The victim of depression (original) (raw)
December 21 2012, 07:40
Written two weeks ago:
Our culture is gradually learning not to stigmatise depression, but to recognise it as an illness which is at least partly treatable. For me, the most fortunate aspect of this (apart from the treatment, bless it) is that I can be open to my colleagues about my condition. I gulp down my citalopram with my morning decaf, and I'm happy to talk to people about the effects and experience of depression. As with homosexuality, I don't go out of my to advertise the fact; I just don't use gender-neutral pronouns when talking about my partner, and I don't pretend that that little white pill is aspirin.
As a side note, you might be surprised to know how many people quietly admit to me that they're also taking antidepressants. Tip: it's a lot more than those who turn out to be gay!
Right now I'm in an uncomfortable condition: my citalopram doesn't seem to be working as well as it should. I've become markedly avoidant, with lots of silly little stress reactions, and my mental condition has been flirting with that nasty little phenomenon called depersonalisation. On Tuesday I was even struggling to construct coherent sentences to my poor therapist. Also, for some reason, I'm also intermittently hypersalivating.
The obvious diagnosis is of course rabies, but unfortunately I haven't recently exchanged bodily fluids with any bats, so we have to consider alternatives. To this end, I've recently suffered a bewildering battery of medical tests, whose results I'll be collecting in an hour or so.
My colleagues' understanding has been very valuable to me over the past week or so, as I can keep them advised of my circumstances and trust them to make reasonable decisions on my behalf. They're the people who're looking after me at work—not, be it said, the Human Resources department, to whom I lie through my teeth because their Stalinist policies make it perfectly clear that they're a bunch of syphilitic epsilon-minus-semi-moron baby-eating dingoes who aren't fit to be trusted with a primary-school charity raffle, let alone even the most elementary aspects of humane pastoral care.
To my colleagues, I've been able to plead depression and know that they'll cover for me.
Written today:
I was going somewhere with all of this, but then I got distracted, possibly by a wall that seemed to need staring at.
My test results were all basically normal, but I explained to the doctor that I was basically ineffectual at work, and got myself signed off sick for a couple of days so I could go home and unwind. On arrival, I found that 
akeela and draugvorn had made the place beautiful, with a fire in the hearth and a malamute on the carpet, and I felt that getting signed off sick was exactly the right move.
I'm now ready to make my point, but after all this divagation and confabulation, it's probably better to put it in another post.