RealMental

By nyjlm

Have you ever been getting over an illness and suddenly realized just how very sick you were? Over the past few weeks, as I’ve been climbing out of a black hole I fell into, I realized that I fell into it almost a year ago. I realized that I was just going through the motions on many days and simply getting by.

Since last fall I’ve felt that my paxil had stopped working for me. My psychiatrist increased the dose (I think that was in December) and then again in the spring. Sometime in early fall my daughter’s dance teacher asked us not to change in the bathroom and to use the changing room, so that others could access the bathroom. We’d been using the bathroom since she was halfway taking her clothing off to use the toilet so I had figured that it was just quicker. The teacher’s request was totally reasonable, but I nearly burst into tears and had an awful, stung sensation in my core. I think it is related to the first grade incident I talked about the other day. Ordinarily, with the help of therapy and my medication, I’ve been able to shake off this feeling and go on with life. I noticed that I still felt stung and shamed the next day. I continued to feel unwell mentally as both my sister and sister-in-law talked about moving further away from where I live. My wonderful therapist helped a lot, but often I would wonder how on earth she could tell me I was doing so well when I felt so awful. I was so tired of feeling bad, and wondered if the only way to stop it was to end my life.

Sometime this spring my therapist said that I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and most likely have since I was a young child (like four or five years old). I’ve been in therapy on and off since college. I’ve been taking paxil for a number of years now, but that was the first time anyone ever mentioned GAD. I’ve always known I was tense, high strung, and a worrywort. But this, this was such a relief! Things started making sense, although it has still been a long journey.

At the end of the school year I would climb into bed and practice “benign neglect” of my children. Except I don’t think it was completely benign. I don’t believe in always entertaining my kids, but when I look back at those last six weeks of school I really didn’t interact with them much. My husband put them to sleep most of the time. I did no crafts with them, didn’t read with them. I don’t mean that I was completely isolated from them. We had snuggles of course, and I did a lot of things with them over the summer. However I really did take to bed as much as possible. And in order to avoid the things that were upsetting me, I spent huge amounts of time on the internet.

Despite feeling so trapped by the anxiety, I did do a lot this summer; I’m amazed looking back. I volunteered at one of my kids’ summer camps, I took the lactation exam, attended a conference where I had a lot of responsibilities to fulfill. And finally, I saw the psychiatrist again. Since I’ve been able to look at my symptoms under the lens of anxiety (and not depression, which is what I’d always thought was my primary problem), I described to her the physical symptoms that dog me–intense butterflies in my stomach, an anxious feeling in my chest, tingling in my arms. She peered at me from over the top of her glasses and said ” You are having Way Too Many physical symptoms and medicine can help with that. I’m going to increase your prescription again. Most people would have been on this dose two years ago.” I felt so relieved to hear this–I can’t think of a time when I haven’t experienced these symptoms more days than not! I sat in the car after the appointment, and told my husband, crying tears of relief.

I’ve been on the increased dose for a few weeks now. About two weeks ago I could tell that it was helping, because I did some things that I haven’t been able to do for the past six months–I cleaned the bathrooms. I’ve attacked clutter in the family and living rooms (clutter is a huge trigger for me). My heart races far less. When I am feeling anxious, one or two deep breaths, along with reminding myself that everything is ok, calms me down.

I keep finding myself thinking about the past year, and shaking my head. I don’t know how it got so awful. Even though I knew what to do to help myself, it was nearly impossible to do those things (get a good night’s sleep, eat well, exercise). It astonishes me that it has taken nearly a year to feel like myself again. (There are small voices whispering in my ear that others have suffered far worse years, and I feel like erasing everything I’ve written here. I’m going to resist that though.)

It is such a relief to have energy, to realize that small steps in removing clutter or doing dishes or working on projects *does* do some good. I am sure I will have bad days sprinkled among the good ones, but I’m so glad to be living more fully again, and I’m excited to dream some dreams and go after them.

Originally posted here.

