Most people wouldn't admit to the fact that they take an antidepressant or any other type of medication that's prescribed to "crazy" people. For whatever reason, there's this social stigma against taking medicines that aid in the creation of normalcy (whatever that is) in a person's mind and behavior. I have taken antidepressants and anxiety medications off and on for the last six years. I am currently trying to wean myself off of Cymbalta...This is my story.
In 2005, my dad was in a horrific motorcycle accident. I don't know that the accident itself was horrific, but its aftermath was. I remember sleeping downstairs at my parent's house and hearing heavy footsteps coming up the front steps. This woke me up because no one (and I mean, no one) uses the front door at my parent's house. Everyone comes in through the garage. I awoke to the footsteps and then became alert as my mom told me that there had been an accident and she had to go. It was like talking to a zombie...every word that came out of her mouth sounded hollow and as if it was being spoken by a different person completely.
I probably wouldn't be writing this blog if my dad hadn't lived. It was a traumatic time in all of our lives, and thankfully, it ended "happily". I can now make light (well, somewhat) of the situation and what I went through. This accident marked the beginning of my prescriptions to anxiety and antidepressant medications. I needed to take them because I suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. At least, that's what my doctor said.
In addition to Xanax and Klonopin, I was a constantly rotating host for myriad antidepressants. Prozac, Effexor, Celexa, Lexapro...you name it, I took it. Nothing really helped long-term. Not that I can remember anyway. I just kind of drifted through life in a fog anyway. Eventually, we stopped my treatment, and the only medications I continued to take were Klonopin and Ambien. See, from my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I had now developed Generalized Anxiety Disorder and along with it, insomnia. Well, that's what my doctor told me anyway.
Fast forward several years...it's now 2010 and the day after Thanksgiving. I should be out shopping or eating leftovers. But no, instead I go "crazy" and have a self-proclaimed nervous breakdown. In the medical world such a thing doesn't exist, but in my world, it does. My mother refused to let me got to a hospital because she was afraid I'd be committed. Instead, she forced me to call the 24-hour "Nurse Line" that my insurance company provided. What a crock of bs that was. Do you want to know what the "nurse" suggested I do to calm down? "Why don't you go outside and run?" She asked. This question made me even more livid. Um, maybe because I've had four knee surgeries and I can't run? The whole conversation is funny to me now, but it sure as hell wasn't at the time.
I don't know if anyone else out there has tried to find a psychiatrist around the holidays, but it just doesn't happen. Every doctor's office I called told me they weren't accepting new patients. I'm sorry, but if you're becoming slightly more crazy with each passing day, you'd think that there would be a doctor that could see you. Nope. Doesn't happen. You see, it's quite normal to become crazy during the holidays, and it's a race to see who can obtain the doctor's new patient slots first.
I finally found a doctor who would see me, and so began a new medication adventure. I again was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. This time, I took an even higher dose of Klonapin, along with a high dose of Cymbalta. And Wellbutrin. And Ambien. And Trazadone. I can tell you that I honestly didn't feel a thing. I became a zombie. And not the kind that you hear about with all this Zombie Apocalypse nonsense. No sir, I was the real deal. Assholes at work? No problem. I could deal with that. Atlanta's rush-hour traffic? Loved it. Just turn up the music and drive. Hell, I couldn't even remember the drive home. Fights with my boyfriend? What fights? I wasn't listening. I'm sure our neighbors were, but I never heard a word.
Ah, those were the days. I was super nice to everyone. Even people I despised. Yes, I was that creepy kind of nice...the kind where you just know that someone's either already lost it or is on the brink of losing it. And to be quite honest, I didn't care about anything. I possessed emotions of steel. You couldn't make me cry or feel sorry for you. I just didn't have it in me. While I kind of enjoyed being devoid of emotion, apparently everyone else around me didn't. Eventually, I convinced my doctor to cut me back to just Cymbalta, Klonapin, and Ambien. The people at the pharmacy were still super nice to me with even this small concoction. I'm sure the poor girls that worked there wondered what I had done to become a walking pill mill. I sometimes wondered it myself.
