Pandora’s Blog

When I began this blog, it was because I felt a need to vent. To scream. I needed closure and catharsis and a safe haven to say what I need to say. And sure, I have a therapist (who doesn’t have one these days?) and he’s a great guy. I certainly feel open enough to tell him everything, but I only see him once a week, so…

Brace yourselves.

Something is wrong.

Check that. Everything is WRONG. I don’t know how it happened, but I am just out of sync and out of sorts and out of my gotdamn mind.

Much like the bulk of the (insured) population, I’m on a plethora of meds to control my cholesterol, my vitamin D deficiency and my jumbled mess of a head, but I don’t think the latter are working.

See, my dad is bipolar. And he has narcissistic personality disorder, but he’d never admit to either. In fact, I’m not sure he’s even aware that he’s an asshole. But these chemical imbalances and tendency toward mood swings have haunted me my entire life. His behavior had a PROFOUND effect on my pre-adolescent and teenage years. The term ‘Daddy Issues’ comes to mind- and I have them in spades. Incidentally, so does my older sister, but hers are more pronounced. But that’s HER story, not mine. I mention it only to show that I’m not the only one who suffered from his self-denial and delusions of grandeur.

Anyhoo…I promised myself that if I ever began to see the demons, I would take corrective action immediately, and so in my late 20’s, I met Mr. Prozac. And he helped for a while, but this was a bigger job than what he was able to handle alone. I didn’t realize how far down the rabbit hole I was until I got married and had kids. Post-partum depression is REAL and it is SCARY AS FUCK. Hubby brushed it off as hormones and figured I was exaggerating, but I wasn’t. I was screaming for help, but my face was buried in a baby blanket so nobody knew.

At some point, I realized that I was galloping straight down the path that my father had paved. I was moody, unpredictable, ambivalent, disinterested…And you know what they say- “Admitting you have a problem is the first step to finding a solution”.

I never shied away from modern medicine when it came to seeking a cure.  Fuck melatonin and random herbs and facing East when I sleep- gimme the pills and back away slowly.

So I began therapy once more and found someone I was far more compatible with. He has a tendency to interject personal experiences and analogies a bit more often that I care for (I’m paying for 50 minutes- I want my fucking 50 minutes). But he’s real and down to earth and doesn’t just sit there nodding like a stoned teenager.

And with my therapist came some new options for meds.

Lamictil, Wellbutrin, higher doses of Prozac- they worked well for a while. I quit smoking, I was happy (relatively), I was optimistic. But now everything has come crashing down once more.

I find myself making impulsive decisions, becoming irrationally angry with THAT GUY (and only THAT GUY- never hubby or the kids. Can’t explain that). I have little to no interest in anything that I used to love. I wake up, get the kids to school and go back to sleep. I reschedule appointments (or cancel them altogether) and reject invitations to go anywhere. The exception being dinners with Renee and her husband. Not sure why they pass muster when others don’t- maybe because I know Renee GETS IT. I’m avoiding my family because I’ve gained all this weight and I don’t want to see the disappointment in their eyes. I’m drinking too much and mixing alcohol with pain pills prescribed by my doc for my back.

So yeah- I’m not doing too well right now. I’m sitting on the train tracks and I can see it coming at me full speed, but I’m powerless to move. Every night I tell myself that ‘Tomorrow is the day I’m going to get on the treadmill. I’m going to eat better and get at least 5,000 steps in’. And at the end of the day, I’ve eaten a bunch of garbage and barely hit 1,000 steps.

So back to the drawing board with the meds. Not sure where it’ll take me- maybe there’s a wonder drug I haven’t tried yet. I feel as though I’m in a restaurant, “Yes, I’ll have the seratonin-booster, but can we find one without the anal leakage and itchy wrists?”

All I know is that SOMETHING has to change. I’m mad at THAT GUY because I want to help him through his illness (he’s finally home from the hospital), but I’m helpless. Why? Because he’s being evasive and anti-social and apathetic. And guess what? HE’S ENTITLED TO BE, SO I CAN’T FAULT HIM. Shit- when I was in the hospital, I shut myself off from everyone. I didn’t want to see my family, I didn’t tell any of my friends (except Renee), and I posted a pic on my Instagram, but didn’t allow comments because I didn’t want to feel obligated to reply to them.

But THAT GUY should be better than me. He’s better than me in every other way- he reads more books, watches less TV, eats WAY better, exercises, HAS A LIFE…

He should be better at handling depression too, dammit.

He should confide in me. Lay his head in my virtrual lap and allow me to comfort him. He should want to see me and feel lonely and miss me because I’m the one who can make everything ok again.

Instead, he’s abrupt, non-communicative, ambivalent and…not the Lovie I know and adore. And it’s not his fault.

If I want hubby to understand my depression, I should be open to accepting THAT GUY’S depression as well. Hopefully it’s situational and temporary.

What I know for sure is that MY depression isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. You guys are the first ones I’ve really admitted this to…everyone else thinks I’m just ‘going through a phase’.

But is it fair to ask people to understand something they don’t realize exists? I think I’m scared that if they knew, they’d shrug their shoulders, offer me a cocktail and say, “What in the ever-living fuck do YOU have to be depressed about??”

And the answer is, “I don’t know. I just am.”