I’m in one of those moods. The one in which I think it might be time to come off of my medication. I seem to be odd person out amongst my fellow writers on this blog and that’s ok. In fact, it could very well be a sign from the universe.

All of these awesome and beautiful writers here know that thinking about stopping medication is a huge deal. Not only to the individual, but also to those who love you the most. The very ones that have suffered the side effects of your mental illness.

Most times, I don’t know a good idea until I’ve put action into it. When something is done, I can refer back and exclaim, “gee, that was a good idea!” It is the walking through the good idea that seems to be the hard part. The whole day, hour, minute, second aspect of a good idea all the while you are breathing innnnnnnnn and outtttttttttt.

One big motive in wanting to escape the harsh reality of medication is how it is affecting my liver. I’ve just learned that these types of medicines do bad things to your liver. How could I not know this? Perhaps I just pushed it down.

Being that I am a recovering drug and alcohol addict, my liver needs to be ok. The other motives, not as important would be to lose weight and get my body back in fighting stealth mode. There are more reasons involved (lest I sound flippant about it because I’m not) that I don’t feel like writing about.

When I first got back on medication after a long hiatus, I put up a humongous fight. People around me were suggesting it for some time. I guess the last straw was the time I called the police on my husband because he was trying to make me stay where we were physically located and not let me drive away for some quiet time away from him. Our son was about 6 months old and we were in the process of moving from one place to another.

Something set me off and I began to rage. Then he insinuated that he didn’t think me driving off with our son in tow was a good idea, seeing as I was quite angry. So I put up that “I’ll be damned if someone is going to try and boss me around” fit.

At the time, we were not legally married so I explained that I had full rights and he had none (which was a big reason WHY i didn’t marry him then). And honestly, even though I was in a rage at the time, I would never do anything to endanger my child or anyone else’s child. Ever. To his credit, I understand why he was concerned.

That was my bottom. It wasn’t post partum, it was scared shitless. I’d had it ever since I’d learned I was pregnant. I am at my absolute WORSE when I am afraid.

We had begun counseling and I asked the therapist if he thought I should go back on medication. Dude didn’t skip a beat and barely let me finish when he exclaimed, “YES!”

When I first began taking Effexor XR, I was told that I would probably lose weight and it wasn’t addictive like Paxil. I’d had a hard time with Paxil. I was not interested in revisiting anything remotely familiar.

Well, five years later and I’m beginning to research the withdrawal from Effexor and it seems that it’s very much like Paxil in the difficult weaning process. AND? It makes you gain weight. As I’m perusing the library of Google College, I think to myself “mutherfucker, not again!”

Some folks speak of separating granules from their Effexor capsules. Wish me luck, because that’s about all I can count on right now.

That is basically what I’m doing. I’ve immersed myself in so many projects that I don’t have much time to think about anything at all. Next week I’m going to see my parents. I want to make plans to visit everyone in the entire world so I don’t have to sit still. But I don’t actually want to go anywhere. My house is littered with half-done activities and it’s like walking through a field of bombs. If anyone came over they would be appalled. But it’s working for me, so nothing is likely to change. Except it will. On the downswing.

They upped my meds yesterday. I’m now at 6mg once per evening. And twice the Trazodone so I can sleep. Instead of mixing in new drugs (anit-depressants and mood-stabilizers) they decided just upping the Invega, giving it the ol’ college try, would be a better next step. I’m not sure I agree. But I’m not sure I don’t, either.

She kept raising her arms high above her head and then bringing her arms in close and clasping her hands together while saying, ‘Do you see what I’m trying to do here? Do you? Like glue? Do you see? I’m bringing you together.’ I thought she looked ridiculous but I didn’t laugh since it wasn’t funny. I just looked at her and kept nodding. And then, about the 6th time she did it, I said out loud, ‘Yes. I see. I get it.’ and then she stopped.

