Ah. I see I haven’t posted anything significant for quite a while.
Well. There’s a reason.
I now have a brand spankin’ new OFFICIAL diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. (Something which had been suspected for a very loooooooooong time, as in, since I was a teenager…) Which means: new medications. And going off old ones. And so far, we (Mr Beloved and the support team: the Nice Psychiatrist and the Wonderful GP, and the Friends Who Are Team Caity) have managed to avoid going inpatient for the changeover: it’s still an option, but one I really don’t want to take up.
But sheesh, it’s not easy. There are definitely times I would like my old head back. Times when feeling EVERYTHING TOO MUCH is – well, too much. And the ANGER, the RAGE at things is Not Fun. And my immune system is not co-operating: in all this turmoil, I’m catching every little bug that goes ’round (And I’d like to especially thank that $&*%^ cow who COUGHED EVERYWHERE, with no attempt to keep her germs to herself, in the doctor’s waiting room last Wednesday. Your lack of consideration was *really* not appreciated.) I feel like my head is TOO FULL, and not just of snot from the sinus infection. (Ok, TMI, perhaps. But true.)
Also, panic attacks? I know how to deal with them (count breathing s l o w l y , breathe into paper bags, whatever it takes to get more CO2 and less O2 happening) but I don’t LIKE them. (Not that I can think of anyone who WOULD like them.)
Six weeks, apparently, is the length of time it takes to know if a particular drug is working. Two down. Four to go. Unless the dosage is upped when I see the Nice Psychiatrist on Wednesday.
And did I mention the other inevitable side effect of increased appetite? No shit, WHY couldn’t just ONE of the drugs I have to take be an appetite SUPPRESSANT, huh? Nope, EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. makes me crave carbs. It’s almost enough to make one believe in a conspiracy between Big Pharma and Big Agribusiness. Bread? Sure, I’ll have another slice. Or three. With butter, and maybe some jam. And are there any bikkies left? How about some pasta?
Thank goodness that I am no longer enslaved to Diet Coke: if every glass of (fizzy!) mineral water I have was the Evil Black Drink, I’d be (a) broke; (b) addicted and (c) sweating aspartame. (Is that possible? I swear, I can get back on that stuff so fast that my endocrine system gets whiplash.)
Not much art journalling getting done; not much of anything, really. I’m sleeping more deeply but when I’m awake I’m too scattered to achieve much. Not sure I like this version of me at all. The drugged up depressed version was easier to manage.
ANYWAY, I am looking forward to baking on Wednesday – I’ll be making one of my all time favourite recipes, the banana variation of Rose Levy Beranbaum’s Cordon Rose Cream Cheesecake. (I can’t believe I forgot to put her new book on my wish list for my Birthday! ARGGH!) On Thursday, I’ll take it to Social Cre8te, as my birthday cake. These days I try to only bake if the results can be sent out the door so I don’t scoff the lot. (But the leftovers of the banana cheesecake are definitely coming home so Mr Beloved and I can share it – his birthday is the day after mine.)
In other news: Mum and Dad got the house in Adelaide they wanted; and now their Wagga house is on the market. ( I confess to being just a teensy bit jealous that they’re going to live near my brother, and not me, but Adelaide is really a much better fit for where they’re at.)
And that’s all the news that’s fit to print… oh, except that one of the Neighbours from Hell has an “UNDER CONTRACT” sign on the realtor’s board outside his house (yay!) and another Neighbour from Hell has had a ginormous loud breakup in their relationship and seems to be moving out. (And since they’re the ones who tend to be REALLY LOUD just outside our bedroom window at 3 am, he can’t leave soon enough for us. )
Time to take the next handful of medications…