As I write this, my uterus and sinuses currently hate me, I’m craving so much sugar it’s unbelievable, I have no desire to do anything other than browse the internet and curse myself for not doing anything fun or productive, my dog is snoring on the bed behind me and Other Half is in the other room watching Harry Potter – the first one, it’s on ITV as usual.
So, where to begin. How about the concussion I got last week? Yep, last Saturday, I banged my head on the wall behind our bed as I bounced back on the mattress after letting the cat out of the room. No, I’m being serious – it was that boring an injury. Some of the girls at training on Tuesday said I should have made a better story for it, so I concocted a tale about skiing, ridiculous moves and a handsome instructor. My best friend Chris made up a much more explicit reason as to why – and no I won’t go into it here, all I will say is that he is disgusting and in need of getting laid.
Sent away with a warning that my moods were going to be up and down from the concussion, along with the new dose of venlafaxine and coming off the prochlorperazine. I joked with Other Half that to top it all off, all I’d need is Shark Week* to commence and he’d have to lock me in a room.
Most of Sunday and Monday morning was spent with that bitch of a voice back in my head. My borderline voice. The split in my personality. The being once known as #2. “Hey Claire, kill yourself. You should kill yourself. Was that a flea? Didn’t do such a good job with your dog, did you? Remember Shandy? Remember your dead dog? She never had fleas. Here’s a reminder of the last time you saw Shandy on the vet’s office floor. You should kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself and be dead like your dog, your mom, your dad, your uncle, your friend…”
I have caved to her voice so many times in my life. This time, I didn’t want to. I repeatedly said no. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. It was exhausting. In the meantime, I had to make an appointment to see my doctor to get a proper prescription for the new dose of venlafaxine as the supply the psych gave me was running out. I called Monday morning. No appointments available, call back this afternoon. I called Monday afternoon, no appointments available, call back tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I had images of my dead dog and parents running through my head, the reminder that all my friends abandoned me last year, and the feeling of my skin crawling, along with headaches and nausea. I thought coming off my antipsychotics would be a good thing. Alas, there is such a thing as withdrawal-induced psychosis. I slept to fend off the vile thoughts. I sweated, I shivered, and I wanted it to stop.
Tuesday came. I had no venlafaxine in the house, because my pharmacy apparently hadn’t refilled my usual 150mg for a start. I rang the surgery for an appointment in the morning. None. I prayed I’d get through after midday. 12.22pm, I finally got through – NO APPOINTMENTS. I wanted to cry. I vented on Twitter.
Luckily, thanks to Andrea, asking for the practice manager worked, and got me more information. Turns out they hadn’t had my notes over from the psych’s office – otherwise a new prescription would’ve automatically been issued! GAH. So, I phoned the clinic where I go for my head stuff, they said the psych should’ve sent the note over to the GP, blah blah… long story short, an urgent fax was going to be sent and I should have my meds that day. Brilliant.
I get ready for training. In the meantime, Other Half reads up about my withdrawals from prochlorperazine and notes I shouldn’t have dropped from 5mg to nothing so quickly. So, I broke a tablet in half to make 2.5mg and took it before he came home from work. We drove to the surgery to pick up my prescription, only to be told by the receptionist that despite getting the URGENT fax at 2pm that day (it was 4.45pm when we got there) the doctor had not signed a prescription for me because he’d been with patients all day.
…I’m not a doctor. But tell me, is it that time-consuming to sign a prescription? Just, sign it and leave it at the front desk to be picked up? Really? Other Half put on his angry voice (he’s good at it) and the receptionist was full of apologies.
We go to the pharmacy to see if they can give me an emergency prescription for my old dosage, because any dose is better than further withdrawals, right? The stoney-faced assistant tells me that they probably won’t be able to give me an emergency supply because of the nature of the drug. Both me and Other Half looked at each other. Sure, if I asked for diazepam, codeine or anything on this list, sure but venlafaxine? Whatever. So she wanders over to the pharmacist and they look around on the system, only to then come back to me and say there was my refill sitting on the shelf! They must have forgotten to give them to Other Half when he picked up my other meds! Haha, OH HOW WE LAUGHED. All of this could have been avoided if someone had just LOOKED AT THE RIGHT SHELF. I took a dose, got in the car, went to training, came home and slept like the dead without voices, twitches, itching or anything else.
Thursday. My sinuses start burning and my nose blocks up. Friday. Full-blown head cold. And Shark Week? Hit me like a truck. You ever had a cold and a period at the same time? It’s gross.
I have given up on this week entirely. I have felt like utter crap. I’m gaining weight, struggling to write (it’s taken me two hours to write this…) and I just want to sleep away my woes. On top of this, someone I followed on Twitter who writes about mental health and their experiences since being sectioned blocked me either today or yesterday because of a snarky comment on my end with regards to something they wanted clarification over. I could’ve said much worse to warrant a blocking, but this is someone whose work has spoken to me ever since I started reading their tweets and blog entries.
Such is the life on the borderline. We say things that others perceive as offensive when we think we’re just being us.
There are so many blogs about other people and their mental health. This one is mine.