So far, so good

Day 2, and I've actually had no trouble sleeping... knock on wood.

On Thursday, I went to pick up a different dose of the anti-anxieties that I'm attempting to come off. The pharmacist, who I know is just doing his job, pissed me off big-time. I hand him the prescription, he tells me to come back in two minutes, and just as I'm walking away to go pick up some Christmas stockings for our wee family (just D, me and the kittens this year), he calls me back, "Ma'am, you know this is a different dose than you usually get, right?". 

"Right. But it's in addition to the other dose... I'm weaning off the medication, so I'm going down by 0.25-0.5 mg per week at the beginning."

"Oh."

I go pick up the stockings and head back.


With his zitty little face, he calls me up to the counter by name, and then somehow lets the entire store know what I'm on by basically yelling out the name of the medication. I'm kind of used to that though. As much as it sucks, a lot of pharmacists do it. It wasn't that that got me.


"Um, so... can I ask what you are taking these anti-anxieties for?"


"Uhhhh, well, they help me sleep. But basically, at this point, it's because I'm dependent on them."

"How long have you been on them."


"Over a decade," I reply, thinking in my head 'probably for most of the time that you've been alive'.


"I don't know how much you know about this medication, but it's not usually recommended for long-term use."


"Yeah, that's why I'm coming off them."


"Your body has probably built up a tolerance to the medication, and it may not even be doing anything for you right now, except help you sleep."


"Yeah, that's what I said. And that's why I'm coming off them."


"Because your body will start to need more and more of them to work. And you don't want to take a higher dosage after this long."

"Yeah, that's why I'm coming off them."


"Okay, well if you have any questions..."


"I won't."


I'm not usually a bitch to others, but when I feel as though I'm being talked down to about something that I am extremely well-read and well-experienced in, I get a little pissy. 


I felt like saying, "You try to deal with having a major depressive disorder with psychosis, coupled with a panic disorder when you were 17, try to keep up the straight-A-student-MVP-ball-player-piano-festival-winner persona, as you literally think you're going crazy, and then talk to me about how I should use the drugs. You try being put in a psych ward at age 17-21, pretty much exclusively, wanting to die and not believing with an inch of yourself that you're going to live into adulthood. You try getting electrodes that tickle when they're stuck to your brain, a stick to bite down on shoved in your mouth, lying in a room of doctors and nurses - enough of them to hold you down while you shake and piss all over yourself - after they put you out and shock your brains three times a week "just to see" if anything "shifts" in your mood, and tell me about how to take my medication. You have a panic attacks every day where you forget how to breathe and think your chest is going to explode and have your world shatter down beside you... and then, you can talk to me about how to take my meds. 


But I didn't. I took the bag from him, walked out with my head up (not held high, but I tried), got in the car and started my mantra:


"I can do this. I will sleep. I will stay healthy. I am doing this for the health of my family. I can do this. I will sleep. I will stay healthy. I am doing this for the health of my family. I can do this. I will sleep. I will stay healthy. I am doing this for the health of my family."

I can do this.


2 days down... a few months to go.