© 2015 by 19reka94

So, I finally did it. I made the trip to the mental health clinic. 

For anyone who hasn’t already read this in another post, I have been searching for a psychologist/psychiatrist for a few years now. It’s almost impossible to find one in my area that takes my insurance, and finding one I can fit in between my husband and kids’ schedules was completely impossible. So I finally made the jump and went to the local mental health clinic. And I could not be happier that I did.

I spent the first couple of visits doing intake paperwork with a nice young lady I enjoyed talking to. I was kinda disappointed to find out she wasn’t my doctor, to be honest. after the first 2 visits, I scheduled my appointment with the doctor. I get there the day of the appointment, get signed in, and as the nurse takes me back, she informs me that my doctor is ComPsych.

What. The fuck. Is ComPsych????

I was led into a small office that contained a desk, a filing cabinet, and 3 chairs. And no doctor. The desk held a computer screen, 2 boxes of Kleenex, a pen, and a tiny yellow Post-It pad. The nurse told me to have a seat at the desk and shut the door. For the first time, I noticed that there was a pretty young blond woman on the screen. She introduced herself and asked if I’d ever done ComPsych before. Um, no, lady, I don’t even know what the fuck ComPsych is. Apparently (which I had kind of figured out at this point) it’s what they do when there are no participating doctors in your area- they basically Skype you instead, except with their own secure software instead of using Skype.

After the initial getting to know you bit and going over a bit of my medical history, Dr. Nicey-Nice explains that she’s going to start me on my first anti-psychotic, and chose Geodon because it’s the least likely to make me gain weight, and that I should come back in a month.

Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. I’m even fucking crazier than I thought I was.

Whatever. I went to Walmart, where I had to wait for over an hour to get my scripts, and start them that night. Luckily, Hubs was off the next day, because I slept. All. Fucking. Day. He woke me up that evening because I had to take Chubs to gymnastics so he could pick Boy up from track. Great. Okay. I got to drive (luckily only 10 minutes) feeling like I was high as balls. And not in the good way, but in the “Oh-shit-i-took-too-much-Nyquil” kind of way. I drop Chubs at the door and advise her that if I’m not in there after practice to get dressed and come to the car. The next thing I remember is her waking me up and making an equally high-off-my-ass-drive home, where I promptly fell asleep, woke up at 10pm, took my bedtime meds, and crashed again.

Now given that Hubs had to work the next day, my normal routine is to start the new med with just the bedtime dose until I adjust, then start the daytime dose when Hubs has several days off in a row so I have time to adjust. However, I was warned that with this type of medicine, I should NOT mess with my dosages, and that I’m better off just putting on some cartoons for Lil Bud, and dozing in and out sitting up on the couch as necessary. So that’s what I did. I put “dine-saurs” on both televisions, propped up so I was sitting up straight, and proceeded to doze in and out all day.

Let’s just say that didn’t go well with a 2 year old. But we won’t go into all that.

So the next day I stayed moving all day. I cleaned my kitchen. I did laundry. And as soon as Lil Bud was down for a nap and Wilbur was home off the bus, I sat down and passed the fuck out.

Each day, I’ve had a shorter period of exhaustion than the day before. It still hits me, and if I’m forced to stay awake, I get dizzy like you wouldn’t believe. Last weekend, I participated in a 5k that I had to bow out of 3/4 of the way through because the ground kept moving. And then when I got home, I passed out and slept for 8 hours straight. But for the most part now, at 1 week out, I can get by if I stay active and take a short nap in the afternoon.

Strangely enough, all the sleepy side effects seem irrelevant.

I have never, and I mean ever, in my life felt so…me. 

My creativity is flowing faster than I can possibly use it. My heart doesn’t feel torn in a million directions. My head is clear, and I have the ability to climb out of bed every morning, as tired as I am, and go on with my day to day life, just as before, except it doesn’t feel like hell anymore. Today, I talked to 4, yes 4, strangers at the grocery store. That might sound small to most people, but to me? It’s huge. Sure, I’m stressed. Payday was 3 days ago and my bank account is negative. So far this year I’ve booked one wedding, and I’ve already spent the entire payment. I have 5 kids who all need to be different places, and both cars are terrifyingly close to shutting down entirely. I’ve lost one of my best friends, and I’m mourning her death because even though she’s still alive, the person I knew is not, if she ever was to begin with (betrayal is an ugly thing). Right now, my house is a mess, and the leftovers need put away, my body is aching, my head hurts, and my dear husband, who has been throwing up for 2 days, is already snoring. And yet, I feel… dare I say it?…

happy. 

I feel genuinely happy for what is literally the first time as far back as I can remember. The dark shadow that follows me certainly isn’t gone, but it’s being overwhelmed by that light at the end of the tunnel.

I know that this illness is not something that ever goes away. There is no cure. I will have Bipolar Disorder for as long as I live. But for the first time, I don’t feel like that means I can’t live a happy life.

I know that there are a million things I need to do, and to worry about. But that doesn’t mean I can’t find the joy in all the other aspects of my life.

I know that there’s a chance that this is all just that my body hasn’t yet adjusted to my medication, but…. ah, there it is. My one little sliver of anxiety that won’t let me go.

What if it doesn’t last? What if this is just because my brain isn’t used to the medication, and it’s all going to come crashing back to normal?

Maybe it will. Maybe I’ll come down, and realize that I’m still not a happy person even without my BPD symptoms raging. Maybe this person isn’t really me. But you know what? For the first time in my life, that little voice is being quashed by the voice inside me saying, “Sure. Maybe this person isn’t really you. But you know what?

Maybe, just maybe… it is.”

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