If I’d written this post an hour ago I would have started with ‘I’m admitting defeat. I can’t do this.’ That was an hour ago. Now I know I’m not admitting defeat. Let me take you through what’s been going on since my last post.
At some point yesterday afternoon I decided to take today off. That in itself shows remarkable foresight. On the way home I felt extremely lousy – basically flu with the added bonus of electric shocks in my brain every time my eyes moved. There was one small, inconsequential but unfortunately timed comment from Hubby (who is after all, only human and gets tired and stressed just like everyone else), and the whole, carefully balanced house of cards came crashing down around me. I kept it together long enough to make it to the safety of the shower where I cried for a solid 20 minutes. I came out and put happy face back on, took the kids trick or treating, then came home to bed, aided by something to help me sleep. This morning I had a lie in, dropped the kids to creche, said goodbye to my folks who’ve been looking after us so well this week, and fell apart. Snotty, tear stained heap at the bottom of the stairs, feeling like my heart had been torn from my chest. I thought about calling my folks and asking them to come back, I know they would have. I thought about calling Therapist, on her week off, to get her to fix it for me. Then I remembered conversations with my GP, and the nurse yesterday. As soon, AS SOON, as things start to get too much, I’m to get onto them straight away. That was the biggest proviso about this whole experiment. I dismissed the thought – weakness, giving in. I cried some more. And then I did something that helps me know this is the right decision. I called the doctors surgery and insisted that they squeeze me in this morning. Then I called a friend (and I’m so unbelievably impressed that she could understand me through the sobbing) and asked for help. She dropped everything to drive me to the surgery. I sat in GP’s room and he didn’t say ‘I told you so’. He reassured me that I hadn’t done anything wrong in trying to stop, and in fact, bar one day when psych had wanted me to take old med for the last time and I didn’t, I have done everything that she asked of me. It hasn’t worked out. Could it be ‘just’ withdrawal? Who knows. What I do know is this. The way I feel this morning is not on. I am not prepared to struggle through a month like this on the offchance that it’s ‘just’ withdrawal. It is too hard. It’s not fair on me, on Hubby, or my kids. Even if it is withdrawal, a few weeks, or even a few days of this, would be enough to push me over into a full blown episode. I’m not prepared to let that happen.
So, while I’m not admitting defeat, I am holding my hands up and saying, ‘not yet. I’m not ready’. Am I disappointed? I can’t begin to describe how much. I was so, so hopeful that now was the right time. But it’s not, and there’s nothing I can do to change that. I don’t want to undermine all the progress that I’ve made this last year by stubbornly holding out and pushing through. That won’t help anyone, least of all me. So, when I’m finished writing this, I’m putting on my boots and taking my pooches out for a long walk. On the way home, I’ll go to the chemist and stock up on drugs. I don’t want to. I had so hoped I wouldn’t have to. But I need to. It’s only 10% of the work. I don’t want to lose the ability to do the remaining 90 for the sake of ten. Surely recognising that is worth something??