Down in a dark, dirty hole

I saw Dr. GP yesterday.  After my emo-word-vomit-brain-dump last week (which freaked me out enough that I made said appointment with Dr. GP the very next morning), I was feeling better by Thursday, so I contemplated cancelling the appointment - I was going to give it a few more days before making a decision - but a couple of wise women threatened convinced me to keep it.  Friday and Saturday were okay.  Sunday sucked.  Monday and Tuesday were okay.  Wednesday sucked.  Yesterday was AWFUL.

I know part of my... anxiety yesterday was the thought that I'd go into Dr. GP, pour my heart out onto her floor, and have her tell me to just tough it out until my appointment with mental health.  But, as I emphatically told her yesterday, I cannot live another six weeks like this...

• I'm exhausted.  I'm sleeping like shit and I'm tired all the damned time.  I have zero energy, which gives me zero desire to do anything more than the barest of minimums.  I feel like I could sleep for a week and still be fatigued.
• I'm miserable.  It takes all I have just to be polite to people, never mind crack a smile (SO not me).
• Everything seems to take enormous effort, from making dinner to brushing my teeth before bed.
• I've been working out four to five times a week, doing really well, seeing results, and really enjoying it!  Except now, I could give a rat's ass if I ever stepped foot on the elliptical again.
• Nothing interests me.  Nothing holds my attention.  I can't focus.  I can't concentrate.
• I either have zero appetite (but force myself to eat something, otherwise I'm liable to eat someone's face off), or want to eat my feelings and never stop (but don't because of that little voice inside my head that reminds me I'm NOT hungry).
• And the biggest - and scariest, to me - thing is that I just. don't. care.  Don't want to do your make-up?  WHO CARES!  Don't feel like doing your hair?  SO WHAT!  If I could get away with going to work unwashed and in my pajamas, I would.  I'm completely apathetic about absolutely everything and I don't even care that I don't care (not *entirely* true, but pretty damned close), and that's NOT me: I'm the girl who gets in trouble because she cares too much about too much.

"Sooooo, what you're describing is depression... "  *snort*  Y'don't say?!?  She asked if I was having thoughts of hurting myself or anyone else (very emphatic NO).  She asked if anything major had happened or changed (the only thing I can think of (which coincides to when this first started) is the official IBS diagnosis, which is silly since it's SO much better than the stuff I was worrying about - yay! this won't kill me!).  She asked about my support system (Chebbar's beyond wonderful; I don't tell Mom a hell of a lot because of her negative opinions about prescriptions after dealing with the Grandmonster (I totally chickened out when I told Mom this morning.  Via email.) - don't get me wrong: I don't think she'd be all "DEVIL PILLS! GIT OFFA DEM!" but I'm not sure she'd say the things I need to hear right now (as opposed to unintentionally saying things that would convince me I don't/shouldn't need them); calling up a friend just feels like too much effort - I don't have it in me to talk about this, but I don't have it in me to ignore and talk around this either).  She encouraged me to keep the appointment with mental health (I told her I had every intention of following through with that because I feel that a good part of my... stress/anxiety can be managed once I have some coping mechanisms under my belt).  She told me I had to actively "seek out joy": that she knew it sounded corny, but depression makes you want to isolate yourself (no shit), and you really have to make an effort to look for/make bright(er) spots in your day when and where you can (I suppressed a snort-laugh).

She gave me a two-week sample of Cipralex, a questionnaire to fill out (I scored 19 out of a possible... 24? 30? I can't remember - it's at home pinned to the fridge for my next appointment), and a follow-up appointment for the 30th, and urgings to call sooner if need be.

I left there feeling confused and overwhelmed and tired and sad and relieved.  This is a Big Deal for me: my perfectionist tendencies make me think/feel that I have to control and fix myself, and that if I can't, I'm a failed failure from Fuckupville.  I've had bad days - hell, even bad weeks - but they always go away: I'm always able to beat the doldrums.  This time, though?  This time is different.  I just can't shake the funk.  It just won't go away.  And the longer it goes on, the more I beat myself up for the fact that I haven't been able to "rein myself in," and worry that I'll NEVER shake the funk on my own.  I've told Chebbar repeatedly since last Tuesday that I don't want to be the "broken girl" (and before anyone gets all up in my grill, I am NOT saying that people with depression are broken: I'm saying that's how *I* feel because I'm unable to "control" my thoughts and feelings - this isn't about you, I swear to Ceiling Cat, so puh-lease don't get your knickers in a twist, okay?).

I slept last night.  Hard.  I woke up a couple of times and felt completely groggy and disoriented.  I'm not sure if it was the anti-depressant, the combo of that and my antihistamine, the emotional let-down of this finally being (somewhat) "over," or a combination of all three.  Today?  Much better.  As I told Chebbar on the phone this morning, I'm not naive or stupid enough to think that half a pill 12 hours ago made me all! better!, but just knowing that a) I've taken steps to take care of this, b) I'm taking care of ME, and c) I will feel back to normal soon is just such a huge freaking relief.  Call it wishful thinking or a placebo effect or whatever you'd like, but I'll take it.  

I don't feel so god damned alone and hopeless today.  I don't feel like such a worthless failure today.  I'll take that, too, thank you very much.