Today was the day of June that I left in 2015. There’s something in the air this time of year. Maybe it’s my biological clock. Maybe it’s a mood disorder I unknowingly have, and it’s taking a turn. Maybe it’s nothing noteworthy afterall, just neurosis showing her ugly mug, (once again).
What a fucking nightmare.
In discussing medications, Dr. B thought the Zoloft wasn’t doing enough for me and that we should make a hard switch to something else. Apparently, there’s a new class of antidepressants that aren’t SSRI’s.
“Sometimes those deep belly laughs and great orgasms are… I don’t want to say worth giving up… but worth sacrificing, even if just temporarily.”
Come again?! (Pun intended) But really, not a great sell, doc, not a great sell…
In all seriousness though, I immediately thought of moments of the near piss-my-pants laughing variety, those uplifting, energized moods of elation (coined as “Molly moods,” by my old roommate). My oh my, how the orgasms came easier and stronger in those days! I say those days because, well, I also realized that in reminiscing on those moments, none of them had been recent. Lucky for me I had a plethora of night sweats to replace my amazing orgasms of old.
Now, I also noted that we had taken me off all medication about six months prior to this conversation, and it was the first time in my life that I realized I absolutely needed medication to function. And might for the rest of my life.
There has to be a content place somewhere in between where Molly Moods are counteracted by crippling anxiety, depression and exhaustion, and where medications seemingly throw my vivaciousness, excitability, and sex drive out the window (while also adding those relentless night sweats to my routine).
There I sat, facing my doctor via our computer screens, as he told me I might have to give up joy. Orgasms, sure, for a time, I can manage…
I had to take a second look at that sentence, did I really just say that?
But joy… joy is an old friend of mine! I know her, and the day she comes to visit I better be on my fucking toes! Shoes shined, guest room ready (okay more like futon unfolded!), and sportin’ my favorite romper.
The antithesis of welcoming joy in this manner would be to temporarily leave my place in fucking shambles and hide in what the doc perceives as a safe, quiet cave beyond joy’s reach, in hopes to find some temporary peace. This is what my dramatic mind told me my doctor was asking of me. Again, dramatic, I know. But I knew I didn’t want to be out of joy’s reach, in exchange for what could maybe bring stability.
Or in exchange for anything.
Would I have felt differently if I hadn’t spent the last fifteen months trialing medications with invasive side effects and unfortunate repercussions that didn’t greatly benefit my anxiety or mood? Maybe. It was a moot point because I had spent over a year listening to and trusting doctors and well, there I was… looping the same fucking conversations.
I perceived myself as I would a hamster on a wheel. A test rat after her once plentiful stimulant-laced water was replaced with a sedative, or worse, tap water.
“Sometimes those deep belly laughs and great orgasms are… I don’t want to say worth giving up… but worth sacrificing, even if just temporarily.”
I went with my gut:
“I am not there.”
© Molly J. Halfman, LLC
