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Such a Fine Line
Oct. 25th, 2004 10:06 amMy Wellbutrin XL prescription will cost me about $110 to fill. (It is, thank any and every deity, less expensive than Wellbutrin SR.) I'm not familiar with my new insurance plan, but I think it's "pay full and get reimbursed," not "pay part and the pharmacy files for the rest." I won't have that $110 until the 1st. Therefore, I've been off my Wellbutrin XL for three days, plus a week of hit-and-miss doses.
I spent a good hour huddling under the covers this morning, panicking and begging the cold thin scary world to please please go away. I did make it to work on time. The kids got to school on time. I'm calling my doctor to ask for just two more weeks' worth of samples.
It is, however, reassuring to conclude that my recent emotional stability and normal functionality is not a fluke or freak occurrence, but the result of being on the correct dosage of the correct medicine.
That statement will probably not make much sense to many of my readers, so here's this: I've been depressed since somewhere between 5 and 7 years of age. I didn't know there was anything BUT depression until I was prescribed antidepressants at age 20. Watch "The Wizard of Oz." Pay attention to the part where the colors appear. Had you forgotten that the movie was in black and white? Were the colors a sudden revelation that something had been missing... something you'd forgotten was not the norm? That's what it was like when I started taking medication for my depression. I wanted to cry and scream "Why didn't anyone TELL ME there were supposed to be COLORS??" I've been medicated continuously, save the times when I went off my meds because of financial reasons or because the depression outweighed the meds and 'talked me into' forgetting my doses, since winter 1998. During that time, it's been like fighting a flood by patching an earthen levee. The clay is so very slippery, and there's just never enough to make the wall strong enough to withstand the never-receding waters. This past year or so (I'm not sure how long I've felt stable, I've been almost afraid to acknowledge it or count the months) has been the first time, EVER, since my early childhood, that I've felt... normal. Okay. Strong, rooted, sturdy, like the first hard wind wouldn't send me tumbling through the air to land at some unknown location. Knowing that there is a predictable way to achieve this stability, that I don't have to rely on hope, prayer, and the other various ways we use to pretend we have some control over our world, is a very good thing.
Speaking of prayer: thank you, God, for antidepressants. Amen.
I spent a good hour huddling under the covers this morning, panicking and begging the cold thin scary world to please please go away. I did make it to work on time. The kids got to school on time. I'm calling my doctor to ask for just two more weeks' worth of samples.
It is, however, reassuring to conclude that my recent emotional stability and normal functionality is not a fluke or freak occurrence, but the result of being on the correct dosage of the correct medicine.
That statement will probably not make much sense to many of my readers, so here's this: I've been depressed since somewhere between 5 and 7 years of age. I didn't know there was anything BUT depression until I was prescribed antidepressants at age 20. Watch "The Wizard of Oz." Pay attention to the part where the colors appear. Had you forgotten that the movie was in black and white? Were the colors a sudden revelation that something had been missing... something you'd forgotten was not the norm? That's what it was like when I started taking medication for my depression. I wanted to cry and scream "Why didn't anyone TELL ME there were supposed to be COLORS??" I've been medicated continuously, save the times when I went off my meds because of financial reasons or because the depression outweighed the meds and 'talked me into' forgetting my doses, since winter 1998. During that time, it's been like fighting a flood by patching an earthen levee. The clay is so very slippery, and there's just never enough to make the wall strong enough to withstand the never-receding waters. This past year or so (I'm not sure how long I've felt stable, I've been almost afraid to acknowledge it or count the months) has been the first time, EVER, since my early childhood, that I've felt... normal. Okay. Strong, rooted, sturdy, like the first hard wind wouldn't send me tumbling through the air to land at some unknown location. Knowing that there is a predictable way to achieve this stability, that I don't have to rely on hope, prayer, and the other various ways we use to pretend we have some control over our world, is a very good thing.
Speaking of prayer: thank you, God, for antidepressants. Amen.
