And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

My first reaction to the current depressive episode was to remain blog silent until things got better.  But things aren't really getting better and that is more due to me rather than the disease or medications that I'm taking.  Yes I started the next round of weaning off Eefexor.  This round takes me from 150 mg to 110 mg.   Not as big of a jump as the 225 mg to 150 mg but it still has the crazy withdraw involved.

This time it's more about actively trying to process and figure out how to change thoughts about myself.  For example, I still believe that when things fall into place then the disease won't be a big deal and I can go back to being the person I was before I was diagnosed.  That I'm learning to accept.  Today was a rough one with my therapist as I finally revealed the facade I present to the people I love.  The facade of being asked how I'm doing and answering, "Good!"  Which most of the time is a blatant lie.  But really, who wants to stand there and listen to me say, "well, my IQ has gone from 135 to 103 so that's scary as hell.  And I've been in constant pain so long that really it isn't something I really notice much anymore.  I'm working with a Speech Therapist because my processing speed is just a mess and, on top of this, there's the prep for my disability appeal, stress of having no money, and the constant panic over how I'm going to pay my bills.  But enough about me.  How are things going for you?"

Really, who wants to hear the truth?  I DON'T!  I don't want to tell people the truth because then I have to accept it and I'm not there yet.  Dumb, I know.  But I've always been a person who pushes through, a person who has high expectations of myself, a person who, now, can't wrap her head around the fact that MS isn't just affecting me physically.  The damn disease has decided to go after cognitive areas as well.  Areas that are part of my identity.

Now I understand what my therapist meant by needing to go through a mourning period.  I feel like a failure due to a disease over which I have no control.  None.  Yet I always expect more of myself than what I'm doing.  I should be able to do more.  I expect more out of myself.  But then I can't do the things I want to or if I do them and push myself too hard I'm out of commission for a day or two.  It sucks.  I want to get past the mourning phase and into the angry phase.  Angry sounds so much more fun.