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Medicated.

by Lori Dwyer on November 6, 2010 · 39 comments

I know these little fore-notes to posts annoy some people. Bad luck. This post has been sitting in my drafts folder for a while now. I’ve been hesitant to publish it because, quite frankly, I never want to be defined by my depression. It’s an illness. It’s not me.
Although I am very pleased to report that the side effects of the meds, as mentioned here, have either tapered off or I’m used to them, because they aren’t bothering me the way the wear.
And so, us usual, I publish the post weeks after the fact- when it’s not quite so raw.

***

The pills.

The small, white, oval-shaped pills, scored in the middle for people who are only half as f*cked up as I am.

Two a day I swallow, every morning. With my pride, my guilt and my anxiety.

The first word that comes to mind, in association with those pills, is ‘necessary’.

And the next word is ‘numb’.

The pills, they function for their purpose. They serve as Novacaine for my emotional spectrum. They stop me from plunging into that darkness, that place where the world is in pain.

It’s not me. I know how difficult it is for people who have never had the dog at their door to understand that. But it’s not me. I am not the person who sits, and feels sorry for herself, and makes herself miserable, wanting more from her life.

If only you knew me, really knew me, could meet me face to face. You see me, parts of me, I know you do. This place, with it’s purple, with it’s jellybeans and smack talk and fun and stupidity, this is me. I am the optimist, the light hearted one. I smile a lot. I am a blessed, happy woman, and very contented with my life.

Which is why it’s so very frustrating, so very devastating, when the black dog is prowling around, sniffing at my feet, my face, my hands.

Because then, the foundations of humanity become dripped in pain. So much pain. All the terrible, wretched things that have happened, that will happen, that are happening right now. The terrible sadness of it all. And underneath that, the stumbling fear that I am not good enough, I am simply not strong enough, how I would I cope under that kind of pain? How does anyone cope under that kind of pain….?

Image from here

The pills, they numb the pain of the world. They place a bumper on my emotional spectrum, that allows it stop at a relatively normal place, where I can view other people’s pain from a distance, less exquisitely.

Necessary.

At the same time, this emotional bumper extends to the other end of the spectrum. I am happy, content, but elation is a tragically difficult emotion to find. Elation, rapture. Intensity. All these extremes are, temporarily, cut off from me.

For my own safety.

Numb.

The pills, they make writing the UnFunny difficult. That’s frustrating.

And, very recently, the pills have been causing a disconcerting feeling of missing-something. Like I’ve forgotten something desperately important, and have no inkling as to what it is. It doesn’t matter how many inconsequential things I can bring to mind, none of them are it. There is no relief to be found.

The mental equivalent of pins and needles, the numbness wearing off?

Or is that wishful thinking?

If you’re in pain, physical pain, you take medication. For constant, emotional pain, for which there is no cause, you do the same. There is no shame in that.

Eventually, they tell me, the chemical matter around my brain will right itself, and I will find some relief from the depression. The pills, they mask and dampen the symptoms, until that happens.

But if you’re in pain for a long, long time, do you stay on the medication, or do you find other ways to manage it?

I don’t think that’s a question for now, for just yet.

The pills, there is a comfort in them, their numbness, that keeps the screaming agony and the endless fear at bay. Not a crutch, not a blinker to the world.. A God-send, where they’re needed.

If I have to do this, if this is my cross to bear, I’d rather do it with the pills, then without. Believe me, if you were me, you would do the same. You would run, weeping, pleading, in the direction of your script, your pills, your shrink. For the blessed relief of it.

Necessary.

Numb.

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{ 39 comments }

Pregnant. (No, not me.)

by Lori Dwyer on October 6, 2010 · 24 comments

Heya, It’s been a while since we’ve had something from the Unfunny Files….

I remember, being pregnant for the first time.

I worked at a baby expo last week. I was surrounded by pregnant women, in various, rounded stages of gestation, about to be first-time mothers. Their bellies swollen, their eyes glowing with anticipation and excitement.

I remember how it felt, to feel that way.

When the most terrifying consideration, in having a bay, was enduring labor. If only I knew, birth is the easy part, no matter how torturous it is. It’s the rest of their life that may be difficult, may be painful.

It’s the rest of your child’s life you should be afraid of.

I remember, being pregnant. Being so very afraid, of losing this baby, of something going wrong.

Now, I’m a mother. And I’m still afraid. I’m still scared of something going wrong. But these days it’s drowning, fevers, and strangers with menace on their minds. The risks, the possibilities. Things That May Happen if I am not quick enough, if I am distracted for a single, selfish moment.

The paralysing fear of it all.