I discussed this with my doctor and was advised that I should take the Cymbalta until at least December (a year from when it was started)...I pretended to agree, but insisted we lower the dosage. That's when my Electric-Shock Therapy began.
Randomly, I would feel a buzzing, very much akin to an electrical shock (think bug zapper) in my cheeks. I would then get a dizzy feeling, but it would quickly pass and I'd feel fine again. Approximately ten minutes later, I'd be zapped again. As I continued on at the lower dosage, the electric shocks eventually went away (or became unnoticeable...I'm still not sure which). That is, until I began weaning myself entirely off of the medicine. I now receive a nice, super-charged electrical shock approximately every two to five minutes. And this shock is more in line with how I imagine being tasered feels.
Have I gotten used to it? Yes. Do I like it? Absolutely not. Is it worth taking the medicine full time again? Eh...not really. And when I come entirely off of the Cymbalta, I wonder what I'll be diagnosed with next. It's fun sometimes to get creative with the possibilities of what my Generalized Anxiety Disorder will morph into. I mean, I definitely need to thank the creators of WebMD for that. All I have to do is type in a few symptoms, then bam! A whole list of potential disorders pops up. It's great.
I can't say that being a zombie or continually receiving Electric-Shock Therapy of the face is really better either way. I could do without either. I'm seeing a Chiropractor now. Apparently, they can fix anything. Even "crazy".
Yes, I'm being tasered to the face as we speak,
Freeway Fairington
Friday, September 23, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
The Rat and the Mouse
I have worked for many difficult people in my lifetime. As I recall, one of my first jobs was at a restaurant. I attempted to quit 4 times, but each time was sat down by the manager (whom I despised at the time) for what I deemed "Freeway Interventions". During these "interventions", I would be sat down by two or more managers and pretty much begged to stay. They had never encountered a sixteen year old with a work ethic like mine, and not only did they want for me to continue working there, they always wanted for me to work harder.
I stayed at that restaurant for a total of three years before moving on. I went on to manage a shoe store, a tanning salon, and a drugstore. I even did a brief office stint in between my retail management jobs (it totally sucked). At each place, I worked for equally difficult and/or anal bosses-almost always men. While it was annoying to me, it was easy to figure them out and do what I needed to do in order to get my job done. Hey, I wasn't married to them, so what did I care that they were all a little off? Their poor wives and girlfriends...
Then I found what I thought was going to be the perfect job. I was 23, and apparently, still naive. My boss was an older female who was on the brink of retiring at any moment. She was crazy. Crazy nice when she wanted to be (think beers after work, shopping trips during lunch, etc.), and crazy mean more often than not (think office gossiper, blunt mouth with no filter...). Regardless, I got her. We definitely had a huge age gap between the two of us, but I learned a lot from her. I didn't necessarily always like or respect her, but I didn't mind her. I believe she felt the same way of me.
Times changed, like they always do, and my boss left. I came to work under a new boss. Another female. At first, I thought that this was going to be a good change; however, it turned into a never-ending nightmare. This boss was the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde type. To us, she was a mouse-hell, she even looked like one. Quiet, kept to herself, always staying in her little hole until she needed to surface for a cigarette or one of her many "important" meetings.
In reality, this woman was a rat. She was not meek, nor honestly quiet. She was always looking for a way to find the wrong in every situation-even in situations where there was none. She took credit for ideas and projects that were not her own, and made sure to sell out everyone beneath her while doing the same to those at the same level as her. However, in communication with those who were her subordinates, she played the Mouse card.
I found this sad, because the woman was extremely smart and had moments where you could see that she was not really either the Mouse or the Rat. I'm sure there was some event, some Corporate twist, that made her become who she is. Regardless, I did not like the woman. And I must say, it wasn't because she was a woman (although, I'll admit men are much easier to work for), it was because I found her to be extremely fake...hence, the Mouse personality. In all honesty, she worked hard to find reasons to dislike me and force me out of my once "perfect" job. Eventually, my position was found as unnecessary, and I was let go. (SN: Best day of my working life!)
I didn't dwell much on this dual-personality woman after my departure from said job. I'd much rather work for someone who is a Rat at all times, then one who tries to switch back and forth and play the Mouse card. Maybe this is why I prefer to work for men.
