Anxious Much?

So apparently I need to start reading the fine print when it comes to my pharmaceuticals.

You know how when you open up a brand new, freshly-bought magazine, all those annoying little cardboard squares start falling out of it?  And then you just scoop them up in a pile without reading anything and toss them straight in the garbage?  Well, that’s sort of what happens when I pick up a new medication from the pharmacy.  I’ll open the bag and all these random inserts start pouring out of it so I just freak out and throw them all away.  Smart, eh?  Especially since this is where key information like, “Don’t take this drug with grapefruit juice or your brain will explode” is written.

Anyhow, I had mentioned a few posts ago that I’d recently begun taking the Zoloft I was prescribed back in November.  Past experience has told me that whenever I quit opiates, the depression and anxiety that caused me to self-medicate in the first place will increase by a factor of a trillion.  It seemed a rather logical choice then, to counteract that with an antidepressant… common sense, really. Not as logical as taking the stuff when the doctor told me to, but nobody’s perfect, right?

Unfortunately, I am a jackass.  Considering that I’d treated the Zoloft package insert like something I’d found in a cracker jack box and ditched it ages ago, I had NO idea that the first dose was going to jolt my nervous system like a giant hit of crack (Edit –> I have never actually EXPERIENCED crack. I’m not THAT kind of addict… not that I’m judging if YOU are… Christ, shut up Liz..). We are talking fight-or-flight response from hell.

Turns out this is completely normal.  Yeah, apparently it’s SUPPOSED to feel like there’s a Metallica concert going on inside my chest.  Something about the anxiety getting worse before it gets better? And here’s the kicker: I may feel like this for WEEKS.  That’s what Google says, anyway, and he’s never led me astray before.

This all might have been manageable if it weren’t for the fact that I haven’t told my family, whom I currently live with until I find my own place, what I’m going through.  My stubborn plan was to just hunker down for hell and ride out the withdrawal on my own. But I’m literally on the brink of a nervous breakdown right now.  Eventually I’m going to snap and they’ll have to call the zoo to come shoot tranquilizer darts at me.

So I’ve decided that, although I can’t tell them about the withdrawal (trust me, that’s a whole ‘nother post) I AM going to come clean about the fact that my anxiety is sky-high.  I don’t know what I expect my sister to be able to do about it, but at least she’ll know why I’m shaking in my room like a Chihuahua.  It’s becoming pretty clear that this is not something I’m equipped to handle on my own.  Pride be damned.

I’m going to curl up with my Harry Potter blanket now, watch Frozen, and cry… like any reasonable 29-year old woman would do in this situation…

Night ‘folks.  Remember to read your magazine inserts.  And it doesn’t hurt to skim those pesky med info sheets either.

• Liz –