Down with the Sickness

Oh wah-ah-ah-ah.

Recently, while working with both my doctor and my therapist, I came off of my antidepressant medication, and holy mother of goodness, what a fucking rollercoaster it has been. I've mostly been oscillating between screaming at people and crying, so I figure I may as well write about it and attempt to find a laugh in there. It's either that or my sex drive will probably turn back on at full speed (apparently the only speed it has right now), in which case I'll need to spend the next few days dealing with that until I hopefully get too tired to continue having sex, or will at least need a nap before having to go at it again like a teenage boy.

And that's basically what it feels like coming off of Prozac. The end.

Just kidding, though sex, screaming & crying (not all at the same time, minus one very frustrating occasion) seemed to sum up my earlier days in coming off antidepressants. I am pleased to say that in the first few weeks, I (mostly) did not feel depressed, at least not in the same way as I did before starting the medication over two years ago. Really, it's quite hard to feel miserable when having so many orgasms. But then there have been these moments…

Perhaps some of them should have been more telling to me than they were, like sobbing hysterically… twice… during the movie Bridesmaids. But I knew some withdrawal symptoms were to be expected. Aside from the Bridesmaids meltdown, I wasn’t surprised to find myself tearing up a bit more than usual. It’s not shocking that I was a little bit less patient than usual. The increase in my sex drive was also fairly normal, though a tad hard to keep up with.

*For the record, because this actually matters a great deal to me, I have a pretty spectacular sex life. It definitely spiked in my Prozac withdrawal, but I am very grateful that being on the medication had very little impact on my libido. On the contrary, simply addressing my depression brought me back to life sexually. Antidepressant medication did wonders for me in the bedroom. And in cars. And on couches. And in all the places. I value my sexuality very highly, particularly given that doing so is a huge breakthrough from the person I used to be, and I think it’s important that we talk more about sex. It’s a great boost to your mood, in fact! And being able to talk about it, or ask for and get it, while dealing with all the ups and downs I’ve had since my husband’s suicide has been very healthy.

Really, people. Sometimes you just need an orgasm and some snuggles to feel better.

That said, my “increased sex drive” sans Prozac was actually quite a bit to manage. Thank goodness for the tinder and adult conversations about safe sex! But I could hardly keep up with that while trying not to yell at everyone. All. The time.

I recall a moment of rage in a Trader Joe’s parking lot a few weeks back, and let’s just say I’m glad nobody spoke to me before I made it back to the car. Seriously, cell phones and texting are lifesavers. Being able to vent my seething anger to my besty and my sisters via text kept me from yelling at a stranger. It lasted about half an hour before I finally calmed down, and when I did, I couldn’t fathom how I could have gotten so angry about having to reschedule something.

Everything has started bothering me. Someone talking a bit too loudly just a few feet away from me can be unbearable. My PTSD symptoms and what I call being ‘twitchy’ have peaked a bit again. It’s gotten harder to do my job. Truly, I don’t know how I have managed to not yell at people simply for asking me a question. And when I’m not wanting to scream at someone, I’m crying. Every day, often for no apparent reason. Even when there is a reason that others would understand, I cry so immediately that it’s shocking. It was fine at first, but it’s becoming unmanageable to receive texts about happy news and then need five minutes to recover from my tear fest.

Being moved to tears by pregnancy announcements might be normal for some people, but it’s not for me. Interestingly, it seems that every person I know is getting pregnant, so there’s been an onslaught of baby news. This is a touchy subject for me those of us who are childless widows. Not only do I have to face the whole traumatized-by-my-dead-husband’s-suicide-and-entirely-distrusting-of-all-men-in-romantic-relationships-because-of-the-dead-husband’s-lying and trust issues thing. (That’s a real thing, and I do believe that’s the official title.) But there’s also this thing about society constantly wondering when women of my age are going to start pushing out babies. Even before Mark I questioned whether or not I wanted to have kids. Then he made me all baby-feverish. Then he was a mess. Then he killed himself. I’ve got some feelings about it, people! Now, instead of articulating that swirl of feelings, I just cry when someone I love says they’re pregnant. Immediately.

I also produced tears at record-breaking speeds last week when the airline attendant asked all Active Duty Military Personnel to board the plane first and thanked them for their service. Just cried in the airport. No biggy. I didn’t quite keep my cool with someone a few days ago in a conversation about suicide. Yes, it’s confronting, but I pride myself a bit in my ability to be calm and open in such conversations. It’s what I’m committed to more than anything else, so I was shocked when I took someone’s comments personally. Mind you, they were being a bit hotheaded, but it was out of character for me to get so reactivated. I even dropped a big ‘fuck you’ in the conversation turned argument.