I now work for two great men. And what makes it even better is that I am pretty much the only female, and I only have to see them a few times a week for a short period of time. They have wives and families (something that the Rat did not) and are not concerned with petty things, such as people's flaws and shortcomings (yes, we all have them...even you, Rat). Now, as far as personalities go, I could add in here the things I find humorous currently, but won't...
Never burn your bridges.
And to you, Rat: Karma is a motherf*cker!
Best,
Freeway Fairington
I stayed at that restaurant for a total of three years before moving on. I went on to manage a shoe store, a tanning salon, and a drugstore. I even did a brief office stint in between my retail management jobs (it totally sucked). At each place, I worked for equally difficult and/or anal bosses-almost always men. While it was annoying to me, it was easy to figure them out and do what I needed to do in order to get my job done. Hey, I wasn't married to them, so what did I care that they were all a little off? Their poor wives and girlfriends...
Then I found what I thought was going to be the perfect job. I was 23, and apparently, still naive. My boss was an older female who was on the brink of retiring at any moment. She was crazy. Crazy nice when she wanted to be (think beers after work, shopping trips during lunch, etc.), and crazy mean more often than not (think office gossiper, blunt mouth with no filter...). Regardless, I got her. We definitely had a huge age gap between the two of us, but I learned a lot from her. I didn't necessarily always like or respect her, but I didn't mind her. I believe she felt the same way of me.
Times changed, like they always do, and my boss left. I came to work under a new boss. Another female. At first, I thought that this was going to be a good change; however, it turned into a never-ending nightmare. This boss was the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde type. To us, she was a mouse-hell, she even looked like one. Quiet, kept to herself, always staying in her little hole until she needed to surface for a cigarette or one of her many "important" meetings.
In reality, this woman was a rat. She was not meek, nor honestly quiet. She was always looking for a way to find the wrong in every situation-even in situations where there was none. She took credit for ideas and projects that were not her own, and made sure to sell out everyone beneath her while doing the same to those at the same level as her. However, in communication with those who were her subordinates, she played the Mouse card.
I found this sad, because the woman was extremely smart and had moments where you could see that she was not really either the Mouse or the Rat. I'm sure there was some event, some Corporate twist, that made her become who she is. Regardless, I did not like the woman. And I must say, it wasn't because she was a woman (although, I'll admit men are much easier to work for), it was because I found her to be extremely fake...hence, the Mouse personality. In all honesty, she worked hard to find reasons to dislike me and force me out of my once "perfect" job. Eventually, my position was found as unnecessary, and I was let go. (SN: Best day of my working life!)
I didn't dwell much on this dual-personality woman after my departure from said job. I'd much rather work for someone who is a Rat at all times, then one who tries to switch back and forth and play the Mouse card. Maybe this is why I prefer to work for men.
I now work for two great men. And what makes it even better is that I am pretty much the only female, and I only have to see them a few times a week for a short period of time. They have wives and families (something that the Rat did not) and are not concerned with petty things, such as people's flaws and shortcomings (yes, we all have them...even you, Rat). Now, as far as personalities go, I could add in here the things I find humorous currently, but won't...
Never burn your bridges.
And to you, Rat: Karma is a motherf*cker!
Best,
Freeway Fairington
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Day My Car Almost Murdered Me
I love my car. Well, as much I can, anyway. It gets me where I need to go. It looks nice. It's age-appropriate (maybe even a little on the Yuppie side). But, I love it. And I take good care of it. The oil gets changed when it's supposed to. I replace things that break or need fixing when necessary. Hell, it even gets washed (although not as frequently as it should-AHEM, LITTLE BROTHER). I am very good to my car.
That being said, I'll give you a little additional background on my beloved car. She is a 2006 VW Jetta 2.5. She is silver with black leather interior. I researched her before I was forced into buying her (that in itself is a whole other story...thank you drunk driver...), and found her to be an okay fit for my budget and lifestyle. We haven't really had any problems. I mean, yes, we're both females, so that can be an issue sometimes, but we usually get along just fine. Now us and the tires...not so much. But, if you know me, you know I've never been one for getting along with tires. Pretty sure I had 13 flat tires with my previous car. :(
(My mother keeps telling me I need to marry a mechanic, or at least a man who works at a tire shop).
