Sometimes it's just one stair, Other times it's the whole flight - LJ Idol, Season 9, Week 2
It's been three weeks. Three weeks since I realized that the bottles were empty and I'd need to get more. Three weeks of putting off the phone calls or e-mails, then finding out that I needed to go somewhere else. Three weeks of descending, slowly at first, then picking up speed like a cart at the top of a roller coaster. Three weeks without the two things that keep me sane - Wellbutrin and Zoloft. Three weeks without my anti-depressants.
I've suffered from various forms of mental illness most of my life. It started with general depression when I was younger. As I got older, social anxiety added itself into the mix, then just general anxiety. I had a tough time keeping my emotions under control, and often the smallest thing would set me off, either with tears or anger. There have been more times than I've wanted to count that I've wanted to walk away from my home and start over, and just as many times that I've wanted to walk away from Life. I have found myself missing opportunities that I've wanted to take advantage of because I'm afraid of failing socially, of becoming a laughing stock. I've avoiding making phone calls when I've had something that needed to be taken care of because I've worried what a stranger that I'll never speak to again will think of me. And the only thing that's kept the negativity at bay are my meds.
Intellectually, I know that I need them. That they are all that stands between me and a long hospital stay. But I hate the fact that I need them. I hate that I can't live a "normal" life without them. I hate that taking them means that I'm "sick". And that the sickness is "all in my head", but I can't use my head to get through it. The worst is that, for all that I know better, when I'm not on my meds I can't help but be afraid that the societal stigma that mental illness isn't real illness, and that my sickness isn't as bad as someone with diabetes or cancer, is true.
Over the past two decades, I've realized how important my meds are to me. But I've also gotten really good at being able to talk myself into what I think things should be. Every once in awhile, I tell myself that I don't need my meds. Yeah, I had a hard time getting up and around the other day. I was feeling down, but everyone goes through that. I just missed one step, but I was still going up the stairs, heading in the right direction. And on that day when things were dragging at me, I was still able to talk myself into doing what needed to be done. So if I don't take my meds, it doesn't matter. I can talk myself through it. I can survive without them. So I'd go a few days, maybe a week, without them. And then I'd have a really bad day. I'd find myself unable to control my anger, or in tears over a my key not turning smoothly in the door, or unable to get out of bed to even feed myself, let along my kids. And I'd remember how much better things were when I was taking my meds, so once again, I'd make sure I was taking them and I'd continue on my way for several more months without missing any days of taking those necessary pills.
Three weeks ago, my stumble turned into a fall, which turned into a tumble back to the bottom of the stairs of being "ok". It actually started about six months ago, when I had to cancel an appointment with my psychiatrist and never called to reschedule. "My PCP is a great doctor," I told myself. "She'll refill my meds for me when I need them." I'd found the right dosage so really, my appointments with my psychiatrist was just a formality. My Wellbutrin was keeping my depression under control and my emotions even, and my Zoloft was making sure I could face the world without fear of being made a fool of. My fantastic PCP could write scripts for that. And so I went along, taking my meds, refilling my scripts from the many refills my psychiatrist had last given me, and thinking nothing of it. When I was down to one pill and no refills, I knew it was time to send a message to my doctor, asking her to send in a script for me. And that's when my plan went sideways.
First, there was the lag for me to actually get in touch with her. I'm very good at letting things pile up and letting things fall behind, forgetting what needs to be done when. So day after day would go by, me being online doing all sorts of things that were not contacting my doctor, only remembering that I needed to do so when I was upstairs, getting ready for bed and not taking my meds. I think it took about a week to finally realize that had to call her because I was losing control of my emotions more than I should be.
It took two days for her to get back to me and instead of telling me, "Sure, I'll take care of that for you," she said, "I'm not the one who prescribed those for you. Aren't you still seeing your psychiatrist?" Busted. And time to start acting like the adult that I should be. So I told her the truth, that I hadn't seen him in some time, but promised that I would call and set it up. And, as hard as it was for me to do so, I made the call immediately. I may have broken into tears as soon as I got off the phone, thanks to the receptionist's comment (which sounded judgmental thanks to my own mental state but probably wasn't) about how long it had been since I'd seen my doctor. But I got an appointment. The problem was, the appointment wasn't for another week.
My PCP had told me to let her know if I couldn't get in to see him to let her know and she'd send a script in to the pharmacy to tide me over. But I had a quandary. If I had her call in my script, I'd run into trouble with the insurance company when my psychiatrist called in his copy of my script. After all, they'll only pay every 30 days for a supply of medicine. Doesn't matter if I have a ten day supply or a thirty day supply, if I try to get a refill before the 30 days are up, I'm SOL. And if I have my psychiatrist give me a paper copy of the script, it's likely to get lost in the craziness of my apartment. If he calls it in, then I won't have the right script number to actually have them fill it when the time is right. So I made the decision that I could handle one more week without my meds. I'd survived this long without them, what was one more week?
Well, I am surviving, but I'm also realizing that I can't ever let this happen again. Combined with me being off my medication is both of my boys being on spring break. I'm not having the quiet time that I get while they are in school to decompress and to find a way to handle things. I'm hearing more fighting between them, more arguments from them when I ask them to do something, more chaos around me in general. And it means that rather than missing a step here or there, I'm tumbling down the stairs, looking up from the bottom and being convinced that I'm never going to make it to the top again so why should I bother trying. This morning, I felt broken and battered at the bottom of these stairs. I'd found myself screaming obscenities at my children, threatening them with the loss of everything they hold dear and then some, having no control over my temper, and a mere 15 minutes later, sobbing my apologies to my boys for being such a horrible mother. Because sometimes, especially times like this morning, I am.
Tomorrow, I see my psychiatrist. Tomorrow, I get a new script for my meds and I'll start that long, slow journey back up to normalcy. I know that popping those two little pills won't make me able to handle everything right away. I need the time for them to build back up in my system. But I'll be taking the steps. I'll be on my way back to having the ability to deal with things going wrong, with life not being perfect. I'll be on my way back to being the mom that my boys deserve, and the wife that my husband loves. And any time I think that I don't need my meds, that I can handle my life without them, I'll have this post that I can pull out and read, reminding myself just how important taking care of myself - body and mind - is.