My shrink keeps telling me to write. I write, but it is so dark and hopeless that I don't post it. What would be the point? People could see the pain I was in after the surgery. They could see how frustrating it was to not be able to get any relief from the pain. What makes doctors sacrosanct? I've been refused a referral to a pain management doctor by scheduling secretaries. I've been denied pain meds by receptionists. When I finally see my surgeon in person, in all his glory, he claims to know nothing about pain or referrals. He asks why didn't I call if I was in so much pain. I tell him he needs to have a long talk with his staff. Multiply that pain, frustration, and hopelessness by 100 and try to imagine feeling that way every day for the last 8 years. Of course I want to be dead! That is the only reaction a sane person could have. My arm is better now, my depression is worse. At least the physical pain gave me something to focus on besides the depression for a few weeks. I would trade the depression for the pain in a second. Don't tell me to find something else to focus on besides the depression; that thought has occurred to me in the last 35 years. Depression is unrelenting. It tells me what to do; I don't tell it.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
What's the Point?
I've lost all faith in both the medical profession and pharmaceuticals. I've been in six different hospitals in six months; I've been on more than a dozen new drugs and yet mentally I'm in exactly the same spot I was in on January 2, 2011. Physically I'm in worse shape because of rotator cuff surgery, but that will get better with time. The depression never gets better. It sits on top of me and is so heavy I can't move a leg or an arm or anything to help me try to crawl out from under it. If I could identify some reason for this overwhelming desire for death, then I could confront it. Maybe I'd be able to work out a path back into the enjoyment of life. It seems I have an entire staff of medical personnel, especially since the surgery. I even have my own case manager with my insurance company. None of them help.
My shrink keeps telling me to write. I write, but it is so dark and hopeless that I don't post it. What would be the point? People could see the pain I was in after the surgery. They could see how frustrating it was to not be able to get any relief from the pain. What makes doctors sacrosanct? I've been refused a referral to a pain management doctor by scheduling secretaries. I've been denied pain meds by receptionists. When I finally see my surgeon in person, in all his glory, he claims to know nothing about pain or referrals. He asks why didn't I call if I was in so much pain. I tell him he needs to have a long talk with his staff. Multiply that pain, frustration, and hopelessness by 100 and try to imagine feeling that way every day for the last 8 years. Of course I want to be dead! That is the only reaction a sane person could have. My arm is better now, my depression is worse. At least the physical pain gave me something to focus on besides the depression for a few weeks. I would trade the depression for the pain in a second. Don't tell me to find something else to focus on besides the depression; that thought has occurred to me in the last 35 years. Depression is unrelenting. It tells me what to do; I don't tell it.
My shrink keeps telling me to write. I write, but it is so dark and hopeless that I don't post it. What would be the point? People could see the pain I was in after the surgery. They could see how frustrating it was to not be able to get any relief from the pain. What makes doctors sacrosanct? I've been refused a referral to a pain management doctor by scheduling secretaries. I've been denied pain meds by receptionists. When I finally see my surgeon in person, in all his glory, he claims to know nothing about pain or referrals. He asks why didn't I call if I was in so much pain. I tell him he needs to have a long talk with his staff. Multiply that pain, frustration, and hopelessness by 100 and try to imagine feeling that way every day for the last 8 years. Of course I want to be dead! That is the only reaction a sane person could have. My arm is better now, my depression is worse. At least the physical pain gave me something to focus on besides the depression for a few weeks. I would trade the depression for the pain in a second. Don't tell me to find something else to focus on besides the depression; that thought has occurred to me in the last 35 years. Depression is unrelenting. It tells me what to do; I don't tell it.
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