What’s wrong with me? No one is helping me! I feel awful, I hate feeling hopeless! I want to die! These are my thoughts as I walk around the kitchen, pacing, opening the fridge, closing it, open a cupboard door, then another, then back to the fridge.
I have had it. My whole life, nothing helps these awful inner feelings. Then my husband–my dear fourth husband–my true forever man, comes home for lunch.
“Please, call that doctor, I can’t make myself even dial a phone number.”
Crying and near hysterical, I feel like hitting anything; the wall, my husband; a kitchen chair, anything.
By now my face is etched with lines from my tensed muscles. My husband backs off, his arms stretched out in front of him, the palms of his hands facing me.
Through the red heat in my ears and eyes I hear him say I have to make the call myself. The damn clinic has said for me to make the appointment on my own. They will not take an appointment from a second party.
I want to grab the phone and jerk it out of the wall, but I can’t. I can’t do it. I can’t help myself. What’s wrong with me, I shriek to myself, I just need to die, but I’m such a coward, I can’t even do that.
…Later That day
I walked to the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed the number from the slip of paper the nurse at the clinic had handed me last week.
Why was it so hard to do this earlier, I thought. My moods are so unpredictable. I can’t plan on anything.
…At Last, Appointment Day
I got in the car and my husband drove. I stared off into nothing for a while. It was 60 miles to the nurse practitioner’s office. Then, restlessness set in. I lifted my purse from the floorboard, wrestling around in it for something. Candy, Smarties, how many rolls are left, I wondered. I rummaged around until I found them all. Five should last awhile. I twisted the cellophane off one end of the roll and popped one sweet wafer into my mouth.
“Would you like some?” I held the opened roll across the console to my husband. He held out his hand and I dropped a few into his hand. He tossed them all into his mouth at once. So we entertained ourselves all the way to town with candy.
That was the first of many trips to the lady that saved my sanity. It took months on end to find the antidepressant that worked for me. I tried to go off of it in 2011. Big mistake. A year and a half of mental anguish, trying to save my liver because I thought Cymbalta was bad for it. Turned out my liver was the least of my worries.