Scared Bunny

If you read this blog you know I have a few screws loose. But all my doctors ever told me I was being treated for was depression and anxiety, with depression the main problem. I kept saying the anxiety was the bigger problem.

When I changed docs I really emphasized that. I made it clear I can survive severe depression, but moderate anxiety could make me wish they didn't have guardrails on tall overpasses. She finally got it and keyed in much more on the anxiety. My meds were changed dramatically and, other than a lot of fatigue, things were getting better. But I still felt off. There was an uncleared hurdle.

So she trots out a couple of new meds and a suggestion. Perhaps, based on my history and that of my father (may he be swarmed with locust) I needed to consider the probability I was bipolar. And when she mention the new meds she said it's clear that at least one, or in this case 2, doctors had had the same idea.

Now, we will set aside the fact that had I known what I was being treated for I might have been able to provide more useful feedback. My diagnosis terrifies me. It's not curable. Periodically your meds just stop working. You will be on pills until you die. and people who would otherwise love you will have nothing to do with you.

I don't want this. I don't need this. I just want all the shit that is not my doing to go away. How about I pay for the damage from 16 on, but the other stuff, and the genetic stuff, that just drifts off. Isn't that a fair trade?

See, in group you have all these bipolar people who either stopped taking their meds, throwing away all they have, or whose meds stop working, causing them to lose everything. Their spouses have the most miserable lives,

I'll be blunt. This one scares me.

Labels: bipolar, crazy, medicine, mental health, psychiatry