One thing I've noticed lately, as my psychiatrist comes closer and closer to nailing the magic combination of drugs that will cure my depression, is an increasing intolerance for the various slings and arrows of interpersonal communications.
Example: I work for a motely crew of techs of the male variety, all with their unique ways of asserting their alpha male control issues. The other day I just so happened to threaten the status of one such specimen and have been paying for it ever since...in the form of pointed, i'm-taking-control emails. Unfortunately for me, he has a unique way of linguistically whipping others into a frenzy, so that my immediate boss...a relatively easygoing guy...comes down on my head like Willie Coyote's ACME anvil instead of hearing my side first.
This stuff used to roll off my back, when I didn't have feelings other than perpetual numbness or deepest darkest despair. Now? Well I started crying out of sheer frustration at not being heard during my last conversation with my supervisor. At work. So that should tell you something.
My shrinker says it's a sign that I'm healthy. That's great and all but my newfound health is screwing with my work and making me feel like a black bunny in a snowy flat field with wolves around the edges
Well that's enough for now. I've hidden in the bathroom for far too long.
Obligatory yes-this-really-is-a-blog link: My latest trial drug
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