The water from the sprinkler shocked my numb body back to life…
In the dark, he can’t see what I’ve done to myself…
“1, 2, 3, 4! That’s how old I’m going to be on Agist fourteen,” he said as his eyes lit with excitement…
I stood in his doorway. I followed the stream of light pouring in through the window to where I used to sit in that antique chair 4 years ago. Rocking. Crying. Rocking. Crying. Rocking. Wishing I could run away.
My stomach began to feel sour. I shut the door and pressed my head firmly against the wall. I won’t be able to enter my son’s room until the fall. The flashes of the first few months of my postpartum period are too much to handle…
“Mom, don’t be mad today.”….
Those are some of the opening lines to blog posts I had intended on writing.
My brain feels muddled.
I’ll have an idea and I’ll begin to write but somewhere along the path from my brain to my fingertips, those ideas get lodged in my elbows.
Did that just sound really stupid?
Words stuck in my elbows.
Now you all think that I’m walking around with giant fucking elbows.
I don’t have giant fucking elbows for the record.
It’s the analogy I’m using to express my disdain for feeling dumber than my in law’s decision to not attend Chunky’s birthday party because they are going to a shooting competition.
They have yet to attend a birthday party of his.
Enjoy being alone on your deathbed.
Anyways, where was I going with this?
For being a “natural substance” it sure packs a wallop.
The nausea, I can handle.
The diarrhea, we all know I can handle (not sure what that says about me but lets run with it…hee hee run).
The lethargy, I can handle.
The hand tremors, I can handle.
The “what the hell was I trying to say/do/think?”, I can handle.
Having them happen all at once?
Is a challenge.
A couple weeks…maybe it was last week…I don’t remember…I started to feel really ill. Like I was drunk. I was walking into things. I lost my footing and fell face first into a bush. I walked into shelves at the grocery store.
I hugged the toilet more times than I’d like to admit.
I had a hard time with fine motor skills like signing my name at the cash register.
And it felt like someone had poured cement into my limbs.
And part of my face felt numb.
I felt terrible.
(Please note that all medications work differently for everyone.)
Dr.B promptly decreased my dose and ordered blood work.
I was 0.1 whatever-units-they-use-to-measure-Lithium-in-the-blood away from being toxic.
Surprisingly, I still don’t hate this drug.
It scares the shit out of me….literally…but I don’t hate it.
It has put a shoddy ceiling on the intensity of my anger which I needed relief from.
(And everyone else around me needed relief from.)
But I’ve yet to feel the floor.
What I need to do is MacGyver this shit and find a way to cling to that ceiling by using nothing but my wedding rings, underwear, and this old piece of gum I’m chewing.
I hate depression. I hate that I can feel it seeping into each crevice of my being.
It’s the most painful emotion you could ever experience.
Lithium needed to build that floor yesterday.
I wanted to claw my brain out when Dr. B reiterated that Lithium is like ordering a book online. “It can take up to 6 weeks for the package to show up on your doorstep”.
With my bloody luck and my shitty mail carrier, it was probably delivered 2 weeks ago to the old man with the scrawny legs and yappy dog two streets over.
But I’ll wait.
I can do this.
Chunky said to me the other day, “Momma, I love you for today and all of the days. Thanks for being my best friend. Smell my butt.”
His birthday is on Agist fourteen don’t you know?
He needs his Momma.
My family and friends need me.
I need me.
And I’m going to construct a kick ass Spongebob cake ordered to the 43 pound almost 4 years old dictator’s specifications.