Category — depression

I have nothing to write about.

No, really. I don’t.

Okay, lemme think. Ummmm…….. There was that one thing that seemed pretty interes–….

Nope. Still nothing.

The girls are still cute. Here they are in my in-laws’ dog bed. (???) Well, not my in-laws’ dog bed, but their dog’s dog bed. You know what I mean.

And speaking of dogs, our dog is leaving tomorrow. Rather, we’re giving him up. A million reasons why, but him being 90 pounds, dangerously oblivious and aggressive-acting toward the girls has a little something to do with it. It’s really Chris’ dog and I’m not sure how it’ll hit him — Chris or the dog — tomorrow, but having known the dog for almost seven years now, I may feel a little tug at the ole heartstrings too.

Since we’re on the topic of the heart, I might as well tell you all that I’m going back into therapy. Like, real, talk-your-shit-out therapy. I’ve been to psychiatrists over the past few years, but have neglected the actual non-drug-related maintenance of my well-being for many, many years. I have two appointments this week with different therapists. I need it pretty bad. Not taking any head pills, plus the craziness that is this pregnancy, are really turning me into a horrible human being.

About the pregnancy….Well, the nausea is mostly gone. I can eat again. So that’s good. But man, when they say every pregnancy is different, they aren’t kidding. With the girls, I was euphoric. The massive surge of hormones was the best antidepressant I’d ever had. This time around, I’m a MESS. With a capital M-E-S-S. I’m super depressed, haywire, unstable. My moods turn on a dime. I’m having frequent headaches and migraines. I’m exhausted, uninspired and disorganized. It’s incredibly hard to deal with this nonsense when I already have two kids and a husband who need someone who isn’t a nutcase.

Okay, maybe I had a few things to say. I’ll shut up now.

I took a few days off of the Internet and lost all shreds of creative momentum I may or may not have had. I need to shake it off, get to writing again. Hence, the completely random post to follow.

South Beach, with Fetus

Before I got pregnant, I had a weekend to South Beach planned with some mom friends. (As opposed to non-mom friends, because boy is there a difference.) Then I found myself in a family way but couldn’t, in good conscience, back out. So I went.

South Beach when you’re pregnant and sober is just another overcrowded beach city. Let me tell you, I saved a shitload of money by not buying booze. On Saturday morning, my friends went to a pool and sipped mimosas in the water. I ventured off to the Wolfsonian Museum (by far my FAVORITE museum I’ve ever been in). My museum admission? $7.49. Their mimosas? $20. EACH. And they didn’t even come in a pitcher.

Also, nightclubs. We went to a club on Friday night. Yes, even I went. It was smoky, people were burning doobs on the dance floor and I saw no less than five bare vaginas at the strategically placed stripper pole in the middle of the club. There was house music. I left less than an hour after getting there.

I actually did have a good time, though. And side note of awesomeness? We stayed in the condo building where the chainsaw/drug-deal-gone-bad scene of “Scarface” was filmed. RAD.

Friends

Do you guys have friends? Like, real-life, in-the-flesh, live-near-you-and-see-on-a-regular-basis, call-whenever-you-need-them, spill-secrets-to friends? Specifically, if you’re a mom, do you have other mom friends that fit that bill?

I don’t think I do. I mean, I have some friends. I have some acquaintances. I have one or two mom friends that I hang out with on a semi-regular basis. Maybe I’ve even shared some secrets with them.

But I don’t have any near-me best friends. You know, like the best friend you can say “Your three o’clock!” to and they know that you’re talking trash on that skanky teenager wearing camel-toe booty shorts. The BFFs that I do have live far away and we talk so infrequently that I may even be unknowingly relegated to “good friend” status by virtue of that distance.

This seems to be a common issue with folks my age who have young kids. I get out quite a bit and mingle in all sorts of social/parent circles, so it’s not like I’m complaining without trying. Are there dating sites for people like me? You know, because being pregnant and a mom makes me totally desirable as a friend?

Emotionz

I don’t know where I’m at emotionally.

I’m down, that’s for certain. Part of it is “just me” as usual, but part is circumstance. We’re short selling the house and it sucks. Mentally, I’m so OVER this house and I just want to get the place sold and move on with my life.

