Cinco de Mayo heralded in major med changes for me. I wrote about them in my last post, but let me refresh your memory:
I stopped lithium, decreased my lamictal by half, and started depakote. I will be stopping wellbutrin but not until I finish what I have left in my bottle (I figured that maybe that would be way too much of a change all at once).
My body and brain, true to form, are not liking the changes. Almost overnight depression. With suicidal ideation. It has been . . . not fun.
If I'm not horribly depressed and sobbing, I'm stuck in a state of apathy - of not caring. And no matter what state I'm in, there's a strong sense of anhedonia.
Nothing that should bring me joy or pleasure does.
I'm merely existing right now people, and existing and living are not the same.
I'm trying to keep in perspective that this is all most likely thanks to my med changes and it will pass. With time, it will pass. But that's difficult to do when your thoughts are so dark. When your thoughts are becoming increasingly more centered on death, dying, and suicide. It's difficult to do when you count how much propanolol you have (178 pills) meticulously, several times, to know for certain that you have enough to do the job (that's probably 5-6 times more than enough - propanolol is a blood pressure medication).
I'm not going to take it.
I have self control, even though it wears thin sometimes. I'm thinking it best, though, that I give the bottle to my hubby, just to be safe. Just to take away that out.
The apathy and anhedonia are almost worse than the sobbing and despair. I don't know what to do with these feelings. I don't want to play with my son. It's tiring and bothersome and I just don't care. Which is horrible because I should. He's spending the weekend at his grandma's house which is good for me because I don't have to deal with the horrible feelings I get for not feeling anything for him. I love him - obviously - I just don't feel it.
The same, too, goes for my hubby. I love him, dearly. But I don't feel it. And it makes me feel terrible.
Work is the same. It's a chore. I can't feel happy for the new parents. I can't share in their wonderment of their new child. I can't honestly joke with my coworkers (I can fake it, though not very well any more).
My art, sewing, writing? All desire, and hope for desire to do these things, is gone. Picking up a pencil is a chore - not something to look forward to and enjoy.
I can feel despair, depression, anger, and nothing. And that's about it.
I'm going through the motions, I'm existing. I'm muddling through as best I can.
Hubby had me make an appointment for next week with my therapist. I've been trying to see him only every other week, with the goal of spacing it out further. But now I'm seeing him next week. Which I'm honestly not happy about. Sounds stupid, yeah? I feel as though it's a waste of his time. That I should suck it up and deal with what I'm going through. It's probably the med changes anyway and it should get better with time. Put on your big girl pants and get through it. I feel weak and embarrassed and stupid for making the appointment.
But I probably need it.
Just this morning I noticed how preoccupied with death I am when looking up new books to read. They were all stories about death, suicide, or very dark in nature. I've had a couple ideas for macabre paintings again, though I have no desire to paint them. These are warning signs I should probably heed. And, I guess, I will.
In the meantime I will continue to exist, I will go through the motions and hope things get better and not worse. I will try to find some meaning in life. I will remind myself that anything I do to hurt myself will only hurt my hubby and my son - more profoundly than it could ever hurt me.
That is the only thought, honestly, that keeps me going.
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