Prozac, Lexapro, Wellbutrin, oh my!

So I set an appointment to see a therapist for the first time in years. Not because I'm in dire need of therapy, necessarily, but because my life on paper is complicated and full of emotional potholes, and I want to be prepared in case there's an avalanche.

I walked into the office to speak to the receptionist, and she asked if I was there to see the therapist or the doctor.

"What's the difference?" I asked.

"The therapist is here if you need to talk to someone, and the doctor is here to prescribe medications. Would you like any medications?"
I chuckled, thinking she was garbling her words, and that what she meant to say was "We have a medical professional here to evaluate if anti-depressants would be the right course of treatment for you."

Nope. After five minutes of the receptionist trying to convince me to see the doctor and just "get a sample of something," she declared me "an old-fashioned naturalist" and went to get the therapist. She might as well have called me "stubborn bitch." It was the same tone.

I sat in the waiting room completely in shock. I looked around at the other patients waiting, and recognized that glazed over look in their eyes as the anti-depressant glaze. Hmm.

The therapist's first words to me were, "So you don't think you need drugs, do you?"
I fumbled my way through a response: I've tried the drugs route, I think they should be used as a last resort for me, I'm just interested in making some sort of in-case treatment plan for if the roof caves in over my head.

He stared at me like I had lobsters crawling out of my ears. "We really recommend you see the doctor. If you can't make it in today, come in any time, Monday through Saturday, 7am to 6pm. The pharmacy's always open and there's always a nurse on standby to write you a prescription."

"I don't want drugs." I kept saying.

"Then what can I do for you?" he said, spreading out his hands like we were at the end of some ridiculous rope.

"I'm here to talk to a therapist? See, I'm a single mom, and..." I started to say, but he cut me off.

"You just want to... talk?" he said, like talking was the last thing someone would make an appointment to do. "Oh, I see, you're a naturalist." (Stubborn bitch).

Then he went and got the doctor anyway, with whom I had the same run-around. Abbott and Costello have nothing on us.

I was flabbergasted. I left, needless to say, in a very confused and disappointed state. Is this what we've come to? We're medicating before psychiatric or medical evaluation? Talk therapy is "old-fashioned" and someone who doesn't want to shove concoctions of chemical correctional drugs into their system suddenly is pegged a "naturalist?"

Unfortunately my insurance literally doesn't cover any other therapists. My options are a) go back and pray they don't continue trying to convince me to drug up, b) go back and feel the therapist shut down week after week while I talk and he tries to find a way to convince me to drug up, c) never go back and just sign it off as a loss, d) pay out of pocket for an expensive therapist that I'm not even sure I really need right now.

I am just so disappointed.

It's not that I am so against anti-depressants. I think they can save you. I think they are an excellent resort after other options have been exhausted. But I'm not there. I'm not even close to that point.

If I have another visit like that, I may be.

What Goes Up Must Come Down

It's been six insane months since Fin was born and everything lightened. Every day has been so full of rollercoaster emotions--exhaustion, elation, absolute pride, shame, happiness, despair. The palate of feelings I've experienced is huge. I've been in great denial for about six weeks about how I'm really doing, however, and it's time to come clean.
I love being a mom. I love Finley and I am happy to spend all day every day with her. I feel like a success in that department so far, because I have a bouncing, healthy, beaming baby at my side all the day.
But as Lindsay? I am struggling. I feel stressed, anxious, down, and when I look in the mirror I hardly recognize myself. It's the weirdest thing to feel such disconnect one minute and such a bond with my daughter the next.
I expected the high I felt to come down, but I had hoped it would stop at normal, not plummet below sea level.

I could sure use a cuddle right now. Where's that Fin?

I'm Okay (I Promise)

Yes, my life on paper is as follows:

Single mother, father of child moved away (to California, where it's warm)

30+ pounds to lose, stretch marks and amazing elastic stomach (could sell it to the circus)

Living at home, broken car, no steady job (which means no new shoes)

History of crippling depression

4 pairs of pants that fit: 3 pairs of sweatpants and 1 pair of maternity jeans (and pancake butt to boot)

No wonder I'm constantly asked if I'm doing okay. When you write it all out, or say it all in a row out loud, things could definitely be better. In fact, you could sell my story to Lifetime TV. I just need to become a waitress, have Ricky show up to Finley's 3rd birthday party only to get beat up by Luke Wilson, then turn down Luke Wilson's baseball game marriage proposal because I've lost the weight, become comfortable with motherhood, and bought a convertible so I can finally drive to my community college graduation in style.

