So, after BUPA said no, I went to see my GP yesterday. He’s insistent I should see the counseling service I saw a few years ago, even if only to get them to refer me to psychotherapy. I’m not quite sure I understood why, but I got the impression that he doesn’t really like the PCT‘s mental health partnership are all that good at “things that aren’t depression”.
He’s put me on some SSRIs, which should help with the panic attacks, apparently. But a side effect is that they might make things worse for the first week or two.
So I got on a train at Ilford today, feeling a bit jittery anyways, as I’m wearing summer clothes which, for some reason, always make me feel less comfortable. And the trains are screwed, as ever, which really doesn’t help. So we move 100 yards or so and it just stops. Now I was already counting my breathing, so I’m sat there, unable to get off until it reaches Stratford, with no idea when that would be, with cold sweat dripping off me. I have no idea how I made it to Stratford; curiously, I got the first Central line train to Gant’s Hill and headed home.
Work went relatively well, and Rob () was really helpful telling me some stuff he knows about SSRIs, so I should be able to make it into work for the rest of the week. Apparently, if I take them with food, they’ll make me feel less nauseous and taking them in the evening should mean I don’t spend half the day still shaking and anxious.
Here’s hoping tomorrow goes better and that these side-effects fuck off shortly…