the praises end
‘Cause I won’t be silenced by the grave!

And Your Praise Goes On by Chris Rice