Yesterday I cried.  And although I stopped in between bouts, I never really seemed to stop.

I cried at my desk, I cried in the toilets.  I almost went home early just so I could cry the great big heaving sobs that were threatening to come out.  I cried at the doctors and I cried in my room.  I cried. 

I told the doctor everything.  She asked what I wanted to do about it.  “I don’t know” I admitted.  “I just want to stop feeling so awful all of the time.”  She agreed that I should stop taking the old meds and explained that the only other options were all in the same class as the new ones.  She warned me that the side effects could last a good three weeks more, that they didn’t tend to prescribe that class any more because the side effects tended to be so bad.  I groaned and explained that I couldn’t go on as I had been, that maybe if I could only get some sleep then everything else would fall in to place. 

The doctor prescribed me sleeping pills.  Six little round blocks of temazepam to be spread over the time between now and my next appointment with the psychiatrist in two weeks.  Not to be used six days in a row to avoid addiction and lessen the insomnia when I’m not taking them any more. 

I had high hopes.  I took one last night, around half an hour before I went to bed as the doctor had told me.  I went to bed at about 9:30 and didn’t take long to fall asleep.  That’s not my problem.  I woke again just after 12.  And again every hour until just after 3.  I slept for another two hours and then started waking up again.  I must be the only person who can wake through sleeping pills, whose husband’s snoring can wake them through the sleeping pills.  I’d like to blame him.  I could chuck him out of the bedroom for the next few months and get some good night’s sleep.  Unfortunately we know that’s not the problem, as annoying as it may be. 

And now I feel tired again.  Not groggy like the doctor told me to expect.  Not unable to function for a few hours until that little tablet’s effect wore off.  Tired, exhausted, because it’s just another night in a long run that I’ve been unable to sleep. 

I felt like crying again this morning.  My back hurt.  It’s not been so bad in the past month or two.  At least that’s been something.  Even when it has been bad, I’ve had some respite in the morning, as if a night of lying down has given it the chance to recover.  This morning I didn’t get that; I could feel it even before I got up.  A hot shower didn’t help, rubbing left if feeling just as bad.  And all I wanted to do was lie down and cry.

This afternoon I have a catch-up with the Wicked Witch.  Every part of me tells me I should try to postpone it.  She’ll ask how I am, and then I’ll cry, and afterwards I’ll have to spend half an hour in the bathrooms desperately trying to fix my makeup so no-one else realises. 

I don’t have the energy for it anymore.

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