Samuel said, “You’ll be alright.” As I cried, upset with myself for taking a drug I vowed never to take again. After three weeks on Effexor, a drug my new male doctor talked me into taking, I felt funny, not myself, anxious and a bit nauseous, weird. I emphasize male because after trying many women I decided to give up and use a doctor close by who happens to be male. His NP is female and my friends like her.
Now I’m wondering if putting on the History form ‘past depressions’ and occasional use of Xanax that I’m stuck with him not the NP. How could I let someone who just met me five minutes judge me, and tell me things about myself I know not to be true? What works for others doesn’t for me. I have a handful of friends, family or acquaintances who use anti-depressants on a permanent basis and I’m all for it. But I’m very sensitive to medication and I already know this. He seemed so caring. And since he talked to me for an hour, I gave in. I tried to tell him I know what depression is, I’ve had a few, and I know to get help.
“I’m not depressed,” I said.
He said, “Once depressed, always depressed.”
Horseshit. Why did I believe him? I know better. I know me better than he does. He doesn’t know me at all. So the self-flogging continues.
I wish I could take a magic pill to make like easier. But life is hard. That doesn’t mean I’m not happy. I’m happier and more at peace than I’ve ever been. I didn’t just say “NO!” I wish I did.
“I don’t feel right,” I told Samuel, crying as I held the wood in place as he screwed in a board to repair the old camper we are giving to our son. “Something is taking control and I don’t feel like me. I feel forced to be different than I am, than how I am used to feeling. I don’t like it and have to get off it.”
“Well, you’ll get it off, and you’ll be alright,” he repeated.
Knowing he wasn’t worried helped. But out in the canoe I couldn’t help but keep talking about it despite the beauty and peace of the surroundings. I steered myself back to the present, feeling the warm sun on my shoulder push away the other weirdness invading my brain.
“I don’t like chemicals fucking with my head!” I exclaimed as my paddle dipped in the cool water reflecting the colors from the trees hanging over it. And I thought, “It’s ok, get it out and be done with it.” And I did feel better, enjoying the rest of the ride, noticing the tree trunk where Mr. Beaver chewed off the bark and the fresh chips laying on the grass below.
It’s a medication that must be tapered slowly, I read on the web, and other horrors about withdrawal. Knowing I should wait to ask the doctor Monday, instead I choose a method that sounds reasonable. I open the capsule and count the pesky little granules reducing the amount by 1/3. Went off Prozac once on my own without tapering slow enough and got scary shocks in my head. Which is why I’m still wondering why I took this stuff again. But I did. And now I’ll be more careful ridding my system of it. When I get in real trouble with depression, my best cure is talk therapy. I’ll stick with that when I need it.