I have a list of blog posts in my binder. And I've actually had a bit of time to write about the hilariousness that comes with being a Redneck's Wife. But for the time being, I am a pharmaceutical Guinea pig. Seriously.
A bit of background: At 18, I started Prozac and .25 mg of Xanax. At 25, I was maxed out on Prozac and began Wellbutrin. I was up to 2 mg of Xanax daily. The antidepressant change came because of marriage. You know all of the warnings of sexual side effects for Prozac? I had them all. Which was fine when I was in a long-distance relationship. Not okay when you're a newlywed and your husband just doesn't get it. Seriously. He just wasn't getting any, and that's not good for a 25-year-old man with the sex drive of a teenager.
Three years later, at 28, I became pregnant and the mental health issues hit the fan. I was up to 4 mg of Xanax a day and changed from Wellbutrin to Zoloft for its anti-anxiety effects along with antidepressant.
During the second and third trimesters, I basically only took Zoloft. I didn't really need the Xanax...woohoo! Until the delivery table, when I freaked out and my sister shoved my meds into my mouth, God bless her.
At 31, I felt like a walking zombie. The Zoloft had lost its effect, and I was left feeling more exhausted than a woman should with a one-year-old, if you can believe that.
So my doctor at the time decided I should try this great new medicine...Effexor. He sold it well. It had an effectiveness that lasted at least 5 years. It had anti-anxiety properties. The perfect medication. I should have listened to my inner brilliance when he pulled a box from his cabinet-o-free-meds, as he had with the dissolveable Xanax, and handed me a pack.
A year later, at 32, I began showing more signs of hypomania. They began my senior year of college, but would come and go. I told my psychiatrist exactly what was going on, my family history, and my fears. He LITERALLY yawned, said take 50 mg of Lamictal, and not to worry. I was over-reacting.
Dumbass (him, not me). Within a year the marital shit hit the fan when I experienced full-blown manias with low-level disassociation. Crazy person stuff. When my mom put in a emergency call, he acted like it was a burden. He told her I wasn't psychotic, but that if I couldn't deal with things, take me to a hospital. Again, I repeat my overall assessment of this man ... ass.
I changed doctors the next day. I hadn't changed before out of fear. But there was no other option. I started therapy, which I hadn't endured since graduate school. Twice weekly, then once weekly, and now once monthly, unless I need more.
Right now, I need more. The Effexor stopped working last fall. I ate cookie dough all day and sat on the couch, waiting for Juni to get off the bus. I'd sleep...a lot. Including while I was driving, which meant I was in deep shit.
I decided on a nurse instead of a psychiatrist. Those five-minute med checks? They're a joke. With a nurse, I get 30 minutes. A little compassion, a little customer service for the woman struggling to keep from crawling out of her skin and under the table.
She tapered me off of the Effexor, and onto Wellbutrin. We all know how that went. The withdrawls were unbearable at times. So three weeks ago she added a low dose of Prozac, to "stop the obsessive thoughts of your son getting older, which should ease the anxiety." Another 4-6 weeks of waiting. Yea.
I also told her that the Xanax were like skittles. I could take 7 mg during a full-blown panic attack with no effect. That not only scared the bejezzus out of me, but was unacceptable, in my opinion. I spent my days worried that the medicine wouldn't work. The maximum dose is 10 mg daily, and at this rate, I'd be 40 and hitting up the hairdresser down the street for the goods. So not me.
So she put me on Vistaril. The magic drug! Take 50 mg 1-4 times a day, and the anxiety will be gone. So I did. And the anxiety hit a new level of unbearable. We're talking barely able to get my son on the bus bad. I called my nurse. Not in until Tuesday of the next week. Five days. So I found an old Xanax prescription, filled it, and stopped the Vistaril. I learned it contained high doses of antihistamine. Which would be why, after having a 3-hour panic attack, I would pass out for hours. A half-dose of Benadryl knocks me out of commission for a good 12 hours.
I booked an emergency appointment. Of course, that would be the day the nurse had an emergency...she fainted during the appointment before mine. I worked my magic, and got in with her supervisor.
Who basically said everything I was on was wrong. Lovely! She said that if I wanted to stop that amount of Xanax cold turkey, I'd need to be on a ward with Heroin addicts. She said she'd never seen anyone make it two days cold turkey without checking themselves into the nuthouse. Yes. I am superwoman. And yes, superwoman is tired. She wants to quit her job and just be normal.
The supervisor added more Prozac, more Lamictal, and kept me on 4 mg of Xanax, because she didn't know my case, and we only had 15 minutes. She's conferencing with my nurse, and I have an appointment in two weeks to try and figure this mess out.
But here's the thing...this mess isn't a science experiment. It's my BRAIN. It's my LIFE. Stop fucking it up! I realize that everyone's situation is different, but let's face it. I'm not THAT crazy. My anxiety is very bad. I realize this. When a six-year-old has a panic attack, the future does not look good. And yes, I'm Bipolar I. But that's under control.
So really, just give me something to take the fear away. To take the crazy thoughts away that make me so scared every day. Take the nightmares away. Take the days that seem like nightmares away. And give me my life back.
It's scary, but I realize why people kill themselves. Personally, I will NEVER do it. But I understand. I'm exhausted. I've been fighting this since I was 6. I want it to be over. And it never will. I still have options, but there are people who have exhausted all of theirs. And that's when I understand. I understand the feeling of just being done. I'm done. I'm tired. But I still have options. Of course, it scares the shit out of me that those options may not work, but it is hope.
I see my nurse in two weeks. I'll let you know what experiment they decide to perform then...and maybe I'll have a few good days where I can write about the other side of my life. The side that makes my ribs hurt because when it's on paper, it's friggin hilarious.
