Tiny Coconut

I have things.

Monday, June 26, 2006


I've been keeping things light around here recently for a number of reasons. One is what I used to think was an impending server move, but is now a "well, it's probably going to happen at some point" move. Another is the fact that things are going along fairly well in my life right now, which doesn't make for particularly compelling blog fodder.

But mostly, it's because I'm apparently still trying to hide from my fear and anxiety over Stalker Girl. (I'd link here for those who don't know that story, but I've recently taken down the majority of those entries, for reasons that are about to become clear.)

See, about a year and a half ago, I decided I should write a book--decided I wanted to write a book--about the stalking and what came after. About the ripple effects--not all of which are bad--that one person, one series of incidents, can have on an entire life. And so I started compiling previous blog entries into one document, then began adding newly written bits as well. At the moment, I have 96 pages of edited posts and written material, as well as another 72 pages of blog posts I have yet to incorporate.

Sounds impressive, no? And it would BE impressive...if I'd written a single word or even looked over a single page since, oh, February 13th at 6:09 pm. If I'd, you know, made progress in the past four months. ANY progress.

I've been thinking about why this is, why I haven't put finger to keyboard in such a long time. And here's what I've come up with: I'm too happy. Not too happy as in "more happy than I should be." But too happy as in "I don't want to think about this shit because it will only bring me down."

That was brought home to me in no uncertain terms when I went to the doctor the other day to get a drug refill.

See, when Dr. Oui--my much-beloved psychiatrist--left the university, he gave me only a three-month prescription for Celexa. He did it, he said, to force me to find someone else to take on my care. Right after that, however, all the pieces of my new work-from-home scheme came together and my therapist pronounced me good to go. I decided I didn't need a monthly med check for the time being. I just needed to keep on keeping on.

When the three months were up, I found myself in a bind. My internist had also left the university, at around the same time as Dr. Oui. And so I called the doctor who had been recommended to me as her replacement and asked for a sight-unseen refill. She was happy to do it, but only for one month; by the time I needed more, she too had left. (Don't ask.) The nurse I called and cried to about my impending cold-turkey withdrawal from Celexa found another doctor to call in a three-month supply for me, but only after I'd made an appointment to come see her before those three months were up.

That appointment was last week.

I've seen this doctor before, when my original internist wasn't available, and she's fabulous. I felt right at home talking to her. Until, after getting the basics of which drugs I needed refilled and at what dosages, she turned around and said, "So, I'm assuming these are to treat a depression?"

"Well," I admitted, "they're for depression and anxiety and, um, PTSD."

She raised an eyebrow. "PTSD?"

"Yeah," I said. "Except it's actually probably considered TSD, since it's not really post yet. Or at least there's no way to be sure it's post."

Which, of course, prompted her to ask me what the trauma was, where the anxiety sprang from. Which prompted me to realize that, shit, it's no easier to talk about this now, more than three years after the initial 'breakdown,' than it was then. In fact, if anything, it's harder. Because then, there was so much ongoing pain and fear and such, there were so many unremitting obsessive thought patterns, that I couldn't really freak myself out too much more. But these days, time passes smoothly; entire days go by where I don't think of her name or wonder about where she'll show up next and what she'll have up her sleeve. Until, that is, I need a refill from a doctor who doesn't know my history, and I have to spit out a couple of brief sentences about ten years of fear.

She listened, openmouthed. "Why?" she asked. "Why does she do this?"

"I don't know," I said, simply. "She's crazy. And unpredictable. And so every time I think it's time to consider backing off the meds, I change my mind within seconds. Because I never know when she's going to blow again, and what that will do to me." I paused, then added. "Which is why I'm here looking for a refill."

I left her office that day with seven months' worth of Celexa and, despite my telling her that I was using it less and less frequently, a way-way-more-than-adequate supply of Xanax. Not to mention the realization that I need to keep talking about all of this...and that I really, really, REALLY don't want to.

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