The best of me has been in hibernation for quite a while. Therapy is truly helping, and that, with the new drug I started in August, has brought down my anxiety to a more livable level. But still the depression part of this bipolar is taking everything, all my energy, drive, and any creativity I had.
My fabulous therapist suggested I talk to the doctor at my upcoming appointment about how the drugs could use a boost because I'm barely motivated. I know that sounds wimpy, but it's true. It's not laziness, my mind is very active just not in the right direction.
I told the doctor, in his oddly appointed office full of general store tchotchke, about my troubles. I tried to articulate. I repeated the observations of the therapist, and also the observations of Salty D., because I can't always tell what's going on in myself, it's hard to monitor your brain when you're using that brain to do it. I had started telling myself I was doing fine but others were telling me differently.
He agreed with the therapist and my husband and my parents. I needed more. After some consideration, he recommended adding a third medication to my bipolar cocktail. I cried.
I've never been on more than two. Three seems like a lot. Three makes me ask, what the hell are the other two doing? Three means more side effects and research into interactions between the drugs and other supplements I'm taking. Three means more coordination of when to take the pills and eat and drink and putting them into the little compartments of my pill case and taking them in public when I go to dinner. This third means being even more careful not to dehydrate and getting blood tests.
I went to therapy and cried again about how I felt like I was failing at life.
That's what therapy is for.