I have that Of Montreal song stuck in my head today, you know, just FYI. It sums up perfectly how I feel.
You may remember from last time, that I am a mess and seeking help. Yay, me! Well, I got the results of the DNA testing they did [it shows what psychotropics you metabolize well, and which ones you don’t] and, ta da! the only one I’ve been taking regularly is the only one my body doesn’t handle particularly well. Typical.
At my follow-up appointment yesterday, we had a good laugh about that, my therapist and I. We laughed and laughed to the point of awkwardness, then we changed that shit up.
Therefore, I am alarmed today, and for two reasons. Maybe three. Okay, definitely three.
First, the stuff I was taking was brutal to adjust to. Brutal–all sort of gastric hilarity [hilarious, unless you were in the line of fire]–and I remember thinking at the time, I hope this shit works, because I hate to think what it will be like coming off it.
Well, I’m off it.
Apparently I was on a baby dose that I should be able stop cold turkey without any ill effects, but having been through the acclimation process, color me dubious.
The flip side of that coin is that I started a new med, which coincidentally, happens to be the one my father tried to kill himself with. The one with the three-day-long pop, pop; fizz, fizz of overdose-related brain short-circuits and seizures, sponsored by this lovely, time-released psychotropic which shall go nameless because this is all my baggage, your results may vary.
Anyway. Side-effects may also include: tremors, dry-mouth, increased urination, nausea, vomiting, weight loss [yay!] or weight gain [boo!], bouts of mania [wut now?]–oh, and time-released seizures if you decide to eat the whole bottle.
I took it with trepidation and a slug of coffee.
But Johnny, you schmuck, you say, why you no tell your therapist this?
Well, genetics for one. It was top of my compatibility list. Also genetics, for two, because my father [as I recall] tolerated it pretty well, you know, aside from the suicide attempt while on it. And three, the other med he preferred was the one with commercial featuring the little black cloud of depression that follows you around, and I already have one of those at home, so what the fuck, why not?
Besides, after another shouting match that ended with said little black cloud of depression shouting, “Snap out it!” at me the way Cher shouted it at Nicholas Cage [and, due dilligence, I am Nic Cage in this scenario, so OUCH], another big, fat what the fuck? Nowhere to go but up, right? Per ardua ad astra and all that happy horseshit.
But reason 3 why I’m alarmed today is that one of my big triggers is the fear that I am turning into my father–the manic, head holding, sobbing, magical pixie thinking father. My father was a good guy with bad chemistry. I am the same. And here I am, seeing his shrink, taking his meds, and waiting to see if the mood starts to spin like a tether ball on the beach. Laissez les bons temps rouler!
I remain cautiously optimistic that neither these meds nor the chick Ghostbusters reboot will suck the life out of me and send me swirling into a blacker pit of despair. Of people and the state of the world doing the same, I am less optimistic.