I saw my nurse practitioner this morning. It was wonderful. She walked in and said, "How are you?"
"Good!" I said.
She chuckled. "So you came here to tell me how good you're feeling?"
"I always say 'good,'" I admitted.
"But really," she said, "how are you?"
"Well, actually," I said, "I think it's time I went back on an antidepressant."
She smiled. "Ah yes," she said, "we all do better when we have our serotonin. What did you take before?"
And it was just that easy. I didn't have to cry. I didn't have to blather on about my angst or the difficulty I was having getting through the days. I just told her I felt like I needed meds again, she asked me what I used to take, what had worked before, we discussed options and combos and dosing. She had me fill out a questionnaire about my symptoms. She left and did other things while I checked boxes and tallied points for each area. Then she came back and looked it over and we decided that, given my anxiety issues and obsessive thoughts, I should definitely include an SSRI in my regimen. She asked me if I had anything for sleep. I said I had a script for Ambien, from her.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I could use a refill, though."
"Sure," she said.
So easy. So professional. It's not easy to go into the doctor and admit you're feeling depressed and need help. But she made it feel easy.
I left the doctor's office, feeling much better than I had when I walked in (nothing to dread). I went straight to the drug store to fill my prescriptions. While I waited, I wandered around the store. I went to the baby section, because I am obsessed with having babies these days. I looked at diapers and at the cute pictures of babies on the packages. I looked at pacifiers and sippy cups and a baby front pack. I was impressed the drug store carried such a selection of supplies. I felt sort of despondent. You can't take all these meds while you're pregnant. Not that I'm getting pregnant any time in the next year. Not yet.
But I felt I needed the meds. I was taking things too hard. Life. It was being too much for me. And when I looked back at the years past, it was always too much. Always too hard. I was always unhappy, always having a hard time. I think I've been depressed off and on since childhood, and if little blue pills (the Zoloft and Wellbutrin I got are both blue) are going to make me enjoy life more -- tolerate work, tackle a move, savor my children -- then I'm all fucking for it.
When I went to pick up my prescription, the Zoloft had a neon green sticker across the lid, saying "PATIENT COUNSELING REQUIRED." The pharmacy tech called over to the pharmacist. "I need a patient counsel here," he said. I wondered if this had to do with SSRIs' tendency to induce suicide in people just starting them.
A slim brown woman who looked to be in her thirties came over. She looked down at the bottle, then looked up at me.
"So this medication is for your mood, yeah?" she said. She smiled. She had an accent -- either Africa or the islands. "It's going to take a few weeks for it to work, ok?"
"Ok," I said. I noticed she had a small moustache and beard.
She smiled again. "It's going to get worse before it gets better, ok?"
"Ok," I said.
"So don't lose hope."
"Ok," I said. I smiled.
Don't lose hope, I thought, as I walked across the parking lot. It struck me as one of the nicest things I'd heard in a while.
"Good!" I said.
She chuckled. "So you came here to tell me how good you're feeling?"
"I always say 'good,'" I admitted.
"But really," she said, "how are you?"
"Well, actually," I said, "I think it's time I went back on an antidepressant."
She smiled. "Ah yes," she said, "we all do better when we have our serotonin. What did you take before?"
And it was just that easy. I didn't have to cry. I didn't have to blather on about my angst or the difficulty I was having getting through the days. I just told her I felt like I needed meds again, she asked me what I used to take, what had worked before, we discussed options and combos and dosing. She had me fill out a questionnaire about my symptoms. She left and did other things while I checked boxes and tallied points for each area. Then she came back and looked it over and we decided that, given my anxiety issues and obsessive thoughts, I should definitely include an SSRI in my regimen. She asked me if I had anything for sleep. I said I had a script for Ambien, from her.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I could use a refill, though."
"Sure," she said.
So easy. So professional. It's not easy to go into the doctor and admit you're feeling depressed and need help. But she made it feel easy.
I left the doctor's office, feeling much better than I had when I walked in (nothing to dread). I went straight to the drug store to fill my prescriptions. While I waited, I wandered around the store. I went to the baby section, because I am obsessed with having babies these days. I looked at diapers and at the cute pictures of babies on the packages. I looked at pacifiers and sippy cups and a baby front pack. I was impressed the drug store carried such a selection of supplies. I felt sort of despondent. You can't take all these meds while you're pregnant. Not that I'm getting pregnant any time in the next year. Not yet.
But I felt I needed the meds. I was taking things too hard. Life. It was being too much for me. And when I looked back at the years past, it was always too much. Always too hard. I was always unhappy, always having a hard time. I think I've been depressed off and on since childhood, and if little blue pills (the Zoloft and Wellbutrin I got are both blue) are going to make me enjoy life more -- tolerate work, tackle a move, savor my children -- then I'm all fucking for it.
When I went to pick up my prescription, the Zoloft had a neon green sticker across the lid, saying "PATIENT COUNSELING REQUIRED." The pharmacy tech called over to the pharmacist. "I need a patient counsel here," he said. I wondered if this had to do with SSRIs' tendency to induce suicide in people just starting them.
A slim brown woman who looked to be in her thirties came over. She looked down at the bottle, then looked up at me.
"So this medication is for your mood, yeah?" she said. She smiled. She had an accent -- either Africa or the islands. "It's going to take a few weeks for it to work, ok?"
"Ok," I said. I noticed she had a small moustache and beard.
She smiled again. "It's going to get worse before it gets better, ok?"
"Ok," I said.
"So don't lose hope."
"Ok," I said. I smiled.
Don't lose hope, I thought, as I walked across the parking lot. It struck me as one of the nicest things I'd heard in a while.
