Ah, it’s that time of year again. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and my ass has been in a sinkhole of depression for days. Yeehaw.
If you’ve been around the Underground for a while, you might recall something similar happening around this time last year. Seems an odd time for an annual depressive episode, yeah? It has nothing to do with the weather. Or school being out. Or – groan – the annual fucking “Kink at Pride” discourse. Nope the reason is simple: it’s at this time of year that I have to go in for my annual “yes, I’m still alive, please continue giving me my brain pills so I stay that way” doctor visit.
Last year, due to covid, I was able to get a refill with a telehealth visit. This year? Not so much. So I got to go in and step on the scale and get all the little numbers measured and have a low-grade anxiety attack the entire time. But, of course, I’m sure that has no effect on my blood pressure. Or pulse rate. Or any of that. Nah – any issues can be blamed on the size of my ass.
Yup, the secret is out, my ass is magnificent. Epic. Perhaps even legendary. What it is not is small. Take a heaping dose of health anxiety and mix in a constant stream of medical fatmisia and you have the enormous wreck I become when there’s a hint of a doctor’s appointment in my future. I was telling my partner, when I know an appointment is going to happen – as in the few weeks leading up to getting my refill request denied – my mood is like the sky when there’s a big storm coming: heavy clouds looming ominously over everything and the air itself feels as if it is pressing against you, adding resistance to every movement.
Then you have the days immediately leading up to the appointment; those are more akin to the worst thunderstorm you’ve ever experienced, except instead of rain, the clouds are spewing lava. And it’s taking place in Hell.
Hyperbolic? Perhaps a tad. But I basically checked out of my life the weekend before last and spent the entire day on Sunday sleeping, skipping out on a scheduled event. Because I’m on sertraline, I had to do a “depression screening” at my appointment. The nurse asked a number of questions and the ones I answered yes to had all been happening in the days leading up to the appointment, solely because of the appointment. So. Whatever that’s worth.
The thing is, I actually do kind of like my new doc. He’s cool and he asked about the book I mentioned writing last June. The clinic itself allows me to specify my gender rather than forcing me into a box based on my genitalia. And as far as “Don’t be a Fatty McFatterson” lectures go, the one my doc gives me is pretty mild. None of that makes a difference, however, because anxiety isn’t rational If it could be logicked away, I’d be done with it. I am fully aware that feeling like my life is in imminent danger because I have to visit the doctor for a checkup is ridiculous. This is not news to me. And if someone else out there would like to try reasoning with my Anxiety Brain, well, best of luck. I’m done engaging with that asshole.
Until I was swallowed by the sinkhole, I was thinking of writing a very different post for y’all. Perhaps that one will happen sooner rather than later. Other than the worst sinkhole days, I have been chugging along on Vengeance and attempting to muster the energy to begin editing that untitled coming of age thing that smacked me in the brain at the beginning of the year, but release of either of those is still a ways in the future.
On the positive side, I am back from Megadepressionville. I started coming back on Monday afternoon once the appointment was finished, but I got blood drawn for some standard tests and still got to deal with anxiety around those results. Thankfully, the lab was super quick and I got those results the following day. As they contained nothing too terribly catastrophic, I was finally, finally released from this prison of my own mind’s making. For another…well, shit. I was going to say another year, but now that the US has decided the pandemic is over, docs are getting a tad more aggressive on screenings, so those appointments I put off last year are more likely than not going to happen this year. One is likely to happen within the next couple of months, in fact. After my initial experience with this one, I haven’t been sucked into a black hole too bad when dealing with it, so fingers crossed that remains the case. Hearing that a friend recently received a not great diagnosis from theirs, however, may impact that. *shrug* It will be what it is, I suppose.
Meh. And this is what I’m like when I’m ON brain pills. Can you believe they ever consider taking them away from me? My partner quakes in fear at the very thought.
Categories: general musing
Stormy Lane McKnight
Writer of trashy queer superhero romance, smutty sci-fi, and other things that are gay af. Disaster enby and all around bisexual wrecking ball.