hahaha, I joke and it comes true, oh hahaha
So, where to start?
Nearly four months ago, I quit smoking again. Oh, I didn’t tell you that –after EIGHTEEN MONTHS of being smoke-free– I started back? Yeah. Still only four or five sticks a day, but to me that makes the habit even more stupid, because what’s the point, right? That was in September of two-thousand and six.
So this time my family was far more nagging and insistent, “YOU ARE GOING TO DIEEEE. Please stop.” Reluctantly, I did. Slow going at first, but I really got on it at one point and long about the third nicotine-free day, I was a real bear. I was verrrry difficult to deal with, and this behavior continued for the next four days, the third of which was made even worse (so I thought) by my period starting.
Let me give you a little background: I’ve always been one of those rare and blessed females who didn’t have an especially difficult time where The Monthlies were concerned. No PMS, no bloating, no pain, not even really the hint of tenderness. Spot one day, flow one day, spot one day, Bob’s your uncle and Fanny’s your aunt, we’re all done here. When I started having children, my pregnancies were really brutal. I kept my head in the toilet or sink from long about week ten to week thirty-five ALL THREE TIMES. I reasoned this out by saying two things: “All this sick means a ton of hormones. A ton of hormones means a healthy baby. I’m okay with that.” and “This is the trade-off for easy periods.”
I mean, really. I had a best friend who was sincerely cursed. All through high school I watched her take to the bed in misery for six days each and every month. She wasn’t even able to walk upright, she felt so bad. She’d run, hunched over, to the bathroom to retch the first three days after she’d started. I had no idea how I’d survive a life like that.
So, fast-forward to the next month after the nicotine quit nagging. Time to start my period again and out of nowhere, I was enraged. I found myself doing and saying things…behaving in a way that horrified me. It was like there was me, tiny and at the core of everything, looking out and saying, “Who is this person? Why on Earth is she behaving in such a poor fashion?” Any assy behavior on my part is usually provoked or premeditated, then gleefully embraced by me: “We are Having Fun, wheeee!” This was different. I was not holding the reins, and I was bewildered.
The month after that it was even worse and not only was I bewildered at my lack of forethought and control, I was a tiny bit afraid. I was also in a great deal of pain, so much so that I was physically sick. I threw up from the pain for two days straight. The next month –last month, in fact– something occurred that made me think that this was not a fluke, it was not going away, and just maybe I needed to seek some assistance in the matter.
One day, for eight hours solid, I sat and thought about how nice it would be to be dead and the myriad of ways I could accomplish getting myself that way. I didn’t even go home for lunch that day for fear I’d get the pistol out of my nightstand drawer and hold it coolly to my head, pulling the trigger. Then, as rapidly as the thought pattern had arrived, it left. It was like a switch had been thrown, then a handful of hours later, somebody thought to shut it off. Then the inexplicable rage started again and two days later my period started.
I got scared. I called my family doctor and set an appointment. His sister and I used to run the roads, have a few laughs together, so he knows me better than your average bear. I was equal parts relieved and uneasy that he was the one I’d be relaying my tale to, but he quickly put me at ease with a couple of inside jokes and a completely sympathetic air.
“You ever hear of Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder?”
“Ayuh. I don’t know much about it, though.”
“Sounds like that’s what’s going on. Let me go print you out some information on it, and I’ll be right back to discuss treatment options.”
So, PMDD: Your basic PMS with big, scary chainsaw teeth that drip toxic, infectious ooze. A fucking-with, as it were, of your brain’s chemistry and functions. Officially classed as a psychiatric disorder –which apparently pisses off female activists and psychiatrists alike– it is still largely a mystery but no one denies that it for sure exists. I am now a walking Proof Positive. Ohhhh, irony; I recall some ten years back being amused (but not in a cruel fashion) at my friend Susan’s completely fucking absolutely out every month. Her response to this was to pop Xanax like Tic-Tacs for about a week. Not so funny to me anymore.
It’s mostly not funny because I’ve never wanted to be on meds and now I am. I actually was hesitant to request them at all, but I felt like I needed something to rein in The Crazy before I hurt myself or somebody else. I made it expressly clear to my doc that I have no desire to be medicated full-time, “The three or four days before and the first three days of seem to be the problem. I just want something to manage my moods during that time and my pain for the first couple of days.” I was thinking he’d hit me up with some Valium or some Xanax, and maybe some prescription-strength Naproxen (because plain ole Aleve sometimes does the trick).
He put me on Lexapro (that is Citalopram for all the fancypantses among you), a seven-day cycle once per month. If I felt somewhat defeated at the prospect of meds before, I really feel defeated now. And it makes me angry.
It makes me angry, because I feel like my body has backed me into a corner. It makes me angry, because I went all those years denying myself all sorts of meds, fearing a lapse back into addiction. It makes me angry, because I have spent the last two years resignedly learning to manage my emotions and channeling otherwise negative energies into positive life changes.
IT MAKES ME ANGRY BECAUSE THERE ARE SIDE EFFECTS THAT, WHEN WEIGHED AGAINST THE ORIGINAL REASON I’M BEING MEDICATED, MAKE ME WANT TO QUIT TAKING THIS SHIT AND TAKE MY CHANCES WITH THE CRAZY.
But I’m going to give the old college try, because I’m not a fucking quitter. I will take those pills once a month for the three month period between now and when I have to go back to re-evaluate the situation. There is at least one hilarious story attached to each side effect that will entertain us all between now and then.
Hello, Muffinasses, allow me to reintroduce myself: I am Medicated Middle American Babe. My head is muddled and clear all at once, my manner is mild, and I’m not looking to stab anyone this week.
