Is the Cure Worse than the Crazies?
I am so damned tired of being on drugs. To be clear, I’m talking about FDA approved psychopharmaceuticals, not recreational drugs (makes them sound like something one takes to the cottage on vacation).
The legal drugs, ironically, are obligatory. No one forced me to start them, but the alternative was not pretty. So I started. Now, I can’t stop. I’m on three meds at the moment. If I stop the Lamitrogine, I could die from a horrible rash or have seizures. If I drop the Mirtazipine, I’d be lucky to get away with only insomnia. The latest guest at the pharma-party is Amitriptyline. So far the side effects are dizziness, weakness, dry mouth, and feeling like I’m at the wrong end of a long tunnel when interacting with people. It’s like being constantly drunk but without the delusions that I’m funnier than Tina Fey and sexier than Christina Hendricks. Withdrawal from this nifty pill includes possible organ failure. Don’t even get me started on all the pills I had to stop after a brief trial period because they were intolerable or highly addictive (we had some good times, Zopiclone and me).
What. The. Fornication.
There will be more. I’ve started with a new pdoc (psychiatrist to you normals) and that means reevaluating my history, my current “condition“, and trying new drugs. It’s not all bad, however. Since getting on this Rx roller coaster, with myriad therapists at the helm, I have made great strides towards the shiny new me. I no longer have meltdowns looking for my hairbrush (I wish I was making that up). I’m not scared of everybody. Most importantly, I’m no longer my own enemy. Which is good, since I was a complete asshole to myself.
But how I lament these side effects. I want my brain back. This long distance relationship is a drag.