Lately, I’ve really been having a couple of issues. I hate to seem so pessimistic, but it doesn’t feel like I am necessarily getting better so much as adding more and more weights on my shoulders.
Depression is a b**ch. Sorry to be so blunt.
I am surrounded by dirty dishes and clean clothes laying in various piles collecting wrinkles. Every floor is in desperate need of vacuuming. Surfaces should have been wiped. Bottles of water with maybe three or four sips sit forgotten all over the floor. Coats aren’t hung up; I can barely open the coat closet without something falling on me. I’ve lost another important piece of paper.
Many of you may read this and think, “What a lazy slob!” I get that. Honestly, that’s how I feel 90% of the time. I see the mess. My brain processes the mess. But I cannot find the energy nor the motivation to do anything about it. Then the anxiety kicks in and I worry about what a mess my home is. But I still don’t have the energy. Yeah, depression sucks. Anxiety sucks, too. But together, they play off of each other just about as well as the positive and negative ends of a magnet.
I have spent entirely too much time with my head in my hands thinking about what a failure I am. I have spent too much time thinking about what needs to be done without actually doing anything. I have spent too much time wanting nothing more than to go home where I can be at a seemingly peaceful sense, yet still finding myself torn in two by the things that are going on. I have spent too much time not allowing myself to enjoy life.
And I am sick of it.
For the past couple of weeks, I have been plagued by daily migraines. I am back to the point where I started several months ago: that is, having a headache nearly every day for the majority of the day. I got sick of that, too, and decided to seek medical expertise. It hasn’t taken me too long to get sick of it again. I have left work early twice because of it. More things have been left undone because of it. I’ve snapped at people and not allowed myself to enjoy spending time with my family because of it. Because of everything.
I have spent the last few months taking more medication and making more doctors office visits and getting more tests done than I have in the twenty-three years of my life. I don’t feel well 90% of the time. But since I’m not actually sick, it doesn’t really matter, right?
After visiting several doctors for several very real physical symptoms, we have pretty much determined that the cause of many of my issues seems to be anxiety and stress. I do still have some physical diagnoses (TMJ, an ovarian cyst, minor hiatal hernia, and IBS), but the truth is I didn’t start having so many “conditions” until my stress and anxiety levels pushed through the roof. Sure, when I was in high school and late middle school I did suffer from extremely painful menstrual cycles that went un-treated and plagued me once a month for five years of my life. Other than that and the occasionally cold and seasonal allergy attacks, I was quite healthy and very blessed, considering I never ever visited the doctor, not even when I contracted swine flu during the pandemic (while I was unknowingly thirteen weeks pregnant, at that…another story for another post, perhaps).
I have to take care of all of this stress. When the medication doesn’t fix it, it’s time to add something else. The next step, I suppose, would be therapy.
So, since last month I have been scheduled to see a psychiatrist. He comes very recommended by several of my doctor’s patients, however, as briefly mentioned in a previous post, I am beginning to doubt if I am really going down the right path. Truth be told, I don’t know where else to go.
Darn that anxiety, for making me second guess every single one of the decisions I ever make.
I will continue to pray, as I have been, for God to lead me in the right direction. Only He knows what is best for me, and for all of His people.