I talk to people on the phone, people that care about me, and they keep asking, ‘So, you’re better? You’re fine now?’ And I want to reassure them and say, Yes! I’m fine now! Thanks so much for asking! Whoop-de-doop! But the best I can do is a mumbled I’m doing a little better, thanks. I don’t add in the rest of how I feel. I think it might scare them too much.

Sometimes my voice sounds wrong to me when I hear myself talk. I’m trying my best to not split in my mind but I’m a little afraid that it’s happening anyway. Dissociating is what my mind has to fall back on so I guess it’s not out of the realm of possibility. But it disappoints me. I doubt it would go as far as creating another personality like when I was young but I’m definitely doing something.

I’d upped my Effexor XR recently, and was achieving nice results at 112.5, but went up to 150 at the recommendation of my shrink. Two weeks in, I was feeling even bouncier. And then … anxiety in whole-body washes of hot, and cold, and tingles. Hyper-focused attention, impatience, inattention to idle conversation, and spaciness–verging on what I associate with my hypomania. Nausea and acid stomach if I ate more than 1/2 cup of food at a time. Nightmares. Ugh. No thank you. I called my shrink and left a voice mail with my symptoms and that I was going to knock it back down to 112.5 and see how I did. 12 hours in, I am feeling less verge-of-hypomanic, not so nauseous, and able to eat 3/4 cup of food at a time. Whoopee! I need a plateau, I really do.

Republished from BipolarLawyerCook.

You know, I ain’t right. And I don’t really know where first to turn to try and find out why not. All I know for sure is that the last several years (let’s review: Got married, new husband went into full-blown manic episodes, no one knew what was going on, but he was disappearing for days on end, engaging in substance abuse, and emptying our bank account. Then I got pregnant, and Husband went floridly manic again, got hospitalized against his will, was released to rehab, got ninny psychiatrist who totally mismanaged his treatment for bipolar disorder, stayed a month in a rehab facility then moved into an apartment, because I could not have him come home just then. Later, he moved back home, we had our beautiful daughter, and before you could say “relapse,” he disappeared when she was just 4 days old. Manic episodes continued until spring when he finally went off the deep end and wound up forcibly hospitalized again, this time landing in a GOOD psychiatric facility and securing a GOOD doctor who prescribed a GOOD treatment and had him participate in a GOOD outpatient rehab program, the result of which has been sobriety and relative stability with NO manic episodes since May of 2004) have been hard, emotionally, and then the last three years (let’s review: My father suddenly and tragically died, ripping a hole out of my very heart and changing the fabric of WHO I AM, I miraculously got pregnant for the second time, and then seven weeks later lost that precious baby to a miscarriage…grief compounded by grief) have been…tragic, desperate, and then this past year since the hysterectomy has just been bizarre. I’ve dealt with depression and anxiety, grief over the definitive end of my childbearing potential, which seem to come and go whimsically, and catch me off-guard. I took one anti-depressant after another over these years, and suffered side effects galore without ever really feeling significantly better. Anti-anxiety meds (read: benzos) helped me through some tough spots, and then I’d go several months without any before needing them again.

The only sure thing is that my moods and anxiety/panic attacks always corresponded with something going on externally. You know, like lying awake at 4:00 AM wondering where my husband was, or lying awake sobbing for my lost child, or lying awake crying into my pillow because I NEED MY DADDY BACK. In other words, if things were going okay, I was fine. But somewhere along the line, especially since Dad died, something had gone KABLOOEY with the coping mechanisms that had served me for the first 35 years of my life. I have a hard time wrapping my mind around this, that some external event(s) could occur that could trigger a weakness, a malfunction, in my brain.