But if you've been one of the fantastic, compassionate people who have inquired about me, thank you. I am okay. In fact, if you asked, "How are you, really?" to me recently, you probably noticed my jaw dropping, my words disappearing. Because I honestly cannot find the words to describe it. Bittersweet is a word, a great one that feels fitting. But more sweet than bitter.

How am I?

I... am wonderful. I am still on new baby high. I don't think it's going away. I am more than okay. I am wonderful.

(Still blunderful, too. Hence my continuous bitching and whining. It's not going away, folks. Life is amazing, but sometimes the crappy times are just funnier. And who wants to read or write about cheesy, sunshine-y, Partridge Family type stuff? I'll take Daria over Quinn any day.)

Year of the Cat

One year ago, I was listening to Al Stewart's Year of the Cat on repeat, writing a novel that was semi-autobiographical about a girl struggling with depression. Cliche, I know--the author actually being mentally ill while writing about mental illness. So Edgar Allan Poe. So Dylan Thomas. So lame.
I pulled out my horrible novel and re-read it, hoping there would be pieces to salvage. To my surprise, there is. But I did want to share these thoughts I wrote regarding depression.

"Depression is like cancer you walk around with, without the flowers or the Hallmark sympathy cards. It's a slower death, too, eating you from the inside out.

Depression is the fire and ice disease. Medication can stabilize the ups and downs--turn it from the Ring of Fire into the little green kiddie dragon ride at the carnival. Mild, but still a ride.

Good days, mania, I'm invincible, electric. Those are days for buying ten one-thousand piece puzzles and put them together in a night, deciding on punishments if I don't finish them by dawn. Music seems slower than usual. The poetry I've always dabbled into notebooks turns ethereal, flighty, metaphoric for ideas and concepts I can never remember later. With mania, I conduct the functions of my body instead of sleeping--heart beat, one, two, three, four, take a breath, exhale, blink now, blink again, heart beat, go, lungs, your cue.

Days with mania, I cannot wear glasses or contacts because the world seems too sharp, too in focus. I'll run miles without a break, even though I'm not really in shape, then have sore ankles and knees for a week. I'll scoff at the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition crews, laughing evilly that it takes them a whole week to build a house.

Mania is my way of trying to cheat death, cramming as much life into a day as possible.

Depression is the other end of the totem pole--feeling utterly hopeless, powerless, and tired. These are the days when I cry for a spoon that falls behind the stove, when I feel like a paper doll being dressed, undressed, dressed--out of control. Depression controls what I write, turns poetry solid, simple, dense--final words to humankind before my twelve hour naps. I turn into survival mode, soaking up as much rest and reflection as I can before the wave of mania hits again, and I turn back into the Red Queen.

The truth is I ride through life alternating between fire and ice. There are moments of extreme heated passion, tempers, whirlwind nights of rum-worthy soliloquies, muscle hugs, forests of words. I'm moving faster than my landscape, like Wile E. Coyote scampering his legs in a circle, airborne.

There are moments when I am frozen in time, drowning in the icy blue flame, moments when my eyes are glassy, where Simon & Garfunkel make sense despite my logic.

Where does the body end and the mind begin? I've learned that when the mind is wired enough, the body can go without all sorts of necessities--food, sleep, sitting. The human brain is fantastic this way--we have these surges where the body is powerless under the tyranny of mental faculties.

When I start to think like this, everything feels like a conscious choice--mind over body. Even death becomes just a mere decision.

Which is why I usually fight the battle alone, playing chess with myself--the fire gets to be black, the ice white, and it's a duel to the finish. The prize is the wheel--control.

I feel pathetic, sitting in a cafe, surrounded with coffee, pierced teenagers full of made-up angst, hunched over a laptop, using a Microsoft product. And instead of imagining I'm somewhere else, like I want to, I laugh. This is me, and I laugh. Smiling does make it better sometimes."

So... a year later, here I am. I have not yet been hit by postpartum depression, or even baby blues. Mentally, I feel stable, especially considering what I've been through in the past year--heartbroken, single parenthood, dad depressed, mom stressed...

But I can't help but feel like the big crash is waiting around the corner, sneaking up on me. Medication isn't an option this time--first of all, I'm breastfeeding, and Fin doesn't need antidepressants. Secondly, I hated those last year. Celexa? Psssh. Horrible. Made everything worse.

How do you stock up on happiness for when the shit hits the fan? Or maybe this is the depression--waiting for it to get worse.

Lord, I was born a rambling man. Just wanted to record these thoughts and send them out into the cosmic cyberspace that is the blogosphere. Seacrest, out.

