I’ve been off the aripiprazole for a week and a half. Not in a planned, measured way; my GP, since I moved house (three months ago) is all the way across London, and I neglected to pick up a prescription. I got one yesterday, finally.
I’m OK, happy, but I’m struggling to wake up in the morning. Work hasbecome tiring. This is partly due to office politics and partly because dragging myself across London to deal with other people’s medication, other people’s needs, is exhausting all by itself when- I have to admit- by not taking the aripiprazole, I am not really looking after myself properly. So I tired more easily, so my fuse is shorter, so my enthusiasm is muted and sometimes I just can’t be bothered.
We had training on Friday about a potentially extremely toxic medication prescribed to people with “treatment resistant schizophrenia”. This medication can actually result in death: and I deal with it, with our residents, every single day. The nurse running the training said to us that we were ‘at the thin end of the wedge’, underpaid considering the amount of responsibility we hold, not over money, not over paperwork but over the fragile globes that are Other People’s Lives. And that scares me: to be so responsible for something so important, to be human and therefore subject to flaw, to tiredness and overwork, to misjudgement and mistakes. It’s frightening to wield such power and yes, we are underpaid, but that bothers me a lot less than the simple fact that we are fallibly, undoubtedly human.
When I miss my medication, when I drink, when I mess around, those things are on me. They are my own personal risk. When someone else misses a dose because of me? That’s on me, too. It hasn’t happened yet. It might never happen, and I pray that it doesn’t. But the very possibility of it makes me sick to my skin, from the inside out.
I believe I am a caring person and I am told that I am also a person who makes a difference in other people’s lives. These things buoy me up. They make me believe that I am doing a good job. That in itself is a beautiful satisfaction and I still love what I do.
It’s just… I’m so, so tired. And tiredness leads to jadedness and worse, leads to mistakes. Mistakes I cannot afford to make. This makes me nervous, edgy, and gets in the way of the confidence I have built, slowly, over the six months- six months!- of being employed. Sometimes makes me wonder… If I am cut out for work at all.