I went off my antidepressants last year. I just kind of wanted to see what would happen. And it was … fine. It just felt like there were more peaks and valleys.
Well, and as an unmedicated empath, it felt like I was walking around naked. And people would shave my skin off with a cheese slicer, shove their problems into my body, and then try to sort of slap my skin back over it in an “Ehh, good enough” half-assed gesture. But it was fine.
I wrote this big long blog about antidepressants and my experience going off of them and how powerwashing my MIL’s house was the key to getting over the withdrawal zaps and I how needed to be bold and talk about it and things were OK and blah blah blah. Except I never published that blog.
Probably because subconsciously, I knew that things weren’t OK. Shit was building up.
I’m just going to be straight with you. After about seven months, I started crying a lot. And being a royal witch to my husband. And feeling super put out anytime anyone asked me for anything – including paying clients.
And then? Then, our DVR betrayed me.
Our DVR is 97 years old because neither of us can stand the thought of calling DirectTV and haggling to get new equipment or dumping them entirely, only to sign up again next week so we could get new equipment. DirectTV? Your customer service model leaves a lot to be desired.
So, we have this DVR that’s made out of an old gramophone and some piano wire and probably real cocaine, since it used to be in everything.
And our coked-up, elderly DVR did not record the finale of RuPaul’s Drag Race All Stars Season Three.
My Guy immediately started looking for online alternatives – the Comedy Central app, streaming, all of it. He kept a watchful eye on me, his indignant life partner. I turned away from him. And then I buried my face in the sofa cushions and completely lost my shit.
And that? That was the moment that I knew I needed to go back on an antidepressant.
It’s been a rough few weeks. Once you hit rock bottom, then you have to sit there in the rocky bottomness while a) you procure meds; b) the meds start to kick in; and c) the meds build up enough to have a consistent effect.
I’ve been crying a lot. I’ve had pretty much zero concentration. I feel like I need to apologize to the world for my broken brain and inability to just get over it already.
But, you know, here I am. Still here. Like a motherfucking warrior. So, there’s that.
Hunker down, be safe and be well…while you wait for the meds to work, as well as a suitable way to watch RuPaul. You are a warrior! (and I say that after a week of anxiety that apparently busted right through my meds!) 😉
First, that Andrea up there (or down there I DON'T KNOW WHERE MY COMMENT WILL FALL AND IT IS GIVING ME HIVES) saves my life weekly. Listen to what she says. She's like one of those sages in Jesus' time.
Second, I understand what a show that doesn't tape (yes I used the word tape) feels like for the psyche. Once, when a Real Housewives of New Jersey (don't judge) didn't tape, I started binge eating Fudge Rounds because FUCK IT MY LIFE IS GOING TO HELL.
Third, I have anxiety that I take occasional meds for but I really need to be on daily meds so I guess you could say I am a walking ticking time bomb. If you see me holding up a gas station to get Fudge Rounds on the national news, it's not "fake news".
I love you. I can't afford to go to Erma. Let's FINALLY create our own blog writing conference. PLEASE.
Take care of yourself, friend. Depression is no easy disease to cope with, so take the meds and know the balance is coming. I wish I could send you the finale–that's the worst kind of technological betrayal (aside from a complete hard drive crash with no back up).
Oh, crap. I hate to read that someone who is SO ENTERTAINING is struggling. I'm sorry that you are going thru this. I hope you feel better soon. Damn those direct TV idiots for leaving you with outdated equipment. You deserve better. I hope you can locate a copy of your RuPaul show asap.
Thinking of you. And also, willing to blame that really big client from 2017 who shall not be named for at part of this, don't you think? Hang in there and give yourself the space you need.
I am woefully behind on blog reading (and pretty much everything else in my life) right now, but I wanted to pop in and offer support, albeit it more than fashionably late.
You are a motherfucking warrior woman! Who cares if you need a little pharmaceutical assistance? And if someone judges you for needing pharmaceutical assistance, they are a judgy pants jerk face assclown. I will punch them in the throat for you. Keep taking care of you!
Related, I believe that you owe yourself a new DVR. Which means your guy should get the task of calling the fine folks (ok, assholes) at DirectTV to get a new one. Or, even better, you could cancel the account in the name of the person who currently has it, and the other person can call to set up a new account and get all new equipment. Not that I've ever tried this out, especially not with Comcrap.
1. Clearly, it is time for your guy to step up and take care of the DVR issue.
2. It was a bus stop bench back sign that made me realize I needed to be on meds, and it wasn't advertising antidepressants. ("Out of control? Get help here." Or something like that.)
3. I'm taking a bump for my meds. Well, not exactly… I'm self-medicating with things we shall not discuss. Because I'm already on the highest dose and breakthroughs suck.