Done.

I’m done. 

I don’t know what else to say besides “I’m fucking done with this shit.”

My followup appointment with the Neurologist was at 3pm. I was done and back in my car by 3:10pm. He rushed me in to his office and told me to have a seat behind his office desk. In all my years of going to the doctor, I have always been seen in an exam room. Never the actual doctors OFFICE. So I thought maybe he has something serious to tell me. “Finally!” , I thought, “someone FOUND what is wrong with me.” I know its sick but I wanted so badly for him to say they found a tumor. Something you can SEE, something that means I have a REAL diagnosis. Something that will either:

A. be operable, so they can just open me up, take it out, and I will return to normal. Or…

B. kill me.

Honestly, I wouldn’t mind either one. But instead I get the answer most people are releived to hear in the doctors office.

“Ms. Watson, your MRI came back clear and normal. And suprisingly your EEG came back normal as well. No episodes were recorded. And since you say your episodes have slowed down since you stopped the Tramadol, it leads me to believe that there is nothing neurologically wrong with you.”

This, as I have stated, is NOT what I wanted to hear. I started to cry. He looks in my chart. Tells me that Cymbalta may not be the right antidepressant. He asks if I am seeing a phychiatrist, and says I should see one to make sure I’m not bi-polar. When I start to tell him about calling a few to see if they are accepting new patients, he looks at his watch. So I cut my sentence short. He tells me that is all he can suggest I do. I start to comment and he just looks at his watch and stands up while I am talking. Basically saying my time is up and he is done with me. I felt like a fool. I felt ignored. I felt abandoned. I felt disappointed and angry all at once. He said to me as I’m standing at the desk (so I can pay my $40 co-pay – for nothing) that he wants to see me in 8 weeks. I said ya sure, then told the receptionist that I didnt want an appointment, and that I would call her if I needed to. Ya right. Like I would ever go there again. The only reason I would go back would be to pick up my medical records.

I walked out of the office and as soon as the door shut behind me I just started bawling in the hallway. It’s like this was my last chance to prove that I’m not crazy, and I lost. I made it to my car and cried some more. Then I somehow made it home, managed to pick up a package from the apartment office and check the mail. I barely remember any of it. I just want to be numb.

I want to crawl in a ball and die. I’m surprised I have the energy to write as much as I have. I don’t want to write about this anymore. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t want to DO THIS anymore. I don’t want to wake up another day if I have to feel this way for the rest of my life. I’m done. I feel I have paid my dues and I don’t deserve any more of this. I want to know why this is happening to me and how much longer I have to endure it. I want to know who I have helped by living this life. What good have I done to this world by living this way? Tell me. I want to fucking know. Otherwise, I don’t see why I keep doing this. Waking up, taking pills, feeling dizzy and nautious or in so much pain I want to cry.

Obviously, I DO need a psychiatrist. Yes I know this. Yes I’m making a fucking appointment. I don’t know why, but I am. I don’t want to, but I’m doing it because I’m fucking human and for some reason, that seems to come with this fucking annoying instinct to want to keep breathing in and out, day after day. SOMETHING is telling me to not give up, God is telling me not to give up, and that is the only reason I won’t. I know I should be doing this because I WANT to get help or because I CARE about my recovery (from whatever the hell this thing is that is ruining my life) but I’m sorry I’m not, because I’m fucking done. If He wants me to keep breathing, He better find a way to do it for me because I’m done doing it alone.

I’m Done.