It’s one of those days where I wake feeling so low, so anxious, I
feel dizzy. The feeling of it is like a poisonous flower blooming in
my chest, somewhere just under my ribs, pushing up into my throat.
Everything is hard. Decisions are hard. I leave lights off because
the decision to press the switch is too much. I go into my routine,
put the coffee on the stove, start to make my lunch. Although I’ve
been awake for an hour it’s been impossible to get out of bed until
now. Now I’m up, I’m clumsy and things spill. I forget which
spices I always put in my lunch. I forget where I am in the process,
and find myself staring into an open cupboard when I’ve already got
the bowl I need.
 | |
| The cover of one of my books* |
I have three
antidepressant pills left. I should have organised my repeat
prescription a week ago. But that’s another mountain to climb.
You’re not allowed to phone the doctor for repeat prescriptions.
But I live five miles away from the surgery, I don’t drive, the bus
is a mile and a half away, infrequent, and a whole social challenge
of its own. I could post my prescription, but the post box is further
away than the bus. The post office to buy the stamp is further still.
And I haven’t mentioned the problems I have with posting things.
It’s some kind of autistic issue. An executive function issue, the
crippling problem with communication. That old thing. But I can’t
phone for the prescription because even if I explain that I am
autistic, I have problems with executive function, I don’t drive,
it won’t be enough. Explaining will be excruciating; and I’d have
to explain every time I phoned. Using the phone is an excruciating
experience in itself.
I have three days of
antidepressants left, and yet again I’m going to have to rely on a
family member with their own crippling problems to sort it out for
me; to physically drop off the prescription and then pick it up in a
few days. I’m going to run out of tablets. I’ll feel this crush
of anxiety and depression even more strongly, and sorting out the
problem will become even harder. Taking the walks which help me feel
less depressed will be harder. It will be harder to make the decision
to get out of bed, to switch on a light, to speak, let alone to
organise the impossible task of getting the prescription I need.
This is being an
autistic adult, a woman with a Masters degree, a writer of novels, a
woman who is bringing up three beautiful children, who can be
eloquent and persuasive and can turn her hand to many things. It is
running out of antidepressants, because communication is so damn
hard.
* re the photo. I don't have the wherewithal today to search for representative photos, creative commons rights, and so on. Nor to work out how to write this as a picture caption that doesn't mess up the formatting of the entire post. So this is the cover of one of my novels, instead. It's a good book. It's available on Amazon.
