As someone who has identified as a mentally ill person for their entire adult life, I can confidently say that I’ve had a lot of experience with the “guess and check” world of head meds.
Months ago I wrote how I was trying to keep my sh*t together through routine. (Read: actually eating nutritious food, sleeping on a set schedule and getting moderate exercise.)
Today I can say that my grand plan had a pretty good fail.
Luckily there have been not hospital stays that include10-minute “what are you up to?” checks – yet.
(However, there have been grand plans of quitting my job and lots of crying – immediatley followed by lots of frustrated anger – immediately followed by lots of crying.)
So, after visiting with my new Doc/ Drug Pusher last week I picked up a new perscription.
These bottles remain closed, with the receipt, in the bag they came home in.
Yes, it’s been a week. I’m aware.
(If nothing else my cheap gene should be kicking in about now. These pills cost me 37-freaking-dollars. I should at least try them so it’s not money wasted.)
I asked my doc all the questions:
#1: Will these make me fat?
#2: Are you absolutely sure they’re not going to make me fat?
#3: You are aware that if they’re going to make me fat I’m not going to take them?
#4: Do I take them at night or the morning? Will they make me tired? How long do they take to start working? Am I going to get all twitchy?
#5: Am I allowed to still drink alcohol?
Still – the fear lurks and the idea of actually ingesting one of these little beauties is enough to turn me to stone.
I. Don’t. Wanna.
One of my best friends gave sage advice today: “Suicide is scarier than side effects.”
She’s right – and has spouted such wisdom on other times such as these when the meds and I didn’t want to make contact.
(I believe the last time she said something along the lines of “intervention”. Now there is definitely less drama involved. Either that, or I’m further gone than I realize.)
However, I’ve got to be honest. The memories of exceptional lethargy that would suddenly hit while driving to work on the freeway are freaking me out. They’re freaking me out more than just a bit.
Or, maybe this is my excuse. Maybe I’m totally grasping for anything that would justify me NOT taking the drugs and continuing along my hypo-manic/depression tilt-a-whirl.
I’m very busy being a statistic right now – because while I know that I NEED the drugs, I certainly don’t want to take them. Right now I feel okay. And, yes, I know that this will change in a drastic manner at a bad time. I KNOW that at any moment someone is going to interact with me (or not) and I’ll transform from the snarky-kinda-has-it-together-girl into the sobbing-mass-of-jello-who-likes-to-throw-things that I become when the BiPolar Carny turns the ride on again.
A responsible adult would take care of business while the sanity is available. (Apparently I’m more manic than I realize – because the idea of thwarting responsilbity is strangely enticing. Bring it on, Beeeatches!!!!!!!)
Tonight has to be the night. I have a return appointment to the Doc/ Drug Pusher next week and need to make good use of the time I take off of work/ money I spend in co-pays. I need to have a week of meds under my belt so I can request something new if these aren’t working out.
Let’s get this party started.