Motivation is a double-edged sword

I’ve been more depressed lately. I could tell because I was becoming more withdrawn, more exhausted, and more screamy. My motivation to do anything had also taken a nose dive. I knew it was time to see the doctor again to increase or change my meds. First, I saw my primary care doctor, who had prescribed Cymbalta in the first place. She told me that studies show that the efficacy of Cymbalta didn’t change with an increase in dosage from what I was taking. I also asked for, and received, a referral to a psychiatrist. It was time to take it to the next level.

When I met with the psychiatrist, I mentioned what my primary care had said about the efficacy of Cymbalta in dosing. She screwed up her face like it was the dumbest thing she had ever heard, (in response to my primary care, not me) and said that it does work past where I was, otherwise they wouldn’t make doses that go up to 120mg. So, she increased my dosage and got me set up with a therapist in the office for talk therapy.

Holy crap, was my primary care wrong. Increasing my Cymbalta has been a big ole bag of helpful. I feel happy and the desire to be engaged again. I’m less fatigued and a little more clear-headed. My patience doesn’t deteriorate to shrieking flying monkey in 2.3 seconds now. And I feel motivated, whether it be to engage in relationships or do things around the house. Yesterday I finally took the initiative to clean up our basement steps, where everything to go downstairs gets dumped, and put together the shelving I bought.

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This is what classy, non-hoarding organization looks like.

This motivation to engage in normal life comes with a price, though. While the increase in Cymbalta makes me feel better, the fibromyalgia is still ever-present. I’m still fatigued and I’m still in pain. The newest incarnation of pain is in my feet and ankles. Everything is swollen, it feels as though my legs are crushing my ankles, and it feels as though the bones in my feet are slowly breaking every time I try to stand and walk. The pain reminds me of the time Mike and I went to see Spamalot in DC. I had fantastic shoes to go with my dress. Unfortunately, what I didn’t realize when I bought them was that they were so fantastic, the pain of wearing them would leave me standing barefoot in Metro Center. It’s too bad I can’t hang my feet on my fingers like some cute, strappy sandals.

I’m sure this has been made worse by all my Cymbalta-assisted flurry of activity. It’s really hard to see all that there is to do, have the motivation to do, and force myself to sit and rest because my feet are being little cunts. But that’s exactly what I’m trying to do today. I have pain patches attached to my legs, ankles, and feet, and I’m taking breaks from being on my feet. So far, it seems to help if I do chores in short bursts; I’m accomplishing tasks without over-taxing my body. At least, that’s the status as of now. We’ll see if that continues throughout the day. The goal is to have the ability to stand long enough to cook dinner at the end of the day.

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