Unmedicated for your displeasure

Let me start by saying that I'm not a big fan of pharmaceuticals. I'm not a nature buff, but something about feeding my body full of synthetic chemicals instead of natural substances doesn't sit with me well for most things. Yes, I know that some chemicals are beneficial, and mine might be a flawed logic, but "better living through chemicals" only works as a motto for Dow, not as a way of life.

However, when one's "chemically imballanced" as some like to call certain ailments, then it would stand to reason that chemical enhancements would be a great help.

Yeah, tell that to the dickwad I have as a doctor.

Although there still is a huge stigma attached to mental illness, I have no problem admitting to the fact that I suffer from depression. And I don't say "suffer from depression" because that's how most like to call it, but rather because I do suffer needlessly. If my last post didn't paint that picture well enough, I've got a lot of baggage. A goddamned transport truck following me full of it. I have had MUCH MORE than my fair share of horrible experiences and deaths in my past in the last decade. Not even. Make that 8 years. Deaths? There was my Dad, then Morrigan, then my 20 year old cousin, then my Grandmother, my Mother-In-Law, my Grandfather, and just recently, my other Grandmother. My marriage nearly ended a few years back, the health care I recieved during my pregnancy for Morrigan was a major contributing factor to her tragic life (all cause I wasn't living in the city, I've been explained), we were lied to and moved back out here hoping to shut the family up and actually make a life for ourselves out here, my husband's step-mother's cancer's come back in parts seriously far away from where it originally was found (and although no one's told us straight out, it doesn't look good or long), his Grandfather's unable to remember his wife's face and when we last saw him before moving back he was the one who had to remind her what our son's name was (they have 11 kids of their own, and our kids are their great grandchildren, so it's understandable they'd have a hard time keeping track)... And now we're looking to move back with the economy going to hell in a handbasket and the prospect of not being able to sell our house for what we paid for it, as well as the idea of not being able to afford a house when we get there.

And my doctor has fucked with my meds since my first visit.

I've been on Prozac since after Morrigan's passing. Well, not as soon after as I should have, I will admit. I am a product of my time - understanding, but filled with that "not me" attitude. I thought I would be able to shake it off. *Snort* What a load of bullshit that was. And I understand that more now than I did when I finally filled the perscription the first time.

In two weeks I felt "normal" again. No more busting into tears and hysterics when I heard a baby cry or hell, just for something to do. No more feelings of hopelessness and thoughts of ending it all. Yes. Yes I thought about sucide. And what really convinced me to fill that perscription was my Grandmother. A horrible way to think of things... You see, mental illness runs in my family. Both sides. In some form or another. And my Grandmother refused to take her medication for a multitude of reasons, but the real reason was that she was a product of her time - no way in hell was she going to admit to having a mental illness. And her life ended way too early and by her own hands. I knew that if I refused to admit I needed help that one day those thoughts of mine would seem like the best damned idea I've ever had and I'd follow through.

Right now, I'm doing my best to fight those thoughts. My doctor's an absolute idiot, and has been screwing with the actual medication and dosage from the get go. And believe me, you don't want to fuck with that stuff. I've gone from being moderately alright (the effectiveness deminished greatly after my youngest was born, something that would have been fixed with upping the dosage most likely) to paranoid to an insomniac to the psycho bitch from hell, all in a matter of months when he decides to hand me a script, saying "Hey, let's try this". One of the big reasons I want to return to the city I should have never left in the first place is so my family doctor there (who's already said no matter what, he'll take all of us back) can fix things. And so I'm not adding to my depression by a lack of work, a lack of intelligent individuals to talk to and visit, and family who drive me nuts.

Please send any good luck my way that will help me get a job (like yesterday) and that will sell my house.