Monthly Archives: October 2011

Joy and Pain…Sunshine and Rain

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About a month ago I began a journey.  I didn’t tell anyone about it (except my adoring husband and a few very close friends) cause it wasn’t such a big deal.

Plus, I kind of assumed I’d fail and it wouldn’t matter.

I began to wean myself off of the anxiety medication, or rather off of the ungodly high dose of anxiety medication, I have been taking for 3.5 years.

Not because my anxiety is “cured” but because I really wanted to see where I was at, what coping mechanisms I had in place, and what my baseline was.

More importantly, however, I wanted to feel again.  For all the wonder of modern medicine, pure joy and sadness, had become all but a distant memory.

I felt numb.  I felt unable to articulate myself – which is a bad things when you are a writer.  I felt like I was in a chronic ambivalent fog.

The withdrawal symptoms have been sucktastic.  Vertigo, nausea, brain zaps, chills, rage irritability, and insomnia just to name a few.

At worst I thought I was going to die, at best I thought I would have to go back on the meds and be on them forever just to avoid the shear unpleasantness of this whole experience.

What kept me going were the glimpses of emotion I worried had long ago abandoned me.

I began to enjoy laughing.

I began to relish the release of crying.

This morning I heard the BBC News intro music and I teared up with sentiment.

 ”I sure do love the BBC.  It’s so nice of my local NPR station to bring it to me commercial free.  I should really increase my monthly pledge.  Life is beautiful.”

Every day the side effects get better.  Notably, my anxiety has not worsened, which I take as a good sign that I have learned some coping mechanisms on this journey.

It’s possible I might need to take the medication again at some point (maybe even tomorrow).  It’s possible I might have to take it forever.  I’m okay with that.

But I had to try.

Some of the very traits that leave me most vulnerable to living in a permanently medicated state are the very same that make me the empathetic and expressive person that I am.

So I’m coming out.  I am un-medicated and loving it.

I kind of like me this way.  I kind of enjoy laughing maniacally at Peter’s knock knock jokes and tearing up at the awesomeness of the dollar bin Hello Kitty swag at Target.  It’s definitely an extreme variance from the norm, but I know the the time will come soon enough that everything evens out again and I don’t notice or appreciate the novelty anymore.

In the meantime I fully expect that between the laughter and the tears I’ll lose some water weight and build up some abdominal muscles too.  

So if you see me at Target with a buggy full of Hello Kitty swag laughing manically while tears roll down my face,  just remember one thing…

If it get’s really bad, they have a pharmacy.

 

 

Pretty Perfect

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I’m not entirely sure why, but I’ve become quite into decor lately.  Paying attention to the finer details – things I haven’t ever found myself inclined to take an interest in – like vintage hair barrettes and shopping for the perfect upholstery fabric for new kitchen drapes.

It’s like I have this eye for the finer things in life now.

It’s curious, this coming from the woman who chased her child’s teacher down (past 487 cars in the in the kiss and go lane) wearing her pajamas without a bra - just yesterday – screaming, “Wait for us!  We’re late – again!”.

I’m such a dichotomy.

I like the pretty perfect things.  Until they aren’t pretty and perfect any more.

I was pretty and perfect once, and then I wasn’t, so I gave up and now…I’m that mom that drops her kid off at school in her pajamas.

Christ.

But this obsession with the pretty little details.  It’s almost like I’m making up for something.  Like maybe if I get enough pretty little perfect things I might feel inspired to aspire towards their perfect prettiness.

I’m pretty sure this is how people end up on Hoarders.

This is a problem.

I’m not doing such a great job at keeping anything else in my life pretty and perfect.  So if I can get a nice damask shelf paper…maybe that will make up for it all?

On Monday I met with my OBGYN, who is really just my GYN cause let’s not fool ourselves.  We talked about birth control. We talked about how being pregnant again would be devastating and I have to assume he means right now because seriously did he really tell me that I shouldn’t have more children?

Then the nurse took me to get my vitals and in the midst of this I begin to shake, sweat, breathe hard…I succumb to the panic….finding myself back in the exam room sobbing uncontrollably.  I want to run.  I don’t want to make this decision.

The nurse is clearly used to seeing women lose their shit in her presence.  She coolly hands me a paper towel and tells me the doctor will be back in a minute.

I don’t know why I’m crying.

Okay, I do.  I do know why I am crying.

He said devastating.

Is that why I am crying?

