I feel all blocked up. Like my mind has got a metal clad wall around it, that is not letting anything out, and yet stuff is just dripping out of me anyway. Which sounds gross and disgusting I know, but bear with me. I’m trying to push it through.
I had to take Ava to the doctor the other day, because she has been quite constipated of late, and the GP explained to me exactly how constipation works. I won’t bore with the gory details but to put it this way, if your blocked for too long, the muscles in your rectum (sorry) get used to being stretched, and don’t send the message to your brain that you need to use the bathroom. The muscles also don’t work as efficiently, and if you’re too long like that, the stretching can get big enough that other yucky stuff leaks past the boulder in the way so to speak.
This is what I feel like.
Like I’m stuck and I can’t get rid of the yucky, and all this crazy emotion is pouring outside of it and I can’t do anything about it.
I’ve been so emotional the last few days. One can blame it on the time of month, but whatever it is, everything is making me teary. Bailey’s last day of Kindy yesterday was devastating, an ad for the Olympics about mums was gut wrenching, and watching Buffy on DVD has just about broken me. Seriously, why couldn’t Buffy and Angel work it out?
I’m crying over fictional TV characters on a show that hasn’t been on TV since 2003, and yet all the stuff inside of me, all the stuff I need to say, I can’t.
It’s more than a pain in the butt.
I know why. I can tell you, but I don’t want to. Which really, is just an admission in itself. Because the last time I felt like this, I couldn’t admit it either. There was too much shame. Too much denial.
No one wants to admit to being broken.
No one is happy when their body falls apart on them.
No one wants to admit that maybe, just maybe, they can’t do it on their own.
But I do.
I do want to do it on my own.
I want to win. I want to be better and whole and not need to write this crappy post to push out all the crap because the seratonin levels in my brain can’t seem to right themselves.
It’s been two years. Two years since a bitch of a pregnancy had me stuck on my couch, a broken shell of who I really am.
Two years this week, since I was safe enough to get up and walk around and not have my baby in danger of prem labour.
Two years of me not being ok.
I love my Ava. Completely love her. Adore her to bits.
But having her, broke me.
First it was Ante-natal depression, then it’s best friend post-natal. I tried to fight it on my own for nine months. Tried to ignore the hollow ache and the growing anxiety and all the stress! My God, the stress! Not being able to cope with simple tasks. Having a panic attack at the idea of having to make dinner.
Nine months and I got help.
Screw diamonds, Zoloft is a girls best friend.
I followed all the rules and took it for six months, before trying to wean off it.
I crashed and burnt. I wasn’t ready.
I tried again not long after with much the same results.
And I had resigned myself to living on Anti-depressants forever.
I felt good. I felt strong. I felt like it was time.
So I tried again. Down to half a tablet every day. Then every other day. One week, two weeks, three, all is fine.
Now I’m blocked. I can’t sleep at night for all the business in my head, the business I can’t seem to stop.
I’m so stressed. All the time stressed. So busy, so crazy, and there’s not enough time.
And I’m down.
And sometimes, I’m angry.
But the only viable solution I can see, is the one I don’t want to take. I don’t want to be on these tablets. I want to be fixed and better, and work properly.
I don’t want my brain to be broken any more.
I keep thinking I can beat this thing. If I keep trying, if I keep pushing through, maybe I can win.
But what if I can’t?
What if I’m like this forever?
I feel so much like I’m lost. Like all the confident posts of the past were somehow a lie. And I am a fake sham of a person who is not like that at all unless she is medicated. Like because I can’t be that way now without the drugs, I mustn’t actually be that way. Who I am is just an anxious crazy person, who doesn’t want to make dinner for her family and can’t write anything else because it would be inauthentic. Anything light and chipper or bordering on amusing would just be so far from who I am.
So many thoughts in my busy, blocked brain, trying to sort the truth from the lies.
Trying to decide if continuing to fight on without Zoloft is brave or just down right stupid.
Trying so hard to not be broken.
I don’t need anyone’s judgement on this. Please don’t tell me I need to be back on the full medication. I actually know that. I’m just having trouble accepting it at the moment. Depression is a horrible thing. It screws with the way you see the world.
But all I want is to be me; healed and whole and not clouded by a mental illness or a Zoloft prescription.