It is true, the most depressing thing for me is that I can’t get out and play with my friends and do the things I used to do. Pain keeps my brain foggy and, as of this year, in bed more than out. It is NOT depression. It is PAIN!
When my rheumatologist sat down, took a deep breath and asked me how my childhood was, I thought he’d lost the plot. “Well,” I answered, “Good, really. Mum, Dad, Brother, Pets. I was happy. I was a bright kid. Parents stayed together til I was 16. Nothing mega.” I almost asked why but then I realised where he was going with this. The same way my psychiatrist went back in 2009 when he verbally pinned me to the wall asking me repeatedly “Were you abused as a child Helen, tell me, you need to tell me.” His secretary tried to hold my hand. How many times did I have to tell this crack-pot “NO” before he’d get the picture. I thought I was the mentally ill one. Anyway the rheumatologist clarified that he was wondering the very same thing as the overbearing psychiatrist. The look on his face clarified that he, too…
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Darswords 