Or is it because….he’s right?   Whether he meant devastating the way I think he meant devastating or not (cause you know, that word is fairly subjective)  - he is right.

I’m done having babies.

I have to make a grown up decision.

My husband can’t make it.

My doctor can’t make it.

My friends and family can’t make it.

Everybody’s Boy is an only child.

I feel sad.  For him.  For his potential siblings.

Mostly, though, for me.

I don’t get to experience a typical pregnancy, birth, infancy, childhood.

Not that I value *this* experience any less.  Not that this experience *is* any less.

The two are mutually exclusive you see.

I want the braless kindergarten drop offs and the damask shelf paper – minus the devastating part.

But I have to be a grown up and make a life altering decision.

So there you have it.  It’s done.  Or it will be within the next few weeks.

I’m going to tell myself it’s forever, even though medically it is not.  Cause I’d rather process the acceptance and grieve than hang on to a tiny shred of uncertain hope.

I’ll be fine.  I might cry sometimes.  I might curse the gods (and random pregnant women) periodically.  I might buy all the damask shelf paper available on the internet and end up on a mash-up of Hoarders/Intervention/I definitely knew I wasn’t pregnant thank you very much you asshat for reminding me…

But closure does a lot for the soul, and I’m certain when the dust settles the “pretty perfect” all around me will be much easier to celebrate.

Stuff I know, now that I’m old

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Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of this:

You:  ”I don’t know how you do it!”
Me:  ”I don’t.  I’m failing miserably.”
You:  say something in protest…
I submit a notarized affidavit of the billion ways I am not even remotely “doing it”.
I win.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t have a background in Public Relations.

Sometimes I wish I were a little bit “not as good” at putting my best foot forward.

Because I hate to mislead.

Also because the only thing worse than misleading would to actually be “awesome”.

I would not be comfortable with that at all.

Let me say this.  No one has their shit pulled together like you think they do.

Not even her:

Note the Cheetos.

We are either trying like hell to put our best foot forward.

or

Trying like hell to look like we aren’t so adept at putting our best foot forward.

Each is a silent scream for help.

It doesn’t matter if you just mitigated a violent meltdown with your 5 year-old over a package of pre-cut apples.

Or you spilled your coffee on your only suit on your way to your very first job interview.

Not a damned one of us is kicking ass.

So let’s not make assumptions.

Let’s be gentle with each other – with ourselves.

We are all fighting our own battles.

We are all going to put our game face on and say we don’t need anything.

We will probably judge that person who does ask for help.

We are all going to hate her, wishing that we were more adept at being  humble.

Then we’ll silently weep while we continue to struggle, feel alone, and wish that someone would notice and help…while we do everything we can to make sure everyone knows we’ve “got this” and don’t need anything.

And so it goes…

 

 

Road Trippin’

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Having a job is really cool.

Not just for the obvious reason that like nobody has one anymore either.

Two words:  Road trips!

I went like super far yesterday.

Just me and invisible Matt Damon.

Yes, that’s right.  I road tripped with Matt Damon.

It was a blast.

We talked about our mutual love of Pain au Chocolat, Styx, and the Anne of Green Gables series.  We motioned to truck drivers to blow their whistle, put a sign in the back of the window that said “I brake for Cracker Barrel” and sang along to Boyz 2 Men on my iPod.

Here we are singing “I’ll Make Love to You” at an I-85 rest stop.

 

Is he not the most divine thing ever?

In other exciting news I discovered that my car has cruise control.  I’ve had this car since August 2004 and until yesterday (Thanks Matty) had no idea such a feature existed.

Now that I can sit criss cross applesauce while I drive – on the go pedicures will never be quite the same.

We had a great time. On the way home we stopped at Cracker Barrel for a veggie plate and some sweet tea, and our virgin eyes were assaulted by lots and lots of Vera Bradley patterns.   I woke up this morning hoarse from shrieking the Rent Soundtrack all the way home last night while sobbing over the news that Steve Jobs had passed away.

Matty and I really dug that guy.

I got home just before 9 p.m. and of course Everybody’s Boy had waited up for me.

We cuddled up with our iPad and checked on our Smurf Village.  I sent a silent shout out to Steve, thanking him for all his products have done for my child – and countless others.

It was a crazy awesome day.

I mean, except for the Steve Jobs part and the Vera Bradley.

PS:  Do you like my blog?  Would you like to see an “Everybody’s Boy” book?