Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 167

Fred and George’s Great Escape

So Fred and George, having been denied love, fled for their wee ceramic lives.

 

 

“RUN!”

“BUT I LOVE HER!”

“I DON’T CARE, RUN!”

“YOU DON’T WANT ME TO BE HAPPY!”

“I DON’T WANT YOU TO BE EATEN ALIVE! NOT EVEN BY A WOMBAT!”

“WOMBAT? WHERE?”

 

 

 

“I THINK…WE’VE LOST…THEM.”

“OY, LOOK AT THIS.”

“WHAT? IS IT FOOD?”

“SMELLS AWFUL.”

“IT DOES, RATHER. WHAT IS THAT STUFF?”

“DON’T KNOW. GOD, YOU’RE OUT OF SHAPE.”

“WHAT?”

“WHY ARE YOU PANTING?”

“I’M NOT…OH, NO.”

 

“AUGH!”

“IS IT A WOMBAT?”

“OH CHRIST JESUS, YOU’RE IN ITS FOOD BOWL! RUN!”

“IT EATS THIS? NO WONDER IT SOUNDS LIKE THAT–”

Odd Trundles: New friends? New friends?

 

“FRED? FRED! WHERE DID YOU GO? WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME? FRED, COME BACK! I’M SORRY I PISSED YOUR BED THAT ONCE! I’M SORRY ABOUT EVERYTHING!”

 

 

 

 

“UP HERE, DIPSHIT. HELP ME.”

“BUT, FRED…WE DON’T HAVE NO OPPOSABLE THUMBS.”

“JUST SHUT UP AND PUSH.”

 

 

 

 

“THIS IS MORE LIKE IT.”

“WHAT’S THAT SMELL?”

“I DON’T THINK WE’RE IN MELBOURNE ANYMORE.”

“WELL, WHERE THE HELL ARE WE THEN? TASMANIA?”

“I THINK…MAYBE CANADA?”

“ISN’T THAT ON MARS?”

“GEORGE…OH, JUST NEVER MIND.”

 

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“I TOLD YOU I HAD TO PISS. ROUGH NIGHT, THAT WAS.”

“YOU’RE DEFECATING IN A–WHAT IS THAT?”

“SCRATCHY.”

“I CANNOT BELIEVE WE’RE FRIENDS.”

“NOBODY ELSE CAN EITHER, YOU’RE SO UPTIGHT.”

 

 

“LOOK AT THIS. IT’S JUST SITTING HERE.”

“FOOD! FINALLY! FRED, YOU’RE THE BEST!”

“THIS IS GREAT. AL FRESCO. MARVELOUS.”

“THAT WAS AN INCREDIBLE DUMP.”

“THANK YOU FOR SHARING.”

“I FEEL A LOT LIGHTER.”

“I’M SURE YOU DO.”

 

 

 

“SO. WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

 

 

 

 

“I THINK IT’S A LONG WAY DOWN.”

 

 

 

 

“I’M KING OF THE WOOOOORLD!”

“GOD. YOU’RE NEVER WATCHING ANOTHER MOVIE. EVER.”

“BUT IT WAS GREAT! I CRIED. SO DID YOU.”

“I DID NOT.”

“I SAW YOU. YOU CRIED LIKE A BABY. YOU CURLED UP IN THE FETAL POSITION AND SUCKED ON A WINE BOTTLE UNTIL–”

“GEORGE, I WILL HURT YOU IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP.”

 

 

 

“AND THEN SHE WAS ALL LIKE, MY HEART WILL GO OOOOOOOOON–”

 

 

 

 

“COME ON, CELINE DION. TIME TO FIND SOME SHELTER.”

…to be continued

Selene

So it looks like I’ll be re-releasing Selene. I plan to do a chapter a week on Wednesdays. If you’re interested, you might want to hop over and subscribe. There’s also a tip jar–if that goes well, I may release some other serial stuff.

Note: A big thank-you to Peggy aka beaduni for sending me a Word copy, and getting me started on thinking that maybe I could resurrect it. Thanks, Peggy!

Fred and George Search For Love

So Fred and George made their escape, scurrying down the hall…and, as luck would have it, into my office.

*sigh*

 

 

“IT SEEMS SAFER HERE.”

“WHERE’S HERE, FRED?”

“HOW SHOULD I KNOW? LET’S GO DRINKING, YOU SAID. WHAT COULD HAPPEN, YOU SAID.”

“YOU HAD A GOOD TIME. DON’T THINK I DIDN’T SEE YOU WITH THAT BILBY.”

“SHE WAS A LADY, DAMMIT!”

“SHE HAD AN ADAM’S APPLE BIGGER THAN MINE.”

 

“I KNOW YOU’RE UPSET. BUT REALLY, FRED, WHERE ARE WE?”

“I…HAVE A THEORY.”

“I LOVE YOUR THEORIES.”

“FUCK YOU. ANYWAY…I HAVE A BAD FEELING ABOUT THIS.”

 

“YOU HAVE A BAD FEELING ABOUT EVERYTHING. IT’S A WONDER YOU EVER GET SHAGGED.”

“SHUT UP.”

“WAIT, DID YOU GET SHAGGED LAST NIGHT? DID YOU?”

“THAT’S PERSONAL.”

“YOU DIDN’T, DID YOU. YOU’RE STILL A VIRGIN.”