One day this spring, while I was discussing this with a wonderful friend–a friend who just happens to have been, for the last few years, a MUCH better friend to me than I’ve been to her, or to anyone else–who happens to be a doctor of pharmacy, not to mention having much personal experience with clinical depression and the meds that go along with it. I listed to her all the anti-depressants I’d tried, told her how none of them had worked, and asked her, “What (meaning what drug) can I try next?” She looked at me, and after just a moment’s consideration, said, “You know, Belinda, even though you’re depressed, you may not have an actual chemical imbalance. I mean, you’ve been through some pretty horrible, awful stuff, just year after year recently, and you have every right to feel despondent without it meaning that your brain is all wonky…like mine.” And then she laughed. And I saw a light. And I loved her like she was part of me, because she got it. And then she told me the hard part.

She said, “Sometimes, you can’t even live life ‘one day at a time.’ Sometimes, you have to live it in 30-minute increments. You can do almost anything for half an hour, no matter how badly you don’t want to. So on days when I just want to stay in bed with the blinds drawn, I make a deal with myself to go out to the barn and groom one horse. By the time that’s done, I might look over at YOUR horse” (she’s been keeping Misha for me for way longer than I meant for her to) “and decide that his mane needs detangling, so I brush Misha’s mane. Then I might want to clip his bridle path, and before you know it, I’ve spent half the day out in the sunshine, DOING something, instead of wallowing.”

Just when I had decided that Kerri was the most brilliant, insightful woman on the face of the planet, she confessed to having developed this coping mechanism after hearing a version of it in the film, “About A Boy.” She said, “Yep. 10 years of therapy and I finally learn something useful from a Hugh Grant monologue in a movie. Not the book–the MOVIE.”

She IS brilliant, my friend, and she’s definitely onto something. I can’t help but think that, since no AD has helped me feel better–not really–that whatever is wrong with my brain, it’s not something that an AD can “fix.” I’ve been off the most recent AD, Wellbutrin, since early March, with no noticeable effect at all. I don’t feel better, I don’t feel worse. Just the same. The anxiety symptoms have abated (I’m not having falling-down panic-attacks in Wal-Mart any more), but are still present to some degree, in proportion to what’s going on in my life. Every once in a while, I suddenly get HOT all over, start sweating from head to toe, my nose runs like a faucet, my heart pounds, and I just need to be HOME.

Something is particularly difficult about mornings, about just getting out the door. Once I’m out, I’m pretty good for a few hours, but my calm seems to have a shelf-life, and I need to get back home in the afternoon. I like to plan things pretty far in advance, but I have trouble committing to things in advance. Anti-anxiety meds help. I’m not wild about how they make me feel, i.e. slightly dopey, but I do use them when I need them.

And then there’s the hormone angle, which I don’t even know for sure how to approach. Something has GOT to be going on there, since the weirdness has escalated by, um, a bunch, since my hysterectomy last fall. When I first came out of surgery, on estrogen deprivation, I literally felt, for the first and only time in my life, that I had lost my mind. It’s like nothing I can describe–the misery, despair, agony, anxiety–the certainty that it’s never going to be better, ever. After a couple of weeks, I was able to start estrogen replacement therapy, and it was like a miracle…at least to a point. It made the extreme crazy go away, but like I said at the beginning of this post, I still ain’t quite right. But then, I’ve never had the dosage checked or adjusted, so there’s a thought…

And I can’t help but think that a large part of what keeps me “down” and anxious is the disarray of my lifestyle–I keep Bella clean, fed, loved, dressed well, entertained, cared for…and that’s almost (but not quite) the limit of my motivation…and THAT is my motivation for this effort. I don’t know yet if it will work, but I know that to have peace and calm, I must first have order. I need it, Bella needs it, Alex needs it. And I need to provide it. I’m on my way, I hope…the house is still a mess, but I’ve done certain chores more regularly this week, and my family has had a hot, homemade, nutritious meal on the table every night this week, with NO takeout. That’s got to be a start. And Alex, bless his ever-loving-heart, cleaned the living room today, which lifted my mood unbelievably.

I’d love to hear from anyone who’s been through, or is going through anything similar, especially from the hysterectomy angle. Or not. Just whatever. Can you just have bad things happen to you and suffer a shift in actual brain function? (Yes, these are questions for my shrink, but my next appointment’s a couple weeks off. Humor me.)

