It was a genuinely harrowing experience, but I managed to brave the anxiety and take a peek at the university results when they were released earlier this week.
Somehow… I passed. Despite my fears, all subjects managed to remain above 80 for the year. No idea how the linguistics final was even legible at all, but maybe the teacher charged with grading it felt bad for what was clearly the incoherent ramblings of a dying man?
COVID-19 got me, lads. It finally got me.
The fatigue and chest pain are so real right now.
Given my track record with mononucleosis and shingles, I’m also facing down the very real possibility that I may never make a full recovery from this. But I’ve been managing fatigue for well over a decade at this point, so I’m basically a professional at long-term illness.
Not dead yet, despite my best efforts.
Halfway through the second semester of uni, did nothing during the mid-term break due mainly to the rage-fueled fatigue of living under capitalism. It was stock-take at work that week you see, and despite having my availability quite clearly marked as UNAVAILABLE on Mondays, or the fact that I have no legal obligation to accept shifts outside of my contracted hours, they rostered me on for a 7am start that Monday without bothering to, you know, mention it to me. Luckily I checked the roster- which I usually don’t on account of the contract meaning my hours are always the same- and warned the others because: surprise! I’m not the only one they don’t respect enough to bother communicating with.
Spoke to the specialist surgeon regarding my dentist’s concerns and he does not think a biopsy is warranted at this point in time. For the moment I have a list of suspicious changes to keep an eye out for, and instructions to call him immediately if I notice any of them, but he suspects the most likely cause is a callus from repeated biting. To be fair, my dentist has been recommending a splint to relieve the biting for literally 10 years, it just so happens to cost $700 which I quite simply do not have.
The world is, quite tangibly, falling apart around us, while I’ve accidentally bluffed my way into a university. Please send help. Or request it, even? Whatever you’re comfortable with.
Happy 2022. Somehow, I’m still alive.
The final leg of my Pregabalin tapering schedule was 25mg every second day, landing the final dose on Monday the 3rd of January.
In an unprecedented feat of emotional stability, of which I am inclined to accredit the overall lack of anti-convulsants:
The month of December was entirely devoid of inconsolable crying!
The phone rings and I take a look.
Although the sun has been up for some time, the curtains are drawn. It’s my day off and aside from chronic insomnia, I’ve been pulling extra hours at work since lockdown ended- today I get to stay quietly in a darkened room.
By choice.
Claude likes to hang out on the desk, so I got her a couch.
How does it feel knowing you will never be this comfortable?
Work allows staff members to wear holiday themed aprons in December, as long as they’re made out of the seasonal fabrics which are sold in-store.
In previous years I’d been too fucked up on anti-convulsants to feel anything other than apathetic about the idea, but motivation has come back online in their wake, so this year I took the offer to write-off a slice of gingerbread homespun and go absolutely ham with the tartan scraps in my stash.
So, like…
I’m not saying tapering off pregabalin has cured my depression…
Pills that straightup make you wanna die.
But it is entirely within the realms of possibility that I may have been experiencing one or two Side Effects™.