Today we celebrated Joel’s
very first birthday. In all the traditional ways. Presents? Check. Cards? Of course.
Ice cream? Naturally. First, terrifying dose of antidepressants? What? No? Just
me then.
The last few weeks have been
brutal. Evidently. The summer holidays stole away my carefully crafted routine,
and all our toddler group sanctuaries. Wes has alternated between being away or
working all of the hours, every day. Elvie has been bored. And Joel has been
scarily ill with what turned out not to be measles after all. We’ve had a lot
on our plates. And it hasn’t all been birthday cake.
Wes was home at the weekend.
Just for a few hours. Between jobs. Somewhat unwisely, given our mutual exhaustion
levels, we attempted to embark on a serious conversation. It took all of seven
minutes to become a fully-fledged, screaming, sobbing argument. On my part,
anyway. We argued about how much he works. How often he’s away. How powerless I
feel, being left behind to cope. How there’s no way he could ever understand.
How I never get a say in any of it. Not really.
The stripped-down, bare-bones
facts of the matter are these: if he works, I can’t cope. If he doesn’t work,
we don’t eat.
There are no easy answers.
None. We’ve tried. Believe me.
With that in mind, I called my
doctor this morning. He saw me straight away. He thinks the drugs are a step in
the right direction. I wish I could be so certain.
There’s only one thing I know
for sure; we can’t carry on like this. I’ve been using Wes as my
antidepressant. When he’s around, life feels more manageable. The children
frustrate me less. I can keep my head above water. Or on my pillow at least.
When he’s away, it’s all too much. And everyone suffers. It’s not fair on any of
us. Something has to change and it seems that, despite my best efforts, that
something needs to be me.
There are no words to adequately
express how annoying this is. Seriously. I’ve been doing everything right. I’m
talking to people. I’m writing. I’m following my therapy programme, albeit not
as quickly as they would like. I’m reading inspiring books. I’m getting out of
the house nearly every day. I’m a textbook candidate for a full and speedy
recovery. And yet. Nothing.
I’ve always believed that if
you work hard enough, and you try your best, everything turns out right. Well.
Not this time.
To top it off, I have an irrational
fear of medication. Not the actual tablet-swallowing, but the consequences. The
side effects. I took the pill for six months and felt as though I’d actually
lost my mind. Wes has to convince me to take Nurofen if I have a migraine. Even
then, I’d rather not. In labour with Joel, a year ago today, I made it to the
final pushing stage on two paracetamol and a bag of
jelly babies. But now?
Now I am ‘one of them’.
The ones who need tablets to
survive. Who tick the ‘Yes actually, I am taking other medication’ box on all
the forms. Who turn down the alcohol they would so dearly love because
Fluoxetine is not a good mixer. Part of the infamous ‘Prozac Nation’ that the
1990s held so dear.
And I’m scared. Really scared.
Scared of the endless list of
potential side effects that everyone told me not to read. Scared that I’ll
never be in a position to wean myself off. Scared of becoming dependent, a
pill-popping junkie, despite the sworn assurances of my doctor that it’s not
even a possibility. Not on these drugs, anyway. Mostly, I’m scared that I’ll
disappear inside myself. That I won’t know who I am anymore. What’s me, and
what’s the tablets talking.
Also, I’m embarrassed.
Mortified. At being one of those people who just can’t cope by themselves. One
of them. I’ve always managed anything I turned my hand to. So long as I wanted it badly enough, and it
didn’t involve too many numbers.
But I can’t do this.
Not by myself. I need help. Which is the toughest thing I’ve ever had to admit.
To write. I almost didn’t. Write it, that is. Wondering if it would be just a
bit too much honesty. A little too warts-and-all. A teeny-tiny step beyond the
point of no-return. Or maybe a leap.
And yet. Sometimes you just
have to swallow your pride, and your tablets, and confess that you’re only human.
Apparently this is one of those times.
I must have looked stunned
when the doctor agreed so quickly to my tentative suggestion of medication,
because he just gave me his all-knowing smile and asked, ‘If you’d broken your
arm, would you want me to put it in plaster or just leave it hanging around?’
He has a point. As usual. It’s just that a broken arm would be easier. People can
see that. It looks real. It’s a lot less likely to be dismissed as a
self-indulgent misery-fest.
I can’t figure out how I feel.
It’s all a bit of a muddle. All I know is that I didn’t take my prescription to
our local pharmacy. Just in case someone saw me. In case I went down in the
estimation of the lovely lady behind the counter. Who normally sells me Calpol,
or nit lotion, or plasters. Instead I went into town. To the biggest chemist I
could find, in an attempt to be anonymous. For a little while, at least.
I realised two things as I
waited in line for my prescription. Sandwiched in amongst the old ladies
waiting for their osteoporosis tablets, the heroin addicts taking their
methodone and the chatty teenager who reliably informed me that she was also
there for antidepressants. Firstly, not all pharmacists are as concerned with
patient confidentiality as you might wish. Clearly. And secondly, I can’t get
up on my high horse if you judge me. For needing the pills. For taking them.
For being unable to cope. Until this morning, I would have judged me too.
I’m not sure I agree that everything
happens for a reason. But I’m a definite fan of dragging something good out of
a crisis. Kicking and screaming, if need be. And no matter what happens over
the next few months or years, or however long I’m taking these pills, I will never
be the same. Neither will my view of the world. Or the people in it.
Because, in reality, we’re all
‘one of them’. ‘They’ are, in fact, us. I know that now. Some of us just hide
it better than others.
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