I swear I can’t win. I started on the Cymbalta almost a week ago. The good news, it is starting to help with the pain. The bad news, it killed my appetite. I’m lucky if I get 1000 calories a day. I’ve lost 5 pounds since I started. While that’s a welcome loss, it isn’t healthy nor sustainable. My anxiety has also gone into overdrive. My blood sugar is running low because of the not eating thing and that tends to trigger anxiety. Despite telling the doctor this, she doesn’t want me to go down on the dosage (I told her 30 mg had worked fine for me in the past but she insisted on putting me on 60 mg even though I’m incredibly sensitive to medication). She also doesn’t want me to take a daytime dosage of Klonopin. She essentially wants me to ride it out. I’ve got enough Klonopin to take it twice a day before I see her again, so I might use it as a crisis kind of thing. Oh and she isn’t worried about the not eating thing either.
I’m debating whether to try a different psychiatrist (see previous entry about the psychosis thing) or see if she works out. I don’t like doctor hopping and it’s my general rule not to do it unless the person is truly an ass or incompetent. But she doesn’t seem to really give a damn.
One step forward, two steps back. That’s the story of my life, or so it seems.
I’m so mentally, emotionally and physically exhausted. I started the day with the psychiatrist. Initial sessions are always long. Having to go through my history is beyond demanding. Fighting back tears (and failing miserably) left me drained after the first 30 minutes. Then she drops the little bomb shell that she thinks I’m psychotics. I basically told her I respectfully disagree. Hearing the voice of one of my abusers is more likely a PTSD symptom (PDF) rather than a psychosis symptom. She wanted to put me on one of the newer antipsychotics. I told her no. I absolutely and positively wouldn’t go down that route again. I gained so much weight on them and they sent my cholesterol sky high. I don’t need that crap again. She didn’t seem pleased with my refusal, but it’s my body. Honestly, it’s not causing me that much distress that I think it needs to be medicated. I’m quite aware the voice isn’t real and what the origin of it is. I’m not putting those drugs in my body unless I’m going crazy. I think they’re overused for things like bipolar, PTSD, ADHD (!) and Autism (!!!). So, in the end, she upped one of my meds and put me back on Cymbalta for the depression and chronic pain. Once I’m doing somewhat better, she wants me to get back into therapy. I’m not against that. I just need to find
someone the energy to find someone.
Then it was to the hospital side to register for blood work and an EKG. I’m still not 100% certain why she feels she needs the EKG, but whatever. The nice man filling in from another department was trying to register me into the ER, which is why he couldn’t find the doctors name. Once that was fixed, I got to the lab where the paperwork was screwed up because my age ended up getting entered as 103. I don’t even know how that happened. I got stabbed in the hand, leaving me with a nice little lump and a big old bruise.
Then the fun really began. Gynecologist time. I kid you not… when the nurse took my BP, I almost had a stroke right there given how high it was (190/130) after it being normal (120/80) earlier in the day. She was pretty alarmed until I told her I was basically sitting there having a panic attack. The doctor was really nice. She tried to be as gentle as she could. It isn’t that easy since my body is a bit weird and I was, well, freaking out. At least I don’t have to go back for a year, and then only for a quick check, not the full thing.
I’m about to take my meds and go to bed. I’ve finally gotten myself mostly calmed down. But I’m exhausted.
I don’t know what to do anymore. I tried to get into the agency that I saw before. They take Medicaid. Just not my version of Medicaid. Then don ‘t advertise that you take Medicaid. That pisses me off more than anything. If I had known that I could have put the energy into finding someone who does.
It seriously took all my mental energy to call this place. I’m sitting here shaking like a leaf, about ready to throw up. I want to cry, but I’m determined not to.
Maybe I’m taking this all too seriously and personally. But I can’t help it. I know I need this. It’s just disheartening.
I should just go jump off a bridge.
I have a appointment with a GYN on Friday because my shitty ass PCP won’t prescribe birth control. Really? Why the hell did you go into primary care. Prescribing BC sort of falls into primary care these days since you don’t need to see a GYN if you’re not sexually active (or at least not more than once every three years). I tried to explain my history to him, but he didn’t give a rats ass. He doesn’t do birth control. He conveniently doesn’t do psych meds or pain meds either, though these are a bit more understandable. I have a psychiatrist appointment for Friday and I hate those. I hate going into my past. But that’ll be a walk in the park compared to seeing the GYN. Luckily this person came highly recommended by the referral line.
I also know I need to get back into therapy. But I’m too scared to even call and make an appointment. There’s a place in town that used to serve abuse survivors. It’s been folded into another agency but from their website it seems like maybe they still specialize in survivors. Nothings going to change, but I’m such a chicken that even thinking about calling them is freaking me out. I had a good experience with them before. I don’t know what’s up with me.
Right now, I’m so anxious, I’m nauseated. I don’t want to eat. I haven’t eaten all day, which is probably why my stomach is hating me. I tend to get really nauseous when my blood sugar falls. I’m pretty sure that’s what’s going on now. It’s a crappy spiral. My stomach isn’t happy so I don’t eat which screws with my blood sugar which makes me more nauseous. We’ve got some nice French bread, maybe I’ll try to eat a piece of that and see if it doesn’t settle my stomach.
Long story short, I’m a coward.