Where we last left off, I was logging the minute details of my doctor’s visits for the mystery lump. I was frustrated. But I had a boyfriend, a whole new slew of medications whose relief I looked forward to, and in spite of being ill, a steady stream of jobs that I was grateful for.
Since then, I’ve managed to lose or run out of such luck, and it is probably most definitely all my own fault.
As of this morning, I am on my last reserve of Prozac. I missed my last Psych visit to teach some back-to-back writing classes last month and didn’t get round to booking an appointment. It annoys me. I wish I could just walk into Guardian once a month and pick up the prescription. Surely, that can be arranged. I just need to talk to my doctor right? But there’s something in the process of doing that (the exchange of phone calls, texts, emails, etc.) which exhausts me. And the same inertia has coloured most of my tasks since.
I’ve admitted to my psychologist that I have a severe problem with electronic communication. Since University days, I’ve hated to open my phone and read or send messages. It takes a lot of mental energy for me to do anything. With poetry, prose, journalling the anxiety is worth it because it will be read more than once. But emails and texts are one-shot impressions, you cannot revise. You can’t take back the smiley face you put in because you were anxious about sounding too severe or formal, only to realise how silly you come off. People who perpetually laugh at everything in text either (1.) have an enviable abundance of serotonin, or more likely (2.) have no store of happy chill, but desperately want to give off the impression, and don’t understand what you’re saying but don’t want to fight with you because shit that’s gonna be a whole lot more of emails.
Then there’s how I regularly have all these tabs open in my computer with old emails half-typed and abandoned for weeks because I couldn’t decide between “Best Regards” and “Warmest”. As if the person on the other side might actually appreciate that difference (they won’t, they just need you to say yes or no goddamnit).
My inefficiency leads to inefficiency of others, and I freeze, and I don’t get out of bed some days. My inability to just agree, my bias that to solve a problem quickly is not to solve it well – all these traits are romantic, heroic even, but not practical.
A friend with manic depression mentioned that he gives himself 3 days when he’s in this state. 3 days to allow himself acknowledgment of these feelings, to be kind to himself, and to recuperate. Then he gets right back on the horse and tries again. He’s 32 and in the same line of work as me. If I could shrink my recuperation period to 3 days that would be ideal. I hope I can discipline myself to this 3-Day-Rule by the time I’m in my 30s, for the sake of everyone around me.
Til then, watching all the BuJo youtube videos is both therapeutic and traumatic. I’m hoping something useful might actually stick instead of mounting feelings of sick pleasure as the days become weeks, months,… then yet another year.
P.S.: This is entry itself is hard. I started writing at 10 am. It’s 3.26 pm now, I haven’t eaten, and I wrote four completely different drafts and if I don’t stop now I’ll be late for my appointment with H, which is probably best to keep since I’ve not checked-in, in a while.
P.P.S: You can tell it’s really bad because that last post-script took 20 minutes to write and now I’ll be late. H if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. Otw in an uber now. I don’t think I have time to shower.