The CFIDS-go-round
Hi. I'm Cass, two hours away from turning 23, and if I'm lucky, I'll be able to leave the house to celebrate.
This story's pretty long, but in fairness, it's taken awhile to get that way.
I was diagnosed with depression aged twelve or so; three years later, I began having panic attacks. Two years after that, the docs decided I needed medication. I guess being stuck in a panic attack for thirty minutes straight, zero relief, on a plane full of psychiatrists will do that. (Irony of ironies: the biggest help was the stewardess!) I did the cutting thing. I have a lovely scar on my right inner elbow that looks like a track mark. I can only imagine what the bloodsuck-- ah, phlebotomists think when they see that. I also developed an eating disorder, not so much out of a desire to be thin but a desire to be gone.
I can therefore assure you, and any medical professional who asks, that I know what depression looks like. This is not depression.
IBS and I have been close, personal enemies for years. We met the first (and last) time I took a laxative for its usual purpose. I ended up bedridden for a week. My body's been headed downhill since then. I didn't take well to the psych meds; after that, I needed sleep at the strangest times. Starved myself out of one college, losing two months of memory in the process; at the next, I spent even more time napping. I hadn't thought it was possible! Flu after flu wore me down. It felt like I caught everything that came 'round.
After the second bout with the eating disorder, I had a reprieve. That was in 2007, in September. I spent four months resting, and the following May, finally graduated with an A.A.S. Yay! Even though I kept getting the flu, and dropped Tai Chi because I couldn't handle it, yay!
This past September, I had to find work because I fell off my father's insurance. I got a job at a call center. I was good. I was good enough, anyway. I just kept getting sick, and my days off came closer and closer together. Twice I was reprimanded for curling up under my desk in a vain attempt to shut out the pain and the fever. Other days I just gave up and went home early. Always, the fog, insidious, hateful. Caffeine made my sleep even less restful, but it let me earn a wage for awhile. Music lit up the fog enough that I could keep my eyes open most of the day. If I wasn't doing anything particularly pressing, I looked for a way to keep my hands occupied. I bought a stack of post-it notes just so I could fold paper cranes!
And on January 23, I gave up. The stress of trying to hold down a job while dealing with my health frustrated me to the point of, once more, being ready to die. That came last, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I did not want to die until I felt I had no other recourse. Then I knew it was time. Two Human Resources personnel told me to take a leave of absence -- that's two more than you usually get on your side, so I seized the opportunity and ran...
...right home to sleep for the better part of a month.
Oh, yes, I did see a doctor. Several doctors. My old GP gave me amoxicillin after a ten-minute appointment. "Sure, it's your sinuses. You've had amoxicillin, right?" Turns out the stuff makes me want to puke; I had to take ginger pills for the whole torturous ten-day course. My new GP told me I probably didn't have a sinus infection, so the antibiotics and the yeast infection (and lovely, lovely treatment) that followed? Unnecessary! But to him, because I'd been depressed, and because I have a mind for medicine -- would've gone to med school if not for a weak stomach! -- it had to be all in my head again. On to my psychiatrist. What joy. After nattering at me about nothing at all for forty minutes, she advised me to raise my antidepressant dose. We dropped it in the first place because (who knew?) higher doses apparently provoke hypomania in me. I do not want to go back to that bad place.
I'm scheduled to go back to work in two weeks. My moods have been fine since I finally accepted that I had a chance to rest, except that now I have nightmares about the call center. Since we upped the meds, I've had worse sleep and even less appetite, which is a fine feat for someone who was already off her feed. I take a multivitamin. I've been trying to get some fresh air, even if that's just a turn around the backyard with the cats. This week, I had a good day: an hour of archery. I've been worn out and achy since then.
I used to have a brain. Not now. Writing was easy, once. Not now. I lose my words in three different languages. If I'm lucky, it isn't all three at once. I can be funny right now because I've got people looking after me, taking pretty much all the effort out of existing. My hands hurt today; better them than the knees of doom, or the hips of having slept on too hard a surface. I did... something... to my back end, though, so the muscles in my thighs and behind ache something fierce.
Other than all that, I'm an ordinary, happy lady who's madly in love with a true gentleman. I am not sodding depressed. I'm pretty balanced in that way. My moods only drop when I'm forced to face this complete madness and the prospect of never being believed about it.
