Stasis and words to live by.

I've written about my diagnosis here and here. Lately, I've come to the realisation that I'm not going to adjust by myself to my current situation. At the moment, it's a pretty good day when I manage to eat and dress before midday - and it's a very rare day indeed where I have a sufficient creative impulse to cook, take a photograph, or even think about writing or knitting or coding.

I've been in stasis for some months now. I rarely leave the house, I rarely want to do anything at all, and whilst I'm beyond the only-able-to-stare blankly stage, it isn't by enough to live a life I'd consider satisfactory. That, combined with the coping with a new environment stuff has given me a mid-range depression. Well, I'm not suicidal or anything like that; there are many days where I want to just curl up and cry, and I'm anxious about every little thing, but, well, I've been worse.

Still, this isn't good. The anxiety, for instance, is giving me on-and-off insomnia, as well as putting me into spinlock. If I break the spinlock enough to quieten the anxiety, I start passing out because of the hypersomnia (and not taking my meds because adding a stimulant to insomnia is a bad idea). If I'm too tired and not doing anything, my anxiety starts ramping up, and then I stop being able to sleep. It's not healthy, and it's ruining my ability to make the most of my limited energy. I'm talking to the doc about it, but it's a bit of a waiting game.

I have two sets of words that I'm trying (and often failing) to live by: the Prayer for Serenity, and the Litany Against Fear.

God, grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference.

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.

The hardest thing is holding on to hope - the hope that I can find a specialist who can improve my quality of life, be it through mitigating my symptoms, or through helping me accept them.