EDIT: Worst written post ever!
I do indeed have shingles, so a shiny pustule to everybody who said so!
I went to the walk-in clinic on Saturday in Soho. People kept wandering in and out, asking to use the toilet, returning with the suspiciously glazed eyes of someone who was smacking up. The two hour wait was almost like sport. There were two nurses there, one who seemed stressed and grumpy, the other who seemed to carry the sun in her pocket. Luckily, I saw the sun nurse.
She examined me, confirmed it was shingles then explained to me what that was. She took me temperature too, which hasn’t been done to me for years. Little bit of a fever, unsurprising because I’ve generally felt a bit fluey and shite. She asked for any conditions I have- only two, manic depression (I think, who knows) and asthma- and then asked what medication I was taking. I told her none, and she put down her pen. She then told me that she had noticed I was shaking very badly. I do this sometimes, as I’ve explained before. I have confetti days where excess energy just kind of shivers me down. In the waiting room I couldn’t hold the pen properly to fill in the forms so Robert offered to do it. I did it, just in very arch, careful handwriting. The shaking and occasional problems with my speech are two little tics that sometimes give me away.
Anyway, I was quite embarrassed by this and she reassured me nobody else was going to notice and jump to any conclusions, she just did because she was a nurse. She went back to saying that because the rash had been there for more than three days, there was no point in taking any antiviral medication, but I did need to take better care of myself because I’m too young to be getting shingles. I am always run down. I haven’t been in good physical condition for quite a while now.
Before I left, she made me promise I would speak to someone about taking medication.
I left feeling a bit exposed. That morning, I’d been woken up by a paramedic shining a torch in my face. Thank fuck I wasn’t having one of my North Korea dreams or else I would have died of heart failure. Or summary execution. This was because I had sent a depressive text to Robert (it wasn’t anything particularly scary, and it was partly due to feeling manky because I’m all shingley), then promptly fallen asleep due to the antihistimines I’d taken for scratching. Oh, and my phone is broken. So I didn’t hear his calls, he assumed I’d topped myself or hurt myself, and panicked.
Nothing did happen, but there is something Not Right when someone close to you worries about you like that. Someone’s first reaction to not answering the phone at 2am should be, “Oh, she’s asleep”. Not that. I am not terrible at the moment, but there are some things in the past two months (that I don’t feel like talking about) that remind me of me back in 2006. And not in a good way. I’m aware I’m Not Quite Right at the moment. Not in any profound way, but it’s there. And also that I’m better at hiding it these days. I’m sleeping well enough, so it’s not just that.
Anyway, I’m going to start taking medication again. Maybe I just needed more time to adjust to life without it and develop better ways of living without it, but if I’m being honest, the whole experiment has been a failure, and I need some extra help for my moods. Because I want to get somewhere in my life. I want to write, consistently, I want to earn enough money to live somewhere with Robert and the cats, to study and to travel, I want to have a baby one day and have a spare room for a crib, I want to learn stuff and talk to people, and just live my bloody life. Not spend it on a constant balancing act. I don’t get anything done. I don’t get anywhere. I want a fucking life. A proper, full one where I can forget that I have a mental illness.
It doesn’t have to be forever, just until I get more stable. I am more stable than I was four years ago, but slipping, a bit. I don’t want to slip a lot. So, it might not even help, but it’s worth a go. I don’t just owe it to myself to try harder. It’s not just me that this affects. I sometimes forget that.
Anyway, it’ll just be Seroquel, so.
Filed under: Bipolar Disorder