Living In Emotional Pain

It's Saturday; I was too depressed to write before. The decrease in Lamictal hit me hard, I think. Last night, I went back on fifty milligrams, still less than the one hundred I'd been on and I seem okay again. It makes my hair come out in bunches, but being depressed scares the hell out of me. I don't mean just not wanting to go out of the house or do anything, I mean intense psychological pain. I'm willing to accept the pain originates in my childhood and has been sitting there for about thirty years somehow escaping my scrutiny during ten years of good psychotherapy and 20 years before that, of therapy that was just to get me through a day working and talking to Harry. I had thought after the ten years I was healthy, together and aware! Yet when the pain hit, or when it began to return yesterday, it didn't feel foreign. It seemed to arise from inside me, agony that's been waiting for an opportunity to be felt, heard. But I don't want to listen, don't want to feel it. The despair overwhelms me, drowns me; it has no words. It's just a howl and the inability to arise, to function. Every movement feels futile, phony. Every word.
I return to the psychiatrist Thursday and I'll tell him about this and how I can't find interest or the strength to visit people who aren't my dearest friends. Cleaning the bathroom is definitely of more importance. I've turned into my mother in six months of my life. I assume that when I held a job I tightened up to function there. Yet, it didn't seem to be that way when I was working. I know my heartfelt opinion of myself and now, why I couldn't open up. I believe the others there felt the same way but they were never going to know those feelings, that knowledge. If I had said those words I would have been more ostracized, pitied, patted on the back, hugged and sent back to my cubicle to read the paper and drink coffee.
I'm going to ask the psychiatrist how much of this is Lupus as though he can show me a graph. But he's the only one who tells me it's a Lupus symptom and the only doctor who doesn't look at me as though I've gone off the deep end. I think I have. So maybe the feelings haven't disappeared from the Lamictal but the agony is decreased. That's what those meds are supposed to do and I hope I continue to feel okay despite my obvious disability.
I want to get this house fixed up, organized and move to a new house in a Philly suburb. All of that takes time--and I sleep half the day away--and emotional stability. Which I don't have. At the first stressful moment, I have to walk away; it's all too much. I don't want to awaken in the mornings or leave the house; I am disappointed.
I don't know what to do if there is anything I could do. I can afford psychotherapy with my old terrific therapist maybe once a month, often less. She isn't covered by insurance but working with her helps. Self-help books read like total bullshit and so many other therapists I've met are emotional cripples themselves. There is no answer I can see; no solution; probably no happy ending. And that's life.