You all know that I often visit one of my sisters in Florida. So, of course, this past Labor Day weekend, my sister Clara and I made the six hour trip (sorry about that GPS snafu, Clara!) to see our other sister, Tracy. Prior to making the trip, I made sure to have my oil changed and checked the air in my tires. Everything appeared fine, and we made it there in one piece.
Our trip home was a different story entirely. Let me make it a point here to tell you that it's a stupid, stupid idea to travel during a tropical storm. We left Florida earlier than planned on Labor Day morning, and of course, it was raining. Actually, raining is an understatement. We packed the car and began driving in a Tsunami. Since the front left tire looked low on air, we stopped when the rain turned to a light mist to check and put air in all of the tires.
Of course, air costs money, and likewise, of course, I had no change. Precious time without rain was wasting. I walked inside the gas station and stood in line behind a 70-something year old lady who was redeeming twenty lottery tickets and purchasing about thirty more. Well, she was trying to anyway...the clerk was too busy adding ketchup and mustard to his cheese dog. By the time I got back outside with my quarters, it was starting to rain heavily again. My pants and shirt were thoroughly soaked. You can imagine that the fact that I was about to embark on an at least six hour ride home in soaking wet clothes was already putting me in a bad mood. Oh, and did I mention that Clara and I always travel with our three dogs? Just imagine being soaking wet in a car that smelled like wet dogs...and knowing that you were about to travel that way for the next six hours...yep, that's right, it was a total "FML" moment.
So, air is finally in tires, tire gauge claims that it really isn't. Only 25 PSI, and I'm supposed to have 33? I'm pissed at this point and decide to drive anyway. Apparently, this did not make my car happy. Approximately an hour into the drive, my car started doing weird, crazy things. She apparently was pms-ing and intended on murdering me and my passengers. Despite the fact that I'm already driving slow on a two-lane road through Alabama in a Tsunami, my car starts flashing the warning light that comes on when some type of traction is activated. My car begins to "correct" itself, and despite the fact that I am not technically "steering", it pulls dangerously to the left and starts to slide. My heartbeat quickens. I knew I should have taken my anxiety medicine. It stops for a while, and then begins to do it again-and more frequently. Clara is asleep in the passenger seat and doesn't seem to notice the random jerking to the left and then back over into our lane. I wake her up and tell her I'm worried. It starts raining harder.
I do what I do when all else fails and pull over to call my dad. I pick my dad over my mom because I know she's going to tell me to look in the book that came with my car. And I also know that the book is in my trunk and that I'm not about to get soaking wet again. My dad drills me with a series of questions and then tells me he doesn't know, but it sounds like I'm screwed anyway. Thanks, Dad...pretty sure I already knew this before I called. He then turns into my mother and asks me what my book says. I hang up, even more pissed and get out into the pouring rain to get the damn book. The book that doesn't say anything except for what the hazard light means...again, something I already know. I am seriously beginning to hate my car and Volkswagon at this point.
Then, I suddenly remember something that the salesman who sold me my car said, "Never hit the 'ESP' button". I look down and push it. The light goes out. I restart my car, the hazard light is still off. I tell this information to my dad, who then tells me to pull back out onto the road and drive a little ways and then slam on my brakes. He is serious. I wonder for a brief moment if he and my car are in cohorts in this plot to murder me. Sure enough, my car brakes correctly and doesn't veer of its own accord into oncoming traffic.
Clara and I make it safely through the rest of Alabama, and then through several tornados that seem to be touching down everywhere along our route home in Georgia. I never named my car prior to this trip, but I think I have decided to do so after enduring such a nerve-racking drive: Crazy Bitch.
(And btw, we made that entire trip driving with an expired tag. Guess who forgot to get their tag renewed before partying it up on her birthday? Yep, that idiot would be me...)
