Hazy shade of autumn

Here is my cat. CAN YOU SEE HER?

Oh, but she is there. She is hiding. She is a sneaky bag-hider.

I put this paper bag on the floor thinking it would invite Izzy to enjoy Fun Active Times during which she would playfully bat at the bag, burn calories, and etc. Instead she decided that this Mystery Bag was actually a brand-new nap cubby. Cat just wants to rest. Only rest, says Cat.

She's still losing weight, though, I think, sort of, I mean SHE IS. Plus--and this is a big plus--her coat, which used to be greasy and disturbing from her midsection area down to her butt, is now all-over pleasant and shiny. You can pet her anywhere! You should not, however, pet her butt, because that is odd and also she will bite you. She is affectionate but her boundaries must be respected.

I AM NOT HERE TO TALK ABOUT MY CAT YOU GUYS.

I'm not sure what to say about things. Things that are not my cat. I tried to write a new post for days, but all I had were three words, and those three words were "Autumn is weird." Fascinating! Tell me more, Ms. Bradley!

I always experience a slight decline in mood and eensy-to-moderate uptick in anxiety level around this time of year, and every year it takes me forever to catch on to what's happening. Sometimes I suspect I am less smartish than I heretofore had figured.

I used to like autumn, too. I have no idea what I was ever thinking. This time of year is terrible and also! It will continue to be terrible until April! The light is waning! The cold is coming! The snows will envelop us all!

For instance. Look at that. Look at our October Snow. That is the second-worst Guns 'n' Roses song ever. How dare you, climate. How dare you right to hell.

On the other hand we can wear layers. And that's nice.

Anyway, I've managed to cheer myself up, in all the boring ways, like taking care of myself and sleeping enough. BORING. Also, I am running while listening to fun music! (Running around, that is. I come back home. I'm not flailing my arms and screaming as I bound across state lines.) And it finally hit me, after watching three episodes of "Breaking Bad" on Netflix, that this is a fantastic show but a terrible choice for someone with anxiety. Right now I should only watch things that make me laugh or at least smile with enthusiasm. Like this other show called Baby Hedgehogs and Kittens in Teacups. Wait, no, that's Cute Overload. I thought Cute Overload was a show.

It SHOULD be a show, at that. Damn it, powerful network executives. What's it going to take?

Heading out

Oh my god, I am getting on a plane in 6 and a half hours! Which means I'm leaving for the airport in one hour. Naturally.

When I was flying around the country with Eden, she was dismayed to learn how early my anxiety disorder required we get to the airport. Eden can be alarmingly mellow/sane when it comes to terrifying details such as "scheduled departure times." I would like to be at the airport the night before, if at all possible. Fortunately this time I am traveling alone, and have no one to torment but myself.

I'm really not a fan of flying. Not just the hurtling through the air in a screaming death machine part: the whole process. The packing. The boarding pass-getting (will I do it wrong? Probably.). The panicking on the way to the airport because the cab/train/subway is taking longer than I think it should take. The double and triple-checking that I'm in the right airport/terminal. The long, arduous security line. The possibility of being manhandled. The idiotic shoe-removal. The waiting around the gate for two hours because God forbid I don't get there super early. The purchasing of overpriced snacks and magazines. The visiting of every restroom in the airport, because when I get anxious, my bladder goes into overdrive.

But then I'll be in San Diego! So that's fun. If you're attending Blogher along with me and the 40,000 other people, I'll be at the Mastercard BillMyParents booth on Friday, from 9:30-10:30 and again from 2-3. Copies of our book will be on sale there, and we'll be signing 'em! So please get over there and at least say HELLO, for the love of--really, what will it take, with you? I'm leaving Friday night (to join my family at Legoland for the weekend), so this will be your ONLY CHANCE to luxuriate in my presence. I hope I get to meet you. And you, and you. Okay, you too.

Go ask me: so, about the pills

I received an email a couple of weeks ago that posed the following question: knowing everything I know now, would I still have started down the medication road?

Well.

I have been thinking and thinking about this. Was I too hasty, starting on Prozac? Should I have explored other therapies? Tried to get my nutrition in order? Worked on becoming more active, getting more sunshine, found a spiritual community, taken herbs, gotten a good old-fashioned exorcism? Before I launched into this weird and side-effects-filled journey?

