Rather than give me a script for some nice Valium or Percocet, one of my OB’s decided that it was a better solution to provide me with some Zoloft to take the edge off things. While I am actually happy about this, it’s not nearly as fun sounding as the other two drugs.
It’s interesting, I have no problems whatsoever in actually TAKING any meds (SSRI’s or not), it was just the initial diagnosis that got under my skin. And now I’m feeling kind of over my anxiety about it (and kind of over myself too, if you smell what The Becky Is Cooking) and ready to focus on (hopefully) feeling good enough to cause considerable mischief AND assorted mayhem.
While I was there, I took the opportunity to also get a prescription for some OCP’s. After Alex was born, there was a period where we were kind of “let’s see what happens,” and despite my previously voiced desires to have another kidlet (but only one more), Alex has managed to cure that ridiculous obsession.
2 kids sounds more than enough to me (at least for now), and besides, since my best friend is getting married in October, I don’t want to be the fat AND pregnant bridesmaid (nor do I want a wee newborn to have to come back from the festivities to care for. It’s even less fun than it sounds, I promise.)
Besides, I am sure whatever copay the insurance God’s foist upon me for these pills will easily cover the pee-stick craze (before you think that we were “trying” or anything, let me assure you that since my thyroid is STILL wonky, my periods come sporadically and obnoxiously. This always led to a “when did I have my period last” freak-out and an inevitable stick to stick in my pee. Ew. I hate that.), and I can stop wondering if every little twinge means another mini-Becky/Dave.
(It took long enough for us to get pregnant with Alex that I have little actual worry that one shot up the old bajina a month would do anything but cause a massive wet spot and subsequent leakage. God, I am sexy. And our sex life is what dreams are made of. Har-dee-har-har.)
I need to properly thank each and every one of you who thoughtfully commented and thought about me during this annoying (and not shining) part of my life. I’d invite you all over for coffee and cigarettes (and maybe, JUST maybe, to watch Rock of Love 2. I AM NOT OBSESSED OR ANYTHING.), but I don’t think anyone is even remotely close enough to do this. BUT IF YOU ARE COME OVER. I WILL EVEN SHAVE THE FORREST ON MY LEGS FOR YOU BECAUSE THAT IS HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU.
Seriously, I always thought that I was one of the few (and not proud) who came from such a colorfully fucked up background. Now, I know that everyone has issues and skeletons and all that jazz, but I am literally FLOORED by how many of you have had similar situations with your parents.
It genuinely makes me wonder how we all aren’t more fucked up (I mean, I suppose you all could be dudes who live in Montana who are NOT actually who you say you are but are actually all named Dwight or Randy, but I doubt it.) as adults, and it further reinforces two things.
1) Not one of us is screwing up our children that badly. Unless they are chained to radiators in dank basements somewhere in your homes. In that case, maybe you are screwing them up. Sorry.
2) I am not alone, and I am honestly thrilled that I told you all about this (well, I’d be MORE thrilled if it weren’t the truth, because that would mean less hangups all around), because it only reinforces this to me.
Mental illness and the fear of it’s impending stronghold absolutely isolates you from everyone else, as it is easily assumed that everyone else around you is disgustingly normal, and the phrase “visit my mother/father at the mental hospital” can be more of a punch line than a reality. I mean, it sounds way funnier than it actually is.
Having done it more than I can even remember, knowing that the worst part is that she fit in there, and coming to grips with the fact that I was the only person in the (insert grade level here) doing this didn’t make real sleepover girl talk, you know?
So seriously, thank you from the bottom of my ickle heart to each and every one of you who saw fit to comment and make me feel like less a freak and more a person in need. I’d like to give you all a hug (but not in a smarmy way), so you’ll have to excuse the baby snot on my left shoulder and the animal cracker residue on my right boob and bear down.
It won’t hurt a bit.