Tag Archives: PTS

My depression

What is depression? Well it’s different for people and depends on many factors. It is a debilitating condition in many cases. It certainly is for me. The truth is that if you are depressed then you cannot just snap out of it or cheer up. People with friends or family who are depressed are often irritated by the condition.

Depression is NOT

  • Laziness
  • Bad mood
  • Exercise related
  • Grumpiness

Depression is

  • Debilitating
  • Miserable
  • A factor in suicide
  • Traumatising

I suffer from a number of conditions including depression. My depression is a result of secondary post traumatic stress or compassion fatigue, two rapes, having someone I loved almost die beside me. I dealt with the situation badly and didn’t seek help because I didn’t want to become dependent on those drugs and I’m not crazy; I don’t need some touch-feely bullshit about talking about feelings and stuff. I can cope by myself.

As I discovered, that is all bullshit. I can’t cope by myself. I need the pills. I need the counselling. I can’t sleep and I oversleep – what a joy to have contradicting conditions! My brain is a mess. I’m inarticulate one minute and eloquent the next. My thoughts race, colliding on top of each other leaving me no time alone. I replay conversations and arguments at bedtime. I’m trying to write then down to capture them in a malleable form but I’m never inspired in front of the computer. I’ve resorted to pen, ink and paper. It helps me slightly to write, to spell out my fears but it hurts my hand – haven’t written manually in ages.

When I eventually sleep, I dream of horrors. I dream of tsunami, of beasts, of betrayal, of capture, of rape and of blood. My dreams haunt me but I need to sleep – literally cannot cope without it. In my dreams I am betrayed and I can’t wake up. These dreams linger throughout the day and some last for weeks because they are so vivid. I exist in dreamworld as a living entity and there is no escape. What I would give for a dreamless sleep potion.

The drugs help, sort of. I can get out of bed at least. They help me function but they don’t brighten my mood. I’m often tempted to throw myself off the balcony at work but it’s only two stories, it would hurt a lot, I’d forever be branded the crazy girl and I’m not suicidal. Just want to hurt a little, I guess.

Feel alive through pain – yeah that’s fucked up. I am undone. This is not me. I am fun. I am outgoing. I am my mother’s embodiment of her dream. The choice she couldn’t make.

I am following my dream though. I’m not living in her shadow. From as far back as I can remember, I have felt privileged. How was I so lucky to be born into a middle class family? How was I so lucky to have all that I have – education, healthcare and all the books I could read? I didn’t want to contribute to the problems of our world, I wanted to help find solutions. That statement is in itself privilege incarnate. As I child, I only knew that there were people who went without. At seven, I was fundraising for Peru. I have always wanted to work to help people help themselves. This is what I’m doing now. This is what I’ve always wanted to do. So why am I so fucked up? Why am I not ecstatic at the opportunities I have?

I long for my family. I long for my home. I long for the rain. Ok this the getting a bit self indulgent. I am meant to be writing on depression.

Counselling is important. My counsellor helped me to change my “cognitions” – which verbosely means thoughts. It was helping too. Counselling takes time and even with my natural aversion to giving people any ammunition that can be used against me, I opened up to her. I don’t really believe that most doctors, mind or body, keep medical confidentiality. Others may disagree but my experience tells otherwise.

I have been going to see her for four months, that is until this weekend when I wrote her a letter. I wrote of her manipulation. I wrote of my lack of trust. I wrote to fire her. What did she do? After three months, I was invested in therapy. It was helping and then she tripled the fee. She wanted me to pay triple until my insurance money was all used up and then I could go back to the regular amount. That, in my book, is manipulation. When I started, to determine my price, she asked for my salary. There was no mention of insurance. Now she racketeds up the price. No fucking way I will allow anyone to manipulate me like that. I am my own woman. And even though I live in a very corrupt fucking Hell, there is no way some western chick is going to use me to make her fucking fortune.

Of course, all this leaves me in is a mess. I need counselling but I’m not going to open up to someone I don’t trust. Betrayal is one of my triggers. I believe it is the unforgivable sin, which is unforgivable of me too. Circular reasoning, I know.

So why am I spilling my guts on the internet? Mainly because I have nowhere else. Friends know my situation. Friends get bored. I can play at being light-hearted for about an hour before grumpy DS returns. They try. I know they try and I’m also aware of what a pain it is to listen to me complain and whine and bitch about life, the universe and everything. Can’t tell my family. They would freak out and I am light years and a couple of thousand dollars away from them.

Hell I bore myself half the time. As the Doctor in ST:VOY says “you know, you really should keep a personal log. Why bore others needlessly?“. And he’s right or he would be if he wasn’t a computer generated hologram in a fictional universe. So this is my personal log. These are my confessions. This is where I drone on endlessly about my life and the effect my depression is having -fyi it sucks

This long malingering post is almost at an end. It was going to be on depression and explaining effects and stuff but one of the side effects of my depression is meandering thoughts and inability to write in any sort of structured manner.

