Oh, antidepressants. Where would I be without you? No, seriously. I’m asking. I’m a bona fide mess on antidepressants, still wading through some untreated PTSD and agoraphobia issues, watching shit like Monsters Inside Me and Googling all the different kinds of parasites in my drinking water. Waking my husband up in the middle of the night and going, LOU. I’ve been Googling, and I think I have MRSA. IN MY NOSE.
(I was right about that one, by the way. Henry and I have both had MRSA infections this month, and they’ve sucked. So sometimes my anxiety is actually founded. Suck on that!)
My anxiety came to a head a couple months ago when the combination of a hormone plunge and Henry’s constant, hawk-like screeching conspired to give me a sobbing panic attack. For the past few months, Henry’s been making this awful noise. I can’t even really convey how horrible and ear-piercing this noise is because the depth of human language doesn’t even skim the surface of how absolutely nightmarish it is. The closest approximation I can give you is this video of a screeching falcon — when I played it for Lou, he said, “God, yes, that sounds exactly like Henry. Now, TURN IT OFF before I throw myself out the window.” So if you want to know how my days have been going, turn your volume up to eleven, play that youtube video, and loop it for TWO MONTHS STRAIGHT, ALL THE FUCKING DAY LONG. That’s how it feels to live with Henry right now, who doesn’t have the words to express what he wants and just shrieks until we bend to his will. Last month, finally, I snapped: I left him downstairs with his dad, went upstairs to bed, and just flat-out refused to deal with him for the rest of the day. When he woke up the next morning — screeching — I woke up my husband and cried. “I can’t,” I said. “I can’t anymore. My skin hurts from listening to that screech. Every time I hear it my heart starts pounding. I can’t be around him anymore. I won’t.”
So I took a xanax and went back to bed — for the entire day. Lou took off work and dealt with the screaming. Later, when I dragged myself out of bed, I called the doctor and made an appointment to discuss my anxiety meds. It looked like I was going to need something a little more hardcore, if I was going to function like a normal human being — because who knows how long Henry’s going to be doing this screeching thing? (As of this writing, he’s still doing it. We have an appointment booked with the speech therapist soon — for my sanity. I mean, for his language skills. Yeah. That.)
I’m not saying this to get sympathy, believe me. But you know what’s funny? When I get on the right medication and my anxiety is under control, I get cocky. I think I’ve conquered my PTSD or outgrown my agoraphobia and I start tapering off my medicine, thinking that I’ve got this thing beat. And three days later, inevitably, I’m having some small body-related freakout thinking about all the ways I could have possibly died had I been born in the seventeenth century (this is something I legitimately think about, and obsess over. People just died of NOTHING back then. Typhoid. Or infected cuts. Or rat-bites. Or boils, for God’s sake. BOILS).
My point is that situations change. Anxiety levels change. Anxiety tolerance changes. It’s not something you can just cure (apparently). It’s an ongoing, ever-lasting, ever-changing battle.
So here’s what I’m battling with right now.
1. Any gospel song. Have you ever noticed, in tons of predominantly African-American movies, that a popular trope is to have a huge come-to-Jesus at the end of the film, at a Church, set to a moving gospel song? I can think of six just off the top of my head. This one. This one. This one. Sort of this one. Oh, and this too, which makes me cry whether I’m in a hormonal upswing or not. When Lou and I are watching a Tyler Perry movie and there’s a church scene, I lean over to him and go “Someone’s gonna come to Jesus by the end of this song,” with an astonishing rate of accuracy.
Oh, and definitely this. Yup, instant tears:
2. This stupid dance from Dance Moms. Stupid, stupid, stupid dance with stupid lyrics that remind me of my stupid daughter whom I love more than anything in the entire world. I caught some of it on TV the other night and cried so hard I couldn’t eat my huge bowl of ice cream (that’s a lie).
“You don’t know what a song you sing, you don’t know how much joy you bring…” Screw you forever, Dance Moms.
3. Stupid kids books with an emotional appeal. Especially this book by Neil Gaiman, which is basically a little sing-songy prayer that he wrote for a lady-friend who was about to give birth to a daughter (literally tearing up as I type this). And. It’s. JUST. SO. BEAUTIFUL.
GOD FUCKING DAMMIT.
4. This Beyonce video, which I legit cried over because it’s just. so. inspiring.
So basically, until I get adjusted to this dose, I’m going to be a living, breathing mess of epic proportions.
And did I mention that the month of October (starting tomorrow) contains my birthday, my favorite saint‘s feast day, most of my family’s birthdays, Spina Bifida Awareness month, AND my favorite holiday of all time (Halloween)?! Hopefully these meds kick in real soon, because I will be so happy, busy and just plain emotional I might just die.