Paradox (With Tongues)

So I made the decision and with all the rightest of reasons and best(est) of intentions. In sound mind I know this. I know the ins and outs and whys and everything’s because I’ve lived it and breathed it and agonised over it and rolled it over in conversations so many times that my voice is horse and all the words have dried up.

The reality of sitting in the middle of it all, cross legged on the floor surrounded by looming towers or doubt and worry skews the plan somewhat.

Is it just me or is it more than a little ironic that medication for depression can cause depressive symptoms? Precisely, these depressive side effects are most prevalent when the medication is first started – leading to weeks of desperate oh my this is just me and I’m all wrong and I’ll never be OK ever again ever – and, of course, at the other end of the scale when you’re trying and willing to set yourself free.

I was OK. Not better, not perfect, not totally there yet, but OK. I had levelled out. The physical effects became stronger than the soothing mental effects. I felt strong enough to go it alone, ready.

Even during the stationary swaying and rocking of the vertigo brought on by reducing my dose by a teensy (medical term there guys) amount it still felt good you know? I mean, obviously I had felt better, but I was positive and I pushed through it.

As the veil lifted I really did start to feel more like myself again which is such a cliché it just has to be true. I did stuff and I did it automatically and happily and just because it needed doing and it wasn’t simply the background notice to another session of self loathing and internal destruction.

The husband even noticed a difference. I felt good. I made stuff and sang and played and smiled and it was all good and it felt good and good good good good good.

And I’ve been wanting to write this post for days. And other posts about everything else and the fact that in the last five weeks when I have been relatively quiet I’ve actually managed to reduce from 150mg to 37.5mg all by myself and it’s a bloody achievement and I’m still here and still battling and still surviving.

I just haven’t wanted to jinx it.

I’ve wanted your support and encouragement because last night was the last time that I reached for the little blister pack beside my bed but I’ve been too scared to ask because what if I can’t do it and what if I don’t want to do it and what if times a million.

I’ve known that I’m going to stop for about a week. It’s time. I can’t keep pumping these drugs into my system when all they were doing was sustaining a level that I’m able to sustain myself now only with a cloud of heavy fog smothered thickly across all my senses thrown in for good (bad) measure.

I need to stop them to get better properly. I need to feel again and to learn to cope again and I can’t do that with the meds. I want to know that I can survive without them and frankly, I just want this whole long chapter to be over now.

I can see now how far I have come and as much as it fills me with pride because I kicked some ass it also makes me want to double over, clutching my stomach in pain because it was all just awful.

I swallowed that last pill.

Hopefully the last one ever but let’s face it, probably not as they say once affected always afflicted and I’m likely to have to battle this all over again to have more babies. Lets not go there just yet. One thing at a time.

The familiar feelings washed over me.

A gentle dizziness, fuzziness, creeping up on tiptoes before quickly closing in on my mind, wrapping it up in cotton wool and…and…making me incapable of finishing sentences.

The feelings that I’ve hated and been so keen to forget suddenly aren’t so bad. As I lay back and allow the stoned waves to gently wash over me they lick at my toes and gently drape my mind in thick, soft velvet. It’s nice. It’s nothing like last night and all the nights before where I felt like these effects were trying to pin me down with arms of steel and knees in my chest as I kicked and struggled and begged to be free.

These drugs, although for the most part absolutely horrible, have been a necessity. They have kept me alive and held my hand and consciously or subconsciously they have been there for me to fall back on when I have needed to.

They pulled me back from the absolute depths of breathtakingly painful misery and they set me down lightly on a tightrope, balancing somewhere between good and bad, up and down, me and…?

There were no great ups or terrible downs rather everything just was. It’s impossible to expect that for something to take the pain of one emotion away it won’t drain out the delight in another isn’t it?

Slowly, very slowly over the last few weeks I have been getting used to feeling again. Like rediscovering your own tongue after its been dormant and numb for hours after a dentist visit, suddenly there it is! and oh god does it really feel like that and I can move it and wow I really take my tongue for granted because it can do all this stuff.

I can cry and laugh and neither are forced and both hit me like a clenched fist in the pit of my stomach. I can feel my nerve endings tingle as I nuzzle into the husbands shoulder and his chin brushes across my head, his stubble catching on my hair. I can feel the love jumping from every cell when I just look at Beans and she does something a bit kooky (ie; all the time).

It’s weird. It’s like I’m being absolutely bombarded. We’re not in Kansas any more  Toto and someone’s switched on the colour and the lights and the sounds and the smells and the feelings and its all so intense and don’t I get ruby slippers as part of this bargain?

I do want to do this, I do. And I am ready. But I am scared. This drugs are addictive and I have used up every ounce of my strength to get to the point where I can say ‘let’s do this’ that I just don’t know that I have enough left to be able to say done.

I’m terrified of going back to where I was. And that’s why it’s so hard to say goodbye.

badge1 Paradox (With Tongues)

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