The first post is here.
I give the Sertraline a few weeks, and then I go back to the doctor, indignant that it’s not working. I’m still miserable, I’m still not eating, I’m still not sleeping, and I still want to die. The Sertraline has failed, and I am distraught. The doctor tells me not to panic; it can take a month or two to begin to really kick in. (A month? Or two? I can’t wait that long, I won’t survive!) And also, 50mg is still only a low dose. They can always increase it. Some really crazy people are on up to 200mg a day. This guy is not the doctor I usually see. He realises, after he’s made this comment, that it was perhaps not the best choice of words, and changes the subject. I go away under instruction to take my little white wonder pill in the mornings rather than the evenings, as this may improve my sleep. As I am currently averaging 3 hours a night, I am willing to take any and all advice where my precious sleep is concerned. I change my pill-popping routine.
After a week of the higher dose, I have a day where I am ridiculously manic. I get up early, bake and ice brownies, tidy the house, work a lunch time shift at the local pub, iron clothes, change bed sheets, work the evening shift at the local pub. Around 7pm, I crash and burn, and spend the evening at work drinking Coke and coffee, shaking. My eating is still an issue.
The sleeping is still a problem; I am still taking a lot of whichever pills are closest to hand before getting into bed each night. I know this is probably a Bad Idea, but I just really want to get a decent night's sleep.
One day a friend gives me some of the antipsychotics he's supposed to take but doesn't. I take one, and lose two days in blissful slumber. It is amazing. I am scared to ask him for more though, as I know I will end up just sleeping for months at a time.
After a week of the higher dose, I have a day where I am ridiculously manic. I get up early, bake and ice brownies, tidy the house, work a lunch time shift at the local pub, iron clothes, change bed sheets, work the evening shift at the local pub. Around 7pm, I crash and burn, and spend the evening at work drinking Coke and coffee, shaking. My eating is still an issue.
The sleeping is still a problem; I am still taking a lot of whichever pills are closest to hand before getting into bed each night. I know this is probably a Bad Idea, but I just really want to get a decent night's sleep.
One day a friend gives me some of the antipsychotics he's supposed to take but doesn't. I take one, and lose two days in blissful slumber. It is amazing. I am scared to ask him for more though, as I know I will end up just sleeping for months at a time.
The Sertraline doesn’t seem to have any side effects. Something seems to be sort-of working. I don’t suddenly wake up happy one day, but I do stop obsessing quite so much about killing myself. Instead, I am filled with apathy. I don’t not want to kill myself because of a new-found zest for life, but rather because I just can’t be bothered to make the effort. It’s as if I am standing outside of myself, watching.
You know when you learn to meditate and they tell you to just sit and notice your thoughts like a passive observer, well I am doing that with my entire life, and I don’t even care. I’m not bothered that I’ve become the proverbial shadow of my former self, but I am slightly bothered about this lack of concern. Even in my addled state, I know that I should be bothered by the fact I’m on a slippery slope. I feel very much that I am walking down a road from whence there is no return, and have resigned myself to the fact that this is just fine; perhaps I will just keep going down this road, and never return. Perhaps I will just die.
I am still unable to cope with social interaction, and have not answered my phone for weeks. I leave it on silent, in the spare room. I read some of the messages that come in, but rarely respond. I have deleted my Facebook account and feel bad that friends have texted asking if I’m ok, why have I deleted my account… and I just can’t bring myself to respond. I feel intensely guilty that I may have hurt people’s feelings or made them worry, but I still can’t get around to doing anything about that. During this period I will end up losing a lot of people I thought I could count as friends, because I simply cannot explain my actions to them. And I’m not entirely sure they’d want to understand any way. People steadily stop calling or texting over the weeks.
You know when you learn to meditate and they tell you to just sit and notice your thoughts like a passive observer, well I am doing that with my entire life, and I don’t even care. I’m not bothered that I’ve become the proverbial shadow of my former self, but I am slightly bothered about this lack of concern. Even in my addled state, I know that I should be bothered by the fact I’m on a slippery slope. I feel very much that I am walking down a road from whence there is no return, and have resigned myself to the fact that this is just fine; perhaps I will just keep going down this road, and never return. Perhaps I will just die.
