The Happy Pill Hypothesis

The past couple of months have been pretty difficult for reasons I don’t quite understand. 

  

Wait. That was a lie.

I have, without the consent of my GP, gone off my antidepressants gradually and am now off them completely. I have been off and on meds to keep depression and anxiety at bay since baby #1 was born.

Baby #1 just turned fourteen years old.

Two months ago I was unhappy and couldn’t even verbalize this emptiness to myself, let alone my spouse. Nothing filled this void. Not food, not shopping, not talking about it, not sleeping.

Nothing.

I thought there was something wrong with me. 

But how could there be?

  

My husband was finally living at home. He retired from the Navy two years ago and has gone back to school to study art. My family was happy and healthy. I had a great job. My health was fine.

Or rather, my physical health was fine. My mental health is still sorting itself out.

I finally made the connection of this new and serious bout of depression when I realized that I hadn’t taken my meds in over a month. The slow taper off of them was deliberate with the understanding that I could go back on them if I wanted to. It was no one’s business whether or not I was on them. Fuck them, right? 

I’ve tried talking to others including family members about depression but I’ve given up. Sometimes they look at me as if I’ve announced I was a serial killer or a failed science experiment. Others have bombarded me with questions and comments and I feel like I have to defend why I feel the way I do, why I am the way I am. It’s frustrating and exhausting.

  

This post, like my mind, is all over the place but really, it’s a peek into my head. Do you know the feeling when you’re having a very important conversation with an equally important person and you can’t think of the right word to say? And not just any word, the exact word that is somewhere in your brain and the word that was probably invented for that moment… Only you forgot the word.

That’s been me. That’s in my head.

All day, every day. 

I even dread going to bed knowing that Mr. Sandman will skip over me as he has been for weeks. I wake up a couple of times a night and feel such a huge panic that I can’t or won’t be able to fall back asleep. Or if I eventually do fall asleep, I don’t get the amount or the quality of sleep I enjoyed when I took my happy pills. It too is frustrating and exhausting. 

But I’ve gotten really good at pretending. Hell, I should go back and get my doctorate in giving the impression that I’m alright. Maybe I can earn continuing education units while I’m at it. 

  

I’ve had dark moments that I don’t care to go into right now. Perhaps when these moments occur with less frequency I’ll shed some light but for now, it’s time to try to get some sleep. 

  

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