Thursday, July 29, 2010

"Fran, get back on the Prozac."

Just woke from a nap and still a bit disoriented. I can't spell anything correctly anymore. I sometimes skip words, so sentences are unintelligible. I type other words that have no relation to what I'm writing instead of the one I want. It's kind of like writing "Captain Ahab" when all you really were looking for was the word "with." That's plain spooky to me.

Once I become fully awake, the word scramble remains the same. Perhaps later I'll get really annoyed at the phenomena. Right now its kind of strange, annoying, and kinda cool. What will come out of her fingers this sentence? Maybe this is my body compensating for lack of outside stimuli. By making typing an adventure. Aren't bodies amazing how they do that? Compensate for loss of limb or to help the fuzzy brain. Why not call it Brain Fuzz? Is Brain Murk better? Or Lazy Brain? "I'm sorry to inform you, Mr. Sleeper, your wife is suffering from an acute case of Lazy Brain." That works okay for me.

Chip has made an appointment with an orthopedist to see if he can figure out what's going on with my back. It made me feel really stupid when he said if this has been going on for quite a while, you need to get this checked out. Why didn't we make this appointment weeks ago? My friend David who has had a zillion back surgeries said they'll either want to cut you open or give you pills. try the chiropractor first. I've had a lot of success with them. Okay. Chip said let's go back to Laurie (my blessed chiropractor and soul soother. She really performs magic. Her mere presence is balm for my aching soul). I have no problems except she's up in Washington Heights, and I have to go up three ginormous steps to get to her 1st floor office.

The architect of the building where her office is located was a fucking sadist. These days, I don't think there's anything that scares me as much as those steps. (Except when I'm truly loco, the shower becomes my object of Dread.) Because once I climb those steps, the goddamned back pain rises to the rarified heights of hell. (Why does hell have to be down? Up may stink worse. Think about it. Can we really know?) And whether I'm having back pain or not, when I've finished my climb, I'm gasping for breath for the what seems like an eternity. (I think I may have improved a little bit in this arena. So now it takes half an eternity...) I try to avoid losing breath as often as I can. Inability to breathe has a high fear quotient for me. I must love Laurie. A lot. Who the hell else would I put myself through this crap for?

It took my therapist a while (this was years and years ago) to realize when I calmly discuss terrible things, I wasn't just some patient overstating her crap. I may very cheerfully say I'm really depressed. And I mean it. I am. I choose my words very carefully. If I'm feeling blue, I'm blue. Not depressed. There's a world of difference. One is illness and the other is a normal human emotion. We're allowed to be sad. And should be when appropriate.

Haven't you found that people often overstate whatever's happening in their lives? "I'm depressed" is a big one. "I've never felt worse in my entire life" when the person has a cold. To quote my uncle commenting on his younger brother who was about to say the bruchah over the bread, "He's going to make a BIG DEAL of this." (We have that recorded. It is priceless.)

For a short while, years ago, before we got to the psychopharmacologist, I was getting a blip of Prozac from my internist. That blip was enough to keep me on an even keel. My therapist, who didn't yet know me and had seen many, many patients self-medicating with antidepressants they received from their internists whether they really needed them or not. It was September, a few months before I crash from SAD (With my SAD, I'm as precise as an atomic clock.) My therapist asked me to stop taking the Prozac and see what happens. Well, I reiterate to her that I do get depressed but sure, let's try it.

I don't remember much about this one particular appointment. I think it was in November. I'm not sure if was able to make any sense. There was fuzz (oh no! fuzz again) between me and her and everything else for that matter. Her jaw dropped (literally or figuratively, who the fuck knows? But I do remember one thing. "Fran, get back on the Prozac." (That belongs on my FB profile page. I like it.) It should be someone's yearbook quote.

When I got back on my even keel (well even enough to function in the world), I said, "I told you I get depressed come fall." She said most people who say they're depressed aren't. They're sad, blue, angry and a whole mess of this they need to get off their chests. But depressed, they're usually not. She has learned no matter how calm I may appear, take my words seriously. And she, smart cookie that she is, finds ways to get around my placid or cheerful body armor. (Maybe my rope and pulley contraption- please see yesterday's post- may require body armor. Chip and I could make it a thing. How deliciously kinky.)

Back to my back. I think I'm very good at tolerating pain. But I have said, with relative good cheer, I am in excruciating pain. For me this means I feel really bad. Hey, this is coming from the girl who thinks that going off in the woods alone is the way to give birth to your children. (Psst, she's off her rocker, but she's harmless.) Next year, in Jerusalem. Bye for now.

No comments:

Post a Comment