My mysterious ailment has returned. I spent more time asleep than awake this past weekend, and assumed it was because I’ve been eating more junk food than usual…but as of Saturday night I went back on my optimal strict diet and it hasn’t helped. I slept for eleven hours last night, woke up not feeling particularly rested, and spent my entire art-modelling shift practically falling asleep on my podium. I guess the vitamin supplements I’m taking are not actually a magical cure. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.
This would also explain why the apartment’s fallen to shit again (well, I managed to clean up before The Doll’s visit on Friday night. Before that, though, things were firmly in can’t-see-the-floor territory). My energy levels must have been slowly sinking for a while now. That may in fact be why I’ve been regularly consuming chocolate lately – my constant fatigue makes me crave sugar to temporarily boost my energy to almost-normal. (The energy from sugar is not a good or healthy-feeling energy, though, and I feel worse afterward, so I’m going to try to ignore those cravings and stick to eating healthy.)
The first time I went through this always-exhausted thing, my dismissive shithead doctor tried to write it off as a relapse of my clinical depression. Well, guess what, asshole? When I’m depressed I lose interest in things I used to like. Right now (and the last time this “fatigue” thing hit me) I’m still totally interested in doing all my previous hobbies and whatnot – I just can’t because I don’t have the fucking stamina. Example: I have an idea for a painting. I’m pretty excited about working on it. Yesterday I managed to walk to the art supply store to get the canvas and paint I needed (ten minute walk, tops), but it took me all day to work up to that and then when I got home again with the goods I was exhausted and had to lie down – and lying down promptly turned to sleeping. And yes, this whole state of affairs is depressing me – but this isn’t clinical, mysterious-drop-in-seratonin-levels depression, this is I’m-sad-and-bored-and-frustrated-because-I-have-a-bunch-of-stuff-I-wanna-do-and-my-body-won’t-cooperate depression. THERE IS A MOTHERFUCKING DIFFERENCE.
Now, the shithead doctor did refer me to an internist, who prescribed some more blood tests. That was at least a month ago and I keep forgetting to call for my results. One of the things he had me tested for is HIV and so now a little voice in the back of my head is wondering whether these periods of being totally fucked up for weeks at a time are my AIDS-ridden body trying to fight off a case of the sniffles.
Or, who knows, maybe it’s a thyroid thing. Anyway I should try to get around to calling that internist back, if I can ever manage to be awake during his hours of operation.
I was really enjoying the fact that my atrophied muscles were starting to come back. I was enjoying being able to keep the apartment clean and being able to run more than one errand in a day without needing to collapse. I was looking forward to taking on more and more strenuous modelling jobs and doing well at them. I don’t want to relapse. Please please please…