I am still unable to cope with social interaction, and have not answered my phone for weeks. I leave it on silent, in the spare room. I read some of the messages that come in, but rarely respond. I have deleted my Facebook account and feel bad that friends have texted asking if I’m ok, why have I deleted my account… and I just can’t bring myself to respond. I feel intensely guilty that I may have hurt people’s feelings or made them worry, but I still can’t get around to doing anything about that. During this period I will end up losing a lot of people I thought I could count as friends, because I simply cannot explain my actions to them. And I’m not entirely sure they’d want to understand any way. People steadily stop calling or texting over the weeks.
I begin to read every memoir of depression I can get my hands on. Even though most of what I read doesn't go in, I keep reading. I search Waterstones and then Amazon for books by people who have survived this, in the hope that by reading about them, I will somehow figure out how to help myself.
In one book I read, the author describes how, frustrated with the doctors and pills, she researched supplements. I take a note of everything she takes: fish oils, magnesium, 5-HTP. Then I take myself off to Boots, and buy a ridiculous amount of supplements. Surely the contents of one of these little pots will fix me, and I will be normal.
After the apathy comes the mania. It starts with a vague sense of purpose, and within a couple of days I am up at the crack of dawn, baking brownies, cleaning, tidying, moving furniture, doing laundry. Anything and everything, to an OCD-like level. I cannot sit still. I am suddenly super-productive, getting everything done. The house is spotless. This lasts a few days, and then I crash and burn. And suddenly this is worse than it was before. Because I thought it was over. I thought this was the magic cure-all pill that was going to save me from all my troubles. But it’s betrayed me, and here I am, back wallowing in my familiar despair. It’s like that line from that song: “If I hadn’t seen such riches I could live with being poor.”
I want nothing other than to lie down and die. I feel lost and am convinced nobody of my family or friends wants to find me. While all this is going on I still have the tiniest modicum of self-preservation instinct. Alone in the house and scared of what I might do, I try my best to contact an acquaintance who lives on the other side of the park from me. He doesn’t work; I figure there is a good chance he will still be up at 2am, while I am having my crisis. He’s fast asleep and cannot come to save me. I drink more and go to bed feeling terribly alone. I have had 29 years of feeling that I am surplus to everyone’s requirements, and it does not matter what happens next; open the vodka, take some more pills. I take more than is strictly necessary (since none is necessary) and lose myself for a while.
It is July now. This has been going on all year so far. I'm sick of it. The phrase "shit or get off the pot" keeps coming into my head. I am impatient with my own inability to get well; if I'm impatient, no wonder I'm losing friends left and right.
You know that scene in The Beach, where the Scandinavian man has been bitten by a shark, and keeps howling in pain, and everyone just wants him to either miraculously recover, or get on and die?
That's me right now.
The next part of the story is here
Thanks for reading. If you have enjoyed this post, please share it with your friends using the buttons below.
I want nothing other than to lie down and die. I feel lost and am convinced nobody of my family or friends wants to find me. While all this is going on I still have the tiniest modicum of self-preservation instinct. Alone in the house and scared of what I might do, I try my best to contact an acquaintance who lives on the other side of the park from me. He doesn’t work; I figure there is a good chance he will still be up at 2am, while I am having my crisis. He’s fast asleep and cannot come to save me. I drink more and go to bed feeling terribly alone. I have had 29 years of feeling that I am surplus to everyone’s requirements, and it does not matter what happens next; open the vodka, take some more pills. I take more than is strictly necessary (since none is necessary) and lose myself for a while.
It is July now. This has been going on all year so far. I'm sick of it. The phrase "shit or get off the pot" keeps coming into my head. I am impatient with my own inability to get well; if I'm impatient, no wonder I'm losing friends left and right.
You know that scene in The Beach, where the Scandinavian man has been bitten by a shark, and keeps howling in pain, and everyone just wants him to either miraculously recover, or get on and die?
That's me right now.
The next part of the story is here
Thanks for reading. If you have enjoyed this post, please share it with your friends using the buttons below.
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