Midday Monday I go see the doctor who originally put me on Cymbalta. She’s the neurologist who is treating me for epilepsy and fibromyalgia. I started Cymbalta about 16 months ago, before Barbara went into the hospital for the last time. I originally went on it for mild depression, and off-label treatment for fibro. I intend to ask for a higher dosage of the Cymbalta. I know I need it.
This will be the first time seeing this doctor since Barbara died. She used to treat Barbara too, and I’m sure she doesn’t know yet. So, I get to tell another person the story. I’m getting a little tired of telling it, to be honest. It hurts so much to have to do that, It’s like I’m ripping open a nearly healed gut wound every time I have to tell it again.
And yet, I am also trying to get into a support group for “Loss of Spouse”. They tell me it will help. The group meets twice a month. I’m waiting for approval from my HMO. I can’t afford it if it has to be out-of-pocket. If it hurts so much to talk about it with people I know, how can it help to talk about it with total strangers? I have to try though. What I’m doing isn’t working.
Do you know the definition of insanity? “Doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results.” Life is contradiction, pain and pleasure. Sometimes pain is pleasure, and sometimes pleasure is pain. Joy and sorrow, love and hate. I’ve done the same things for the last four months, and it’s not working. Time to make some changes.