I already knew something was wrong. I was there because something was wrong. I was there to go back on a medication I hadn’t needed in several years.
I could feel it coming back–the irrational anger, the inability to let anything go, the part where I didn’t like anybody or want to do anything two weeks out of each month. I had been there before. I knew it was really bad when I wanted to punch the lady in the waiting room for singing along with the muzak.
When the doctor asks you if you are under more stress than normal and you burst into tears she can assume the answer is yes.
We’re remodeling our house and we can’t live there and we are living with my in-laws and we commute 40 minutes each way every day to take the kids to school and I am trying to work from home while they are cutting holes in my walls and jackhammering things and there is a huge hole in my house and I’m turning 40 and the cats keeps scratching my mother-in-law’s chairs and a teenager died in the woods behind my house and nobody will tell us what happened and I’ve been sleeping on a pullout sofa with a man that is 6′ 4″ and I lost my best-paying freelance job and I need to quit another job because it is giving me IBS and peri-menopause is making me feel like I am going to bleed out every month and I am pretty sure one of the neighbor kids is going to fall in the hole in back yard and die and every single meal time is a problem and they never ordered the sliding doors and we’re having 15 people over for Thanksgiving and I don’t think the house will be done in time and all of our winter clothes are in storage and my daughter is out in the waiting room because she has lice and can’t go to school and I have to deal with that as soon as we leave here but we don’t have any hot water at my house so I have to figure out where I can wash her hair.
I was totally charming.
She gave me the medicine.
She also put me on the pill, which was a real shock, especially since my husband had a vasectomy seven years ago. Apparently the pill evens you out. I am all for that.
I think it might be working. I haven’t cried in three days. Then again, I am working at the library right now and I want to punch the lady in the quiet room who has her headphones turned up so loud that we all get to hear her Michael Bolton bullshit. But I like to think that no amount of pharmacology will stop adult contemporary music from making me hostile and thanks to modern medicine I will be just fine.
As long as I can avoid elevators.