Anyway, pain, illness and fatigue have kept me from having the spoons to leave the house, and the longer I go without going out, the worse my depression gets. It isn't enough, either, to have someone pick me up and take me somewhere. I need to actually pack my shit and walk to the bus stop or the coffee house on my own, without assistance. Walking is about the only exercise I can do without a lot of pain, and I know how important exercise is in terms of alleviating depression.
For me, depression and anxiety are a cycle. Depression sneaks up, settles in, saps my will, and then anxiety takes advantage of my weakened emotional immune system. It often happens that this coincides with an actual physical illness, as it did this time. My immune system took a hit from the flu-like virus I shared with Matt, and I not only ended up with thrush, but emotional illness as well. I explained to Matt that it seems to take me a long time to recover mentally from physical illness. My sanity is a fragile thing, and when my physical health is compromised, my mental health suffers, too.
What makes all of this several shades worse is that I feel shame for being depressed. I think part of me even feels shame for succumbing to physical illness, which is, of course, ridiculous. The thought process is, roughly, "You should be stronger than this. Why are you so weak?" In reality, I am only feeling weak because I am using most of my strength just to do normal, every-day things, like get up and feed myself. I am doing the best I can, but because it isn't as good as I know I can be, it's shit. All-or-nothing. Yes, I'm familiar with the way this mode of thinking works, and I do try to counteract it, but when I get into a serious rut like this, it gets harder and harder to say "This is the best I can do today, and that's okay." I fear complacency, so I push myself, but not always in the right ways.
Today, I woke from another nightmare of Matt leaving me. My heart was pounding and I was awash in a cold sweat, even though my room was cool. Luckily, Matt wasn't too busy at work to talk to me for a couple of minutes. It did help in terms of re-setting my reality meter. Uh, let me explain that. When I wake from dreams suddenly, I don't always have a sense of where -- or when-- I am. It doesn't last long, maybe five or ten minutes at most, but it often throws off my whole day.
I felt like I was being pulled along on puppet strings today, like some inner will to break the cycle was pushing me to get up, shower, get dressed, put on make-up, pack my shit and walk a mile to the bus stop. I really didn't have much conscious will to do so. It was action without thought. When I fall to depression and anxiety, thought is the enemy. Thought is paralysing. Thoughts swarm my mind and get in the way of what I need to do. Here is an example. All the thoughts running through my brain as I wake up:. Ever read the kids' book, "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie"? It's like that.
Where am I? Okay, I'm here, this is good, I'm safe.
I have to get up.
I am exhausted, I need a couple of more hours of sleep.
I have to get up and take my pills.
I want a cigarette.
If I get up I need to put clothes on.
But that means I also need to shower, because gross.
So in order to go downstairs and take my pills and have a smoke, I need to take a shower and put clothes on.
If I take a shower, I need to shave my legs, because it's hot and I want to wear shorts.
If I shave, I know my back will hurt and it will wear me out.
But if I don't do all these things, I will never get up.
Maybe I should just go downstairs naked and take my pills and come back to bed.
No, that wouldn't be good, because I have to get up.
I don't feel like shaving or drying my hair. Those things make my back hurt.
But I have to do those things because I have to go out.
What time is it?
Oh, I have to call the doctor.
But I have to get up first.
I really don't need to have a cigarette, I can just go take my pills and come back to bed.
But I have to get up.
And if I get up, I have to ...
Everything is so complicated.
So what did I actually do? I asked Isa to give me a wake-up call with enough time for me to faff about in my usual way and eventually make it to the coffee house, so that I could write this entry. I set a realistic goal of 3:00 p.m. I just kept thinking that I need to be there by 3:00, but I didn't even look at the time. I got up and took a shower. As predicted, my back started to spasm while I shaved, so I laid down. While I was resting, though, I made some phone calls, one of which was to make an appointment with Matt's sleep doctor, something I have been meaning to do for quite some time. So there's that. At least I accomplished some things while I was lying down.
After that, puppet strings. Just sort of did whatever I could to get ready. Decided not to dry my hair because of noise and hot dry air and my shoulders hurting. Put clothes on. Finally had a cigarette. Chased the cat around for a minute because she took my hair tie. I even put make-up on. Then I stuck the headphones on and headed out the door. The music did the rest, and I barely noticed the walk.
Once I get to wherever I'm going, I always feel better. Well, almost always. There are days when the anxiety wins, but not often, and not today. When I got to the coffee shop, it was just before 3:00 p.m., so I had accomplished my goal. It might not seem like much to most people, but to me, today, it was huge. I even did more than I'd set out to do, because I made the appointment at the sleep clinic, which should be a step forward for me.
I should feel good. I do feel better, much better than I did this time yesterday, but... I'm tired of this shit. I'm tired of this never-ending battle with my brain. I would say that I am clearly not on the right meds, but there have been too many extraneous variables lately to say that. This depression was clearly triggered by illness, and I had only started the mood-stabilising medication two months prior. At any rate, I'll talk to my prescribing psychiatrist soon. Maybe she can sort me out. But gods, I hate being dependent on pills.
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