The Nightmare that is Changing Medication

With Baby Bee only nursing every few days, I’m safe to change up my medications, which I desperately need since the old ones just aren’t cutting it anymore.  That’s the thing with mental illness; what works for you may not work for me, and what works for me today may not work for me tomorrow.

Ten years ago, Zoloft turned me into a complete zombie and Prozac was a Godsend.  Now, it’s the opposite.

I was on Zoloft with Xanax for emergencies (when I flip my shit, it knocks me out for a few hours and then I’m fine).  The Zoloft was great for about a year, then it just wasn’t working well anymore.  I know when my meds aren’t working anymore.  First, the God Awful nightmares start.  Then, out of nowhere, I’ll fill the anger building.  Usually a few days after the nightmares start, and then I’ll just blow for no reason.

The latest time?  The puppy kept yelping when I was brushing him, even though I KNOW it wasn’t hurting him, and it pissed me the fuck off.  “I fucking hate you!” I screamed at the dog, and put him in his kennel.

That’s just not normal.

So, my doctor took me off the Zoloft and put me on Wellbutrin.  That was okay for about a day.  I was queasy, but that’s normal for a med change for me.  But then, I went to sleep, and when I woke up, I wished for the old nightmares, because these were just too damn much.  Homicidal.  Homicidal nightmares that disturbed me to my very core.

My doctor immediately put me on Cymbalta, which I haven’t taken before.

They say it takes about 6 weeks to know if a med is really going to work for you.  I usually know within 3 days.  Day One tells me nothing.  By Day Two I can feel whether or not I’m going to flip the fuck out.  By Day Three, if negative side effects haven’t popped up, they aren’t going to.

If, in a month, this is still working well for me, we’ll go back on Lithium.  Ahh, how I miss the mood stabilizer.

But, changing medications is also a bitch, because you’re supposed to wean off of one and then start another, but The Husband doesn’t have that much vacation time, and we can’t play around with medication changes.  He took a week off of work, and has this week off on his shift, so I’ve got two weeks to get my shit together.  Thank God medications start super fast with me.

At least The Husband is starting to at least try with these things.  He still has no idea what all of my Diagnoses are, or what they mean, or how to read my moods.  But he at least asks now, like last night when I was about to flip my shit because the kids just would NOT stop talking about farts and poop at the dinner table.  “What do you need, babe?”  “Sarah McLachlan and razor blades.”  “Well, how about a nap?  Bubble bath?”

That’s a step.

A fifth?

I have to show ID when I go to Firstborn’s school to get him.  Not because they don’t recognize me, because they do.  It’s because they recognize me as Firstborn’s older sister, and never seem to remember that I’m his mother.

“You must have started early.”

Nope, started late, I just have Benjamin Button Syndrome.

I’m not the sister, the sitter, the nanny, or the friend.  I’m the parent.  And while my kids drive me effin crazy and certainly act a fool from time to time, I know my kids are better behaved than most their age.  I know because I’m at the school more than I’m at home, and I’ve seen it firsthand.

I have four kids.  There is not a single person in my life that doesn’t think I’m crazy for having four kids.  When I announced my pregnancy with Baby Bee, I got a lot of, “You’re done now, right?”  I don’t think this is because they think I can’t handle four kids, it’s because they can’t handle four kids, and therefore, can’t imagine that anyone else can either.

Truthfully, if I never had another kid, I’d be okay with that.  I don’t not want another baby, but I don’t want one either.  I don’t feel like I’m in a place where I can decide, 100%, that I’m done making babies.  Because I love MY kids (I probably hate yours).  My home is full of people, children, love, and laughter, more often than it’s empty, silent, or filled with screaming.  I like my life.

But, The Husband raises some interesting points.

Firstborn is eleven, Girl Child is eight, Minion is six.  Baby Bee is one.  A five year difference may not seem like much, but as a person that was five years younger, and the youngest, it does make a difference.  It was a lot like being an only child.  I didn’t have a playmate.  I was the tagalong.

Plus, that was an awful lot of money to spend on one baby.

And, I guess neither one of us truly feel done.

We get no government assistance.  We pay no childcare.  The Husband works his ass off to support this family.  I spend my whole life taking care of The Husband and The Kids.  I cook, I clean, I volunteer, I bake, I chauffeur, I referee, I do it all.  And while sometimes I feel like I have no identity, I still have time at the end of the day.

Each of my kids gets one on one time with each parent.  And they’re spaced out enough so that I’m not in that “five under five” category or “change of life baby” category.  I have three in school, one in middle school.  They’re pretty self sufficient.

If I were to have another baby, what are my concerns?

Well, there’s no guarantee that I’ll ever actually have another pregnancy, or that I’ll carry another baby to term.  I have a super high risk of miscarriage and ectopic.

I also have a super high risk of multiples, between family history, number of pregnancies, and infertility drugs, which I already know I’d have to take again.

I’m still really out of shape from Baby Bee.  I haven’t lost the baby weight, and I certainly haven’t toned up.  Granted, I’m 5’8″ and 118 pounds, but that’s 118 pounds of pure flab.

I’d have to listen to everyone’s bullshit.  Announcing a fifth pregnancy is much different than announcing a first, or even a fourth.

But, this is MY family.  These are OUR kids.  This is OUR decision.  This has NOTHING to do with YOU.

And if you have an opinion to share, I have a list of bills you can pay.

It saddens me to know that if I ever did announce a fifth pregnancy, the only person that would be 150% happy, with no words or even thoughts against it, would have been my dad, who only wanted tons of grandchildren, and he’s gone.  Oh, a few others would be happy enough, “If that’s what you want,” but they’ll also have a lot of, “Are you crazy?” “Why?” “This is the last one, right?”