Here’s what my days have looked like lately: wake up around noon. Wash up, put “real” clothes on (maybe), and immediately regret waking up so late. Thanks, meds.
That’s where I gave up. If I couldn’t even check the mail without Xanax, I couldn’t survive day-to-day life with a fetus swimming around in my uterus. Would it drown in my adrenaline?
I kept hearing the same old line from my doctor about how if I still needed a benzodiazepine to get through a day at work or a trip to the store, then my Celexa dosage was wrong.
I’ve forgotten to keep a detailed journal — in part because life is keeping me busy with life-y things like work and buying a house and stuff — and I’m wondering if I’ve suffered less because of it.
I want to make a baby, and I don’t want Baby swimming in SSRI soup.
“If you don’t like Celexa, you don’t have to continue taking it,” my doctor said. Yeah, I thought. I’ve heard that story before.
“I think you’d feel much better if you tried some medication other than Xanax,” he said. His concern was genuine. “Instead of treating your panic as it happens, we should try to prevent it.”
As I grumbled through redundant tasks (like adding and naming worksheets and copying and pasting cells into over 300 Excel files — seriously!), I found time to ask myself a bothersome question: why am I here?
All I wanted to do was drink my coffee and eat my grilled cheese and then call it a night. The pressure to participate in the upkeep of friendship was too exhausting to even consider. Why bother?
I wanted to re-frame a breakdown into a breakthrough.