TW: Suicidal ideation, because my brain hates me.
Almost two weeks ago, I sat in my psychiatrist’s (yes, that psychiatrist–-I’m bad at talking to new doctors) office and calmly explained that I didn’t want to live anymore, but that I would never actively end my life. I told my doctor that I didn’t know why I was so depressed, but that something felt wrong, because I’ve been depressed many, many, MANY times in my life but not since I was an extremely angsty teen have I seriously contemplated dying (and maybe that was because depressed teen Whitney binge-watched two seasons of The OC in the pitch black in my room on my laptop).
I told my doctor I thought maybe it was my meds, that I shouldn’t be so exhausted all the time–I literally had no energy, and it felt different from my usual depression-lack-of-energy. I was taking several naps a day, and snoozing my alarm for two hours. So I assumed it was the pills, because I have, twice previously, developed serious side effects from antidepressants that had, for years, worked well.
My doc was like, “honestly, it’s probably your thyroid, let’s get a blood draw.”
My first thought was, of course it is. My second thought was, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. My third thought was, well, never a dull moment.
In that appointment, I told my psychiatrist that I was scared of going to the doctor for two reasons: one, that I might be totally physically fine and will just have to keep on living; or two, that I’m very sick, and how that’ll suck. The depressed person’s ultimate lose-lose (but Depression’s ultimate win-win).
But it wouldn’t be unsurprising if I had a thyroid problem–it runs in the family. Not only does my mom have a Thyroid Thing(TM), but so did my grandmother. In fact, both women’s Thyroid Things(TM) were triggered by trauma.
Stupid body keeping the stupid score. The way trauma manifests on the cellular level is frequently autoimmune disorders (if you haven’t read The Body Keeps The Score, bro, you’re really missing out on some stuff that will absolutely wreck your shit if you’ve had a rough life).
What’s really funny, because this is how my life works, is that the same day my psychiatrist was like, “you probably have a thyroid problem,” I scheduled an appointment for my dog Gideon at the vets because I was pretty sure she has a Thyroid Thing(TM).
At the vet that following week, the pup doctor and I looked up the calorie count of her food and found that it’s a good 20% more calories than the average dog food–and she had gained TEN pounds since October. So, I was chronically, accidentally overfeeding her, which is not something I’ve ever done, but also, I was still pretty positive her thyroid is whackadoodle.
It took four days for the results, and guess what? Her thyroid IS totally whackadoodle. I thought maybe I was being anxious and making up stories, but I’m really fucking observant and I put it all together and was like, “bruh.” And the vet was like, “bruh.” And if Giddy could talk, she’d be like, “Please stop saying that; it’s really annoying.”
WOW that was a long tangent. Back to me, because this is my blog, not Gideon’s.
My doctor ordered a blood draw, which I haven’t gone to yet because of the 2 fears mentioned above, and upped my dose of Paxil, which I was cranky about because I shouldn’t be depressed god damnit and I’m pretty sure this isn’t a normal depression.
But at a week and a half on the higher dose, and I don’t want to die anymore, so, that’s great. But I also haven’t fallen asleep before 2:30 and slept more than six hours, either. I’m no longer so tired that walking the dogs is an impossible task, but I’m now definitely manic and twitchy. It’s kind of like how I imagine being on speed would feel if you still couldn’t accomplish tasks.
You might say that it’s a… nice change of pace. Zing.
Highest Form of Whit 