if i tell, it isn’t a secret any longer, is it?

subtitled, “Overshare Beware.”

I’ve always been pretty open here about most everything, probably pretty much like I am in real life.  I try sometimes to lie to Mike to see if I can get away with it, but I never can. I always wanted to be the mysterious woman when I was younger, but I just couldn’t pull it off. I can’t play poker. Good or bad, it’s always right there on my face for everyone to see.

But I haven’t really written about this in deference to the fellas out there who might have accidentally come across my blog, but now I figure I’ve probably only got about 12 readers and the odds aren’t good that they’re men. So if you fall into the non-XX chromosome group, this is fair warning. You might want to go read the Chronicle about how the Astros are gonna pull it together this season and surprise everyone.

If you’re still reading, thanks. That’s kinda sweet.

Before I had Griff, I swore I would be on the pill till I was 85 because I loved how it regulated everything. After he was born, my body just wouldn’t tolerate the hormones any longer. I kept telling Mike it was just stress. By the time I realized he was right and that it wasn’t just stress, I was deep into crazy (and please, know that I use that word lovingly, with no offense meant to anyone with a mental illness).

I never felt suicidal, but I had planned how I was going to leave Mike and Griff, which vehicle I would take (since it was paid off), all of that. Clearly, not right thinking. So I quit taking this pill, and we began using a variety of other methods to ensure that Griff was an only child (yeah, yeah, we were real successful with that).

After Eliza was born five plus years ago, my body changed again, and the PMS stuff hit me with a harshness that I hadn’t experienced before. The physical symptoms were still the same, but the emotional and mental symptoms were intensified.

Poor Eliza. She joined our family at the beginning of a really difficult five years. Our situation at work (we both worked for the same educational institution at the time) was deteriorating quickly, and our stress level was increasing just as quickly.

My general practitioner, a family friend, once told me not long after Eliza was born that he could prescribe me something to take the edge off the PMS. I declined it at the time, but when Eliza was about a year or 18 months old, I made an appointment and asked for that something.

As I sat in his office and told him how stressful things were at work (he was very familiar with the situation and circumstances) and about how we were thinking we were going to have to move and leave everyone and everything behind because the situation was slowly killing us, I began to cry. He was a family friend but not someone I would spontaneously cry with … at all.

He calmly got out his script pad and told me that maybe instead of taking the antidepressants just during the PMS times, I should just take it all the time. And I left his office and got the Prozac filled.

I can’t tell you how many friends I had told previously that taking those meds to treat what they treat wasn’t any different than taking asthma meds to help you breathe well (which I also do). But it was horribly hard to admit that I needed the help and the meds. I kinda like a fair bit of control and needing the meds didn’t just scream Girl In Control!

But I took them. And they carried me through a really dark time… through the horrors at work, through the move and the darkness of being alone here in Florida, through the agony of a new job that didn’t fit me.

I knew that at some point, I would look up unexpectedly in some odd location and think, “oh, gosh, I’m happy again.” And I did. And I do. It is astoundingly. To realize that we’ve finally acclimated, finally found ourselves here in this life, to discover that this life fits.

In the last six months or so, I’ve taken the meds less often, not necessarily by intent but mostly by accident. I’ve been content and hopeful anyway. Now, I’m not getting any younger. I’m 39 now. Every year at my annual visit, I ask my doctor if I might possibly be closer to menopause. “No,” he sighs. “Told you that last year.” I keep hoping.

As I get older, my monthly visitor (we refer to it as Uncle Fred in my house… no Aunt Flo here… only a man could be that annoying) is less regular, less calculating, so it’s harder to track (though there’s the groovy app on my iPhone that helps immeasurably). The PMS symptoms (actually, I’ve tracked it, and it’s more like PMDD) have been my indicator.

Last month, at some point, I realized I hadn’t taken the meds in a week or so. And I decided to quit taking them. Things in this life are going pretty good. Maybe if the crazies in my head were only there for a few days, I could lessen my med regimin (quite hefty thanks to the asthma) by one.

And things were pretty good until yesterday when I thought I’d snap. I was so annoyed and cranky and unhappy, convinced I was fat and a bad mother and a lousy friend and a poor employee. I had a really wide personal space area… really wide.

This morning, I sat at my desk at work wondering how it was possible no one could tell that I was coming apart at the seams. Couldn’t they feel the crazy just radiating off my skin?

Mike says that no one but him would be able to tell. I asked him a couple of weeks ago to keep an eye on me, to pay attention to see how I handled things. He agrees that the dive into the PMS crazy was pretty sharp…fine, fine, fine, oops, crazy. But the good was better, and I feel like I’m handling this part pretty well.

And I am grateful that we’re doing well enough in this life that I may be able to make it through the monthly demons without the meds. In the end, though, I am more grateful to a doctor who knew I needed help and for the meds that got me through some really, deeply troubling times.

Filed under Uncategorized | Permalink |