I have a strong need to get the fuck out of Dodge, to travel, to live somewhere else, to meet new people. I’m antsy. I feel stuck. Lonely. Unfulfilled and unsatisfied. Mentally stagnant. Unchallenged.

Being pregnant is obviously tripping things up. It’s kind of stressful to be expecting a miracle when your financial/housing/emotional world smells like testicles.

And while the girls are just as awesome as ever, the whole twin toddlers thing can be pretty taxing. Oh, and I’m still nauseous 70% of the time, which means eating is spotty and exercise is currently non-existent.

I guess it’s a mish-mash of shit. A big, steaming pile of mish-mashed shit. Know what I mean?

Better things

I hate ending posts all pissy-pity, so here’s good stuff.

Some friends had a long-awaited and MUCH deserved adoption go through. I am in-tears-thrilled for them.

I think I out-drank my Starbucks cravings. (In case you haven’t, keep in mind that those frappes at McDonald’s are pretty comparable, seem to have more caffeine and cost half as much.)

Ironically…? I ended up passing my glucose tolerance test. Blood sugar was 111 after an hour, so I’m in the clear for at least the next 13 weeks.

The girls have learned to say “I know, I know,” arriba (up), Snow White (Elise’s favorite), thank you, bebida (drink), pee pee and caca. Obviously, we’re most proud of the last two.

(Awful post title, I know. It was either that or “To Wean or not to Wean,” and that would’ve just been lazy.)

Today I had a doctor’s appointment. Doctor D happens to be the girls’ pediatrician, so he was familiar with our situation.

He saw that I was on Zoloft for depression and asked how it was working.

The truth is, it isn’t. It’s definitely taken the edge off. I don’t feel like driving myself into the Grand Canyon. Usually. But I don’t feel good. Hell, I don’t even necessarily feel stable. I still have many of my previous symptoms: self-loathing, depression, despair, guilt, difficulty sleeping, anxiety, rage.

Before getting pregnant, I was taking Lamictal, a drug used for bipolar disorders, which is what my psychiatrist had diagnosed. Lamictal worked wonders for me, much more than any antidepressant ever did.

Unfortunately, Lamictal is a no-no for pregnant and nursing moms (depending on what you read). Doctor D’s literature said it’s straight-up unsafe for nursing mothers.

To get to the point, Doctor D recommended weaning so that I could get on a drug that actually works for me.

And that’s my dilemma.

I’m not eager to wean. I’m not looking to nurse until the girls are four, but I’m in no rush to wean either. I feel like….well shit, I’ve made it 16 months. What’s another eight? Make it an even two years. Their immune system still benefits, right?

On the other hand, Doctor D has a point. I’ve given my kids nutritional and immunological benefits that the vast majority of kids don’t get. It’s time to take care of myself, because the disorder I’m dealing with is not something to mess with.

When it comes down to it, if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. And the fact is that I’m not whole. I’m not who I could be.

It’s not about a mother’s little helper. It’s not about chasing an image of the ideal. As I’ve chronicled previously, I just have something ‘broken’ in my brain and, like anyone else with a medical issue who benefits from medication, I am a much more functional human when I’m being treated with therapeutic drugs.

I just can’t seem to embrace the idea of purposely or forcefully weaning my children so that I can pop a couple of pills to feel happy. It’s just not an even trade-off in my mind.

But I don’t know if feeling that way is a legitimate concern, or martyrdom and self-castigation.

The other voice in my head says “Yo. Forget anything you’ve heard or read. You aren’t doing well. Your girls and husband need you. You’re not a failure if you don’t nurse for two years. Wait….. two years!?? Are we seriously having this conversation? Because if we are, then you really do need to go back on the meds.”

I don’t know if I’m venting or looking for advice or what. But if you have any insight, I’d love to hear it, even if it’s just an “Aw man, that sucks.”

Because aw man, this sucks.

I’m sick.

In the head, sure. But, like, sick sick.

It started with a sore throat last Saturday. I figured it was from shouting all night at the noisy bar we went to in California. But the sore throat lingered. It turned into a nasty, dry cough. I almost threw up a few times from coughing (in my CAR, GROSS). Now, the plague has turned into a cold.

Oh, and Elise has had, shall we say, stomach issues all week — so bad that I’ve had to throw out a pair of pajamas (you don’t want to know) and give her several baths a day. And she won’t eat ANYTHING except breastmilk and yogurt.

