It’s been a rough few weeks. Mostly bad, a lot of numbness and a little spark here and there of happiness.
I’m going to break everything down over a few posts because it’s a lot for me (fuck, for anyone) to process at once.
Lexapro didn’t work for me. If anything, it made me worse. The side effects were so pronounced (food issues, massive insomnia, crying all the time, body and jaw so tight and clenched constantly, small tics – flicking my nails or chattering my teeth and the fucking awful pressure in my head that would not end). Sometimes, I even thought I could feel the drug rewiring my brain. It felt like an alien organism within my body; pulsing and shifting against my skull.
By the time I got back into see my doctor, the suicidal images burned every time I closed my eyes. I could taste the fucking metal of the gun barrel in my mouth. I’ve never been so scared and so resigned at the same time.
Here’s the thing: Death scares me. Terrifies me. Ever since I was a child and understood what dying really meant. I don’t have a faith and was raised (tbh thankfully) in an organized religion free household. I don’t believe anything happens when we die – we just stop. Go dark. Snuffed out like a candle flame.
But for the first time in my life, I was so past the point of exhaustion and just done that the idea of death no longer frightened me. Dying was a viable fucking option rather than feel this way another second longer.
I contacted the crisis centre at my local hospital. Spoke for about 30 min to a guy who listened and made me contract before I got off the phone that I wouldn’t hurt myself.
The doctor’s office was the next day. She changed my meds (mirtazapine) and I agreed to get counseling.
I met the nice man on the phone in person and spent 30 min talking with him in his sad office in the hospital. The crisis centre is located in the old wing where everything is even more depressing than I originally imagined a hospital could be. That and the awful hospital stank. I don’t think it helped much. The phone session was much easier – I could ramble and cry and snot and shake and not have to do it in front of someone else.
(It didn’t help that he was a 60 something Wilford Brimley look-a-like who I swore was minutes away from telling me about his diabeetus.)
I cancelled my next session with him and haven’t been back since.
I’m not supposed to be alone. I should be contacting my EAP for insurance covered phone therapy or try the crisis centre again and maybe ask for a woman. At least someone closer to my age.
But mirtazapine makes me bone tired, all the time, and I just don’t have it in me today.
title is from the always classic fab four, ‘happiness is a warm gun’.