You may have noticed that I've been a tad tiresome of late.  I have been struggling with an ongoing low, which I really didn't want to face or own up to.  It has secretly alarmed me, injured me and fecked with my mind.  In particular, my humour, something I rely on heavily.

On Tuesday I told my p-doc that I failed to see the point of continuing medication, as I end up feeling this way.  Typical of my depressions, I cannot recall being happy or content.  He reminded me that I have felt better and that we'd wanted to see me stable for a while before I start to come off the meds.

To that end, he has prescribed a dopamine medication, as the Ritalin worked so well back when.  As it is not usually a p-med, the fecking insurance refused to pay for the $160 it took to fill the script.  I am so sick of the way I feel, that after I walked Griffin, I called CVS back and said I'd pay for it.

Which right now means that Cricket will pay for it.  She has shelled out the money to pay for me to go back to school, and more stuff than my pee-brain can handle right now.  Yet she is insisting I make sure I am well myself, first, before paying her back.

I hate myself right now.  I wish I were done.  I am too exhausted and overwhelmed.  I would leave this mortal coil, were it just me.  This sea of crashing depression is cold, harsh, relentless, with rip-tides and strong currents.  Even if I find a life-raft, it will be a short respite before I am tossed into the sucking, dark waters of despair again.  How can I continue and why?

For now I have to live.  I have no option.  My mess is something I would not wish on anyone.  I have cats that I have chosen to care for.  I have an incalculable debt to Cricket, which has nothing to do with money.  In short, for now I am living for her and my beasties, because I cannot bear to live for myself.

I'll try and write, but please understand if I am not answering emails, comments and calls.  Thank you.

I saw my p-doc today.  As I watched him looking at my shaky, restless hands I tried to slow the stream of words.  I told him that I was much better than the last time we'd met, but that I was rapid cycling.  My speech rushes along to push the relentless patter of my mind out, while I handle my anxiety by tearing at the skin of my feet.  Waves of depression swell over me, leaving me achingly sad.

He took me off Pristiq, which we'd added last month as I was at the outside level of Effexor that SSDI insurance covers; 300mgs.  I have done well on 450mgs, but can't afford it.  Pristiq works better at lower doses and Doctor Z said that my rapid cycling was a result of too much anti-depressants.  I have been unable to work, because of my stressed mind, which is not great, in light of the expense of life, this season and the on-going debt that I owe Cricket.

Cricket is my best friend, who has sometimes been confused, by some, like my doctors on lock-down wards as my imaginary friend, or when they meet her, my life paramour.  She stood by me when my sister shut me out, when my father refused to see me ever again, when I should have been put in a State Hospital.  Which, without her, would have been my lot in life.

Anyway, I was over at Liz Spikol's site, where she had a link to an article about Holiday Depression Busters.  I haven't read the whole piece, because of relentless pop-up ads, one of which gave me pause.  The ad was for Pristiq, which along with being annoying, was a little offensive to me.

The ad features a woman of no particular ethnicity.  (Having studied voice-over as well as on-camera acting, I know that is now highly desirable, after decades of Caucasion persuasion).  But my problem lay not with the woman, but with her wardrobe and pose, which revealed a plunging cleavage.  It may just be me, but if I, as a heterosexual woman, finds my eyes looking at the decolletage, then what does it say about me, the ad and the message therein?

Okay, here's the deal.  Philip over at Furious Seasons is running a fund raiser.  Why?  Because he needs money, silly!  Now, I have never asked the seven of you who read this to give money, right?  But I have my reasons.

No, I don't want to hop into bed with him, unless.... Actually, I have a tough time reading his blog.  In part, because he is in your face, fearless, relentless and challenging.  Me?  I'm a wuss.  He is on the front line of exposing big pharma complicities, psych med duplicities and a ferret in the holes of psych ethics.  In short, we need him.

He is a passionate journalist in an area that is lacking, a warrior in the uncharted waters of psych ethics, an unsung hero of transparency.  So, do us all a favour and stop by.  Donate a few bucks.  It may be the best money you have spent since your last medication co-pay.