More tests. More waiting. More anxiety. Less hope.
They took a lot of blood. Nothing to do now, but wait. Part of me hopes the tests will reveal I’m deficient in some mineral that promotes sleep, I’ll take a few supplements and everything will be better. The rest of me just knows it won’t be that straightforward.
The brain-fog is more-or-less a constant now. The headaches are dull but I almost feel I could hold them in my hand. The depression is deepening again and I know this one is going to be a big battle. Depression. Even the word is cold and heartless. It crawls over me, leaving blackness in its wake. How much of the despondency can be attributed to epilepsy though? Having epilepsy doesn’t automatically consign you to living a life of depression. Not at all. Having epilepsy is not the root of my depression. Episodes drain me to the point where I can’t fight the darkness, that’s true but it doesn’t cause my depressions. It just robs me of the ability to deal with what does.
Right now, I’m feeling abandoned by the medical profession. I don’t understand why they are unwilling to further investigate the problems I’m having with tiredness. It’s not normal to be this fatigued. It’s not normal to be so tired that I’ve lost interest in anything, everything. I don’t understand why I just don’t seem to be taken seriously. This is real for me. True, I don’t have an immediately life-threatening condition, but surely that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve some help?!
Epilepsy has both made me and broken me. I’ve done so much to spite the epilepsy, to prove that it doesn’t own me. It has a weapon though. It strips away energy and replaces it with a blanket of fatigue. It leaves me defenceless against the inner-demons. It’s this fatigue that I desperately need help to combat and it’s the aspect of my condition I’m being left to fight alone. So much more makes sense now that the tiredness and the epilepsy have been linked. I don’t understand why there is such reticence to take the next steps to help me understand the link and deal with it. I’m looking at the bruises on my arm where they took blood. The colours seem to be reflecting my mood. Black, angry blue.
My brain is wonderful. It’s complex. It’s constant. Despite malfunctioning it’s got me through life to this point. If the medical profession don’t want to, or don’t know how to, help me further then maybe it’s time I set my brain the task of working out the best way to help itself.
Is it possible? Probably.