I managed to get back to taking my walks this morning, and in the storm of my thoughts, I once again landed on the idea that I would be better off dead. I hate life. I despise everything about it. There is a great quote that I can't seem to find about not being grateful to one's parents for giving you life and how creating life is an act of monument hubris. That's how I feel about it.
I'm not going to harm myself, but I'm so sick of desperately seeking relief from my mental illness, only to find intolerable side effects. Even after I moved to the bare minimum dosage of 5 mg twice a day, the buspirone has left me with a constant ringing in my ears along with agitation, constipation, headaches, nausea and lightheadedness. The 7.5 mg dosage gave me all that along with extreme irritability and hypersexuality to the point it was interfering with my life. I was only on the 10 mg dose a couple of days, but that made me feel so terrible I felt as if I were dying. I'm going to give the buspirone until the end of January to see if it truly helps and if the side effects lessen. If not, I honestly don't know where I can go from there. I've tried almost every class of psychotropic there is and every other avenue of treatment. They are either not effective and/or have side effects I can't live with.
I just don't want to be constantly managing depression, anxiety and panic to the point where everything else in my life gets crowded out. But the cure always seems as bad as the symptoms and invariably sets you up for terrible withdrawal when you want to get off things. All while keeping up with the day-to-day demands of holding down a difficult job, all that goes into living independently and dealing with family stressors.
