This past weekend was good. Not perfect, still, but so much better. And yesterday was great. Had a nice play with the kid in the morning, went for a run in the rain with my dog, went to friends’ to watch the Superbowl eat chips and follow the snarky comments on Twitter about the Black Eyed Peas. We had a really good time. Kids played well together and ours was practically an angel. No pushing, no throwing. He even ate most of his dinner. It was one of those days that was exactly what I thought being a mom would feel like.
At bedtime, I did the usual things – brush teeth, wash face, etc. etc. One of those et ceteras was taking a little green and white pill. I just do it as part of my routine and so did it without even thinking about it. Little pill in, water chaser, dive right in under my fluffy duvet.
Happily settled, I began thinking about what a great weekend that was. What a great week last week was (even with the ridiculous work schedule that, by Wednesday, was starting to feel like it might be trying to kill me). I thought about what it feels like to have had a series of great weeks that had their bad moments but overall were just so much better.
The thought crept in, timidly at first.
“I think I’m better.”
… “Really?”
The thought got stronger. Took hold.
“Really. Think about it for a minute.”
I’ve been feeling really great lately. Better and better and better until it dawned upon me this past weekend that I felt normal. Like, really normal. More normal than the “normal” I’ve felt since starting meds. I felt like me.
It was exhilarating.
My happy little brain continued to browse the interwebs, reading this, commenting on that and generally feeling pretty happy with its lot in life.
And then I read Miranda’s blog post from Friday about refilling her anti-depressant prescription. And it hit me. I’m not better. I’m still on meds.
For some reason, it’s as though I had forgotten. Not for long – a day, maybe less. I had forgotten even though I take it every day. Had just taken it, in fact. The little green and white pill hadn’t even begun to work its daily dose of magic and there I was thinking, “Woo hoo! I’m all better!”
But the thing is, I’m still better than I was. A couple of months ago the thought of being on medication was in itself a horrible thing. “You’re on psychiatric medication,” my mind would whisper. I was desperate to get off it for no really legitimate reason (other than the 20 lbs that seem to have come with those little green and white pills, but hey! I’ll fit my maternity pants that much sooner the next time, right?).
But last night instead of panicking that same mind simply called a halt to the over-enthusiastic celebration and just took a moment to think, “Well that sucks.” It was a downer, to be sure. But it is what it is.
As I think about this today, my mind tends more towards wondering. Wondering if I can come off. Wondering how that would go.
To be honest, it scares the crap out of me. I resisted medication for a really long time – a story I still need to tell, because it will help someone somewhere – but when I finally started taking something, things improved. Dramatically. And quickly. Much more quickly than they’re supposed to. Which makes me wonder if I’ll feel the effects of coming off quickly as well. (Anyone have any experience with this?)
Did I mention this scares the crap out of me?
Two months ago, I had planned to go off medication in the new year. A month ago I knew I wasn’t ready. Now I feel like maybe, just maybe, it’s worth thinking about. Maybe the the normal me – the new, normal me – is close by after all.
