I haven’t written anything in several days. I’m sure the two or three of you keeping track assume I’m occasionally too busy being a domestic goddess to keep up with my blog.
But that’s not it. The truth is that the prescription for my happy pills ran out a week ago, and my primary care physician wouldn’t refill it without an office visit. I like my doctor, but there are a couple of issues. One, since I moved he’s an hour away. And two, he can’t ever see me right away, which means I’m inevitably stuck talking to the P.A., who takes my blood pressure and asks me if I’ve had any suicidal thoughts. Of course, the only ˜†˜¥
¢ ´˜∫∫†∞(I’m leaving those symbols in because the Tyrant just wrote them with her toes)
suicidal thoughts I’ve had are the result of running out of my happy pills, but I just smile politely and say, of course not! He is now my ex-doctor.
Anyway, Prozac is supposed to stay in your system for a while even when you’re not taking it, so perhaps my panicked irritability is psychosomatic. If so, I pronounce myself a mental Goliath, because let me tell you, I make a convincing raving lunatic. Yesterday, Husband took apart the baby crib and built the Tyrant’s big girl bed, took apart the futon and moved it into the guest room, put together the bookcase I’ve been asking him to build for months, vacuumed the house, cleaned the kids’ bathrooms and let me go to the gym from 6-8 p.m., a time also known as the “witching hour.” And you know what I did? I took some time for myself and then berated him for putting the blender in the dishwasher without asking me if I needed it first.
Yes, I am the wife from hell. Or I can be. If I was a man I would have left me a long time ago.
Envision me, right now, raising my hand to be called on and meekly offering, by way of a defense, that I do suffer from a mental illness. Over and over I’ve been diagnosed with depression. What do I have to be depressed out? Well, nothing. That’s why it’s classified as a disease.
Millions of people suffer from mental illnesses far more debilitating than mine. But for me, living with untreated depression is like having a severe head cold that won’t go away. I can function, but it’s really unpleasant, and I’d rather be in bed.
The combination of medication, regular strenuous exercise and a healthy diet keep my little problem manageable, and now that my medicine cabinet has a full bottle of little green pills, I’m much more apt to smile at my children and ignore them when they take every clean sheet out of the linen closet to build a fort. Just this morning, in fact, at 5:15 a.m., I found the Tyrant sitting on the kitchen floor digging through my purse.
It was all just fine. In fact, it gave me something to write about.
Happy day.
But that’s not it. The truth is that the prescription for my happy pills ran out a week ago, and my primary care physician wouldn’t refill it without an office visit. I like my doctor, but there are a couple of issues. One, since I moved he’s an hour away. And two, he can’t ever see me right away, which means I’m inevitably stuck talking to the P.A., who takes my blood pressure and asks me if I’ve had any suicidal thoughts. Of course, the only ˜†˜¥
¢ ´˜∫∫†∞(I’m leaving those symbols in because the Tyrant just wrote them with her toes)
suicidal thoughts I’ve had are the result of running out of my happy pills, but I just smile politely and say, of course not! He is now my ex-doctor.
Anyway, Prozac is supposed to stay in your system for a while even when you’re not taking it, so perhaps my panicked irritability is psychosomatic. If so, I pronounce myself a mental Goliath, because let me tell you, I make a convincing raving lunatic. Yesterday, Husband took apart the baby crib and built the Tyrant’s big girl bed, took apart the futon and moved it into the guest room, put together the bookcase I’ve been asking him to build for months, vacuumed the house, cleaned the kids’ bathrooms and let me go to the gym from 6-8 p.m., a time also known as the “witching hour.” And you know what I did? I took some time for myself and then berated him for putting the blender in the dishwasher without asking me if I needed it first.
Yes, I am the wife from hell. Or I can be. If I was a man I would have left me a long time ago.
Envision me, right now, raising my hand to be called on and meekly offering, by way of a defense, that I do suffer from a mental illness. Over and over I’ve been diagnosed with depression. What do I have to be depressed out? Well, nothing. That’s why it’s classified as a disease.
Millions of people suffer from mental illnesses far more debilitating than mine. But for me, living with untreated depression is like having a severe head cold that won’t go away. I can function, but it’s really unpleasant, and I’d rather be in bed.
The combination of medication, regular strenuous exercise and a healthy diet keep my little problem manageable, and now that my medicine cabinet has a full bottle of little green pills, I’m much more apt to smile at my children and ignore them when they take every clean sheet out of the linen closet to build a fort. Just this morning, in fact, at 5:15 a.m., I found the Tyrant sitting on the kitchen floor digging through my purse.
It was all just fine. In fact, it gave me something to write about.
Happy day.
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Martha Nichols
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Comments
When I'm having a really bad day I can't even manage to get out of bed. Last month I spent five days at home, not talking to anyone or going anywhere except to my therapist. And yet, it's been worse in the past (no suicidal feelings this time, yay!). Those little tablets really do keep us sane. :-)