Yesterday, on the drive home, I had an epiphany.
I’ve finally figured out that it’s not that I hate my job, or my career field for that matter, because I’m in a perfectly good job right now. The reason I feel as though I hate my job all the time is that I’m apparently a raving psychotic. Due to the crapfest in my head, I can’t concentrate, I suffer daily from crippling cases of the “I don’t wannas,” and I have insomnia so badly that any coping mechanisms I might have had left in my head are too sleep-deprived to work anymore. My home internet connection is being a bitch, so I’m posting this from work. All of these factors together cause some rampant paranoia on my part: I constantly feel like I’m going to lose my only source of income because I can’t get my shit together.
For the first time in a long while, I have decent health insurance, so getting help is actually a viable option. The process of finding a therapist is daunting and depressing, so I put it off for longer than I should have, and it stressed me out more than it should have because I put it off for too long. I hated the fact that I could only attempt to find a therapist during the day, and that I had to “sneak off” to make the various phone calls involved in the process. Adding to the struggle was the fact that I wanted a female doctor, because for some irrational reason, I feel like I’d be more comfortable bawling in front of a woman- as if bawling in front of a complete stranger could ever be "comfortable." I had a hell of a time finding one that I didn’t have to wait for over a month to see.
I almost became desperate enough to call the insurance’s 1-800 number for help in finding someone, but I didn’t relish the thought of listing my various psychoses for some random call center employee (no offense, Anonymous Cog).
I will, however, list my various psychoses for you here…because I’m weird like that.
First and foremost, I am severely, horribly depressed. Again. For the umpteenth time. I’ve tried, on several occasions, to get over it, to treat it, and get on with life- without continuing to use antidepressants; but I guess I have the kind of depression that will keep knocking me on my ass until I get myself properly drugged up- for the rest of my life, it seems.
Thanks, genetics. This is Reason #596 Why It’s a Good Thing I’m Not Having Kids. I hate antidepressants, but I guess I need them. I just hope I can find the correct one this time.
Because of the depression (or is it causing the depression? Who knows?!?), I am having one of my worst cases of insomnia yet. I’m going on a week of little to no sleep at night. I think that, if the therapist I eventually end up going to tells me, “you need to get more sleep,” I may be brought up on murder charges. I go to bed at 10, every night. I don’t drink more than one beer a week, on Friday evenings. It’s not like I’m not trying. My body just isn’t having it, for whatever stupid reason.
This, in turn, leads to the fact that, not only do I not want to exercise, I have absolutely no energy to do so. The one thing that I am required to do every day is go to work. Everything else is negotiable. Therefore, because I’m tired and feel like crap, everything else is neglected- with exercise being top on that list.
…which brings us to the next item on the list. I am fat. When I was a teenager, I used to think I was fat, and I really wasn’t. I was just built differently. How I long for those days, so I could smack myself upside the head and enjoy life a little more in my 40-pound lighter body…because now, I really and truly am fat.
I self-medicate with food. Obviously, because…see above. I assign values to food: this is good food, this is bad food, I’m bad for eating such-and-such, I was good so I deserve this cookie/ chocolate/ candy that I don’t even like very much.
I have an appointment with a psychiatrist, two weeks from now. I am planning to will myself to be un-crazy until then, and for however long afterwards until some good comes from seeing the doctor.
And I am totally trying not to cry as I write this.