The words have stopped popping out of my head.

It’s a slow trickle, like everything else.

It may have started when I weaned off of Duloxetine (Cymbalta). I’ve been off for eight weeks now, and only the last two have been at all bearable (although that seems to be changing). I didn’t even figure out the probable cause of all the trouble til five weeks in, after my third visit to the GP, when I saw a locum, also bipolar, who experienced the dreaded Cymbalta withdrawal herself.

Google it. I’ve lived it (although the word “live” feels too optimistic).

Diarrhoea for five weeks. Vomiting for four. Nightmares. Paranoia. Malaise. Anxiety and panic. Impending sense of doom. Restlessness. Fever and chills.

I do think it may have killed a few brain cells.

So at the end of this, I signed on at a temp agency and was placed at a combined Council/NHS department housed at, coincidentally, the local mental hospital. Hated, hated, hated the job. Angry people. Conflicting demands. Tedious work.

I am to see my beloved psychiatrist this Friday. I rather suspected she might sign me off sick. I am colossally unhappy. I am afraid to fall asleep because it leads always to the morning.

Yesterday after work, however, I get a call from the agency — I am apparently “not suitable” and am being let go immediately. So obviously, they hated me too. Just because I am paranoid doesn’t mean I am wrong.

Just because I am paranoid doesn’t mean I am wrong.

I am pleased to not go back, but the money thing, and oh!! the husband thing.

This morning, just now, in fact, I got another call from a different agency which has found my CV on Monster, presumably. They want to interview me for a software training job, development and delivery.  One door opens. Should please the husband. Don’t think I’ll get it, but, still.

The fact remains that I am desperately desperately unhappy. Rolling in stinky piles of misery unhappy. Hate my life I wish I was dead unhappy.

But maybe I don’t.