I’ve been debating all week whether I’m down or if my clinical depression is creeping back. Arriving a day late for the psychiatry appointment I scheduled a month ago was just what I needed to confirm my suspicions.
Even though I could reschedule for an hour later this afternoon, I was crushed. Not like a soda can that’s been stepped on from the top; more like one crumpled in a fist. Still, the anguish was disproportional for the event. Even after I found the Tully’s coffee in the hospital, settled in with tea and a cookie, and pulled out my magazine, I was near tears.
That made it pretty clear that my:
- Exhaustion isn’t just migraine-related
- Fall’s arrival is not why I want curl up on the couch
- Lack of focus on and interest in blogging isn’t because The Daily Headache has run its course
- Increased frustration with having a chronic illness doesn’t mean I’ve lost my ability to cope with it
- Lack of interest in sex isn’t just a Cymbalta side effect
Convenient that I had an appointment with my psychiatrist. For two years, my cocktail has been 400 mg of Wellbutrin, 200 mg of Lamictal and 60 mg of Cymbalta. Because my doctor thinks that some of my disinterest in sex is from Cymbalta — and because doubling that dose two years ago wasn’t helpful — I’m increasing Lamictal to 300 mg. I’m also going to add ginkgo to see if it helps the sexual side effects.
I’m relieved. Having an aha! moment reminded me that beating myself up won’t do a bit of good. I am, however, sick of the constant vigilance required with depression. Maybe that’s another sign that I’m depressed.