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I...
September 27, 2018, 8:36 P.M.
...don't care.
Not true, I guess. But since an anxiety disorder is basically your brain forcing you to care, and care passionately, and care 24/7/365, about every possible conceivable thing in the universe--I guess I have care fatigue.
Stuff that happened--we put in the new cook-top last weekend. It went surprisingly well, Spouse did a terrific job on cutting the new piece of counter-top, and he got everything wired up correctly and leveled and the whole shebang. Took us pretty much the whole weekend, but it is looking and working great. Still have some caulking to do, but that's it.
I have had so many panic attacks, both mini and full-blown (even a nocturnal one that blasted me out of a sound sleep), that I decided it was time to find a new doctor. I picked one, made an appointment for an establishing visit, and went to see her.
Turns out, I really picked wrong that time.
Aside from doing a pap smear, which I still haven't heard back about? Apparently, she doesn't actually TREAT anything. She just refers you.
She said that she didn't think the weird feeling in my chest was a heart problem, probably just anxiety...and referred me somewhere else because she doesn't treat anxiety. When I found out the place she referred me is booked out over a month, I called back and asked for a different referral or at least something to help me sleep so I could hold on for another month to six weeks. And was told that A)that's the only place she refers people for psych meds, but I was "welcome to find someone else on my own." and B) "She doesn't prescribe sleep aids".
Welp--I fired her. Cancelled the appointment for the thyroid test she ordered, cancelled the follow-up visit they had scheduled for November. And when they asked why I wasn't re-scheduling, I told them I could not afford to pay to see one doctor, if all she was going to do was point me to somebody else that would actually treat me, and then pay them too.
I don't know what I'm going to do, though. I can't keep this up indefinitely. I'm only getting about 4 hours' sleep a night, and as I mentioned--the panics are getting more frequent.
I'd hate to go back to the old practice. Without Doc, it just isn't the same. Plus, that hospital system has the highest prices and the worst PPO discounts of any place in the area.
Stuff that's
going to happen and it's making my anxiety worse:
I called and told my sister in law that I was calling off the get-together, but she said they might come up anyway. What can I do? I can't tell two grown adults they can't visit the city where I live, if they want to. I can't fathom WHY they want to, but apparently they do.
Despite the fact that I am not well, and going thru hell, my selfish-assed husband is bound and determined to drag me somewhere out of town for my our HIS birthday. I put my foot down on his plan to drive to Chicago, in order to fly standby for free to Minneapolis for the weekend. Frankly, it sounded like signing up to be tortured.
So now he wants to drag me to the godforsaken, mosquito-infested wilds of northern Wisconsin, to visit his most annoying cousins. I guess he has a thing or two to teach ME about what constitutes "torture"!
All I know is, everyone wants things as they wish, and nobody is wishing for me to be happy.
I have been having a lot of stuff going on at work that has been making things worse, too. We're to that point on the slow downward slide where all the middle managers are middle-aged women, and It. Is. GHASTLY. I FUCKING HATE that pink-collar ghetto. Shit goes wrong, and it's like having a flock of squawking chickens flung at your head. They all panic, they all try to deal with it at once, leaving you with eleven different email trails to try and hack your way through for the same damned issue, and there wouldn't even BE an issue if they had addressed it LAST MONTH, when you first brought it to their attention!! (Instead of falling back on the old "if no one is complaining, is must not really be an issue" bullshit.)
But, LST here...I hold it together the best I can in office hours, cry all the way home, cry for a couple of hours after I get home, and then spend the second half of the night crying, before getting up in the morning and crying all the way to work. (And this morning, for a half-hour after I got there.)
And I don't even get the relief of a diverting pastime, because anhedonia robs me of any pleasure in my hobbies. Music, pens, games, all dull and pointless. I can still manage to read, but that's slipping, too.
You know how some people feel completely trapped in their life, like the only way out is to kill themselves?
Imagine what life is like when even THAT door has been slammed shut on you.
There. That's me.
Reading:
"Top of the Morning," (1910), by Juliet Wilbor Tompkins. An episodic story about a group of artists and writers who are friends, set in NYC. I enjoyed it, but it left me feeling a bit "more-ish". I also re-read the last half of her "Diantha", just because I'd started a re-read a while back, and I wanted to delete the download. Currently reading "The Pool of Stars" (1919), by Cornelia Meigs.
Listening: Blessed, peaceful silence continues to be the desire; continues to elude.
Inked Up: Still no changes. To the point where I ought to just flush them out and put them away. See above. Pilot Vanishing Point med. with Iroshizuku Yama Budo, the Conklin Duragraph fine with Pelikan 4001 Brilliant Brown, and Knox Gallileo fine nib with Rohrer & Klingner Blu Mare.
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