I remember, being pregnant. A vessel for my baby, a breath for my son in utero. His nutrition, his energy, his health and well being. Eating well, walking, walking, walking, pumping the blood through my body. Doing everything in my power to keep him safe.

Image is everywhere. Source unknown.

The more my children grow, the older they get, the less their wellbeing is intertwined with mine. Their limbs stretch and grow. They learn, and age. And the more I must let go of the illusion of control I have now. Rather than nourishing them through my blood, or choosing and carefully preparing their food for them, they now have a will and a right of their own, and will refuse to eat what is good for them. Their is little I can do about that. And as they grow, there is even less I can do about it, any of it- the older they grow, the more their wills are separate from mine.

I remember, being pregnant for the first time. The promise of it. The excitement. the flutters of a baby’s feet, kicking and glancing off your inner skin, timed against the flutter of your own heart, the beat of waiting, hoping.

The buying. The millions of things you must have, you need, to be a good mother, to be the best mother, the have a happy child, fully equipped for the dangers of Real Life outside the womb. Aspirators, beepers, hammocks and monitors. Belly beds, belly slings, exercise clothes for your belly that cost more than I earnt in a week. So many things, to equip you for the uncertain, potentially sleepless future, to allay your fears and discomforts.

I remember, being pregnant for the first time. Feeling fragile, not knowing where I stood. Clutching, grabbing at anything solid and reassuring, to prop up my insecurities. To begin the fulfillment of a dream, of a child who has everything, and wants for nothing.

Nine months, a year, eighteen months at the most. All those things, the belly things, the baby things, they gather dust. The insecurity, it remains.

I remember, being pregnant for the first time. I see expectant mothers, hand on bellies swollen with the vulnerable promise of new life. I recognise, in their eyes, the willful, clueless optimism I used to have in mine.

Some times, I have to stop myself, from reaching out, from taking their hand and warning them- this might not be what you expect.

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{ 24 comments }

The Black Dog.

by Lori Dwyer on August 18, 2010 · 42 comments

Nothing humorous here today folks. Sorry. This one’s part of the UnFunny Files, and it’s been sitting in my drafts folder for a while, as the extremely personal posts sometimes do. I did consider guest posting it out, but my own blog feels like the right place for it. Normal programing resumes tomorrow, OK? OK. The artwork featured is by Katrina Miller.

Hello,

I have a black dog.

I’m not alone in that, I know. There are many of us, with our own black dogs. Sometimes they come to heel; sometimes they stray far behind us, following our scent. And sometimes, when God is in his Heaven and all is right with the world, my black dog, he stays, tied up, in his kennel.

Just recently, the black dog got out. And, I’m sad to say, he was savage, destructive and caused damage to both people and property. This is no playful puppy, slobbering on slippers and teething on toys. This is a cur, a mongrel, who nips and sometimes mauls the people that I love.

It’s a fraught and pensive thing, the way depression can suck the color from the world, the air from your lungs, the sparkle from your laugh. The crushing weight of a panic attack, of being alone, is a wholly debilitating thing. Impossible to conjure. Almost impossible to imagine, until you are on the very brink of it, teeth chattering, breath teetering from rapid to smooth, as the world closes in and all you can think is how sad it all is, how much pain the entire world is in; how on earth does anyone stand it?

I remember, once, a long time ago, studying at university. A young woman, no older than 20, who had evidently never suffered any form of clinical depression. Presenting to us that, as social workers, we should be instructing people to “Open their curtains, appreciate the beautiful weather!” and to “Remember that tomorrow is a brand new day!”

I recall shifting in my seat. Uncomfortable. Slapped. Patronised. Condescended to. Could she not see, this young woman with her curly hair and her pretty shoes, that she had just hit on the very source of the problem?

When the black dog is loose, tomorrow is a brand new day. Another fucking brand new day. Another fucking day.

The dog, he settles next to you on your pillow. As soon as you wake, he’s all you can smell.

This time, in the crux of the matter- I refuse. I refuse to let the dog take me down. I am 28 years old. I have raged and fought both with and against this black dog for 15 years. I’ve not once been admitted to hospital.

And this will not be the time it happens. Not when I have babies to care for. Not when they need their mummy, here at home.

So I refuse. If I go down, it will be clutching my medication in one hand and the phone number of my psychiatrist in the other. It will be punching and screaming, kicking that dog in his big black head.

I refuse.

And, in the end, I win. The dog, he whimpers, tail between his legs.

This time, I win. But the black dog, he’s a stubborn mutt.

He will lick his wounds. So will I.

And I will tell myself, for the next time he is turned loose.I will be ready.

I say that every time.

I’m never sure if it’s true.

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