Desperate times, call for desperate measures!

Three weeks earlier from the writing of this post: It was a normal morning. Looking forward to going for a walk. It was sunny, and I was happy. I went downstairs, and took my morning medication. That was fine, until about half an hour later. I'm in the kitchen, eating toast. When suddenly, a sick, dizzy feeling, and the all too familiar heat cage, along with anxiety of the fact, I was feeling nauseous, washed over me. "Oh darn it! Not this!" I thought. I didn't know why I felt like this. This, was not normal. My nan asked me what I was thinking about. I replied in a soft, anxious voice, "Nothing." although I was thinking about a lot. The toast going into my mouth, the fact I had to swallow it, the feeling of nausea, the urge to go to the bathroom, and I knew I had to eat it. I couldn't. I made some excuse. After I went to the bathroom, the nausea did not dissipate. It worsened. Starting to become vocal now, making the odd noise or 2, I was taking deep breaths, which weren't working. I didn't want my nan to hear me. I didn't want her to worry. Going downstairs, I lay on the sofa, with my head to the side, breathing heavily, and deeply. It wasn't having any affect. I was pleading out loud, for it to stop, to go away, and for help. I was alone, I was feeling horrible, I had no-one to call, to talk to, to turn to. I was alone, I had to face it. I had to deal with this, alone. So I did, and found myself shaking violently afterwards. This continued the next day, the next, and the next. I only had a two day break, the day after the first spell, and the next day after. Then, it was back. I had a week of it ahead. Mornings, breakfast, meds, water, then nausea, anxiety, hardly any food. That, was my week. Things were getting desperate. Last tuesday, things peeked, and took a turn for the worse. There was the usual routine, of nausea, and anxiety after meds, but I couldn't distract myself. I'd tried theories, like drinking 3 glasses of water with my meds, having my yoghurt straight away after my breakfast, none of the above theories worked. I was at the lowest ebb. I wasn't eating, I'd dropped from 7 stone, to a serious 6 stone, and still, dropping. Something, was wrong. This dose was too high. I knew something was not right. It came to a head, last Tuesday. I hardly ate my breakfast, nor my dinner. The nausea was to severe, and coupled with the anxiety, my throat was constricting. "I am desperate. I need help now! This is getting seriously bad. Things are going to get worse, if nothing is done. I can't put up with another week of this! I can't! I just can't!" In tears, I had made an appointment for the GP that morning, but my own GP was on leave. I tried ringing my Neurologist the day before, but as I was in the Isle of Man, I couldn't speak to him directly at the Walton Centre. I was, for now, stuck. I managed to make an appointment with a GP that Tuesday. Walking there, with a determined walk, I went in, and explained the by now, desperate situation. I tried hard, not to break down into tears in front of the GP. His thoughts, were exactly the same as mine, drop me to 50Mg twice a day, not 75MG. Since then, a weight has been lifted. I am eating more, I no longer have nausea, or anxiety. I am gaining weight. Things, are turning a corner, and I'm finally, on the mend. After a desperate few weeks, I can now, look forwards, and forward to a brighter future.