Last night, the scrape of claws on our fabric headboard woke me, followed by a whoosh of air past my left ear. Our cat, Wesley, had just taken a swipe at my head. The Midnight Mackerel Scalper, as he’s now informally known, took off the moment he realised I was awake and his murderous plot had been discovered.
I laughed and went back to sleep. It wasn’t until this morning that I realised I hadn’t laughed like that in a while. That’s the thing about mental health. It can slip through your fingers like water, and it might take something as stupid as the cat trying to scalp you to notice.
Yesterday, when I told my GP how tired I’d been lately, she gently suggested the fatigue might be a symptom of depression or anxiety, or both. My first instinct was to hard disagree. Then I thought about it.
Had I been happy lately? Not really. Could I put my finger on why? No.
Was I already taking antidepressants for similar symptoms? Yes. Was it perfectly reasonable to consider adjusting the dose? Of course.
My GP and I agreed to try a higher dose and see if I start to feel more like myself. We have another check-in booked in six weeks. I have to admit, I’m starting to feel a little better already. A big part of that is probably the placebo effect. I think there’s also some relief in being able to put a name to how I’ve been feeling.
Once I’d done that, I could admit I’d missed little things about myself. Like laughing at something stupid and going straight back to sleep.
Anyway, I’m glad Wesley missed.