Honesty

I feel completely uninspired. And I know exactly why.
It's because I've had a loss recently. It's because I have a huge life shift coming up that I'm feeling inadequate for. But it's mostly because I am coming out of a denial that I have lived in for years.
I feel completely uninspired.
I feel a loss of faith and hope in love.
I feel like part of my heart is gone and won't call.
I feel totally lost.
I feel like the philosophy I've had of "love is all you need" is a lie.
I feel pessimistic.
I feel unproductive.
And truthfully? I feel rejected and worthless.

I'll get over it soon. I'll pull myself up and wipe off my own tears and carry on--not just for myself, but for my baby. There's two of us now to worry about.

But I just thought I'd record how much it sucks. I really thought I knew something about life, about love, about relationships, about... him.

I didn't know him at all.

I am locking some things up. No one's getting in for a long time.

Cures for the Broken-Hearted

Option #1: LAZINESS

Sleep. Sleep it off. Wake up and do not attempt to brush teeth, comb hair, cover up depression zits that have popped up overnight, and eat only food items with the nutritional value of cardboard.

Listen to: re-runs of old Bill Maher podcasts, Paul Anka's cover of REM's Everybody Hurts, and the footsteps of your emotionally less unstable family prancing about and enjoying their lives above your head.

Wear: nothing, when in your room or when the house is empty. Or, slip on your least flattering pair of sweats, old drama club T-shirt, and mismatched footsie socks.

Do: flip through the pages of old Seventeen magazines, stare at the same happy kitten on your computer, look at the dog and wonder if he knows your heart is shattered.

Option #2: BITCHINESS

Anger--that's the ticket. So many people believe that depression is just anger without energy, anyway, so let's give that depression some juice and let the sparks fly! Furiously clip your fingernails, paint them, read raging feminist books, and try your best to literally claw any rebellious tears from your eyelids before they can drip down your face and give them away.

Listen to: Alanis, Tori, Regina, Sinead, Sheryl, Fiona, and, just for good measure, all Nine Inch Nails songs comparing sex with death.

Snap at everyone, too, and roll your eyes. You're fine, quit asking. Have a list of topics readily available to bring up in case the subject meanders to your broken-heartedness. Good topics include the Vietnam War, the current health care reform, and Zac Efron's butt.

Do: find something to scrub... or torch... or break.

OPTION #3: DO NOTHING, BECAUSE IN A MATTER OF DAYS, YOU'LL BE SLIDING BACK DOWN THAT SLIPPERY SLOPE, ANYWAYS.

I know none of this probably makes sense, and I'm trying my best to be cryptic to protect not only myself, but the other party in my broken-heartedness. This is simply recorded as a veiled journal entry, something for me to one day look back on, remember the circumstances, and either cite them as the catalyst for my institutionalization, or chuckle fondly at the hard times and smile gratefully at the good fortune I have.

And the judgment continues...

Today at the dentist, the hygenist looked at my chart. "Oh, you're expecting! Congratulations!"

"Thank you, thank you," I muttered with her hands in my mouth.

"Your first?" she asked, and I nodded. "Big surprise," I chuckled weakly.

After a minute of silence, she asked, "So, have you been to this office before?"

"No," I asked.

"Oh. What about your husband? Has he been here before?" Clearly she didn't see a ring, and was baiting me.

I didn't have my emergency fake wedding ring with me, and besides, I wrote clearly on my chart that I am SINGLE.

When I said, no, I have no husband, I saw the disappointment and the unmistakable "you're-a-bain-on-society" look in her eyes.

"Ooooohhhh," she said sadly, as if I had just told her my dog was getting neutered at the same time she was x-raying my teeth. She looked into my mouth down her nose while flossing me. And for the rest of the appointment, I tested out various subjects on her until I hit the jackpot: Michael Jackson. She went off on Michael Jackson and left the topic of me, the single, unwed mother on cheap insurance alone... until the dentist came in.

"So, you're expecting! Congratulations! How far along are you?"

"Five months," I admitted.

"You look tiny. Has your husband gained weight?" the dentist asked while snapping on his gloves, and before I could answer, the hygenist was breathlessly stage-whispering, "She has no husband." And then she gave him that same knowing look down her nose, her face covered by her mask, and I wanted to suck out her judgmental eyes with that suctioning tubey thing that was in my mouth.

Thank you. Really, thank you. As if I didn't understand that--shock!--it's not ideal or necessarily traditional to have the baby before the carrying over the threshold. As if having a baby isn't stressful enough without that whole single and unwed thing added onto it. I had no idea!

And thus began a crappy day, which seemed to get more and more lovely little cherries added on top: a hijacked car, postponed errands because of the hijacked car, idiots running the Wal-Mart Vision Center, four hours of beef ribs cooking in my house and permeating every room with their horrible stench, and a sciatic nerve pain shooting down my back that makes me look forward to childbirth.

