Monday morning. At work.
“How was Friday?” asked my friend and colleague.
Friday…Friday…
“I can’t remember Friday.”
“You had an appointment in the afternoon.”
Oh. Right. Friday.
How could I have forgotten Friday?
It was supposed to be a normal enough day. Meetings and work to do in the morning, time to eat lunch, zip out to my doctor’s office to talk about weaning off meds. Then something significant happened at work, meetings got interrupted and I barely had time to eat lunch before hightailing it to my doctor’s office, where, after getting stuck in traffic, I arrived 10 minutes late – a fact that was curtly pointed out by the receptionist before she stuck me in a room and left me to wait another 10 for the doctor who was apparently not so anxious to get her last appointment finished after all.
Friday was supposed to be about how I can do this. How I’m feeling all right and I’m ready and I’m going to break up with those stupid green pills. Except I’m not. And I knew that would be the case even before I got there.
When I booked the appointment – after procrastinating for over a week to make the call – I wanted the advice to be along these lines: “Yep, sure! Here’s how you do it and here’s what you can expect. Now go next door to the friendly pharmacist – the one who told you, when you went to pick it up the first time, that this medication can cause sexual side effects, isn’t he helpful? – and get a lower dose. Taper slowly and you’ll be fine!”
That’s not what she said, of course. She asked all kinds of questions about how I’m doing and what I’ve done to address my issues and what kind of support I have and all the usual things that constitute proper care. And then she suggested it’s probably too early.
It’s a question of math, apparently. However long you had symptoms is how long you should be on meds before trying to wean, and it hasn’t been that long for me. It actually doesn’t matter, because I’m not ready to come off and I know it.
I didn’t actually tell her that – I was determined to get through one appointment with a health professional without breaking down in floods of tears (and I did! Gee, I’m so proud.). Instead, after a long discussion about timing and considerations and implications, we decided it might be wise for me to come back in April and have the discussion again and start weaning at that time.
I appreciated the support, but I’m pretty sure it’s not going to happen. Between a family issue and a couple of other life issues last week, my view of the world is starting to feel a little bit like this:
It’s a lovely view, but that cliff is feeling awfully close and I have no idea what’s around that corner.
On Saturday, all I could see was that cliff. And I thought I was going to fall off of it.
On Sunday, I spent the day totally mad at myself for finding myself back in this place after thinking I was out of it.
Today, at work, I spent the morning trying not to hyperventilate. I looked at my office door and wanted so badly to close it, but I knew if I did I would sit in front of my computer and cry and the road would crumble and the cliff would be real.
Now, after some time spent thinking about other things and a few deep breaths and a tiny little voice at the back of my head saying, “You don’t have to let this happen,” I’m feeling…okay. Just okay. (Scared shitless, actually, but same difference.)
But that’s okay. I don’t know where I am on the path, but I’m still on the path. The cliff is there, but this time it’s not the only thing I can see.
And, at least for right now, I’m still packin’ Prozac. And it’s going to be that way for a while, so I may as well enjoy the view.
