So last weekend I went and volunteered at a national high school quiz bowl tournament (something the tournament directors managed to make me feel I should be grateful about. Why do so many organizations that use large groups of volunteers manage to convey an attitude that you should feel honored they are allowing you to donate your time to them? It really annoys me). We were traveling, and the hubby packed for us. I know he packed my psych meds, but when we were there and getting ready e-a-r-l-y in the morning I wasn’t sure exactly where they were. I’ve been grumpy about having to take psych meds. There’s such an attitude in our society that taking psych meds is a weakness. I hear so often, “Yeah, I get sad sometimes, too. You just need to learn how to deal with it, you’ll find a way.” I haaaate swallowing pills, and these meds are big. giant. chalky. tablets that are a pain to swallow. I dread it every morning as I try not to gag. I have to go off them in order to have kids anyway. I’d still been getting vaguely depressed, even on the meds; they were making it not as bad, but it was still there. So it felt like, what the point?
So on vacation, I just…stopped taking them. I wanted to try it. I wanted to see what it was like.
For the last week I didn’t notice a thing. My dosage was pretty small I guess, and I’m on a med which only kinda helps because it’s the only one that has side effects I am willing to put up with. (Wrecking my marriage is not an acceptable trade-off for the ability to be happy.) So no real side-effects last week. I figured I was getting off scott-free.
Today, the other shoe fell.
And there’s no reason.
Last night I played Mario and then Rock Band with my hubby. After going on a walk. It was a great evening. We were talking about what a wonderful weekend we had had. One of the best in my memory. Just lots of hanging out, me having the energy to be with him, going on dates, spending quality time together. I was happy.
I woke up after sleeping late.
I went and got a really cute haircut I’ve been desperately needing from a new stylist (my old one was way far away by my old job) who was really sweet.
I went and interpreted for a really awesome client.
Other than that, I played on the internet.
There is nothing in there worth being upset about.
But that’s the beautiful thing about depression. It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.
And I hate it.
I hate feeling like this. I hate watching how it’s hurting my hubby. I hate how any little thing just gets to me and gets me down. I hate crying as I type this when nothing is wrong.
Guess I need the f***ing meds.