I quit Prozac.

In January.  And the old me finally came RAGING back.  I’m refamiliarizing myself with this person on a day-to-day minute-by-minute basis.  I like her.  I missed her and her funny sense of pissed-offness.  I want to try to “integrate” her with Prozac Jenn.  Prozac Jenn was too subdued, too emotionally leveled, too buried all by herself.  She needs Angsty Jenn.  Together they could make a really confident, balanced, amazing woman.

I would like to write about the emotional roller coaster of real honest to goodness feelings I’m having again, something you don’t have often on antidepressants.  But I don’t have the time and I don’t feel like writing a super sappy sounding post.  I’m busy APA formatting a paper on Autism/Asperger’s.  (Can’t you tell?)  So instead I will summarize my experience as follows:

I had Post Partum Depression.  I cried a lot.  I thought I might die.  I imagined Avelyn dying.  I thought I was letting her down.  I knew I was letting myself down.  I knew I had a problem.  I got help.  Therapy + Drugs = Saving.  I started feeling better.  I learned I’m not to blame.  I learned it’s not my fault.  I learned I’m not responsible for anyone but me and her.  At some point I started feeling nothing.  I didn’t like feeling nothing.  I wanted to cry if I felt sad and yell if I felt angry and feel happy if I was happy.  I didn’t want to live in a dense fog of nothingness and not be able to form thoughts about what I wanted to say.  I wasn’t depressed anymore so I weaned off the drugs.  It was weird.  Now I’m feeling a lot.

So anyway, that drug saved me and if you’ll recall I am a nurse which means I believe in drugs when they are medically necessary and used judiciously.  But now the old me is back.  With gusto and angst, a pinch of sarcasm and a sprinkle of sardonicism.  Just regular old me.  I wonder if my Post Prozac (new) friends will like the old me as much as my Pre Prozac (old) friends do.  Hmm…

With that I leave you with a few tidbits that roll around up there on a some-more-regular-than-others basis:

The sound of you chewing is making me want to throw your food on the floor and rip your hair out.  Not necessarily in that order.

I can’t stand listening to you breathe.  My chest tightens, my hands clench and my heart races and I want to jump out of my chair and scream in your face “STOP BREATHING LOUDLY OR DON’T BREATHE AT ALL!!!!! EITHER LOSE SOME EFFING WEIGHT AND/OR STOP SMOKING SO YOU DON’T WHEEZE LIKE A FATASS COW!!!!!”  (My fake apologies to any of you [non-baby] loud breathers out there.)

Why are you here?  I clearly don’t want you here.  Don’t you see me tensing up and cringing in an involuntary defensive emotional response to your presence?   I’m trying to control it but it’s not working because I am having a visceral response to you.  My therapist and friendapist both said the same thing – I should quit feeling guilty about my FEELINGS.  They’re MY feelings and it’s how I FEEL so I am allowed to FEEL this way dammit. 

Dumbass*.

More and more I find myself shutting my eyes tight and breathing deeply to avoid screaming and embarking on a murderous rampage since this particular behavior could be potentially hazardous, especially while driving.

Sometimes the sound of that voice makes me hate you.

Wow.  That feels good to get off my chest.  I feel like a weight has been lifted.  Welcome back Me. 

(“Now maybe back off the “Angsty” part a tad until these nice folks get to know you better.”  “Shut yo’ face!”)

*For Richey.  Even though he doesn’t read this blog.