Meanwhile, Althea has discovered the “tantrum.”

There’s a collection agency harassing me about  a medical bill from the girls’ birth (over a year ago!) and no one seems to know what the bill is for or what to do with it.

I bought a turkey and all the extras to cook a Christmas dinner on Friday — with no one here to eat it, because I had to cancel our guests due to my apparent bought with SARS.

All this while I’m on my period. I know, TMI! But it adds dramatic emphasis!!!

This week has been SO RAD!!!!!!

I’m drinking tonight, needless to say. Drinking and hitting the exclamation mark more than usual.

!!!!!!!!!

I know, I haven’t been blogging. Shame, as my grandmother would have said.

I’m tired. I’ve been working a lot, mostly at night, and staying up much later than I’m used to. I’ve been working while sitting on an old, uneven couch, which is killing my back and shoulders.

I’m stressed. About the house. About money. About feeling overwhelmed — kids, house, money. What to make for dinner. Laundry piling up and spreading disease and pestilence.  You know, typical stuff.

But mostly, I’m freaking out. I’m freaking out because my daughters are going to turn one next week. I’m having flashbacks of where I was, what I was doing, this time last year.

This time last year, I was spending most of the day on the couch, having contractions that I didn’t know were contractions.

This time last year, I was shuffling down the street, trying to walk myself into labor.

This time last year, I had (gestational) diabetes.

This time last year, I had a 50-inch waist.

This time last year, I knew what day my daughters would be born.

This time last year, I didn’t know what my daughters looked like.

This time last year, I had no idea what I was in for. I had mentally checked out. All I needed to know, all I needed to do, was give birth to healthy twins. I didn’t know about the worry, the ignorance, the fear, the sleep deprivation, the protectiveness.

The hopes and dreams. The smiles. The laughter. The pride. The love. My god, the love.

***

I don’t know these folks. Haven’t interacted with them prior to their loss — a loss I truly, truly can’t imagine (happy birthday, little one). Even now, I feel that all I can do is leave sympathetic comments. But I think about their family often, especially in times like these when I get caught up in the charade that being a parent can bring on.

***

Now, typing all of that, I feel ridiculous for worrying about a fucking party. Fucking streamers and fucking balloons and the fucking idiotic Dixie plates I bought at Walmart, worrying that they weren’t fancy enough and theme-y enough and that people would judge me as an uncaring mother because I didn’t pay $5 for eight paper plates.

I love my daughters. I love my daughters.  And that is what’s important — to them, to me, to us.

With regard to my depression and medication, I’ve pretty much been in maintenance mode.

The Zoloft is keeping me from doing anything drastic and it’s mostly curbed that horrible feeling of desperation and loneliness. But if we talk percentages, I’m hovering between 65-75%. Doable, but I could definitely feel better.

I still get hit with deep, dark waves of depression. There are days when I want to cling to my husband and never let go, just to feel the warmth and companionship of another human body next to me, just to get rid of that gripping sense of emptiness — as though if I hugged him hard enough, maybe I could absorb some of him to fill up the hole in my chest.

I’m still having a tough time getting motivated and I spend a good portion of the day feeling terribly groggy. Sleeping is still a battle — some nights I only wake up once or twice, others I toss and turn for hours on end. There are still, ahem, intestinal issues.

Plus, for the past 2.5 weeks, I’ve been feeling like I’m “coming down with something” all the time, along with a persistent sore throat and utter exhaustion. Not sure if that’s the meds or if I have SARS or parasites in my eyes or something.

I’ve kept my appointment with the freakshow of a shrink I went to last time (mainly as backup — and blog fodder, as someone commented), but I do have another appointment next week with another practice about 40 minutes away. (Yeah, our insurance SUCKS. After some research, I’ve discovered that all of the shrinks that are covered in our city are addiction specialists. Hm, what does that say about our area?) The problem is that this shrink is booked, so I’m seeing a nurse practitioner. Don’t know what she can do for me, but maybe she can at least adjust my meds.

I’ve been to a good number of shrinks in my day, but I can honestly say I had the strangest psychiatrist appointments today ever.

