When my dark thoughts come, as they always do, I feel better if I write about them.
In actuality, I am not my dark, icky thoughts. I’m a flawed, sensitive person who allows these thoughts to control me sometimes but they do not make up my entire personality.
I make the people in my life laugh. It’s one of my favorite things. I figure, if I can make somebody crack up, then they won’t be as worried about me when I’m having a bad day. Also, it gives me something to be proud of. As a kid, I would bask in the glow of the laughter that surrounded me, smiling with the knowledge that much of the time, I was the reason for that laughter.
I’m also, as it turns out, kind of crafty in my middle age.
My daughter now has, what she calls, a real job. (She’d been working at a gourmet burger place for 5 years while she was in college, a manager the last two… and she hated every minute of it.)
She’s working with adults that have autism in a group home setting and she’s doing great. Her mood has much improved and I can tell that she already truly loves the residents. I’m extremely proud of her and I know for a fact that her grandma up in heaven is smiling down at her.
I swear that kid of mine has one hell of a work ethic. I’m not sure where she got it, though. I’ve walked out of more jobs than I’d care to admit.
Me: Fuck you all! I’m outta here, kiss my flat ass!
Coworkers: Um, okay. Don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya!
So because of this, we’re doing a bit better financially. It helps that I’m blessed enough to own my house, although I still have to pay house taxes (duh) and make sure that things get fixed in a timely manner, that the grass gets mowed and weeds pulled (so many fucking weeds!)
I don’t feel as stressed out like I used to about money. I mean, we’re not even close to being well-off but we have food, a roof, my bills are paid in full and I can purchase craft stuff without feeling too guilty.
She helps out more than my asshat of an ex-husband did.
I told my therapist that I think I’m ready for a new antidepressant, so she said that she’d put in a referral for me. I see my regular doctor on August 10th but she said last Friday, well, let’s get the ball rolling a bit sooner, shall we?
As nervous as I am about switching meds (ah fuck, 2015 was a scary-ass year) I need to try. The Effexor is starting to, as my therapist said, poop out.
So my boyfriend and I sat down to Google some options. I’ve taken many of them over the years, only finding any success with 3 of them. Prozac, my beloved Zoloft and then my current one. We compiled a list of ones that might be helpful, so when I see the shrink (takes a pretty long time, sadly) I’ll be ready to advocate for my own healthcare.
I learned so much from my year in hell. When a med is making things worse, do not say okay when the shrink wants to up it.
Only a spoonful of crazy, please. I don’t want an entire cup of it!
In the past, I’d never spoken up for myself when it came to my mental health medications. I blindly followed whatever the doctor said and especially when I was in the psych ward. The in-house shrink made a bad call when he upped the dose of the shit that I was taking and caused me to have a full-blown psychotic episode. I lost my grip on reality, became a combative ball of constant panic attacks and attempted to overdose on my pain meds.
This time, I’ll do everything in my power not to allow that to happen again.