Adapted and significantly augmented from a nearly simultaneous post at www.ninjapoodles.com

By Violet

Autumn is a mixed-bag of emotion and memory and experience for me.

On the one hand, it (in theory, at least) marks the start of cooler weather and less yard work and the opportunity to eat thick hearty stews and homemade oatmeal bread without breaking a sweat.

I can wear my sweet, precious hoodies again and dig out some of my soft fluffy socks to wear inside my combat boots. There’s an anticipated trip to the Rockton Fair and that unmistakable smell of decaying leaves and, quite often, beautiful sunsets. Good things.

There are many good things about autumn and winter. I can see them and name them and touch them.

But the flip side, of course, is the Seasonal Affective Disorder creeping into my mood and my energy levels. And the depression that lurks.

The anniversaries and memories of death and dying and funerals and sadness – my parents, grandparents, best friend.. From September to February, my world is full of anniversaries of loss.

And let’s not forget the November anniversary of my month-long panic attack and the diagnosis of my panic disorder.

The skies grow darker, earlier, and I find myself wishing that I could curl up in a duvet until spring arrives. My beloved reminds me not to dwell on the memories. To acknowledge them and let them go. I’ve been getting better at it but it’s not good enough yet. Letting go. Letting go of the past.

At this point in autumn – the late days of September – I can already feel the tendrils of an impending collapse of my happiness. I try very hard to put it out of my mind. I remind myself that dwelling – on any of the aforementioned subjects – will not help me get through this. It will not make things better.

Dwelling is one of those things I do very, very well. I could win a gold medal in dwelling.

I dwell on conversations and images that are stuck in my head. I dwell on moments – pivotal moments – when my life shifted. I stack these memories up, together, and try to make sense of how I got to be this way. How did I become so afraid of the changing seasons?

The truth, of course, is that it wasn’t just one event or one circumstance that pushed me over the edge. And, perhaps, the cumulative effect of those experiences isn’t to blame either. There are too many possibilities – from the food I eat to the sleep I get – to try to make a neat, tidy package of explanation.

I realize I need to fight this. I realize that, if I don’t fight it, things will crash around me. But fighting is hard – I am an instant gratification junky. If it doesn’t impact on me immediately – a rush of adrenaline or a sugar-induced laughing fit – I can’t seem to make myself follow the rituals and routines. And yet, I know the only way to make it through the coming months is to fight.

If I don’t fight my hardest, my husband will come home from work and find me weeping about my life, my world, my existence. Weeping and blowing my nose and uttering absolutely useless phrases like, “I miss.. I miss.. EVERYBODY.” or “Everybody hates me and I have no friends and I am so alone.” Trying to expel a build-up of emotion that encompasses sadness and mourning and grief and fear is impossible. And, oh, god, there is so much fear.

This morning, my beloved dragged my SAD light out of the closet, dusted it off, and moved it upstairs to the bedroom. The idea is that I will bask in that light every morning from now until, well, next spring. I do not particularly enjoy the basking – try as I might – but I will do my best to sit patiently in the incredibly bright light for 30 minutes each day. Some days, I know, I will cheat and sneak downstairs earlier than I should.

I am back to my vitamins, my precious B12 and D and assorted omegas. I swallow them with my lunch – taking them at breakfast makes me nauseated for hours and hurts my stomach – and, if I believed in God, this is when I would pray. Please let the vitamins soar through my veins and adjust my chemistry and trick my cells into believing it is still summer and I am happy. Please let the B12 boost my sagging energy levels. Please, please, please. Please make it all okay.

I’m trying to motivate myself to get more intentional exercise – reportedly one of the best antidepressants available. I hate being sweaty and tired and out of breath but, as winter sneaks around me, I find myself tired and out of breath anyway. It’s as if my muscles are disintegrating in order to keep me motionless under a duvet all day.