This is my blog. I'm allowed to bitch on my blog. But, seriously, am I being sensitive? Is this how I should be treated by a strange hygenist? Should I just write "sinner" on my forehead in blood and let everyone take their stabs at me?

I'm sick of people forgetting how easy it is to slip up. I'm sick of people forgetting how easy it is to get pregnant.

How about some support? From one woman to another? From one mother to a new, terrified, trembling mother? From one imperfect human who makes mistakes to another? Why is the heartfelt congratulations and sincere joy at the belly swelling full of life contingent on my marital status? No ring? Oh, it's a tragedy.

I'm just flabbergasted. I had no idea there were so many perfect people out there--living in my city, people who I went to high school with, people who I see weekly, people cleaning my teeth...

Congratulations, all you perfect people. I'm so happy for you, really. I'll be thinking of you when I'm swimming in a burning sea in hell.

Bill Maher will be there, so I'm kinda looking forward to it.

Really Deep Thoughts

Don't know how else to put it, except to say I'm just lonely these days. Relationships aren't what I want them to be, and it's finally taking a toll on my heart.
If I were a man, I'd hire a hooker.
If I were a druggie, I'd switch to meth, even though it's totally white trash.
If I were in the circus, I'd see if I could be the fat lady in the polka dot swimsuit, just so all the comfort eating I've been doing would prove productive somehow.

Grey is the New White

A few weeks ago I mentioned that I've had other blogs, other spots online that I jotted down my thoughts, my lists, my ridiculousness that I felt I had to chronicle. Those blogs were deleted and resurrected, reshaped so many times...
It's a complex. It's the same complex that makes me buy gorgeous leather-bound journals that are never written in--I don't want to taint the pages. What could I possibly write?
Some call it perfectionism. I call it tiring. And every few months I re-decide to be okay with mistakes. To worship my worn-out jeans instead of the one designer pair of jeans I wear for a half an hour at a time twice a year. It's time again.
I make mistakes. I trip up stairs, and I put my foot in my mouth, and I hurt people. I hurt myself. I do stupid things, I write stupid things, I am made up of some stupid things. But there's value in there, too.
The book Fight Club is all about life's scars--no one should die without them. They are our stories, our triumphs and failures--and I like grey much better than white.
Pure is overrated. Nobody likes a blank page.

This Thing Called Life

Why are we brought up in a smooth, safe, strawberries and cream, Sesame Street world only to learn that we must be broken?

To learn that the world is harder, scarier, meaner, and cruder than we could ever have imagined...
To learn that most of the time, you only want what you can't have...
To learn that there are no more revolutionaries...
To learn that you will dream of butter while scrambling to just get the basic bread...
To learn that you will yearn for art, music, ballet, literature, but only get tantalizing glimpses...
To learn that there is a mental ward in every hospital and emergency psychiatric plans at every campus...
To learn that millions of people are unhappy, and life is just a gentleman's agreement to paint a grin on and make sad people feel silly for not searching for a joy contagion...
To learn that the kitten won't purr until you pat it...
To learn that once you start the coffee grinder, it won't stop...
To learn that you've just wasted your time writing a stream-of-consciousness, but your stream isn't that much to brag about, after all...

There's a way to enjoy it, to shed the bitterness, to find a face and identity. There's a way to do it all--to lay back in the car and let the colored lights wash over you, the music flood around you, drown in each second before it dies and is gone forever.
There's a way to do it. I just know there is.

Really Deep Thoughts

A man at the courthouse today chuckled when I was offered mental health breaks due to my obvious craziness. "Lucky," he murmured. "Wish that was me."
I wanted to punch him in the beer gut. Really? I wanted to say. 'Cause if you're sane enough to be driving an Escalade that probably matches that keychain, then hold onto it like a fat kid grabs donuts.
Are we now so pathetic that we are WISHING for mental issues? Come on, America.

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda

Coulda graduated from four-year college this week...
Shoulda gone to college at 18
Coulda been in a kickass position at a publishing company...
Shoulda pitched a fit to keep my job instead of letting it be split in half to go to an intern and a mentally retarded filer
Coulda been on the East Coast at my dream school...
Shoulda just gone
Coulda had thousands of fantastic date nights, intelligent conversations over dinner, fun vacations with friends and lovers...
Shoulda dated around
Coulda dipped my toes into the world of published fiction...
Shoulda been bolder
Coulda been somebody by now...
Shouldn'ta waited for the guy

And I call myself a feminist. Shame on me.

