Medicated

Upon the diagnosis of BiPolar Disorder, my therapist referred me to a psychiatrist to verify her findings, and to start me on the common pharmaceuticals.  The psychiatrist bore a striking resemblance to Dr. Sydney Freeman, the Sigmund Freud protege from the television series, MASH.  I liked him for this, feeling almost starstruck.

After a complete workup from him, I was off to the pharmacy!  My life's unworthiness, unhappiness, instability, and overall general craziness could be cleared up with a tiny little pill, called Zoloft.    The first two weeks were not what I expected at all.  Even though both doctors explained how Zoloft would not begin working immediately.  It takes about two weeks to really get into my system and have it's desired effect on my brain. They warned me of the side effects that could occur, but when you're in the middle of the worst, skull splitting headache, and the most uncontrollable crying jag, one tends to forget what warnings they've been given.  Being bipolar, and somewhat of a hypochondriac, I went to my regular doctor to be diagnosed with an unexpected brain tumor.  No such growth.  She patted me on the back, and reminded me of the side effects of Zoloft.  Brief increased depression, and headaches being the top two.
So I suffered, and silently wondered what I had gotten myself into.  And then, that first morning came, when I woke up, and my eyes were finally opened, and not just literally.  I felt relaxed and confident that my husband was truly at work, and not philandering around town with a hitch hiker he may have picked up, or his female boss or coworker, or the clerk at the gas station... or any number of floosies I constantly imagined he was with.  I suddenly knew that the laughter on my neighbor's porch wasn't directed at me on mine, but really was due to the antics of the cute little puppy they had just brought home.  The reflection in my mirror, was so very similar to the many millions of normal looking women around this world.  It occurred to me that I really was loved by family and friends.  Why shouldn't I be, after all?  I was worthy.
For several months, I could breath easily, and life was good.  My sails were full of this Zoloft wind, and I glided happily along.  I hadn't even realized that I was sailing right into a full blown manic episode.  Probably because this one was different, full of confidence and security.  I delved into craft work, my fingers tirelessly threading and sewing until they blistered.  I branched out into online social networks and surrounded myself with a circle of friends and became intertwined with their personal dramas, through all hours of the night.  I was up at dawn, and out in the garden, trying to raise roses out of the sand, and wrestle peppers out of the mouths of our overpopulated squirrels.  I became notorious in my family for rearranging three rooms of furniture, painting the walls, baking some cookies, creating a woven basket, and having a home manicure in one afternoon... while chatting online the whole time! 
It was the most fabulous summer I had had in a very long time.  The ideas and ambition came effortlessly, and kept right on coming, until it all started coming to fast, and I couldn't keep up.  Before I could even begin work on my first notion, my mind was already working on a plan for the third.  And when I could no longer keep up, I began feeling useless.  I slept later and later in the mornings, I watched the soaps all day, and turned my husband away at night.  My crafting supplies gathered dust, the squirrels ate the garden, and I pushed all of my chat room buddies away.  But I didn't cry.  That was different.  Instead I became irritable.  And I began to notice that, for months, every time I felt the slightest anger, even if it was warranted, my husband's first response was "did you take your medication today?".  I got so sick of hearing that phrase, that I decided to quit.  I'd rather be angry and own it, than be a prisoner of the pills. 
I've been out of treatment for eight years now, and have been doing okay.  Not great, but okay.  I had learned enough about behavior and thought control from my therapist, that I can recognize many symptoms as they set in, and with some help from my family, I can guide my reactions in healthier directions.  Some days I do consider returning to medication, but I still fear losing my identity and validity.  I do long for therapy again, but even with my insurance plan, it's just too expensive.  In the meantime, I just keep on keeping on.  That's all anybody can ever really do.