I still have no computer, but since things are difficult, I am on my phone to write here again. I texted my therapist this morning, asking if there was any way she could talk to the psychiatrist, to explain my current condition, since he clearly does not understand what is going on. Let's be real, the psychiatrist is a good doctor with a good reputation, but he seems to forget crucial facts of my life. He once stated something about me living with my mother, last year, when I have not lived with my mother at all in the past eleven years. And when I said "I am terribly depressed", yesterday, he did not seem to understand he was speaking with a person who was first diagnosed with Major Depression 25 years ago. I told the therapist "I am trying to stay out of the damn hospital". She called me, but I knew there was nothing she could do. So I had already called the office and informed the medical assistant that I needed the doctor to increase my Effexxor because I am barely functioning, and I do not want to end up in the hospital.
To be honest with you, I am getting the impression that my doctor actually knows very little about me. I see a therapist in his very practice, and he does not appear to read any of her notes! I know he works at two hospitals, but to tell me "Have a good holiday" yesterday, after I stated a minute before that "I have barely gotten out of bed for six weeks" is pretty nuts! Is he talking about Christmas? Thanksgiving? I do not even know how to get through the next 24 hours of my life.
I guess the assistant called him right away, and an hour later while I was in the pharmacy, she called me back and said he was increasing my Effexxor like I asked him to, this morning.
I am getting the feeling that if I am not psychotic, I am no longer going to be taken seriously. The first thing he said when I told him things were bad was, "How are the voices?"
As soon as I reported my antipsychotic is working and there have only been two auditory hallucinations, he seemed relieved. As if that is the only thing that matters. I know that psychosis is considered more serious than depression. I also know that for me, the two frequently occur at the same time. So one occuring is a legitimate problem. The fact that I am completely freaking out and hiding inside my apartment as I write this, because I am terrified of the world, is a legitimate problem. It may not be as bad as voices that told me to drive a car off a bridge, but it still makes me want to kill myself; therefore, it is still bad.
Today, because I cannot think clearly, I went to three different government buildings, just to pay a traffic ticket. The third one was the right place. I found my vehicle registration in my purse, where I must have stuck it somewhere in the past couple weeks when it arrived in the mail, after I renewed it following getting a ticket a couple weeks ago, because it actually expired in January. I had already called the place to report that the thing never came in the mail, before finding it today, inside my own purse. This is the mental capacity I am dealing with, whilst trying to finish college despite an inability to read books.
After I paid my ticket, I decided to find the first available place I could go to study, since libraries close at 4, and it was already 3:00. I saw a Wendy's and went in there. Oddly, the girl working there had a red ponytail and was dressed up as Wendy. For a second, I thought I was hallucinating, but it was a real person dressed up as Wendy. She told me she does this on Fridays, and people say "Where did Wendy come from?" when they see her. She said, "I'm like, Wendy came from the streets!" She had bad teeth, and I felt sorry for her because I know what it is like to have nothing.
I sat at a table with a Diet Pepsi and put down books and papers, but then I disappeared. I felt myself evaporate. It is like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz, "I'm melting!" I think. This happens every day now. I could not even open the book. I stared at it. I could not breathe, but when this happens I also think apathetically that it does not even matter anymore if I can breathe. My head hurt. There was a TV on the wall, and the sound was killing me. I felt myself overflow with the familiar dread. There would be no studying there. "I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!!" ran through my head. I fled to the bathroom and formulated a plan to gather my stuff and get away from the horrifying bright lights in the Wendy's that were incapacitating me. I rushed as quickly as possible to the car, squinting in the awful daylight and talking to myself out loud, not caring who saw me. "You are getting out now. You are leaving. You are going home. You are going to be OK. The horrific lights are not there at home. It is only ten minutes away. You are almost there. Look at the road. Concentrate. What road is this? This might be Keene. You are almost home. The cats are there. You can sit in the darkness with them on the couch. You will be able to study there."
I am home now. I cannot find one of my textbooks. It is rather important, considering there is a midterm next week, and I have read none of it. I have no idea where it is, nor am I able to read anything in the other book.
I keep telling myself after working 22 years to get through college, I cannot give up.