My brain is broken

Yesterday I attended an appointment I’ve been waiting for since April.

It’s been canceled a couple of time, and in my mind there was a lot riding on it.

Maybe I put too much emphasis on this meeting.T

he meeting was with a specialist to discuss my medication and potentially give me a diagnosis that would change the way my treatment plan moving forward would look like.

Ahead of the meeting I spent time with my mental health nurse to check in how my week had been and to check in with how I was feeling in regards to the appointment.

On this occasion we met in the local coffee shop which was a first. It was very laid back, we had a laugh and I felt nicely chilled. We then moved back to the clinic for the main event.

The Dr was very pleasant. We went through my childhood milestones, details of my birth, my mother’s health before and during her pregnancy.

My school experiences, the kind of student I was and the numerous experiences of bullying I encountered throughout my 12 years at school.

When was my first memory of low mood?

Memories of 7 year old me, standing in the playground, staring up at the clouds and praying silently in my mind to be lifted out of the playground. Willing my mind to transport my consciousness into the butcher’s shop across the road where I would find my kind smiling grandad. My safe place. My happy place. By his side.

We discussed my first experiences of self harm.

It’s first recorded in my medical records at the age of 17. But the cutting had been happening for 3 years prior. I’d first taken a handful of tablets at the age of 15. When I’d woken up the next morning it had seemed pointless to report it. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had changed.

We discussed my personality.

Was I someone who had periods of high energy that counteracted my periods of low mood. It was incredibly difficult to explain that yes I did, but the limitations fibromyalgia puts on my body means that these periods are no longer weeks of manic highs. My body can’t maintain more than a day or 2 at the most.My mind continues to be manic, but the pain experienced through my body stops me in my tracks and slowly breaks my spirits and grand ambitions.

Do I experience moments of grandiose? No, I never think I’m above others, but I continually plot of ways I will take over the world. I know I’m meant for better things. But that will require hard work to get there. But one day.

And then came the kicker.

I felt I’d laid myself bare in this appointment. I’d shared all my secrets. I’d put myself for all to see in the attempt to get the help I so desperately need to move forward out of this depression I have sunk into.

The Dr informed me that whilst his treatment plan would be to increase my medication, he couldn’t do that today. He leaves his current position at the end of the month and any treatment must be agreed with the new physician that will be taking his place. As a junior Dr he would not be able to prescribe the help I need today as a new placement awaits him.

And suddenly the whole appointment feels pointless.

He promised to discuss his proposal with his replacement, but that new Dr may wish to see me in person before any action is taken.

How long would that take? Who knows, it’s an NHS waiting list.

My mental health nurse Abby, promised to chase this. To stay by my side whilst I wait for help.

But I feel I’m back at the starting line.

My husband remains optimistic and asks about the future.

So once I get the new medication will I be better? Can I put this whole episode behind me and get back to the happy wife and mother I want to be?Will I get talk therapy and ways to manage the catastrophising and darkness that consumes me?

No. That’s not the reality.

My brain is misfiring signals. It’s broken, it doesn’t work the way it’s meant to.

My episodes of depression are likely to continue throughout my life.

And as I age, they are likely to be harder and more intense. No amount of talk therapy can mend it on its own. Only a life time of medication will help put me in a place where I can move forward.

At this point I have been fighting for over 6 months to keep myself safe and living in this current period of depression.

I battle with my head daily fighting the urges to self harm or let myself fade into the darkness that beckons.

The thought of these urges getting stronger in the future?

My initial reaction is that I don’t have the energy to fight. I’ll never make it to old bones without being swallowed and consumed.

I want to take my brain out and hit it with a hammer, switch it off and on again. Make it work like it was designed to work. Get those signals firing that make me live in light and make me want to stay alive.

But today I will wait. I hope the new prescription can be put in place quickly, without another appointment to dig through the past again and again. I hope it makes a difference in lifting me back to the light. And then a future of strong medication may not seem impossible.

A future where that darkness will always linger in my peripheral vision waiting to take over again will not automatically mean submission.

It is not a sentence of my death.

And maybe my destination of being meant for something better, is just finding the strength to keep going. To keep fighting to live.

Depression is a bastard.