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

Here I sit at my desk. My empty desk.

As I stated, I planned on packing up today, and as soon as I finished my morning calls, that is exactly what I did. Now I have 6 packed crates, 7 packed boxes and a desk with nothing but a computer and a phone. In short, there is nothing here. But I am expected to work. I suppose I could send some emails, but that would be it. Can’t send letters because I had to pack the paper. Not any sales calls because the lists had to be packed. I can basically confer with about 4 people I am working with, and sit here at this computer.

According to policy I am supposed to sit here for another 4 hours. I don’t see that happening. There is nowhere near enough activity to keep me amused for 4 hours. Even if I leave for lunch we are talking 3 hours to kill. In school they always said I was dangerous if I got bored. Were I to actually try to stay here I think I might finally get to meet someone from Human Resources. Just not in a good way.

This is one of those days I wonder exactly what they are thinking. My team’s “move coordinator” stopped by and offered to help me pack. Obviously there was some concern that I wouldn’t have my shit together, so she offered to help. I let her pack a cabinet and round up some cases. She also put some stickers on stuff. Altogether the packing took 20 minutes.

And yet they wonder why I didn’t have it all packed days ago.

This seems to support my conclusion that the move is way overcomplicated. I have moved houses over a dozen times in my adult life. I have never had it seem as complicated as this. I am not good at moving. I am not good at packing. I am not good at unpacking. In fact, and my wife will confirm this, I am basically good at carrying heavy stuff and driving the big truck. Even with that as my frame of reference, it doesn’t seem like this should take so many people away from their real jobs, and force others to be unable to do diddly squat for over a week.

In other news, most of my extra writing has been going to Tales of Sister Grim. If you haven’t read it, check it out. I urge you to start with the first post and work from there, though, because it really can be confusing to follow otherwise.

The problem is, as things happen in real time I am so tempted to write them. No matter what happens, the people in the story seem to find a new and inventive way to shock me. The last week has several posts begging to be written, but I am still telling stories from late last year. I guess I will have to write there more often because I think they may well give me enough for a post a day.

I would write a book or a movie, but I get the feeling I’d get sued.

Labels: crazy, moving, overkill, sister grim, work