Rainbow of colors

So, Greg's new thing when he calls or texts is to ask me if I'm blue. Because, naturally, unmedicated, I do occasionally suffer from The Blue. And The Red (The Rage). And The Yellow (The Happy). And so on.

Well, two days ago was a pretty insane day for me. Lots of blue that day. I had painful gut cramps that had me sweating from the pain. My beloved backyard gazebo blew across the yard, legs twisted and bent like a dead spider. I jumped a curb at Dunkin Donuts, and though there was no damage to the van (thank goodness--Yellow!!), it shook me up. So, two days ago was definitely a blue day.

So yesterday when Greg called from work to check on me, he asked my color. I thought about it a minute and determined it was not a blue day. I was not sure what kind of day it was, but definitely not blue. So I told him I'm having a rainbow day. All sorts of colors. Which, I added, is a good thing. Unless it is happening in rapid succession. Which sometimes does happen. And if that happens, he'd better run. Yellow is a great day. Blue not so much. And Red is terrifying. But YELLOW BLUE RED YELLOW BLUE RED. Run, Gregory, RUN!!

Not numb

Ok, so the crazy sorta stinks, and hovering on the verge of crying over the goofiest things is not fun, but I am no longer NUMB. I FEEL again.

The Rage

Oh oh. Here it comes. The return of The Rage. So, today Duke, our beloved clumsy giant dog, accidentally knocked over Hunter. Hunter flopped backward and hit his head on the TV stand. Yes, it is always horrifying when your child hits his head. So some reaction is expected.

But today, I saw a reemergence of The Rage. The Rage has been hidden for over a decade by Zoloft. Mind you, The Rage is never violent toward living things. Toward BLT sandwiches, maybe, or walls, or pans. The Rage is mostly just very vocal. So that's a plus. So when my baby boy (ok, he's 7) hit his head, The Rage came storming out of the kitchen looking for someone to blame. I hate The frickin Rage. She has no mind. She's just blindly angry. She's pure panic mode. And thus, Duke became the focus of my vocal wrath as The Rage screamed him out the back door. "JUST GO! GO OUTSIDE!! JUST GO!!" Poor dog.

Hunter was fine, and, it turns out, was really just playing up the injury. It scared him mostly. It turns out he hit his head on the glass part of the cabinet (not as bad as it sounds, as it didn't break or anything.) It just made a huge bang, which scared the death out of me, and brought out The Rage. Which I'm sure also contributed to Hunter's playing up the injury, since in his 7-year-old mind, he was really looking for justice against the offending dog.

I hate The Rage. But now that she's back, I can be mentally prepared next time. So it's not so bad. Hello The Rage. Nice to see you again. Or not so nice. But. I'm in control, not you. And now that I know you are back, I will not be letting you in again.

Hunter's fine after some love and kisses. And Duke's fine now, after a great big Mommy apology and many doggy hugs and kisses.

Punched a wall

So, not much to report. Though when Samantha spewed canine diarrhea all over the bathroom on Friday night, I did punch a wall, though not very hard. More of a DANGIT fist smack than a punch. Since starting Zoloft in the early 2000s, I hadn't really punched walls very often (though prior to Zoloft, I had been known to do so occasionally), so the wall punching may be of note. However, given the circumstances, I think I can give myself a pass. There was dog poo EVERYWHERE, on the walls, on the door to the boiler, on the floor, on the shower curtain, on the rugs. So, punched a wall, but I'm not sure if it is related to my unmedication, given the craptastic mess I was facing. Pun intended.

Life, Unmedicated

So, for the past decade I have been taking Zoloft to manage anxiety and depression. Prior to Zoloft, I had temper issues, anxiety, depression, paranoia, social phobia, hysteria, you name it. But prior to Zoloft I also had a much deeper emotional attachment to the world as well as a creative streak. I could write. I could draw. I could be inspired. And then my muse left me. She apparently didn't like Zoloft.

Well, when my husband left the military, we lost our medical insurance. So, for the past year I have been slowly weaning myself off of my addiction to Zoloft using the remaining supply I got just before we lost insurance. Well, a year later, I am almost out. I am down to half a 100mg tab every other day, and will soon be down to a half every few days, and then none.

This blog is a record of my state of mind as I slowly adjust to an unmedicated life. It's not a cry for help. I actually *want* to be unmedicated and find other ways to deal with my plethora of issues. Indeed, this blog will be one source of alternative therapy. If I keep up with it. Which depends on whether my muse returns. We'll see.