20mg of perspective

I have taken Celexa – an anti-depressant – for about two years now. I tried to abruptly quit twice (some time ago – can’t really recall) and subsequently decided I felt better on them than off and planned to stay on a low dose for the foreseeable future.

That all went pretty well. I refilled 3 months of my prescription before moving and made a mental note to see a new doctor once I got settled to keep my bottle safely filled so I could take one each night. I take said bottle with me when I travel – not because it kills me to miss a night, but because it’s part of my evening routine to swallow a tiny pink tablet for my mental well-being.

“I can’t find my pills,” I told my parents last weekend. “I almost didn’t take them to the desert, but I decided to go ahead and throw them in the bag. I don’t know where I put them when I got back.”

“Did you leave them?” Mom asked, already moving toward the stairs to go check my room.

“I don’t think so,” I replied, rolling my eyes when Dad said I probably did and the hotel threw them away. “They wouldn’t throw away a prescription,” I snapped at him and he went into some speech about how they had to do that. Mom and I continued to distance ourselves from said monologue and searched my bedroom and bathroom.

“I wonder if I lost them,” she fretted, for she’d taken charge of unpacking the master bedroom/bathroom/closet for me. I shrugged and patted her back in reply.

“I doubt it,” I finally said. “I just don’t remember unpacking them so I’m not sure where they went. They’ll turn up.”

But the tiny tablets stayed stubbornly lost all week. I found a sample pack of pills and took half doses for four days, then stopped when I ran out. And I felt like hell.

My mood dipped pretty quickly, but, knowing the cause, I tried to control my reaction to it. I do the worst at night, right before bed. My mind races with worry – this house is too big! What if I get fired? I’m not social enough to do this job! If Chienne potties in the basement, I’m never going to get rid of the smell! What if Sprout escapes through the dog door? He might get hit by a car! Or in a fight with another cat! I have to take the animals to the vet to update shots and get overall checks. Sprout hates the vet – what if I lose him while getting out of the car? I'm a bad person for not taking care of my pets. I don't deserve animals to love. It's so very sad.

I practiced deep breathing while the frantic worry bounced around my brain, forcing back panic over the fact that I have a problem that requires medication. And I lost the pills!

In addition to the mental struggle – I became increasingly mopey and paranoid last week – I felt physically awful. I had nasty headaches every day – the kind that lurk even after I’d taken painkillers. My stomach felt funny all week, leaving me sipping soda and nibbling crackers to try to work through the queasiness. And I spent a lot of time talking myself back from destructive thoughts. People like me, I replied firmly to the worry that they did not enjoy having me around. I’m smart and capable. Adam’s not regretting his decision to give me this job. The neighbors don’t hate my fence and resent me for putting it up. I’m fine. Everything’s good.

But the dark fog – for I’ve been immersed in the heavy, black cloud of despair and this episode wasn’t nearly so bad – refused to disperse completely. I forced myself out of bed each day but finally stayed home on Friday, blowing off a meeting (which the other attendee did too, thank goodness, so no problems) and sleeping instead. When a sick headache finally forced me off the mattress, I made an appointment for next week. I need the pills back, I thought, and couldn’t wait for Mom to send some of hers or for mine to turn up.

I’m drawn to water when I feel badly, so I’ve taken lots of showers. I decided yesterday that a bath sounded nice so I ran the water into my gigantic tub and after a moment perusing my Lush offerings, decided to add a bit of bubble bar, breaking off a small corner of the square. Then I added a bit more, thinking the tub was big enough to require an extra dose of suds. I climbed in, depressed the button to start the jets and relaxed until my shoulders were submerged under the layer of bubbles that sparkled atop the water. I glanced over to see the book I brought with me and decided to just rest for a bit before reading.

I opened my eyes when the bubbles touched my nose, blinking in surprise at the mounds that had formed. The jets seemed to be encouraging their multiplication so I sat up and began to giggle as the fluff continued to rise around me. Sitting in the middle of the tub, I glanced around and was surrounded by a soft, white cloud of shimmering bubbles that whispered even as they grew larger, encouraged by too much bubble bar and the strong whirlpool currents. I scooped three handfuls of the soapy stuff off the ledge, found the button and stopped the jets. Then I glanced around my softly scented environment.

I tried to scoop water over the bubbles, but they simply formed smooth curves under my hands. I blew at them, forming tunnels in the large mounds that refused to disperse. I played for a while – making shapes and lingering in the white puffs that caught the light and scattered it around the room. When I decided I’d rather relax (but would be buried in bubbles if I tried to do so), I began draining the tub and stepped out to shower off the suds. I glanced in the mirror, literally coated with bubbles such that only my face was visible, smiled sheepishly at my reflection and stepped in the shower next to the tub.

It took some time to coax the suds off my skin. They slowly dripped down my arms to my fingertips, tickling a little before finally dripping to the floor. By the time I finished, I was clean and soft. And covered to my shins with bubbles that didn’t want to go down the drain. It took my tub over an hour to empty of its bubbles and I rinsed the sides before bed, deciding I’d try again with less product next time.

“Bubbles in my ears,” I said absently while waiting to fall asleep last night. Surrounded by a flurry of worry rather than a cloud of bubbles, I got up and shuffled to the bathroom to acquire a Qtip. When I reached in the cardboard flap of the large box, my fingers encountered a bottle. Upon withdrawing it, I smiled at seeing my anti-depressants, popped one in my mouth and swallowed a bit of water from the bathroom tap.

In truth, I didn’t feel like me without them. And while part of it was the abrupt cessation, I still don’t feel like I can ever be apart from the chemical help they offer. I see why some people might feel flat – they do decrease the intensity for me. But I’m still high-strung and dramatic, honestly. They didn’t change my personality so much as made it easier to handle. I don’t worry frantically at night when I’m medicated, a habit that has otherwise persisted since childhood. I feel more centered – able to tolerate criticism and disappointment without wanting to weep. And it’s easier to rise in the morning, get clean and dressed and head off to work.

I resisted medication for a long, long time, all the while truly needing the help. Grad school was often a study in misery, the first year of my post-doc was filled with intensity that resulted in a lengthy period of profound depression. When I was agonizing over whether to begin taking drugs, it helped me immeasurably to hear people I liked and respected saying they took something and felt better for it.

As of last night, I’m now taking something and will soon feel better for it. Said information is on medical documents I submitted when starting at Industry. I don’t feel embarrassed or weird about people knowing I take them, though I had issues with that a couple of years ago. I’m also happy to field questions about my reaction to medication – in comments or via email. I think academic life can be tough for some of us. I also think the environment can nurture these types of thought processes – I should always work harder, I’m never smart enough, everyone is criticizing me – and make the worry intensify and cause folks to drown in inadequacy. Pills aren’t the only answer, but they’re one that’s been effective for me.

And as long as I’m doling out advice, if you use a bubble bar in a tub with really strong water pressure and jets, go easy on the dose.