Then I hit a bit of a low point yesterday when I yelled at work about having to deal with a crowded parking lot while picking up lunch for everybody in the office. I then ended up NOT eating with everyone and instead sat alone and pretended to do some work. Again, this might be fine for others, but it’s very out of character for me to let my mood get in the way of my work and the person I strive to be in our office. I’ve been complaining and overwhelmed, and it shows. Fortunately, I work in an environment where I can be open about these things, so when one of the girls came to check on me, I could tell the truth, leaving me feeling drastically better.

But before she and I chatted, I messaged my doctor. I assured her that I’m not feeling depressed, which I now see I’d been interpreting as suicidal, and that I just wanted to ask how long the withdrawal symptoms might last. The brain is a mystery, and drugs of any kind have all sorts of impacts on the body given countless factors at play, so I was looking for some reassurance that this “phase” would pass. Instead, when the nurse in the office called me back yesterday afternoon to tell me that after this many weeks off Prozac I should not be feeling such intense withdrawal symptoms, and then suggested that my doctor thinks I’m having depression and anxiety symptoms again, I was hit with a massively overwhelming dose of reality: I’m entirely overwhelmed by my depression.

Naturally, I burst into tears, this time in a toy aisle at Target, because why would I ever be home and away from humans during an emotional meltdown? I managed to schedule a call with my doctor for this coming Monday. I cried some more. I texted my people. Then I cried some more. I looked at my basket of random things I’d somehow collected and realized I didn’t even know why I was buying some of them. I cried some more. I wandered away from the toys and into the infant clothes section, where I seemed to scare a young boy who had strayed from his mother with my tomato-red face. I cried some more. I considered sitting down and then imagined I may not be able to get myself back up. I cried some more. I left the basket, grabbed the two things I needed and went to the self-checkout.

Thank goodness for self checkout.

And sunglasses! I remembered the sunglasses on my head and used them to shield my eyes, as if that did anything to mask my obvious sobbing. I saw my reflection in the dreaded security camera at the Target self-checkout. I cried some more. I cried all the way to the car, and when I closed the door, I wailed.

I don’t know why some people deal with depression and others don’t. I often don’t even know how to explain it. I had some low periods while on medication, but I definitely felt able to handle them. The last few weeks have been very up and down. I believe my busy schedule saved me from feeling lower sooner, though it also had its limits. Last week, for example, I tired myself out so much from doing so many things that one day I was so tired I felt nauseous. I ended up cancelling appointments and going home, but I didn’t make it all the way there without having to pull over on the freeway to vomit. I was mortified and knew I’d hit a low point, but it took another week and reaching out to my doctor for me to acknowledge that my depression symptoms are currently alive and well.

One thing I’ve learned is that I do have a history of depression and anxiety. I’ve never much liked crowds. I’ve always needed alone time, though for most of my life it looked like a day in which I completely crash and isolate so that I could “recharge:. None of this, aside from my PTSD, is purely a result of Mark’s suicide; what happened with him just brought some of it to an extreme level. Fortunately, addressing my depression and anxiety since his death has given me insight to the patterns I’ve had over the years. And it really has been years. Depression runs high in my family, as do some other mental illnesses. It’s just something in our genes, much like our physical features and heart issues. I don’t like it, but it is what it is.

I thought I’d be fine off of medication, and that may be the case someday, but it’s not the case for me right now. There was a bit of a high in feeling so sexually lit up, but there was also overwhelm and exhaustion. I started adding more and more stuff to my schedule, but I was hardly able to focus. I finished a 9-month program in Project Management at the University of San Diego and haven’t even, until now, taken a moment to celebrate or acknowledge that accomplishment. I filed for bankruptcy and, despite feeling very freed up and in action to rebuild myself financially, I have hardly celebrated the huge accomplishment that it was. Do I need to post and share everything with everyone on social media? No. But is it something I do when I’m feeling freed up and self-expressed? Absolutely. So it’s a tell-tale sign that when I’m not sharing, I’m probably not doing so well. The good thing is that I know that.

And now whomever is reading this also knows, so I probably can’t hide…

But this is also a good thing! Uncomfortable, maybe, but good.

We shall see what my doctor says on Monday, but I am pretty clear that for me right now, the best thing is to get back on my antidepressant medication so that I can build a strong foundation of things that have me happy and healthy. It’s harder for me to do that without medication, and that’s okay. I’m also better able to be for others when my own mental health is in check, and I’ve known for quite a while now that sharing my own experience is worth it if it makes a difference for others.

Smiley faces & hearts & tears because I’m crying now about how proud I am of myself.

Happy Saturday, friends. Thank you for reading. Now go take care of yourselves.

Note: I started writing this BEFORE talking to my doctor and tried to use humor to get myself through, so I hope I caught all the parts that might be confusingly caught up in the before and after mindsets. I noticed that this was one of many posts and other things in life that I have been able to start and not complete, which was one of several reasons I finally got myself to message my doctor. I’m so glad that I did. I’m very proud of myself for trying to come off the medication instead of just wondering if I ‘should’. Perhaps I’ll be on it forever; perhaps not. Either way, I’ll do what works for me to keep on keeping on.