Saved for the time being,
Freeway Fairington
That being said, I'll give you a little additional background on my beloved car. She is a 2006 VW Jetta 2.5. She is silver with black leather interior. I researched her before I was forced into buying her (that in itself is a whole other story...thank you drunk driver...), and found her to be an okay fit for my budget and lifestyle. We haven't really had any problems. I mean, yes, we're both females, so that can be an issue sometimes, but we usually get along just fine. Now us and the tires...not so much. But, if you know me, you know I've never been one for getting along with tires. Pretty sure I had 13 flat tires with my previous car. :(
(My mother keeps telling me I need to marry a mechanic, or at least a man who works at a tire shop).
You all know that I often visit one of my sisters in Florida. So, of course, this past Labor Day weekend, my sister Clara and I made the six hour trip (sorry about that GPS snafu, Clara!) to see our other sister, Tracy. Prior to making the trip, I made sure to have my oil changed and checked the air in my tires. Everything appeared fine, and we made it there in one piece.
Our trip home was a different story entirely. Let me make it a point here to tell you that it's a stupid, stupid idea to travel during a tropical storm. We left Florida earlier than planned on Labor Day morning, and of course, it was raining. Actually, raining is an understatement. We packed the car and began driving in a Tsunami. Since the front left tire looked low on air, we stopped when the rain turned to a light mist to check and put air in all of the tires.
Of course, air costs money, and likewise, of course, I had no change. Precious time without rain was wasting. I walked inside the gas station and stood in line behind a 70-something year old lady who was redeeming twenty lottery tickets and purchasing about thirty more. Well, she was trying to anyway...the clerk was too busy adding ketchup and mustard to his cheese dog. By the time I got back outside with my quarters, it was starting to rain heavily again. My pants and shirt were thoroughly soaked. You can imagine that the fact that I was about to embark on an at least six hour ride home in soaking wet clothes was already putting me in a bad mood. Oh, and did I mention that Clara and I always travel with our three dogs? Just imagine being soaking wet in a car that smelled like wet dogs...and knowing that you were about to travel that way for the next six hours...yep, that's right, it was a total "FML" moment.
So, air is finally in tires, tire gauge claims that it really isn't. Only 25 PSI, and I'm supposed to have 33? I'm pissed at this point and decide to drive anyway. Apparently, this did not make my car happy. Approximately an hour into the drive, my car started doing weird, crazy things. She apparently was pms-ing and intended on murdering me and my passengers. Despite the fact that I'm already driving slow on a two-lane road through Alabama in a Tsunami, my car starts flashing the warning light that comes on when some type of traction is activated. My car begins to "correct" itself, and despite the fact that I am not technically "steering", it pulls dangerously to the left and starts to slide. My heartbeat quickens. I knew I should have taken my anxiety medicine. It stops for a while, and then begins to do it again-and more frequently. Clara is asleep in the passenger seat and doesn't seem to notice the random jerking to the left and then back over into our lane. I wake her up and tell her I'm worried. It starts raining harder.
I do what I do when all else fails and pull over to call my dad. I pick my dad over my mom because I know she's going to tell me to look in the book that came with my car. And I also know that the book is in my trunk and that I'm not about to get soaking wet again. My dad drills me with a series of questions and then tells me he doesn't know, but it sounds like I'm screwed anyway. Thanks, Dad...pretty sure I already knew this before I called. He then turns into my mother and asks me what my book says. I hang up, even more pissed and get out into the pouring rain to get the damn book. The book that doesn't say anything except for what the hazard light means...again, something I already know. I am seriously beginning to hate my car and Volkswagon at this point.
Then, I suddenly remember something that the salesman who sold me my car said, "Never hit the 'ESP' button". I look down and push it. The light goes out. I restart my car, the hazard light is still off. I tell this information to my dad, who then tells me to pull back out onto the road and drive a little ways and then slam on my brakes. He is serious. I wonder for a brief moment if he and my car are in cohorts in this plot to murder me. Sure enough, my car brakes correctly and doesn't veer of its own accord into oncoming traffic.
Clara and I make it safely through the rest of Alabama, and then through several tornados that seem to be touching down everywhere along our route home in Georgia. I never named my car prior to this trip, but I think I have decided to do so after enduring such a nerve-racking drive: Crazy Bitch.
(And btw, we made that entire trip driving with an expired tag. Guess who forgot to get their tag renewed before partying it up on her birthday? Yep, that idiot would be me...)
Saved for the time being,
Freeway Fairington
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