TheBanyanTree: Continuing Out of Darkness

[Gail Richards]

I had this happen once...  New town, new doc.  I THINK I have a sinus 
infection.  He says, "What would you like me to give you for that?"  And 
that was the only question he asked.  I told him the name of a decongestant 
that had worked for me in the past and an antibiotic and he wrote two 
prescriptions.  Luckily, I had been right and the meds worked, but I had 
never had a doctor do that before.   I felt bad when he was killed in a 
small, private plane crash a couple years later, but thought it must have 
been karmic retribution for who knows how many prescriptions he wrote for 
people.

I'm so glad you're feeling better, Monique!  Even if it's only a tiny bit 
better, it's a tiny bit in the right direction and those of us who love you 
rejoice!!

-----Original Message----- 
From: Monique Colver
Sent: Saturday, May 24, 2014 7:16 PM
To: Banyan Tree
Subject: TheBanyanTree: Continuing Out of Darkness

Last Monday I made a doctor’s appointment, after it occurred to me that the
ever-present smell of death and decay wasn’t all in my head, and that I
might actually be sick. These are the sorts of things that one in recovery
from major depression may not realize at first, because one, and by one I
mean me, may be dense and not really as smart as I tell people I am. I know
enough to know that I know virtually nothing, which is just smart enough to
be trouble.

Anyway, I made an appointment, and good thing too, since I was really sick,
as in constant running off to the bathroom. My usual doctor, who usually
greets me with a bit of trepidation, wasn’t in, and I said I would be happy
to see anyone at all, because I had a sinus infection and didn’t want to
wait.

And so I saw another doctor. She looked me over and pronounced me healthy.

“No, you don’t understand,” I said, “I’m pretty sure I have a sinus
infection.”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said, in her vague eastern European accent.

“It’s okay, I never present typically,” I told her, which is true, “So
couldn’t we just try the antibiotics and see how it goes?”

I was convinced that I had a sinus infection, you see, because it would
explain why I couldn’t taste food, and why the smell of death followed me
everywhere. It didn’t explain everything, but hey, my diagnostic skills
only go so far.

“It wouldn’t explain the diarrhea,” she said, and I said, “Look, I’m sort
of in a hurry here, I may need to run off to the bathroom any time now.”

We reviewed my most recent labs, which indeed showed I’m pretty healthy for
someone of my age and disposition (rotten, in case you were wondering – I
have a rotten disposition). She’d like all her patients to have an A1C like
mine, which I thought was very nice of her to say, since she didn’t really
know me or anything.

She decided antibiotics certainly wouldn’t hurt, and gave me a
prescription, though it was obvious she thought it a pointless exercise. I
didn’t really care.

I’ve been feeling my way back so slowly, so feebly, so absent-mindedly,
almost, as if my head is filled with cotton, as if I’m entering a new
territory, but it’s the same place, there’s nothing new here, only my
perceptions, which are still quick to skew sideways if I’m not careful.
It’s constant vigilance, and sometimes I let myself down, and sometimes I’m
not sure I can see where I’m going, but I know where I want to be. I just
want me back.

Picture me batting around clouds of fluff, innocent clouds of fluff, but
I’m flailing so energetically that I can’t even tell they’re harmless
because I’m too intent on getting free of them. It amuses me to picture
that, which is something.

Something is better than nothing.

Anyway, the antibiotics kicked in pretty fast, and the smell of death and
decay left me. This is no small thing. Sure, when one knows it’s just a
sinus infection, one can discount the annoying smells, but when one thinks
it’s all part of the depression, well, it gives one pause. The prior week
I’d asked for a refill of an anti-anxiety, just to get me past the rough
spots, and sometimes I couldn’t tell what was anxiety, and what was
depression, and what was simple fear, and what was physical. It was all
jumbled together, and pulling out the separate strands so I can deal with
them and move on has been rather labor intensive. It’s exhausting work,
this getting better, and sometimes it feels like taking one step forward
and two back. But sometimes it’s two steps forward and only one back. Some
days I feel as if the sadness of the world is all within me, a well of
despair and grief, and I push back at it, because it’s not my place to feel
all of that, I want only what is rightfully mine. I don’t want all of it,
and I don’t know why I feel it. But I’d rather not, thank you very much.

I hope you have no idea what I’m talking about, that all this talk of
depression is a mystery to you, because if you understand, you’ve felt it
too, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Especially you.

M