Monday, March 2, 2015

Week Three

Week three on Celexa.  I miss my crutch medications, 5-HTP.  I could take it when I was having a bad week and feel like I was doing SOMETHING.  The first week on Celexa, I know it shouldn't have done anything. It wasn't possible.  But, the day after my first night-time dose I woke up feeling like mud had been scooped out of my head.  It was the best week.  I had no anxiety- I didn't care what people thought of me, I laughed long and loud, I didn't imagine robbers and earthquakes, I flirted with my husband-- SERIOUSLY flirted-- and didn't feel dirty in the morning.  I had no idea how much of my life had been built on fear instead of love.  I felt like I could be what Heavenly Father always knew I could, what he was always trying to build my confidence up to be.

The second week, I hurt.  My soul hurt.  My heart hurt.  My chest felt like I was being stabbed.  My breath was shallow, and it only took a thought to start to hyperventilate.  It happened from the moment I woke up to when I finally fell asleep after huddling with my sleeping husband and trying desperately to calm myself, to move my consciousness inside of me instead of flying away from me.  I couldn't bear to even kiss him, all my senses were overloaded.  I locked myself in my room Wednesday morning, I came out to teach the kids' school lessons, went back in, and came out to take the girls to dance class.  I locked the door at 4:30 and sent my husband a text picture of the pizzas in the freezer he could make for dinner- he brought me a slice, and I stayed in bed till the next morning.  The only relief I could find was reading- I found a new series and bought every book one after the other.  I read all four novels twice in a week.  Thursday I texted my sister and we went up to her house to do school, so I could have help.  I helped my girls with their school work and read two more novels.

I had tickets to a concert Thursday night.  I took the bus, alone, to Seattle.  I found dinner, gelato, and the theatre.  I sat with strangers and tried not to fidget.  The music and musicians entranced me- the way the second violinist seemed to dance while he played, the way the pianist held his hands perfectly calmed and curled, the way the upright bass player leaned his cheek against the neck of his instrument and closed his eyes to feel and hear his tones, the way a second row violinist held her tiny Asian body perfectly still and fingers flowed over the strings, the way the conductor threw his body into the music while his face contorted and his arms swung.  I found my way to the bus stop, in the rain, at 9:30 at night.  I made myself walk to my car at the park and ride, and came home to find my husband waiting for me.  Bare chested, he held me for an hour just letting me breathe and feel the skin contact.  We will die without skin contact, and he is my rock.

Saturday, I prayed.  My mind was such a fog and I was in so much pain, most of my prayers during the week consisted of "I love you.  I hurt."  Saturday, I prayed to be able to stay out of bed and upright long enough to clean the house.  I can gauge how long I've been sick by how messy the house is- all I could manage during the week was loading the dishwasher.  By noon I was able to start working- I cleaned up the top half of the house. My fog had lifted.  My husband and I went for a hike in the afternoon, and ran errands looking for a few things.  I made him laugh long and loud when I insisted the rug I wanted in the kitchen was this one- teal VW bus, driven by six Labrador dogs, their surfboards strapped to the top as they drove into the sunset.  I was actually serious, and he laughed that maybe I should make choices when I'm not hopped up on medication.  But I was back.  This week has been amazing.

My doctor said that the first two weeks would be bad, but to stick it out.  I can't help but notice that my bad days exactly coincided with my fertile days.  If I have another bad week when I would normally be sick, I will ask for a higher dosage just during the times I need it.

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