Walking into the office felt instantly strange — musty and old, full of memories and secrets — like walking into someone else’s grandparent’s house. It was, in fact, a converted house. The strange room configuration and oddly placed closets made that clear. The furniture was a mish-mash of pieces from the ’50s – ’80s. Leather couch mixed with cheap wooden chairs. Weird Southwest-themed cattle skulls and a Native American-style rug hanging from a rod on the wall. Dozens of copies of “The Economist” on the table. The lights were dingy florescent. The carpet was a cheap, one-ply deal that was better suited for a pawn shop.

There were two women in the waiting room. One was a heavy-set lady in a wheelchair who refused to wheel away from the receptionist’s window so I could check in. The other woman was having a highly personal phone conversation about her late grandfather’s estate. Her crazy aunt was causing problems, god forbid the grandchildren get a dime more than she does, and to call her Uncle Dave to find a Florida estate lawyer.

Immediately, I’m texting Chris.

“there is a woman having an extremely private conversation in the waiting room.”

The receptionist made her way out from some back room and gave me papers to fill out. She probably qualified as a giant and she was old. The paperwork was riddled with grammatical errors. The questions were bizarre. One of the questions was, “Do we have your word that you will call us if you plan to kill yourself or someone else?”

I get called back to the doctor’s office. Generally, psychiatrists’ offices are stately rooms with huge, wooden desks and boating decor. This office — excuse me, large closet — didn’t even have a window. Oddly, one wall was covered in the cheap rug material. There were two folding chairs and one incredibly dirty stuffed leather chair. Piles of papers covered a desk butted up against the wall.

The doctor, who I will call Dr. Fail, was ancient. The photo I found of him online was easily 30 years old, back when he had brown hair. Now, it was shocking white, his face deeply etched with age. He was seated on an old office chair, his ass perched atop a pillow — presumably to make him appear taller and/or soothe his ‘roids.

The chair was behind — I shit you not — a TV tray perpendicular to the desk. On the tray was my newly created file and a portable blood pressure cuff. He explained that he had another patient that needed his blood pressure monitored hourly. Weird, I thought, but figured maybe the guy was on some new medication or something.

We started the interview. He asked about all of my symptoms. I told him my feelings as well as the side effects I’ve been having from Zoloft. A few minutes into the interview, the receptionist knocks on the door. “Sasha needs his blood pressure reading.”

Ugh. Seriously? I’ve never had a psychiatric appointment interrupted before. But I guess Sasha really needed to be monitored. “Should I leave?” I asked. “No, just take another seat,” said Dr. Fail.

Um. Okay.

Some THUG-ASS DUDE walks in the office. Wife beater. Sagging pants. Gold chains. Tattoos. Skinny. I instantly felt something off about him and got uncomfortable. The receptionist thankfully asked me to leave the room. I took my purse so I could text Chris. Also, because I did not trust Sasha.

“weird shrink experience so far. i feel like i’m in some parallel universe.”

Sasha leaves Dr. Fail’s office. I get called back in. We continue with the interview. The doctor now has a big volume of a nurse’s drug reference guide, looking for medications that are compatible with nursing. Obviously, this is not going well, as he was basically running down the list of any and all meds he could think of and seeing if they were okay for lactating women.

Instead of, you know, trying to diagnose me and then finding a good fit for my issues.

Unbelievably, the receptionist knocks on the door again, this time in a panic. “Dr. Fail! Dr. Fail! Sasha’s in the bathroom and won’t open the door and isn’t responding!”

Oh snap!

Dr. Fail creaks out from behind his TV tray and shuffles off to the bathroom. He pounds on the bathroom door. “Sasha! It’s Dr. Fail! Open the door! Sasha! Open the door!”

They test the knob. It’s not locked. They open the door.

Sasha is gone.

“Oh my god, he’s escaped through the bathroom window!”

He has escaped through the bathroom window!

There was some commotion in the office while they looked around for him, but he was long gone. Dr. Fail comes back to the office, chuckling, and says, “That man was in narcotics detox. Looks like he’s gotten away.”

Now I’m thinking:

1. I realize I’m severely sleep deprived and in a Zoloft-induced haze, but DAMN! This is like an episode of Cops!
2. CAN I GET A POLICE ESCORT TO MY CAR PLEASE.

