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they've got me on some medication
Wednesday, January 8th, 2003 02:53 amCelexa is an anti-depressant from the family of drugs known as selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors or SSRIs.
Celexa helps to restore the brain's chemical balance by increasing the supply of a substance in the brain called serotonin. Celexa appears to relieve depression by increasing serotonin without affecting many of the other chemicals in the brain that influence mood.
I ended up insinuating myself into my bed, where Joe sleeps. He is warm, and I apologize to him because I am frigid, my feet are freezing, but I curl around him and he says he loves me and suddenly I relax and suddenly I am asleep, him tucked into my arms.
Sleep.
And then my mother calls my name, and I am just as suddenly awake again. One hour of sleep underneath my belt, I tell Joe to stay home, watch the Macworld keynote, don't worry about me, no, you don't have to come with me, darling. I kiss him, we leave.
My mother quickly drops me off, 'cause she has to get to work and I'd rather be alone during this anyway, and telling me she loves me, she reminds me over and over about the anemia and the blood and the St John's Wort and oh, you should take birth control, yeah, or something.
I don't have the heart to tell her that I take care of myself, that I know what I'm going to say to this man, this doctor, if I can only get the words past my lips. (Side note: I'm already on birth control, mommy, I like having sex, pass the peas. Not exactly conversation I'd be having with my parents any time soon, not least of which is because we never eat dinner together anyway.)
I felt so vulnerable, sitting there in this sterile doctor's office. I'd had to wait for half an hour, somehow ending up reading this magazine for HIV-positive people, Poz. This is only remarkable because I somehow manage to end up with a copy of said magazine in my hands every time I go to a doctor's office. Always. Weird.
The nurse calls my name, finally, mangling the last name as usual. I don't mind. I am not nervous, I'm too tired to be nervous. Nurse takes my height and weight. I am only 5'4", to be honest, and I have gained weight from March, but ask me if I care.
She leads me to a room, and I wait for the doctor. When he arrives, I make immediate eye contact with him and am pleased by how very kind his face is. But still, my fingers entwine themselves around each other and I kept cracking my knuckles, as words spill themselves out of my mouth once he's asked the magic question: So tell me about your depression.
"I think I've been depressed for uh, quite a few years now. Three or so, at least. I have suicidal thoughts upwards of three times a week, fleetingly. And well, I cut myself, yeah, and sometimes I can't sleep, or I sleep all the time, like for 16 hours. I act really mean sometimes, to people I love and care about you know, like my friends." Pause, then I realize. "Oh! And my family, of course." (Good save!)
Let's just take a look here at this questionaire, he says, tapping his fingers as he looks at the checkboxes. I have said yes to almost everything -- which frightened me. Several days, half the days, most of the days: tick, tick, tick. Frightening, that.
Yes, your answers here seem to be along the lines of what you've been telling me -- and I interrupt.
"Is, uh, breathing quickly, like hyperventilating, and sort of disassocating, not really knowing what's going on, and feeling completely disconnected -- are those symptoms of panic attacks?"
He watches my face. I want to smile, make some joke about how pathetic I am, and flee, but sheer will & utter stubborness keeps me in this motherfucking uncomfortable love-seat.
Yes, those are. Did you not think you were having panic attacks while this was happening to you?
"Well, yeah, I didn't really know, so um, I'll just answer these questions now, okay?" He nods and god, I feel so stupid, so stupid for just randomly skipping those questions. But I answer them, quickly ticking little boxes. Everything except "There has been no cause for these attacks". 'cause that just ain't true. There's always reason for a panic attack in my world.
We talk for a few more minutes. What do you know about medication for depression? he asks me, and I start showing off my psychology skills.
"I want to be a psychiatrist," I say, and he nods, so I start babbling about SSRIs and second-generation meds and neurotransmitters like serotonin which seems to be most commonly linked with mental disorders like depression and well, aside from that I don't know much except MAOI inhibitors seem to have interactions with every medication there is.
He tells me a little information, fills in a few of the gaps. Writes me out a list of some books I will probably think once or twice about reading and never actually pick up, asks if I have any questions. He's answered everything, I tell him, and to be truthful, I feel almost. . . relieved.
He clicks on a computer that's been sitting there, unnoticed by me. How odd, to have a computer in the room and not be focussing all your attention on it, but really I've been watching the clock in the corner that marks how much time the doctor has spent with me. 20 minutes, it says, and I think it can't be that short of a time because I've bared my soul -- this man now knows more about what plagues me than anyone else except for my very closest friends.
(Well, and the entire Internet, but that's beside the point.)
I leave clutching an actual prescription (!) in my hand. Diagnosis: Major Depressive Syndrome. Prescription: 20 mg of Celexa. Start with 10mg, he told me, then increase the dose to 20 after a week if there are side effects: four or five days if you don't experience any side effects at all.
It all seems so real, and at the same time, so abnormal. Is this me, actually getting help? Talking to a real doctor, not just some armchair psychiatrist who's researched everything online? Not some stupid social worker who doesn't understand me at all? Not just the voices inside my head that tell me how screwy I am, how little I'm worth, how crazy how fucked up how fucking insane I am and to just end it all? (There aren't actually voices. They are metaphorical.)
I make another appointment in three weeks exactly, like the doctor has told me, to review medication. The receptionist is brisk, efficient, but friendly. I whine about my cold to her, and she smiles at me.
I smile back.
You may start to feel relief from some symptoms, such as depressed mood, after taking Celexa for only one week. Most people can expect to feel the full benefits of Celexa in four weeks. It is important to continue taking Celexa even if you begin to feel relief from your depression. Be patient. You didn't suddenly become depressed, and full recovery takes time. Your doctor may ask you to keep taking Celexa long after your depression has been relieved, to help keep it from coming back.
