Friday

March 7, 2011 by ·

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.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: , ,

Me vs. Prozac

March 1, 2011 by ·

Dear Prozac,

This is a hard letter to write – you’ve been good to me and I owe you a lot. I mean, I could do without the extra 20 pounds you brought with you, but I figured it would disappear when you left.

We need to talk.

I think I’m done with you. No, don’t get upset. You’ve known this was coming. We’ve talked about it before. But now it’s official. I’ve booked an appointment with my doctor to talk about leaving you.

But you can’t just let me go, can you? I think you took advantage of me. Weren’t totally honest with me.

You see, my therapist suggested I look into typical approaches to coming off Prozac and possible side effects. So I did – did a search, read some stuff, scanned some links.

And then this one jumped out at me.

“Stopped Prozac – how long before weight comes off/metabolism,” it said. Oh good! I thought.

But what did I find? Account after account after account of people who were on Prozac and came off, only to discover that the weight holds on.

I really didn’t need to read that, Prozac. There was nothing in our relationship agreement that hinted that this would be an issue. Hell, it didn’t even hint that gaining the weight would be an issue in the first place. But I certainly didn’t sign up for this for the long term.

You always knew this would be a temporary relationship. I was clear about that from the very beginning, and at this point I’m just sincerely hoping that I can fulfill my end of that bargain. I need to quit you.

I’m even more determined to leave you – all of you – behind now that I know you’re trying to screw me over when all I did was turn to you for help.

Goodbye, Prozac. I’ll always be grateful to you for getting me through the toughest time in my life, but we’re done. Please take your bags with you when you leave.

Robin

PS Is this superficial? Yes. I don’t care, Prozac. I’m still upset with you.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With:

Bright Lights

February 10, 2011 by ·

I could never have imagined I’d end up on antidepressants. I certainly wouldn’t have imagined it happening like this.

The doctor’s office is bright the way doctor’s offices are. Fluorescent lights burn overhead, hiding nothing. I’m waiting.

It was the second time I’d initiated this conversation. For someone who was extraordinarily resistant to the idea of medication as an answer to my problem, this seems odd to me now.

Now, waiting, I am dreading the conversation. What if she says, “You don’t need medication.” This is my last resort. If I don’t try it, if it doesn’t work, I’m in real trouble.

That was not at all my point of view the first time medication was suggested to me. That time it was by the counsellor I was seeing, the one who figured out my problem long before I was willing to consider it. I didn’t listen to her.

From the examination room, I can hear sounds in the hall. Doctor’s office sounds. People coming and going. The receptionist on the phone just outside the door. I’d had to tell her why I needed the appointment. “I need to talk to someone about anti-depressants,” I’d confessed. She, who I’ve known for a while, who loves my son and always talks about how happy he is, didn’t treat me any differently when I came in. As I sit here in this brightly lit room, I wonder what she’s thinking.

The second time was at one of my son’s well baby visits. At the “anything else?” point in the conversation, I broached the topic with the doctor – a locum I had never seen before and probably wouldn’t see again. During that conversation, I was tentative, exploring: “I’m not feeling like I’m doing very well,” I offered while inside thinking, “I’m feeling awful, actually, but I don’t know if that’s normal. I’m sort of afraid it is.” Made it sound as though it was the usual sort of stuff: “But, you know, he really doesn’t sleep that much. How much not sleeping is normal, anyway?!”

Different sounds now. Appointment-finishing sounds. Thank-yous and goodbyes. I figure that means I’m next, and the butterflies return full force. This is a different doctor – one I’ve never seen before – and I’ve heard rumours that she doesn’t have a great bedside manner. I jiggle my foot the way I do when I’m nervous or distracted and wait for the door to open.

I don’t blame either of those people for the outcomes of the first conversations. They could have pushed, I suppose, or probed further. But in order for the outcome to have been different I’d have had to be willing to listen. To be honest about how not okay I was.

The door opens and she comes in. Any fantasy I had about a dignified conversation rapidly disappears as I break down in tears upon the telling of my story. I’m not a dignified crier, but in this moment I don’t even worry about the blotches on my face or the fact that I need to blow my nose. I’m just focused on finding something that will help because if I don’t I know I’m going to lose my family. She gives me her usual “I don’t usually turn to anti-depressants as the first solution” speech but it’s just part of the routine. She knows I need them. I know I need them.

That night, I look at the bottle of little pills. It feels significant what I’m about to do. It is significant.

I pop one in my mouth and wash it down with some water. Then the whole world shifted.

—

This post is in response to a prompt from The Red Dress Club, which is to
write a piece that begins with, “I could never have imagined” and ends with,
“Then the whole world shifted.”

Filed Under: Postpartum depression, Writing · Tagged With: , ,

Not Quite Better

February 7, 2011 by ·

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.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: ,
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