I first took Prozac when I was 27. I had been in therapy for years. No amount of talking seemed to shrug off the consistently low mood I had fought for as long as I could remember. I had anxiety and panic attacks, as well; these began when I was a teenager.

The worst part of my feeling awful was that there was no reason for it, as far as I could see. I had a boyfriend who was funny and loving and supportive (I later married him). I had a fun job working with people I loved. I had plenty of friends. I had therapied myself until there were no more issues to unearth and discuss. There was nothing that I could use to blame for my constant misery. At some point, when my therapist suggested for the 93rd time that I think about medication, I listened.

My first psychiatrist was weird. Off-the-charts weird. He giggled when he talked about the sexual side effects of certain medications. I remain mystified as to why people like that go into psychiatry. Nonetheless, he was thorough. He ordered a complete blood workup to see if there were any underlying physical issues. When it was confirmed that I was in full working order, except for my malfunctioning thought processes, he prescribed Prozac.

A few days after I began the Prozac, I woke up one morning, and I felt fine.

Here's the thing: up until that day, I had never felt fine. Not ever. I didn't know what "fine" was. I thought I did; I thought there were periods when I thought I was doing quite well. I thought the Prozac was treating a relatively recent development in my emotional state. And then I woke up that day, and I realized that this was normal, and this was how I was supposed to feel all the time. And it was utterly, utterly new to me.

It was as if I had spent my entire life hearing a constant thrumming sound in the background, a percussive rhythm that became part of the fabric of my life. And then I woke up to silence, and I had no idea what silence was. And I could think, without all that noise.

Well! I proceeded to call all of my friends. I couldn't get enough of this feeling. This being fine was a miracle! Who knew? Was everyone else like this? Did everyone else get to experience what I was experiencing? I practically skipped out of my house that morning. I'm sure I was unbearable for a while, there. I don't think I cared even the tiniest little bit.

That was 15 years ago, and if I had been smart, I would have never messed with the prescription I was on, but the records show that I am not always smart. About a year later, although things were going swimmingly, I decided to stop taking Prozac, and then I relapsed. And I began it again, and stopped again, the then another relapse. This happened four times. Meanwhile I switched psychiatrists (I just couldn't take the giggling) and my new doc for some reason just desperately wanted me to be bipolar. She put me on all kinds of bipolar meds that made me ill, and then I found a smarter doctor, and the bipolar diagnosis was quickly scrapped.

Here I am now, back on Prozac. I've read a lot about depression in the ensuing years, and one thing I learned is that if you have more than 3 or 4 relapses, you probably shouldn't ever go off the medication. If you've read my last few posts about my depression and the medication adjustments, you know that I had another relapse while on Prozac, which was (for me) unprecedented, and worrisome, to say the least. Thus the new drug, Remeron, which didn't take. So now I'm only on Prozac, again, and right now I'm back to feeling fine. Which is a feeling I love with all my heart.

As for my relapse-on-Prozac, I think I leaned on the medication a little too hard, and as a result let my diet and self-care slip because, after all, I had the drugs to keep me well. This is like a person being on cholesterol medication and eating bacon and ice cream sundaes every night. In the past six months I've been completely overhauling my diet, in addition to making sleep a high priority, both in quality and quantity. (Mmm, quantity.) I'll get into the food stuff in a later post, as I see this post is getting too long for its own good.

So: with everything I've been through, would I still have gone on medication? In a heartbeat. Medication was, for me, a tremendous gift. I got to see what relief felt like. And when I lost that relief, I knew what I could have again. I knew exactly what I was aiming for.

Chasing rabbits

Let's talk about the meds. The MEDS. Goddammit.

Here's a brief overview of what's been going on, medication-wise.

In December, the Prozac I had been taking, successfully, for years, decided to stop working. Just like that! I took to my bed.

A few days later my doctor put me on Remeron, because it's fast-acting. I had never heard of Remeron. Scott said it sounded like Scooby-Doo saying "Enron," which sounded about right.

