This is What Happened When I Messed Up My Meds

Okay, so it’s late enough and I should be asleep in two hours ago because I have to get up in the morning, but what I’m writing here is important information that needs to be recorded.

I haven’t been taking my meds really properly.

I’m on 300mg of Welbutirin (Bupoproin)–but since my official psychiatrist is in my college town, my dad wrote me a prescription when I ran out sometime this summer. The pharmacy at home only filled up to 150mg, so I was supposed to take two, but no one notified me of this, or no one noticed, and I didn’t read properly because I put my pills into another older pill bottle with the same prescription on it, but the lid is pink and it helps me tell the difference and it’s easier to open. So, all summer, I just changed my prescription without knowing.

Then, I came back here and I was supposed to get more but I couldn’t get in until, well, today, and I ran out of that one. So it’s been, what, four, five days since I’ve been off it? Once I was running low I decided to skip every other day, as if my body would still have some in the system, but at the end there I was out altogether. Well, I didn’t mention to my parents I ran out sooner than I thought because I didn’t want them to worry and I didn’t mention to the doc that I had stopped for the past few days.

I eventually called in to the office and one of the other psychiatrists wrote me a prescription that I filled that day, so I’m back on that since Thursday. BUT I take another medication–Lexapro–and I ran out of that one too, the same day I had gotten the last one filled. Since I’m filled with recklessly displaced anxiety I didn’t want to call the office again, so I thought I’d just wait until my appointment on Tuesday. So, I stopped taking that one, and stopping that one will probably have a more dramatic effect but I just didn’t consider this or just put it aside.

On top of it comes my birth control medication, which I started taking to help me manage the depression I get around my period. I was at the last few pills of the first packet and I was getting weird brown clumps and I had no idea what to do–was this my period? I was supposed to start the new pack, as I realized but I just kept going to finish that pack. Eventually I full on bled and at that point I definitely should have gone to the new pack, but I wanted to start the new one on a Sunday and not have to use the date labels. I know, I know. Stupid reason. I even missed one day of birth control last week! I dropped the pill and it rolled under the oven and I spent a good half hour trying to get it out–using all sorts of high tech tools like a wooden spoon, a knife, a tweezer, a broom, and a fan. No use. I would have to remove the oven to ever get it back–and it will be covered it dust. Yuck.

Long story short, my medicine’s been fucked up, I’ve been alone without my usual family support, and this is how I’ve felt:

Let’s start with the obvious: shitty. terrified. anxious, and suicidal. I’ve had one major breakdown–the kind that I know will traumatize me a bit for a few months with flashbacks. I had unpredictable bouts of tears. I let my bad judgement get the best of me by contacting Bo and now it’s fucking with my mind and I will be left thinking of it–I’m so ashamed that I even did it and I don’t want to talk to my therapist about it and I definitely told my doc that there was no trigger, but there were plenty, besides him too, and I wasn’t able to see clearly. I was totally clouded and forced to my knees.

I missed one class. I just slept right through it, because I was unable to get out of bed. Not the lazy kind, the one where your depression seems to physically prevent you from getting up. After I managed up I called my mom and I couldn’t stop crying, even though there was no real reason to cry. I even went out and went to the classroom but by the time I got there it was all over, and I even let myself cry when other people were present (mind you, I was on the phone and didn’t see anyone I knew).

Other things were dramatic. I started to think about the way my body looks and came up with some imaginary conversation because I was thinking about how girls talk to each other, and I wasn’t even responding to anyone but my lonely self, and yet I was bawling at the cruelty and inconsideration and my insecurity about my legs–which are actually sexy, but I’m ashamed at their petiteness.

Which brings another condition I had: arrogance. Why the fuck didn’t this one guy I had a brief crush on like me back? It was a thought that came from no where and had been put aside, but I wanted to think about it. Like, I’m fucking awesome! I’m smart and intelligent and pretty. Is he an idiot? Fuck him. I don’t want to be friends with him, I thought. I start to think badly of others. What bloody twats. I don’t want to be associated with those twats. (No, I’m not British, but no other words describe it so perfectly).

My immune system has SUCKED, though I don’t know if that’s directly linked. I have had allergies and I even took standard allergy medicine but I’ve not been able to fight it, and any germs that have touched me seem to have been able to fight their way through, because I think I might even be getting fully sick.

Finally, I’ve been spazzy, and above everything, that’s the only thing I know for sure was caused by not taking my medicine routinely, and it may be the only thing I think the meds take away from me that I somewhat care for.

Often when spazzy, nerdy, autistic or whatever probably politically incorrect labelled people get excited or sad about things, their bodies will make distinct weird movements. For me, I flail my arms. I flail them a lot. Especially when I’m thinking to myself and get excited. I also do a special sort of flailing where I wave my wrists up and down like I’m trying to dry finger nail polish. I’ll keep my elbows bent, and then, I look like a chicken trying to fly. Of course, I never realized these things until people pointed them out to me when I got older, and for whatever reason, with managing my depression came an ability to better manage my thoughts and grow out of this. On top, I won’t smile to myself creepily, or make angry faces at the ground, or laugh to myself out of nowhere–which were very common traits before.

I feel the need to explain it further. These small bursts of excitement are similar to the way a toddler responds to good news. We’re going to the park tomorrow, says mom, and the child jumps up and down. I realize I have a club meeting tomorrow which I’ve been looking forward to, and I just suddenly, uncontrollably, starting jumping up and down and flailing my arms and giggling and thinking “that’s the best thing ever!” Actually, a better metaphor is the when you pet your dog and he wags his tail and jumps around like “this is the best thing ever!”

Starting tomorrow, all my medication will be in order, because I have to fill the Lexapro. Then, I will be at the right dosages and taking the right pills of each. But in these past couple weeks, I got the spazies and it wasn’t until today that I realized, fuck, that doesn’t happen that often anymore, and was able to link it to my depression treatment.

Do I miss it? I can’t say. I didn’t notice it was gone. It can be a bit distracting and is somewhat embarrassing, and is probably encouraged by thoughts that are going too fast which I definitely don’t want. But, it really is me. That spazzy way of flapping my wrists is so definitely me. There is no mask to it at all nor is it tainted by the past. One hundred percent a part of me and my personality.

I don’t think I necessarily totally lost that and I don’t want to make it sound that way. But I’m fine without it. I’d much rather be overall happy than have bouts of excitement followed by bouts of “what am I doing and why am I here?” and all the thoughts of how I want to kill myself. Depression once again becomes “humorous” and vulgar in able for me to cope with it. “So I had this idea that I would lie in the road…do you want to hear this long intricate plan that I had? Hahahahaha. I don’t want to live you say, who sent you that message? It wasn’t me. Damn, fuck that girl, really she should die, she’s annoying as fuck. You want to know what book I’m reading? I’d tell you, but just telling you the title means nothing, and then I’d have to explain it, but why would I do that, because truthfully, I know you don’t give a shit and I just want to read my goddamn book.” (That last part didn’t really have to due with much, other than the way I might respond to someone off my meds. I just am genuinely annoyed with someone asks me what I’m reading when I’m clearly in the middle of reading.)

This is another reminder to me that these things and this illness is very real. I will say, for a person who really screwed up her meds for a week or two, I did just fine. Really I did, I wrote about it yesterday too.

I don’t know a proper way to end this. It’s very hard to actually believe in recovery. So I end on this Victor Hugo quote (from Les Miserables) I’m not quite sure I think is true, but I know I will have to learn to at least have faith in.

1.11 am. wed, sept 2.

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