I plod my feet along the treadmill in the darkened basement, trying to focus on recorded episodes of CSI – happily edited of commercials. I take advantage of the cooler days, when they come, and I walk the dogs to the park. I don’t feel any different.

Evidence that diet can impact majorly on depression makes me begin to read the various literature on the subject. Fresh vegetables. Omega-filled fish. Low fat, complex carbs. I know all of this and still I fight my body’s increased cravings for sugar and simple carbs.

I fight the instant gratification of junk food. Sometimes that makes me cry, too, as my body screams for cookies that will immediately soothe the anxiety and my brain shouts that I’m making it all worse if I indulge. It’s like those cartoons with a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other – except, in this case, they’re both angry and hostile and glaring and I can’t win.

Everything makes me melancholy. Everything makes me question myself. Everything – everything – makes me feel guilty. For being alive, I suppose. I am incredibly uncomfortable about everything – the screaming cravings, the urge to hibernate, the grief, my own body.

I struggle and I fight and I do the very best that I can but, so many times, I fear that I can’t do enough.

Am I fighting biology and chemistry or am I fighting memories that are embedded into the very core of who I am? Where does my past and those experiences end and where does the seratonin begin? How can I keep myself afloat when I am so very, very tired?

I take my daily antidepressant – the prescribed kind, I mean – and I resist increasing the dose. It sounds dramatic to say that it takes away my personality in higher doses but I’m pretty sure it does. Even my husband, who loves me and wants me to be happy, will agree that I am not myself when I am on higher doses.

And some days I am okay – more than okay – and I fool myself into thinking that every day will be like this. I will smile and laugh and enthusiastically work on a project at the dining room table. I start to think that I’ve finally won out over the sadness – I’ve won the war. I feel alive and healthy and happy. Grateful. I feel like myself.

Then I wake – the very next day – and my body feels like lead. I run the previous day through my mind and wonder what I did wrong. Was it the sandwich for lunch or did I not get enough sunshine? Or maybe it was the day before that? How did I drain all the happiness out of my world while I was sleeping?

Autumn arrives and the fight begins and I am already tired of dragging myself up the endless mountain ahead of me. And I am afraid, no matter what I say. I am afraid of the months ahead of me but I will fight.

By Saviabella

Yesterday, I made an emergency appointment with my doctor because I had a horrible reaction to the drug I’ve been on for the past few months. Effexor combined with my monthly PMS symptoms to give me a lovely manic attack. A week’s worth of roller coaster mood swings, insomnia, and really strong impulses to do things that were not consistent with my personality or normal actions. It scared the fuck out of me. Fortunately, I am very self-aware, knew this was a possibility on this drug, and am strong-willed and stubborn as all hell, so I didn’t do anything I would have regretted. But I could have. And next time, it could be worse. So, I’m getting the hell off and trying something new.

It felt good to march into my doctor’s office and tell her what I wanted: off the drug, on a new drug that wouldn’t trigger mania or make me fat, a referral to a psychiatrist who wasn’t an asshole and whom I could work with collaboratively to explore the possibility of some version of bi-polar (which does run in my family), a note so I could drop the class I’m in without academic or financial penalty, and hell, throw in a blood test for iron and B12 levels while you’re at it because we all know I’m a crappy vegetarian.

The problem is, in these parts, the wait to get in with a psychiatrist is three to six months. Even people who, as my doctor puts it, “are in really urgent situations”, are unable to get in before then. There are too few in this city, and they’re overworked. The only way you can see one right away is if you’re hard-core suicidal, and I am determined not to let it get that bad. So, we wait. And we try another drug in the hopes that it doesn’t do something similarly nasty in the meantime, though we’re aware of that possibility with any of the drugs she can give me.

Finding a drug to try was a bit of a hassle. We ruled out Effexor, of course, because that’s the reason I was there. Then, she asked me, “Have you ever tried any other drug?”

Why, yes. How ’bouts I take you on a walk down memory lane, doc darling?