We continue with the interview. I tell Dr. Fail that, based on my own research and my OB’s recommendation, I felt better about continuing with Zoloft until I wean the girls, even if it means I barely get any sleep for the next few months. He agreed to continue with this course and see me again in four weeks to evaluate how I’m doing with the side effects.

Don’t hold your breath, Doc. I love a good story, but I really don’t need to get mugged outside of my shrink’s office by an escaped dope fiend.

I’ve kinda sorta been feeling better lately.

Oh sure, I still struggle to stay awake the first two hours of the day, yawning constantly and pouring cup after cup of coffee down my throat. I’m still sleeping like shit, tossing and turning and unable to get my mind to shut off. And, just to add more insult to injury, I think it’s safe to say that I’m experiencing the diarrhea side effect of Zoloft. Take that image to bed with you.

But the tears, the anxiety, those horrible feelings of despair, desperation, loneliness and emptiness . . . they’re fading. I’ve actually left the house the past two days in a row.

It’s bittersweet. The “sweet” part is that it’s best for me, best for the girls, best for my husband. The “bitter” part is that I hate that it takes pills to fix me. It is what it is.

Friday, I see the psychiatrist. I’m nervous — my insurance apparently sucks donkey balls and there’s only one psychiatrist in a 15 mile radius, so I’m just kind of settling. If he blows, I’ll just have to find someone else.

While the Zoloft is at least doping me up enough to not want to drive off a cliff, I’m having tons of side effects. I’m groggy, tired, run down, hazy, unmotivated. I sleep about four hours before tossing and turning for most of the rest of the night. Plus, it’s making me have to pee a lot at night, so I’m constantly running to the toilet. I was sick to my stomach for several days and could hardly eat anything except Cap’n Crunch.

Is this progress?

My experience is always that the side effects taper off with time, so I assume the same will happen here again. But man . . . I really just want to feel better. I’ve already backed out of a freelance job because I just can’t pull myself together to earn the money. I have another editing job hovering over me that I keep putting off. I skipped a much-needed social opportunity last night because I was just so overwhelmed with sadness and exhaustion that I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house.

I have to get better. I’m so frustrated by my own inability to just fix it already. I want desperately to get out of the house and I just can’t. The thought of having the get everyone and everything ready by myself makes me give up before I even try. I feel horrible that the girls are stuck inside all day because of this awful disorder-thingy.

And ultimately, that empty loneliness inside still nags. The leaden weight of sadness fills my head and trickles down to my limbs, making it impossible to move. This has to go away.

I saw the therapist on Wednesday. I chose her because 1) she was on my insurance list; 2) she was a woman; 3) she was about three minutes from the house. All completely awesome reasons to select a therapist.

Her office was full of kid toys and kid books and teen magazines. Paintings of happy children playing with teddy bears. Bean bags. Her business cards were cartoon drawings of children playing with giant blocks.

The charlatan was a damned specialist in child psychology and didn’t have the courtesy to mention this to me on the phone. She must have been trying to diversify her clientele.

I described my feelings,  my history of depression, my life experiences. I told her that I have that empty feeling in the middle of my chest, like someone’s ripped my heart out of my rib cage (which, for me, is the first sign of an impending depressive state). I told her that I spend time curled up on the couch, staring at the wall. I cry a lot. I’m all alone. That the smallest tasks are monumental for me.

With her sparkly purple toenails tucked up under her like an impish teen, she smiled, “Maybe you could pack up the kids in a stroller and just walk down the street?”

Lady. I am almost freaking incapacitated. Don’t you think that’s occurred to me? I’m telling you that it is too much for me.

Anyhow. Nice enough lady, but not for me. I need someone hardcore. Someone with a bowtie or toupee or support hose. Someone who won’t give me advice from the March 1993 issue of Cosmo.

I got a script for Zoloft through my OB and I have an appointment to see a real shrink (psychiatrist) in two weeks. The Zoloft is a mild dose and I’m starting with half a pill, twice a day, which I have timed so that the medication is supposedly peaking when the girls aren’t nursing.

The meds make my face and teeth feel like there’s a tiny vibrator running out of batteries somewhere in the middle of my brain. At least I get to feel dizzy while I wait for it to kick in.

I wanted to thank everyone who’s come out of the woodwork (mostly via Twitter and Mommy Melee’s post pimping) to offer their stories and support. Why do all the cool people live on the Internet instead of next door?