Gotta Fix It

So, on Friday I went to the doctor about this mania I talked about the other day.

She’s just a regular GP, so doesn’t have any expertise when it comes to bipolar and introducing new meds. GPs just tend to continue prescribing what your psychiatrist prescribe once you’re no longer seeing them. Unfortunately, this means that when you need something to be changed, they really have no idea.

My GP was fully upfront about this, and wasn’t comfortable with prescribing anything for the bipolar directly. However, she was willing to do something about the insomnia. Now I’m on 25mg/day of Seroquel for 30 days. Seroquel is actually a second generation antipsychotic, which is prescribed at higher doses for bipolar. It’s used off-label for insomnia.

So far it’s dealt with the insomnia, almost a little too well, and I’m now getting about 12 hours of sleep per night, as opposed to the five-ish I was getting before. It takes a week or so for it to start working on the mania.

My GP also sent a referral to the Mental Health Unit, and said I should contact them myself too. Having just spoken to someone there, I should get a call tomorrow about an appointment in the next few days.

I always feel silly when I describe what’s happening to me. Like it’s not actually that bad, and that I should just be able to deal with it. Maybe that’s because I’m comparing myself to the way bipolar etc is portrayed in the media, which I know is always the extreme. But then I start thinking, is it though? Is there actually something wrong with me? Maybe I’m just not a nice person, and the “quiet nature” I have (to quote my GP) is all just a facade, which cracks over time, showing people what I’m really like until I’m able to patch it up again.

It’s not like I’m violent, or I’m going to hurt myself, or anyone else.

Maybe all of this is a cry for attention. The irrational behaviour I’ve been having is all just quietly calculated.

But that doesn’t really make sense. And isn’t exactly the actions of a normal, mentally healthy person. And it honestly isn’t until later that I realise how irrational some of my behaviour has been. At the time, I think my actions/reactions are perfectly justified.

And I still can’t write anything for NaNoWriMo. It would seem I peaked on my first day, which is really disappointing. I know I can write. I think it’s another case of me thinking everyone else who succeeds in that area is so much better than me, better than I’ll ever be, so why even bother. I’ll never achieve that greatness.

I have all the ideas in there. I know the bare-bones of it all. But I’m too impatient to put all the connections in, to bulk it out into something that others would actually find interesting, that would pull them in and make them want to read more, to find out how Matti Howarth gets to be running through that forest. And I just don’t think I’m good enough to do it. Everything I write just seems to amateurish. I don’t know how to write in a descriptive manner that brings it all to life in the reader’s mind.

I know it takes time, and practice. But I want it all to be amazing right now. I’m far too impatient to piss around with substandard beginnings. I want things to be brilliant, and I want them to be brilliant right now!

I think that’s my problem with everything I try. If things aren’t fantastic and amazing from the get-go, then I give up. I can’t see what the point is. Which is stupid. I know it is. But I can’t get around the problem. I don’t know how. It’s a self-fulfilling prophesy. I don’t think I’m good enough, that I can do it, so I can’t. And I don’t know how to change that faulty wiring.

Maybe I should just try some stream-of-consciousness-type writing. That’s what I initially thought I would do for this first NaNoWriMo. But I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get away from the need for structure. It’s so frustrating! I can do it for non-fiction writing (just look at this post for example, it’s all over the place), but when it comes to fiction, for some reason everything needs to be precise and perfect. I know I could do it, if I could just get out of these restraints I’ve made for myself, or at least I’m pretty sure I could. Maybe. And there’s that self-doubt again, constantly following me round like some demented faithful dog. In this instance, I would definitely prefer an aloof, uncaring cat.

I know that getting another pill isn’t going to magically fix things, though I wish it would. At least this one makes me feel pleasantly stoned in the period after I take it before I go to bed.

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