Right after my second university degree (I was about 24), I found myself in another city working a flaky job for a flakier boss. It did not end well. I became severely depressed and just wanted to go to therapy. But there was a wait for that, too (seriously, if you’re not suicidal, it’s hard to get help sometimes). My doctor shoved Zoloft at me. I didn’t want to take it, but she assured me, “If you don’t need it, it won’t do anything to you, and if you do, it will make you feel better, so you have nothing to worry about.”

Bullshit.

It certainly didn’t make me feel better. I was shaky all the time. I didn’t feel any less depressed. I just stayed in my apartment, being unemployed and watching my legs twitch for weeks, waiting for it to kick in, and knowing that it could take a full six weeks to do so. At around the seventh or eighth week, something happened. I started having suicidal thoughts. And not just any suicidal thoughts – I mean detailed, graphic, violent suicidal thoughts. I was terrified. I had felt suicidal in the past, but it was never anything like this, never anything this violent or graphic. I certainly wasn’t suicidal before I took the drug, so I knew it wasn’t me. I was scared that something terrible could happen to me, so I gathered up all the knives and drugs in my house and shoved them at my best friend for safe-keeping. (Now, that was a fun conversation. Would you mind taking all these sharp objects away so I won’t be able to hurt myself without meaning to? I can’t even have them in my house because I don’t know what I’m capable of. Thanks. You’re a doll.) I ate my steak with a butter knife for awhile and decided I was getting the hell off these drugs. Somewhere along the way, I wrote this poem:

Zoloft

I
Shaky
Jittery
Stomach tied in a knot
(one of those special kinds you learn
in Girl Scouts.)

II
I don’t want to leave my room.
Oh God, I want to leave now!
No, I don’t.
Yes, I do.

III
I’ll tell you what I want
what I really really want.
I want to take one of those
large kitchen knives
(and none of this sissy dainty
wrist-slitting crap) and
I want to plunge it violently
into my arm – tear
through muscle and tendon
grind away at bone
just to see what it would be
like.

IV
But instead,
I throw the little yellow happy pills
into the toilet
and pee on them.

Yes, I am now aware that it’s extremely unenvironmental to flush drugs, but at the time, I just needed to literally piss all over those motherfuckers and get them the hell away from me. I went to my therapist (I finally had one) and told her what was going on and that I was quitting the drugs. She encouraged me to take the drugs back to my doctor and tell her what happened, because doctors need to know when things go wrong so they can report adverse reactions to the drug companies. She had a point. This was 1999, before there were any warnings or implications on patient drug information that these drugs could cause suicidal tendencies in some people, so, looking back, she really had a point. Maybe my case actually made a difference? Ah, probably not, considering the fuckwad doctor I had. Observe:

Savia: [shoving the drug samples back at Fuckwad Doctor] Here. You can have these back. I’m not taking them anymore. They made me suicidal.
Fuckwad Doctor: Oh, that’s just the depression coming back.
Savia: I wasn’t suicidal before I started taking these drugs.
Fuckwad Doctor: You just need a higher dose.
Savia: No. I’m done. I’m not taking these or any drugs anymore. I’m just here to let you know that.
[Fuckwad Doctor looks at me like I’m a fucking idiot who is likely going to end up dead in a back alley somewhere, and I walk out of the office.]

I went off the drugs cold turkey and the suicidal feelings went away. I continued with the talk therapy and was fine without drugs to manage anxiety and depression for years.

But the fact that I had that reaction from Zoloft those many years ago means my current doctor, who is not a fuckwad by any means, is leery to give me any drug in that class. So, that eliminates all the old standbys – Prozac, Paxil, Celexa are out, and we’ve already established that Effexor is out, so that leaves us with a small third class of drugs, the best bet of that being Wellbutrin.

Any of you out there on this one? What do you think of it? I figure it’s worth a shot, and am knocking wood that it will help me get through the next three to six month wait to see someone who will actually be able to help me. After all, they say the third time’s a charm. Let’s hope they’re right.