Worst Cycle Ever

For some reason, I'm having a hard time getting through my brain that I NEED TO TAKE MY CRAZY PILL EVERY DAY. It's not that I'm not used to having a pill to take every day, because for years, to combat the horrors of menstrual cramps that would literally cut my insides, I took birth control.

Yet here I am, with my 40 mg of Celexa... Some days I remember, sometimes I forget, sometimes I remember but am too lazy and think, "I'll just take it tomorrow." The thing is, antidepressants only work in consistency. Without the daily dosage, it does nothing--it's not like a painkiller you pop on a need-by-need basis.

So I'm stuck in a horrid circle. At one curve is that God-awful feeling of getting used to new meds--fatigue, those stupid brain shivers, weird appetite, odd aches and pains as my body tries to get used to the new chemical additives. 40 mgs isn't an easy dosage to handle.

On the other hand, when I don't take my pill for three days, then I suffer from antidepressant withdrawal--nausea, fatigue + insomnia (which equals lots of sleep but no rest), and the inability to hold any food/liquid down.

Why do I do this to myself? Am I a masochist? (Answer: yes.) I hope that soon I come to my senses and hop off this train, because it's no Thrillsville.

The Labels We Wear

It's inevitable. We all judge each other, we all secretly think somewhat negative, critical thoughts about behaviors and choices that our loved ones make, and we also all label each other. In high school, I worked hard in the drama department and was therefore written off to a lot of my peers as a "drama geek." That was code for in a clique, weird as hell, and untouchable. I think it's why I have such a complex about labels at all: political views, religions, hair color, nationality--what does it all matter? Even if I'm the blondest blonde, the strictest Christian, the whitest cracker, or as liberal as Barbra Streisand is Jewish... It's all just parts of me.

There are some labels that terrify me, ones I know I conjure occasionally. I can see in my family's eyes the moment they think of me as:

Lazy

Drama queen

Quitter

Failure

Burden

Frustrating

Depressing to be around

Pathetic

Childish

Helpless

Like I said, there are moments when I see these thoughts flash across the faces of the people I love, and all I can say is, I'm so sorry. I have expectations for myself, too, and I know I don't always reach them.

I just crave the moments when the other labels are reflected. These are the ones I crave to have apply to me:

Creative

Capable

Brave

Lighthearted

Mature

A fighter

Hard worker

Productive

Brave, brave, brave, brave, brave

Because every day I wake up scared. Living is frightning sometimes. And to even dare to brush my teeth... that takes courage.

Really Deep Thoughts

Nothing will stop you from having a mental breakdown quite like realizing how much money it will cost you. Psyche ward hospitalizations=expensive!

Valentine's Day (With a Side of Bitter)

Valentine's Day 2009:

Instead of roses,

I have antidepressant detox

Instead of a night on the town,

I have a night on the couch

Instead of sushi,
I have reheated pizza

Instead of jewelry,

I have knockoff Uggs and sweats

Instead of strawberries,

I have new zits

Instead of the light of candles,

I have the darkness of writer's block

Instead of a romantic bath,

I have itchy contacts

Instead of brownies,

I have cheap chocolate cake batter

Instead of poetry read to me at bedtime,

I have a watersoaked copy of Calvin and Hobbes

Instead of the ideal Valentine's Day I've never had,

I have another night alone

And instead of an apologetic phone call acknowledging the holiday that millions of other couples celebrate annually...

I'll be lucky to get a phone call.

This is about how I'm feeling today...

Really Deep Thoughts

When you're inspired, you think you can do anything... When you're manic, you know it.

Really Deep Thoughts

Why do the strangest, slightest things set me off into complete sadness? I mean, I understand the real answer is YOU ARE DEPRESSED, but I watched my brother wait for his school bus this morning and several thoughts went through my head:
He would probably rather be doing other things, but he's diligently doing what society has asked him to do.
He could probably get a better education in another way, but he is gratefully accepting what has been offered him.
I don't take advantage of my opportunities.
School doesn't teach passion as well as it could.

Another Serious Post

I'm learning to be less judgmental about the things I do and the contibution I want to make to the world. It's difficult, though, because every time I feel that rush of ideas flooding towards me, I immediately freeze and think, "Is this good enough?" Translation: "Am I good enough?"
I've heard many creative people talk about how they are able to disconnect from their work in such a way that any criticism can roll off their back... They speak about how the words/colors/music seems to float in through a dream and roll right onto the paper.
Not me. Every word I write is a direct piece of my soul, and while I do crave honest criticism of my work, it can be difficult to hear it. Maybe this is why I am so reluctant to share my writings, or to ever publish, even though that's my greatest dream.
I think in therapy that's what's called a breakthrough.