Celexa helps to restore the brain's chemical balance by increasing the supply of a substance in the brain called serotonin. Celexa appears to relieve depression by increasing serotonin without affecting many of the other chemicals in the brain that influence mood.
I ended up insinuating myself into my bed, where Joe sleeps. He is warm, and I apologize to him because I am frigid, my feet are freezing, but I curl around him and he says he loves me and suddenly I relax and suddenly I am asleep, him tucked into my arms.
Sleep.
And then my mother calls my name, and I am just as suddenly awake again. One hour of sleep underneath my belt, I tell Joe to stay home, watch the Macworld keynote, don't worry about me, no, you don't have to come with me, darling. I kiss him, we leave.
My mother quickly drops me off, 'cause she has to get to work and I'd rather be alone during this anyway, and telling me she loves me, she reminds me over and over about the anemia and the blood and the St John's Wort and oh, you should take birth control, yeah, or something.
I don't have the heart to tell her that I take care of myself, that I know what I'm going to say to this man, this doctor, if I can only get the words past my lips. (Side note: I'm already on birth control, mommy, I like having sex, pass the peas. Not exactly conversation I'd be having with my parents any time soon, not least of which is because we never eat dinner together anyway.)
I felt so vulnerable, sitting there in this sterile doctor's office. I'd had to wait for half an hour, somehow ending up reading this magazine for HIV-positive people, Poz. This is only remarkable because I somehow manage to end up with a copy of said magazine in my hands every time I go to a doctor's office. Always. Weird.
The nurse calls my name, finally, mangling the last name as usual. I don't mind. I am not nervous, I'm too tired to be nervous. Nurse takes my height and weight. I am only 5'4", to be honest, and I have gained weight from March, but ask me if I care.
She leads me to a room, and I wait for the doctor. When he arrives, I make immediate eye contact with him and am pleased by how very kind his face is. But still, my fingers entwine themselves around each other and I kept cracking my knuckles, as words spill themselves out of my mouth once he's asked the magic question: So tell me about your depression.
"I think I've been depressed for uh, quite a few years now. Three or so, at least. I have suicidal thoughts upwards of three times a week, fleetingly. And well, I cut myself, yeah, and sometimes I can't sleep, or I sleep all the time, like for 16 hours. I act really mean sometimes, to people I love and care about you know, like my friends." Pause, then I realize. "Oh! And my family, of course." (Good save!)
Let's just take a look here at this questionaire, he says, tapping his fingers as he looks at the checkboxes. I have said yes to almost everything -- which frightened me. Several days, half the days, most of the days: tick, tick, tick. Frightening, that.
Yes, your answers here seem to be along the lines of what you've been telling me -- and I interrupt.
"Is, uh, breathing quickly, like hyperventilating, and sort of disassocating, not really knowing what's going on, and feeling completely disconnected -- are those symptoms of panic attacks?"
He watches my face. I want to smile, make some joke about how pathetic I am, and flee, but sheer will & utter stubborness keeps me in this motherfucking uncomfortable love-seat.
Yes, those are. Did you not think you were having panic attacks while this was happening to you?
"Well, yeah, I didn't really know, so um, I'll just answer these questions now, okay?" He nods and god, I feel so stupid, so stupid for just randomly skipping those questions. But I answer them, quickly ticking little boxes. Everything except "There has been no cause for these attacks". 'cause that just ain't true. There's always reason for a panic attack in my world.
We talk for a few more minutes. What do you know about medication for depression? he asks me, and I start showing off my psychology skills.
"I want to be a psychiatrist," I say, and he nods, so I start babbling about SSRIs and second-generation meds and neurotransmitters like serotonin which seems to be most commonly linked with mental disorders like depression and well, aside from that I don't know much except MAOI inhibitors seem to have interactions with every medication there is.
He tells me a little information, fills in a few of the gaps. Writes me out a list of some books I will probably think once or twice about reading and never actually pick up, asks if I have any questions. He's answered everything, I tell him, and to be truthful, I feel almost. . . relieved.
He clicks on a computer that's been sitting there, unnoticed by me. How odd, to have a computer in the room and not be focussing all your attention on it, but really I've been watching the clock in the corner that marks how much time the doctor has spent with me. 20 minutes, it says, and I think it can't be that short of a time because I've bared my soul -- this man now knows more about what plagues me than anyone else except for my very closest friends.
(Well, and the entire Internet, but that's beside the point.)
I leave clutching an actual prescription (!) in my hand. Diagnosis: Major Depressive Syndrome. Prescription: 20 mg of Celexa. Start with 10mg, he told me, then increase the dose to 20 after a week if there are side effects: four or five days if you don't experience any side effects at all.
It all seems so real, and at the same time, so abnormal. Is this me, actually getting help? Talking to a real doctor, not just some armchair psychiatrist who's researched everything online? Not some stupid social worker who doesn't understand me at all? Not just the voices inside my head that tell me how screwy I am, how little I'm worth, how crazy how fucked up how fucking insane I am and to just end it all? (There aren't actually voices. They are metaphorical.)
I make another appointment in three weeks exactly, like the doctor has told me, to review medication. The receptionist is brisk, efficient, but friendly. I whine about my cold to her, and she smiles at me.
I smile back.
You may start to feel relief from some symptoms, such as depressed mood, after taking Celexa for only one week. Most people can expect to feel the full benefits of Celexa in four weeks. It is important to continue taking Celexa even if you begin to feel relief from your depression. Be patient. You didn't suddenly become depressed, and full recovery takes time. Your doctor may ask you to keep taking Celexa long after your depression has been relieved, to help keep it from coming back.
