I’m not sure which one of you assholes forced me to go off my anti-anxiety meds, but that was a really stupid fucking idea. (For those of you just joining us, that asshole is me.)
I went off my meds because of a 3-pound winter weight gain, but I knew early on that my head was in the wrong place. My doctor’s plan was for me to go on a NEW medication, use it as a “crutch” for 6 months, get myself into some cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) and slowly move into medslessness with some CBT skills in place. The problem was, when I tried a new drug, it flared my colitis. So, I just kept plugging along drug-free, enjoying the reunion with my sex drive, working on my deep breathing, implementing my single-session of CBT strategies, feeling somewhat better from being off Facebook and thinking that all the stuff that Supremely Pissed Me Off was RIGHTEOUS.
Unfortunately, the things that I felt most righteous about were slightly distorted. I know many things about mental illness DO have a basis in reality, and — the reality is — our dishwasher often looks like it was loaded by the dog. But it seemed to affect me in a way that made me yell. A LOT. At the people I love. And live with.
My husband lovingly urged me to go back on meds.
I went to my second therapy session:
ME <to therapist>: Can you prescribe meds?
MY LOVELY THERAPIST (MLT): No, but I can tell you if I think you’re a good candidate for them.
ME: Blethering on for 20 minutes in a completely unfocused description of my current state-of-mind about how I don’t experience joy from the things that typically give me joy and and how my lows seem to be getting even lower.
MLT: How long has this been going on?
ME: Probably since I helped my mom and her cat fly to England. (Although this sentence was more like 1,000 sentences and took me another 15 minutes).
ME (again): Sooo…do you think I’m a good candidate for meds?
MLT <with the most empathic version of “Uh…DUH!”>: Yessssssssssssssss!! I have a psychiatrist I can refer you to.
Ooooooooooo! Just like Betty Draper in Mad Men, Season 1!
Here is what happened when I called Dr. Psychiatrist’s office:
ME: Hi my name is Catherine. MLT referred me to Dr. Psychiatrist and I’d like to make a new patient appointment.
SENSITIVITY-LACKING FRONT OFFICE LADY (SLFOL): What insurance do you have?
ME: Uh….Blue Cross Blue Shield.
SLFOL: What state?
ME <irritated>: Rhode Island!
SLFOL: Okay. What was your name again?
ME: Gee. What would have happened if I’d said something else?
SLFOL: We only take certain types of insurance.
ME: You know you work in the front office for a PSYCHIATRIST, right?! I pretty much think the overriding demographic of PEOPLE CALLING TO MAKE THEIR FIRST APPOINTMENT WITH A FUCKING PSYCHIATRIST is SOMEWHAT FUCKING FRAGILE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Asking for their health insurance without even a pause is just completely fucking obnoxious, you dense, irritating, Rhode Island front-office-lady beast of burden (except this last part was all in my head).
Where was I going with all this? Oh yeah! I guess I mostly wanted to tell you that I am a wee bit depressed and that after Therapy Session II, I went back on my OLD meds while waiting to see the psychiatrist (10/1) and give his front office lady the finger (in my head) and see if he can prescribe me a medicine that helps my anxiety+depression, but still allows me to have a decent sex drive and also does not add any body weight or flare my colitis.
Until all THOSE criteria are met, here is some dishwasher loading to inspire you: