In the early 90s I was supposed to have had chronic fatigue, which in effect means that I still have it; it doesn’t go away, though I can definitively say that there was a period of time during which I was really ill that did subside. That is, I eventually began (18-24 mths. later) even running again. My hair grew back.
One of the meds prescribed/treatments? The anti-depressant, zoloft. It was good. From then on, for a good number of years, there followed — once zoloft gave out — all sorts of trials, trying for “the right cocktail” — is how they (MDs) say it in the industry. Then came last year, which I can’t term as “out of nowhere” — there being far too many suspects in the mix (such as sleeping in the same hospital bed/crib or staying up all night with a baby who has now, two years later, been diagnosed with PID (primary immune deficiency), for example). But last year, the harder and harder it became for me to concentrate — to think! — to remember what I had just said or done, just minutes ago, the more and more I began to suspect the (increasing amounts) of medication prescribed.
While this sounds like something arcane, or out of an old horror flick/thriller, the whole thing is of course much subtler and more complex than I’m going into. That I care to go into; I need the energy that could go into anger and blame for better. My troubles today are being described in part as connective tissue disease, with anti-depressants prescribed. I’ve no doubt that such medication would help, even if for only a short while, but I’m not going that route. I am trying some other things, which I have terribly mixed feelings about (mostly negative, but, ha ha, that is perhaps “depression” talking) such as (ugh) writing about it.
But writing in some specific ways (ah, so here’s the rationalization/redemption attempt). Unfortunately, or fortunately, I am too exhausted to go any further about that now. Just so it’s proclaimed, though. Yes, I have a plan. Already begun; check the pages.