I'm moving back to Fresno. That was my first pronouncement post-eliminating meds from my daily routine. I was 99.9% determined to follow my gut for once. I’d been told by more than one psychologist that I’m very good at intellectualizing my emotions to try to figure out what the other person wants. So, damn it all, how many times had I thought that relationships and I do not get along; that this was all a big mistake, again; that it’d be way easier (and only occasionally lonelier) to live on my own and not have to compromise on anything? Of course, what Doug has really wanted all along is me. Me, however I come, the good, the awful, and the truly ugly. Thing is, we had a great week. We talked. I tried to talk. I tried to just intellectualize, not intellectualize my emotions. And as the week went on, lo and behold, my emotions and intellect seemed to slide into alignment with each other. They actually shook hands with each other. They practically kissed and made up. Feels a lot better inside my body and psyche of late. By the end of the week—during which I decided to finish my MFA degree, and got all my ducks in order for that to happen, without dragging my feet and spreading the task out over days; decided the French program at school needs me to lead the way, and put that into motion, rather than pretending to ponder it until the urge left; decided I do have the time and energy to take students to the Young Writers’ Conference again and to get over being pissed at the snitty girls who, a year ago, didn’t think I, the sponsor, should have any input whatsoever on Poetry Society; decided I can do Poetry Out Loud, even if it is at the last minute, and to forgive the stupid people in charge who don’t promote it enough or soon enough (gee, maybe they are busy humans, too)—as I was saying, by the end of the week I laughingly told Doug that what I’d meant to say was, I’m going to spend a little more time in Fresno beyond teaching and Monday nights with Lori and Josie, because I’m going to finish my MFA degree finally. Doug was gracious and loving as always. Lucky me.
I went through a few years of counseling until I was able to cut the apron strings. When things got difficult again, the psychiatrist with the lavender office suggested Effexor and counseling. I said no more talk, but I’ll take the drugs. Somewhere along the line I’d taken St. John’s Wort, then Sam-E, until they went south on me. I’d had very brief stints with Prozac, which made me dull, and Wellbrutin, which made the highs frighteningly high, like I was going to detach from the earth and keep going. Effexor was just nice, and I needed only a low dosage—no surprise, as I tend to overreact to any drug. (Poor older son, Andrew: he does, too. I’ll never forget him vomiting during his one frightening hospital stay—as I’d told the ER folks he would—if the theophyline level got too high. Even intravenously, by the time it positively affected his asthma, there was a minute leeway before it became toxic to him. Thank god for new miracle drugs for asthma soon thereafter and even better since then.)
I’ve been back in counseling, too, off and on, but with kindly, wise Dr. House, whose office is not lavender. A couple of years later, my hereditary restless legs were keeping me up for hours at night. My internist prescribed Requip, also used to treat Parkinson’s. What a blessing—I wish it had been around for my dad, who suffered so with RLS. But last summer, the restless mid-night insomnia returned. The best I’ve been able to describe RLS is the sensation that someone has plugged me into an electrical outlet. I tried eliminating coffee, alcohol, coffee and alcohol; more exercise; slow deep breathing à la Lamaze; meditating (yea, right, with my ADD? When I told Doug I must not have developed many lasting bonds in college because I was always involved in a variety of activities my best friends didn’t do, he said, Of course—that was your ADD). I began to suspect Effexor as the culprit and Googled (was there sane life pre-Google?) Effexor and RLS. Yep—there was the culprit; there were lots of us trying to balance sane legs with sanity. I also learned that there is anecdotal evidence of a relationship between depression, RLS, and ADD; I hit the jackpot there. So, I chopped the Effexor in half, and my legs sighed in relief. After a while, though, my sanity began to go south. It was a depressing turn of events. I was just plain depressed. Turns out Effexor at the lowest level is only the serotonin reuptake inhibitor. You need the other half, the norepinephrine that comes with the larger dosage, to get the dopamine boost, the focus boost (norepinephrine is included in drugs used to treat ADD, too). So, I tried and soon quit Cymbalta, due to stomach aches. Tried and quit Zoloft, due to not much positive upstairs and negative to the legs. I tried Pristiq, Wyeth’s solution to avoiding genericization: one pill at a lower dosage with all the ingredients of Effexor. My RLS immediately went off the charts again, and I was having mid-night feeds.
At the end of winter break (our long, leisurely three weeks) I’d quit coffee, cut way back on alcohol, and was trying to work out daily to get the insulation off, so my beautiful abs can be admired. I hypothesized that regular good nights of sleep have to be at least as beneficial to a sense of well-being as taking drugs. So, why not boldly go where I hadn’t gone in some time and quit medicating my feeble brain? When I first tried Zoloft, I woke up one morning to myself saying to me, I’m back. That wonderful sensation returned when I quit the meds altogether, and it grew stronger. I thought to myself that perhaps the me that can go pretty far up and down isn’t such a bad person to be. (There’s the old joke about Van Gogh: would he have produced such art if he’d been "cured"?) I started feeling again, and feeling that I want to be part of my life, not just trying to get through it. I remembered that I used to think that I didn’t feel alive if I wasn’t feeling, that I seem to experience life with all senses firing all the time (which can be overwhelming at times).
Ten days later, I feel great, and I don’t fear that I’ll feel really bad some day. I probably will. But I know the tricks to get through it, and it will pass. Meanwhile, I’m continuing to drink tea (usually decaf) and just a little beer and wine; eat more veges; drink water or eat veges when I think I’m hungry (well, most of the time, anyway); take Requip for my RLS (a little more than originally, but my doc says it’s still a very low dose); and enjoy luxurious long nights of sleep, that I revel in for the relaxation, not the escape. There’s some evidence of detrimental effects of the anti-depression drugs on bone density, regardless of weight-bearing exercise and taking calcium/D/magnesium religiously, so I’m hoping for improvement there, too. I have a wonderful enthusiasm about my life that I haven’t had, except fleetingly, in a long time. I want to take on tasks (finish my MFA, organize kids for the Young Writers’ Conference and Poetry Out Loud Contest, save our French program, agonize over tile for the bathroom), and I have the energy and focus to do so. I stayed on meds because I hated the low lows, and I hated the high highs, because I knew a low would inevitably follow. I’m willing to take that risk now, because to feel excited about life is truly a gift. It is a gift to laugh when I talk with my children and my mom on the phone, to be playful with Doug, to make myself stay focused on the what’s right at school instead of all the aggravations, to feel that spending time unexpectedly with someone is a joy, not an imposition. I’m here because of the counseling and the drugs and the love that is given, even when I have refused it. Perhaps some day drugs will be in order again. But for now, I love my freedom.
P.S. I don't think the Obama effect hurts my new old psyche either.
