I've made mention of needing and being on meds more than a few times. Perhaps I should explain what they are doing for me, by showing what I'm like without them. My brain is a special kind of fucked up. I can't even regulate stress properly. I need medication to do that. While most people get anxious and ulcers from too much stress in their lives, I get fits of rage and have epic tantrums over total nonsense! Yep, like I said, a special kind of fucked up.
I've known for a few weeks that I've needed to get back on my meds and try a lower dose because my previous dose was having me in a conversation while not at all present. Mac had asked me more than once, as I looked directly at him as he talked to me, where exactly I was. The sad thing? I had no idea. I didn't know what he was saying or what I was thinking about.
A little bit ago, before I went back on my meds and after I already had requested an appointment to get back on them as my issues were already glaringly obvious, I had a bad night. It was one of those night that, if I were a sane person, would have been a normal night. However since I was currently not sane, it was not a normal night.
I was loading the dishwasher and having a bitch of a time. For some reason nothing wanted to go in properly. Instead of realizing it was me who was loading it wrong, I ended up yelling at the dishes for not loading themselves correctly! I mean full blown bitch-fest at the dishes. Shit like "You are a fucking spoon, you go here and you fucking stay there you stupid mother fucker! Why do you think you belong with the forks? Don't you know that's how sporks are made? WE ARE NOT A SPORK-MAKING FAMILY!" My coffee mugs touched and rattled against each other when the top drawer of the dishwasher moved. Instead of re-positioning the cups, I told them to "SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU LOUD BITCHES AND GET IN LINE ALREADY!" Clearly I was not a moment too soon in asking for my meds again.
I'm on a very low dose of Prozac to keep my anxiety at bay. I have had panic attacks in the past. Those fucking suck! Really, really, really suck! I blame trying to plan a wedding for my panic attacks. My body got a taste for them during that very short period of my life.
The other drug I'm on is called topamax. It's a neurological drug that isn't usually given out for mental health issues, but because of my stress to rage issue my doctor wanted me to try it. It was a good choice because it doesn't leave me feeling drugged (once I'm adjusted to the dose properly), I sleep really well at night (I suffer from insomnia and restless sleep), I'm not having stressed rage outbursts and I'm still normal emotionally. It's a win on all fronts!
I will, occasionally, miss the random bullshit-induced outbursts I was prone to because sometimes they were funny. I mean, yelling at the cat for eating her food wrong?!?! That's funny! How would I know if she was eating it right or not. And this was directed to the cat who was once on Prozac herself, you'd think I'd be more sympathetic to a fellow mentally-impaired creature, right? Nope, you'd be wrong! My outbursts had no sympathy.
I'm sleeping better but eating like shit. Did I mention that side effect? My taste is off and my appetite is gone. I can look at the fridge and see an entire fridge full of food and nothing I want to eat. Mac is helpful about making me find something to eat, but I still end up losing weight in the beginning. The first time I was on topamax I lost over 10 pounds in about a month. Good news was I was trying to lose those pounds in the first place and I've kept them off ever since. Bad news is most of it was from my boobs and it never came back. Fucking boob weight is always the first to go.
Another side effect of topamax, this one is frustrating for me and anyone who is one the receiving end of it, causes me to lose the ability to complete a train of thought. This happens about 45 minutes after I take my dose for the day. I'll be in the middle of a sentence and all of a sudden the words coming out of my mouth stop making sense. I'll take a deep breath, try again, get frustrated, take another breath, say "fuck it" and walk away. Without completing my thought. That's usually my sign to go to bed.
I'm a crazy-case that knows I need help. I'm not afraid to get help because, I hate having to admit this, on fuckmylife more than one occasion, Nixon has apologized to me after I flipped my shit in front of him for no reason! Talk about feeling like a pile of failing shitbag of a mother! He's apologizing to me, so I'll be quiet and calm again, like I had done to my dad on many a-day-after-drunken-night. Yes, I realize there's a difference, but the point is, in order to be the parent my father wasn't I had to see the problem I had and get help. So I did.
Pride has no place in parenthood if you want to do it right.