Life Is Like Nails On A Chalkboard

My sensitivity to sound issue has skyrocketed into the stratosphere and it’s only noon. 14 hours of pouring down rain on a tin roof, my kid’s incessant yapping, her dvd player that won’t turn down cos she breaks everything she touches so I have to listen to chipmunks and Elsa at max volume even through a closed door…

Nails. On. A. Chalkboard.

When most say, “I cannot stand to hear the sound of your voice once more today…” it is a blanket statement speaking of irritation.

With me, it’s like the sounds are stabbing at my ears, making my skin crawl, my eyes cringe, my entire body spasm with revulsion. The ‘tinfoil in the mouth” sensation I so fondly recall from having had a mouth full of silver fillings. And part of me wonders if this a lovely side effect to my Cymbalta or Focalin or the combo because prior to taking them I was slightly irked by noise but now…OMG, it’s grueling and I want to cover my ears. And the rain still hasn’t stopped so in addition to that pounding on the tin roof for hour sixteen, I have the depressive undertow dragging me down because it’s too fucking cold, wet, muddy, and nasty to even ponder leaving the lot.

At least I will be in nice high strung depressive glory for my shrink’s appointment and I won’t even be turning up the drama a bit. (And btw, docs, we only ever do that because you see us for fifteen minutes every couple of months and unless we are wearing tinfoil and flinging poo, you assume we’re doing great.)

Prior to the brain buzz of Cymbalta and Focalin this morning, I was fairly content with the notion of doing fuck all but laying under a blanket and binge watching another season of  Scrubs. That calm acceptance has been replaced by an irritation and sensitivity to light, sound, and the very existence of life. Yay.

Methinks something’s got to go. I just want to return to the cocktail I know worked at one time, then tweak it from there, but my doc isn’t really big on the old school meds. I sometimes wonder if he gets stipends from pushing the atypical anti psychotics, the so called wonder drugs and yet most of us who have tried their magical Latuda or Abilify or whatever have had horrid experiences…The devil I know is just better, and I know Lithium works. Hell, for all I know, maybe the Lithium/Lamictal combo and a lower dose of Cymbalta might be the magic bullet. But I’ve got to get him on board and that always stresses me out.

Today’s goal is…Um…Fuck, I don’t know. Try not to hide in the closet wearing earmuffs, headphones, and mashing pillows over my ears?

I am so sick of feeling sick. So sick of people not being able to “see” depression and anxiety thus assuming I am perfectly fine. This mental stuff is metastatic, it’s consumed every normal aspect of my life and left me constantly trying to rebuild but then the mood shifts like a 7.0 earthquake and I am back to square one.

2016 HAS to be better than this shitty year. Nothing catastrophic in my life has happened to an extent I should be depressed 13 straight months. I have oodles to raise my anxiety and panic and I will own that. But I have more than some people do, I have a great kid, a home, my cats…Whatever this depressive bit is, it’s not situational.

Too bad the doctors don’t believe that.


3 Responses to “Life Is Like Nails On A Chalkboard”

  1. “unless we are wearing tinfoil and flinging poo, you assume we’re doing great” This is brilliant because, of course, it’s completely true.

    I have straight out told my therapist that even with her education there is no way she can really understand what we live, because she doesn’t live it. For some reason I am loathe to tell the pdoc the same thing.

  2. ” I just want to return to the cocktail I know worked at one time, then tweak it from there, but my doc isn’t really big on the old school meds.”

    This! Like, sometimes, for some people, there are reasons to avoid the old-skool meds, or at least take breaks from them. But if you know they work (or at least work better than whatever Mystical New-Fangledy Cocktail they’re trying for bipolar peeps this week), doctors should be willing to hear that.

    I hope your doc will figure this stuff out.

    And also, right on about the “if we’re not wearing tinfoil and flinging poo” part. Thank you!

    Why is it so easy to figure out that a chronically spasmodic Achille’s tendon does not “a healthy leg” make even if it’s not as dramatically visible as a broken leg, and yet the practitioners of the world sometimes really struggle to grasp that “quiet, grinding misery” is not the same as “sound mental health?”

  3. Ducking hope you’re about 2016. Another 2015 and its, “great meeting you, peeps, this dawg is out.”‘ Tell Spook I say hi. I listened to that Frozen song between whiskey sips. Good lord. Call an NGO!

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