Next Time I Need A Change I’ll Get A Haircut. (With UPDATES)

My week got away from me. I had a few posts I wanted to write, one about kicking a puppy, another about elopement. More importantly, I wanted to thank all who commented on my last post. About that, I can’t seem to write anything that doesn’t boil down to a snorfled “I love you guys!” Which I do. Your comments were so perfectly kind and understanding that I wanted to print them out and carry them in my pocket. But more than that, I wanted to say that I almost didn’t post that last entry, afraid that I would seem unbalanced, or foolish, or both. The fact that I could post it–and get thoughtful responses from others, sharing their own experiences and offering insight and support–reminds me why I started this blog in the first place.

So, I had things to say, about eloping, and puppy kicking, and my undying gratitude, but my workweek was an infuriating succession of editorial snafus, and by Thursday night I resigned myself to posting on the weekend.

Little did I know that by Saturday, I would have lost my mind.

Let me adjust my tinfoil hat and tell you about it:
I changed antidepressants about six weeks ago. Just for kicks. I first went on antidepressants in the nineties, when there were very few options on my doctor’s radar. It was either Paxil (which made me ill) or Prozac (which didn’t). So Prozac it was. And Prozac it stayed, until I found a new psychiatrist in June and asked whether there wasn’t something new I could try. Not because I was having problems with the Prozac, but because how did I know it was working, if I felt perfectly normal all the time? And probably Prozac was a bit old-fashioned for anxiety, and there were all sorts of drugs that had been released in the past 10 years, drugs that might work better, and why don’t I try one of those? You know, for fun. As an experiment.

So I did.
I started with 10 mg of Lexapro and worked my way up to 20, and with the exception of some truly awful headaches and a noticeable dip in libido, I was fine.

Meanwhile, the Actually and I were having some money problems. And by “some money problems” I mean that we were broke. After his job ended in May, it took the Actually nearly four months to find a new one, and those four months…well, it’s a good thing we don’t have an accountant, because I am fairly certain he would have hung himself with his sensible burgundy tie. That is all I will say about that for now.

Anyway, Friday evening I realized two things:
1. I was out of my $30-a-prescriptoion Lexapro
2. We were out of money

No matter, I said dashingly, I will not take my Lexapro tonight, and tomorrow I will find my Target card in whatever box it is not yet unpacked from, and I will refill my prescription.
Only by the time I woke up the next morning, I was too shaky and feverish to look for my Target card, and who needs credit when life is meaningless, anyway?

Now my head, it pounds, and I am simultaneously sleepy and anxious. The teakettle whistle of panic has been blowing for hours, and I have spent most of the weekend asleep, crying, clenching my hands into tiny fists, or crying.
I am such a delight!

Last night I decided that any medication capable of doing this to me is one I want no part of. Last night I rushed back into the capable, old-fashioned arms of Prozac, but it isn’t working yet, and now I am concerned that maybe this isn’t drug withdrawal at all, but merely an inevitable loosening of the moorings that tether my sanity. I haven’t yet managed to shower today, because it seems like too much work. That doesn’t seem like a good sign.

UPDATE, 5:23 p.m.: I caved. After dumping several boxes onto the living room floor and retrieving my Target card, I raced to the pharmacy to refill my Lexapro, popping one into my mouth as I drove home. I feel like I have just been through some sort of pharmaceutical leg-breaking, like a couple of neuronal street toughs roughed me up until I bought the damn pills and promised never to be without them again. There is nothing quite like paying $30 for a medication that has spent the last 48 hours fucking you roughly up the ass.
I had better feel fabulous tomorrow.

UPDATE, Monday, 6:19 am.: Didn’t work. I don’t know what to do.