The Remeron worked great--SO GREAT IN FACT that in April, my doc suggested I go off the Prozac. Since it wasn't working, right?

Then, a few weeks later: ruh roh. The depression returned, but even worse, like it was all mad at me. My doctor put me back on Prozac--but since the Prozac takes a while to kick in, he upped the dose of Remeron. He did this twice, until I was no longer feeling completely and utterly sick and like my life was draining from me. So that was good.

But then I started having these…episodes. In general I'm a little lightheaded and spacey, nothing too dramatic, but enough that I need to hold onto handrails and should not operate heavy machinery. As if I ever should. But the episodes are far more dramatic. When these hit, I get so lightheaded I am about 99% sure my life is ending, imminently. My vision gets fuzzy, my limbs feel like they're not mine, I'm nauseated and shaky, and in general I feel as awful as I've ever felt in my life. Like I'm just bathed in awful.

Unfortunately the first time this hit, I was taking a nice long walk to visit my psychiatrist's office, which is about 4 miles from my home. How cheerfully I set out on my mission! There I was, happily marching across the Gowanus Canal, when my vision started winking in and out and I felt like I was floating and my arms weren't mine. Unfortunately every time I stopped to sit and regain full consciousness, it became harder and harder to stand up and get my limbs (the ones that clearly belonged to someone else) moving again. So the breaks became more frequent as I neared my destination, until I had to sit at pretty much every block. Sometimes just right there on the street. (Well, against a building. I didn't just plop down in the middle of the sidewalk.) An intelligent person would have tried to get a cab at this point, or sought out the nearest subway stop, but, you know.

I told my psychiatrist about this when I saw him, but by then I had had some water and some quality sitting time in his waiting room and actually felt fine. So maybe the extent of the awfulness I felt didn't come through in my retelling of it. He responded with something noncommittal, about keeping an eye on it, etc. Then it happened a few days later, and then again, and then another time, and each time it seemed even more likely that I might face-plant on the sidewalk. (Why always outside, Brain? Can't you do this when I'm near a fainting couch?) I thought maybe it was low blood pressure, but it feels also an awful lot like how I felt when I became anemic during pregnancy. Or maybe it's some thrilling combo of the two.

At any rate I Googled, as one does, and the Googling brought up a lot about Remeron and passing out, and I called my doctor, who recommended I stop the Remeron for a couple of days and then restart at the original dose. Of course there's a withdrawal syndrome for Remeron, of COURSE, but the danger that I might black out is more pressing, to my doctor's way of thinking, than my temporary discomfort. Which means that I might feel awful for the next few days, and I wouldn't even mind this so much except that I'm going to my college reunion this weekend. I apologize in advance, my Wellesley sisters, if I throw up into a flower arrangement. I probably won't. Probably.

The other problem with the Remeron is that I can no longer sleep. This is sad, as I enjoy sleeping. Remeron is supposed to help you sleep--in fact, it's often used to treat insomnia. In my case, I have to take it when I am on my way to slumberland, or I get a case of the Restless Legs that's so bad there's no way in hell I'll sleep that night. It seems, somewhat not surprisingly, that taking a pill, washing it down with some water and then squeezing one's eyes shut while thinking "OH MY GOD I NEED TO FALL ASLEEP RIGHT NOW OR ELSE" is not the most relaxing way to drift off. So I worry, and if I'm lucky I fall asleep anyway, but even if I do I tend to wake up every hour or so with some INCREDIBLY URGENT THOUGHT in my head. A few nights ago I lurched out of bed because I Had To Print An Email! And Read It To Scott! For instance. If I don't fall asleep, which usually I do not, I lie in bed twitching and dying and considering calling the Church to see if they'll give my legs a nice long exorcism.

While the Remeron gives me trouble when it comes to sleeping, my doctor has assured me that going off of it will cause (wait for it) sleeping problems. But then the Klonopin might help with that, being a benzo and all. It's getting very Go Ask Alice, around these parts. Maybe I'll wash these Bennies down with some LSD! What? Don't be such a square!

UGH. I can't believe I just wrote all this about these drugs. And now I'm going to publish. And you're going to read it. And I'm going to get an alarmed call from my mom. AGAIN. My poor mom.