Hi.
This story's pretty long, but in fairness, it's taken awhile to get that way.
I was diagnosed with depression aged twelve or so; three years later, I began having panic attacks. Two years after that, the docs decided I needed medication. I guess being stuck in a panic attack for thirty minutes straight, zero relief, on a plane full of psychiatrists will do that. (Irony of ironies: the biggest help was the stewardess!) I did the cutting thing. I have a lovely scar on my right inner elbow that looks like a track mark. I can only imagine what the bloodsuck-- ah, phlebotomists think when they see that. I also developed an eating disorder, not so much out of a desire to be thin but a desire to be gone.
I can therefore assure you, and any medical professional who asks, that I know what depression looks like. This is not depression.
IBS and I have been close, personal enemies for years. We met the first (and last) time I took a laxative for its usual purpose. I ended up bedridden for a week. My body's been headed downhill since then. I didn't take well to the psych meds; after that, I needed sleep at the strangest times. Starved myself out of one college, losing two months of memory in the process; at the next, I spent even more time napping. I hadn't thought it was possible! Flu after flu wore me down. It felt like I caught everything that came 'round.
After the second bout with the eating disorder, I had a reprieve. That was in 2007, in September. I spent four months resting, and the following May, finally graduated with an A.A.S. Yay! Even though I kept getting the flu, and dropped Tai Chi because I couldn't handle it, yay!
This past September, I had to find work because I fell off my father's insurance. I got a job at a call center. I was good. I was good enough, anyway. I just kept getting sick, and my days off came closer and closer together. Twice I was reprimanded for curling up under my desk in a vain attempt to shut out the pain and the fever. Other days I just gave up and went home early. Always, the fog, insidious, hateful. Caffeine made my sleep even less restful, but it let me earn a wage for awhile. Music lit up the fog enough that I could keep my eyes open most of the day. If I wasn't doing anything particularly pressing, I looked for a way to keep my hands occupied. I bought a stack of post-it notes just so I could fold paper cranes!
And on January 23, I gave up. The stress of trying to hold down a job while dealing with my health frustrated me to the point of, once more, being ready to die. That came last, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. I did not want to die until I felt I had no other recourse. Then I knew it was time. Two Human Resources personnel told me to take a leave of absence -- that's two more than you usually get on your side, so I seized the opportunity and ran...
...right home to sleep for the better part of a month.
Oh, yes, I did see a doctor. Several doctors. My old GP gave me amoxicillin after a ten-minute appointment. "Sure, it's your sinuses. You've had amoxicillin, right?" Turns out the stuff makes me want to puke; I had to take ginger pills for the whole torturous ten-day course. My new GP told me I probably didn't have a sinus infection, so the antibiotics and the yeast infection (and lovely, lovely treatment) that followed? Unnecessary! But to him, because I'd been depressed, and because I have a mind for medicine -- would've gone to med school if not for a weak stomach! -- it had to be all in my head again. On to my psychiatrist. What joy. After nattering at me about nothing at all for forty minutes, she advised me to raise my antidepressant dose. We dropped it in the first place because (who knew?) higher doses apparently provoke hypomania in me. I do not want to go back to that bad place.
I'm scheduled to go back to work in two weeks. My moods have been fine since I finally accepted that I had a chance to rest, except that now I have nightmares about the call center. Since we upped the meds, I've had worse sleep and even less appetite, which is a fine feat for someone who was already off her feed. I take a multivitamin. I've been trying to get some fresh air, even if that's just a turn around the backyard with the cats. This week, I had a good day: an hour of archery. I've been worn out and achy since then.
I used to have a brain. Not now. Writing was easy, once. Not now. I lose my words in three different languages. If I'm lucky, it isn't all three at once. I can be funny right now because I've got people looking after me, taking pretty much all the effort out of existing. My hands hurt today; better them than the knees of doom, or the hips of having slept on too hard a surface. I did... something... to my back end, though, so the muscles in my thighs and behind ache something fierce.
Other than all that, I'm an ordinary, happy lady who's madly in love with a true gentleman. I am not sodding depressed. I'm pretty balanced in that way. My moods only drop when I'm forced to face this complete madness and the prospect of never being believed about it.
Hi.