Moods and meds.


“…it is the perspective of the sufferer that determines whether a given experience perpetuates suffering or is a vehicle for awakening.”

– Mark Epstein, MD, Thoughts without a thinker: psychotherapy from a Buddhist perspective



:: Freewrite ::


The shaky weeks – two up, two down – do not a sustainable life make. I’ve given the Zoloft time to settle in. Upped the dosage. But my body spits out the working ones every couple of weeks. Emotional bulimia at the hand of invisible chemicals; at least stomach pumps by my fingers are in my control. I bend and kneel in front of the toilet. Knees callused by linoleum. Fingers callused by teeth. Rubbing and robbing. It’s regular now. I do it mindlessly. So why do I cry? Is it the stomach acid watering my eyes? Like chopping onions for stir-fry or soup? Tears triggered by objective somethings outside my corporeal abode.

But back to documenting my moods and meds. After increasing the dosage of Zoloft, and finding that I haven’t found the magic prescriptive mix to level my life, I’ve tapered off the Zoloft and am trying a serotonin reuptake-inhibitor from a different family – Effexor. It’s day 4. My doctor says to give it 4-8 weeks. It could be up to 8 weeks for my body to regulate and decide if it’s an elixir fixer.

I admit. I get impatient. I feel disheartened and angry when I find myself in a dark room again. I mean that literally – laid up in bed; light switches collecting dust in the “off” position, and figuratively – in my mind. A dark mind with sardonic silverfish fiercely feeding on what allows me to feel OK.

And so I wait without waiting. Carry hope even when not feeling hopeful. It’s carefully zipped in my fanny pack, taut around my waist. This is not a knock-on-wood situation. It requires proactivity despite disorderly set backs; especially in times of disorderly set backs. Each mood must be owned to successfully wade through the sludge of the shitty ones. Hug them, all of them, invite them in for tea and cookies. Tossing them away will boomerang them back with great force and potentially erode the hope you hold and lighten the fanny pack that’s been strapped to your self; the heft and squeeze around your waist that’s helped to remind you to carry it on. To remind you that hope is there for you to hold and get to know again. Any any time.


Written Tuesday, January 31st, 2012.

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