Going down
May. 30th, 2007 12:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deathboyAn inauspicious day.
Just got back from the doctors, with a crisp new Paranoid's Pay-cheque.
That is right, aliens and misfits, I'm going back on anti-depressants for the first time in a decade.
My depression has, over the last six months, become increasingly unbearable. The arrival of the nipper has both added to this (as an entirely reasonable extra strain) and, more importantly, made it far more essential that I don't lose my shit and let Liz and Corben down. The doc took the time to establish if it was in fact the baby that was making me depressed but agreed that it didn't sound so, just that he's obviously a new and weighty factor to drop into the mix.
After a few minutes talking to the poor guy, he was hurriedly thrusting a prescription for Citalopram at me. I explained that I wasn't begging for drugs, I really wanted to discuss the options. He gave me a questionnaire to fill out and I probably got filed as a Mental when I laughed, realising it was like an LJ quiz and wondering where the "Ticky box!" option was.
I answered conservatively. I scored perilously highly. He reached for the prescription sheet again. Slowed him down again and asked him about contra-indications, would it wreck my sleep, could it make me much worse, is it particularly bad with alcohol (as I remember Seroxat being), etc.
This bought me a blood test when he asked how much I drank. 'Teach me to be a wise guy. Oh well. This was something else I'd been putting off.
Anyway, upshot is (despite my tone) positive. I'm doing things to sort myself out, booze is still greatly reduced because you can't hit the bottle like I did with a baby in tow, and there's a reasonable chance the drugs may actually do their job and make me feel like the world isn't crashing down every other day.
Fuck it, I'm on a roll. I'm going to call the fucking dentist.
Just got back from the doctors, with a crisp new Paranoid's Pay-cheque.
That is right, aliens and misfits, I'm going back on anti-depressants for the first time in a decade.
My depression has, over the last six months, become increasingly unbearable. The arrival of the nipper has both added to this (as an entirely reasonable extra strain) and, more importantly, made it far more essential that I don't lose my shit and let Liz and Corben down. The doc took the time to establish if it was in fact the baby that was making me depressed but agreed that it didn't sound so, just that he's obviously a new and weighty factor to drop into the mix.
After a few minutes talking to the poor guy, he was hurriedly thrusting a prescription for Citalopram at me. I explained that I wasn't begging for drugs, I really wanted to discuss the options. He gave me a questionnaire to fill out and I probably got filed as a Mental when I laughed, realising it was like an LJ quiz and wondering where the "Ticky box!" option was.
I answered conservatively. I scored perilously highly. He reached for the prescription sheet again. Slowed him down again and asked him about contra-indications, would it wreck my sleep, could it make me much worse, is it particularly bad with alcohol (as I remember Seroxat being), etc.
This bought me a blood test when he asked how much I drank. 'Teach me to be a wise guy. Oh well. This was something else I'd been putting off.
Anyway, upshot is (despite my tone) positive. I'm doing things to sort myself out, booze is still greatly reduced because you can't hit the bottle like I did with a baby in tow, and there's a reasonable chance the drugs may actually do their job and make me feel like the world isn't crashing down every other day.
Fuck it, I'm on a roll. I'm going to call the fucking dentist.
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no subject
Date: 2007-05-31 07:24 am (UTC)