I had my appointment with the therapist today. (You have to see a therapist before you get into to see the physiatrist, which is how it should be.) He was very nice and agreed that I didn’t need more therapy … I need more meds. After 13 years and multiple pregnancies my body chemistry has changed enough that my dose needs to be altered. It happens. He thinks that my panic attacks are bits of depression leaking through in new and special ways. Before I got my first treatments my depression took the form of hopeless despair that I would ever have love and happiness; now it is mind-bending fear that this miraculous happiness will be taken from me. I am starting to nostalgically miss hopeless despair. It seems pleasant in comparison. Moreover, after I told him how I recently backed through my garage door because I forgot I had not opened it, he also thinks ADD drugs are something I should try. Imma going to, because at this point my squirreliness is effecting my parenting and that I will NOT stand.
Unfortunately my appointment with the doctor who will give me drugs is 6 weeks away. Considering how wretched these panic attacks are, that make me even more depressed. The irony.
Also in things that make me unhappy, another middle-aged white male murdered a black kid in Florida – this time because the kid wouldn’t understand the white guy’s awesome privileged right to tell non-white people what to do even if they were there first.
Sorry about this post, y’all. I am feeling bleak and it comes through.
Tomorrow I will pull my shit together and rant anew.