So long and thanks for all the fish

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100th post

I feel that there should be something significant here because I have now blogged 100 posts of the minutia of my life. How incredible boring it most be to read. I whine about my life, my depression and hopelessness. None of those have left me. In fact I felt close to taking drastic measures to relieve my situation. Wasn’t thinking of killing myself but I was thinking of hurting myself – traffic accident, drug overdose, crazy acting but I didn’t. I stayed sensible and relatively sane. I thought about cutting my skin open too but there is always the risk of infection and it is so much more likely in Hell than in the civilised parts of the globe.

I suffer from self-awareness. I know and recognise the likely consequences of suicide, cutting, reckless behaviour or drugs. I know that this state cannot last forever. My loneliness will not be eternal. At some point I’ll be able to sleep and to wake up. Weird to have insomnia and hypersomnia at the same time. As the old chestnut goes “this too shall pass”.

I want it fucking past already. I hate feeling like shit. My mind is either sluggish and I mix up my words or it is racing and I’m composing letters, books and retorts – unable to sleep.

Nothing has changed. I am still the actress who is fake happy in the real world. No one wants to hang around with a person with severe clinical depression after the initial “can I get you anything” and “you poor thing”. I spent the weekend alone. I called my family and friends back home and told them everything was fine. I lied because I can’t tell them the truth. Lying is so much easier. Truth is painful, not just to me but to all. I’ve learned to stfu about my pain.

Except in this space. This is my screaming into the void space. Ironic really because I live in a void – no changes, eternal pain of heat and sweat and mocking voices on every breeze. I have nightmares about tsunami. I am a mess.

I dream of drowning

I dream of drowning.
I dream of water.
The waves wash over me, soothing me, tempting me
And then I panic

I struggle against the current, against the tide,
But inexorably the water nudges and cajoles me out
The sea takes me out, out beyond the land, the sand, the earth
Then crashes
Violently back to land
Drowning the shiny happy people basking in the sunlight.

I am complicit. I am guilt
Because I dreamt of drowning

There. Some random crappy poetry for my 100th post. Maybe if I write it down the nightmares will stop. Maybe that is the solution. Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares?

Cold black cloud

Still don’t know what to do. Lay tossing and turning all night long. The sleeping pills are not working any more. My shrink is using me. My doc is a fucking asshole. My best friend betrayed me and I can’t get no sleep.

My dreams are horrific –

  • FB and IB raping and humiliating me, smiling all the while
  • Being on a tall building watching a city flood and people drown and nearly drown myself and then trying to find somewhere quietly to fuck my brains out with a random guy

Can’t stop thinking about the words between Ceili and me. I play them over and over till my head spins. I try to block them out but so far it’s not working.

Even on meds, I’m depressed and now I distrust my shrink

Fucking doctors

I know that in a lot of ways I am very privileged to have access to insurance and everything but I gotta rant for a bit because I’m going even crazier and I don’t know what to do.

My shrink texted me for an appointment when I got back from holidays and I replied with yes please. No reply for five days. So I text her again and she can only fit me in but only during my working hours.

Luckily I’ve got a very decent boss who gives me the time off and who found me alternative work to be doing. My work is very triggering. I deal with rape, murder, genocide and child abuse, some of which includes graphic photos of dead people. Work led to PTS which led to depression.

I confirm the appointment with that bloody shrink and she writes me back saying that she heard that my insurance pays $1000 for headshrinking and now she’ll going to charge me over double what I already pay. The truth is that my insurance will repay me up to $1000 a year. I’ve already “spent” over $1000 on therapy in the past three months. Insurance takes over five months to repay and then I’m screwed on the exchange rate $ to €. I’m a frakking volunteer. I get paid enough to live on just about.

Now I have to decide whether it’s worth paying out of pocket and try and explain the situation. Even if she keeps charging me the regular amount, it is a serious drain on my income. I feel like she is taking advantage of me. I’m fucked up and living in a fucked up country and she has a monopoly on head shrinking.

The therapy is good, mostly, but her answer to everything is to keep jacking up my Zoloft and to pass my insomnia issues along to the prescribing doctor.

That fucking doctor is getting on my tits as well. Not only does he believe that he knows more about me than I do but he keeps pushing WLS on me even knowing that my fatness in caused, in part by PCOS. I had a polite rant to him a few weeks ago and now he just writes me prescriptions. I just need the scrips to get refunded from my insurance cos I can get all my drugs over the counter. In fact I was so angry with him that I just kept buying Zoloft and didn’t go near his office for months.

When he was writing my latest scrip for Ambien, he prescribed too low a dose and proceeded to lecture me on possible addiction. I asked him for the millionth time if he had an alternative. He just said that my body needs to adjust to the drugs, which is what he said last time and the time before that and the time before that. That fuckwit is assigned to my organisation so I don’t have to pay the consulting fees but it does mean that I can’t afford to switch to a doctor who gives a flying fuck.

It’s been almost four months and I still can’t sleep. Done all the usual insomnia cures. I’m considering asking someone hit me over the head each night.

I really don’t know if insomnia or developing an addiction to sleeping pills is worse.

I feel totally vulnerable and cheated. I’m really angry. I’m smoking like a chimney. Really don’t know what to do. So tempted to never go back but I’m completely fucked up mentally. My friends are there for me when they can be but I’ve no family here and I get harassed (pointed at, laughed at, asked how many kilos I weigh,) and there is a constant threat of violence (women have been robbed at gun point and knife point near my office and my flat) every single time I leave my house.