“GEORGE, NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO PISS ME OFF.”

 

“IT SMELLS WEIRD. ALMOST FAMILIAR.”

“WELL, THE FLOOR’S…THERE’S THINGS LITTERED ABOUT. RIGHT MESS OF A PLACE THIS IS.”

“YOU COULD CLEAN IT UP. I’VE SEEN YOU DO IT.”

“WHEN WE GET HOME YOU’RE DOING KITCHEN AND LOO.”

“COME ON–”

“YOU PROMISED. GO DRINKING WITH ME, YOU SAID, AND I’LL DO THE CHORES FOR A WEEK.”

“I DIDN’T MEAN IT!”

 

 

“LOOK, THIS IS NOT THE FIRST TIME SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAS HAPPENED. WE GET OUTSIDE, WE FIND A BUS, WE GO BACK TO MELBOURNE AND WE GO HOME. FIRST STEP IS GETTING OUTSIDE.”

“…”

“GEORGE, DON’T IGNORE ME. I HATE IT WHEN YOU IGNORE ME.”

“SHE’S BEAUTIFUL.”

 

 

“WHAT?”

“BLOODY BEAUTIFUL.”

“WHO’S–OH HOLY FUCK!”

“SHE’S PURRING!”

“IT’S NOT A SHE! IT’S NOT A SHE!”

“LOOK AT THAT COAT!”

“WE’RE LEAVING!”

“HEY!”

 

 

 

…to be continued

Fred and George Flee in Fear

Squirrels. In my house. In my house.

Again.

And they had just realized they were not alone…

“UM, FRED?”

“SHHH! SHHHH!”

“DO YOU SEE THAT?”

“SHUT UP. I THINK IT THINKS WE’RE DECORATIONS.”

“WHAT IS IT?”

“GEORGE, SHUT UP.”

Miss B: *blinks*

 

“JUST FREEZE. STAY STILL.”

“OH GOD I DON’T WANNA DIE–”

“GEORGE, IF YOU DON’T SHUT UP, I WILL HELP THAT THING EAT YOU.”

“IS IT A WOMBAT? I DON’T MIND BEING EATEN IF IT’S A WOMBAT–”

“SHUT. THE FUCK. UP, GEORGE.”

“FRED…I HAVE TO PISS.”

“OH FOR THE LOVE OF…”

 

Miss B: Really? Really?

 

 

 

 

“HIDE! HIDE HERE!”

“IS THAT A WOMBAT? IS IT, FRED?”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS, BUT IT’S NOT A GODDAMN WOMBAT. JUST LET ME THINK FOR A BIT.”

“I STILL HAVE TO PISS.”

“YOU CAN HOLD IT.”

“FRED…I THINK I HAVE TO MORE-THAN-PISS. YEH, I’M PRETTY SURE I DO.”

“COME BACK! DON’T RUN THAT WAY!”

“GOTTA FIND A CORNER, MATE…”

“OH, FOR CHRISSAKE.”

 

“I CAN’T PISS HERE. IT’S ALL HARD AND SHINY.”

“SO? DOES IT MATTER WHERE YOU PEE?”

“IT’LL GET MY PAWS WET.”

“SINCE WHEN HAS THAT EVER STOPPED YOU?”

“LOOK, IT’S EMBARRASSING.”

“YOU SPENT LAST NIGHT BURIED IN A POUCH FROM CANBERRA. CAN YOU EVER BE EMBARRASSED AGAIN?”

“YOU’RE JUST JEALOUS.”

 

 

“FRED–”

“AND FURTHERMORE, WHEN WE GET HOME, I AM THROWING YOUR SHIT OUT OF THE APARTMENT.”

“FRED–”

“I AM TIRED OF YOUR DRINKING AND YOUR IRRESPONSIBILITY.”

“FRED–”

“AND YOU SNORE. DID YOU KNOW THAT? LOUDLY.”

“FRED!”

“WHAT?”

“LOOK UP THERE.”

 

 

“RUN AWAY!”

The Adventures of Fred & George

Guys, for what I am about to do, I am sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I got this parcel in the mail, and…well, you’ll see.

Readers, meet Fred and George, the Australian WonderTwin SquirrelShakers.

 

Choco! From a certain Australian fan! How marvelous!

There was some movement inside, though.

 

 

Wait.

Wait just a second.

What the hell…?

 

 

 

“GEORGE! WAKE UP!”

“GOD, WHAT A NIGHT. DID YOU GET HER NUMBER?”

“WAKE UP! WE’VE BEEN SHIPPED!”

“WHAT?”

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE WE?”

“DON’T ASK ME, MATE, LAST THING I REMEMBER IS THAT MARSUPIAL FROM CANBERRA AND HER LOVELY GAMS.”

“I CAN’T TAKE YOU ANYWHERE.”

 

“THIS DOESN’T SEEM SO BAD.”

“YOU’RE ALWAYS AN OPTIMIST, FRED.”

“IT’S MY SUNNY DISPOSITION.”

 

 

 

 

“I CANNA JUMP THE DISTANCE. YOU’LL HAVE TO TOSS ME.”

“I SHOULD NEVER HAVE LET YOU WATCH THOSE MOVIES.”

 

 

 

“C…O…F…F…I WONDER IF WE CAN EAT THIS?”

“PROBABLY. BUT LET’S NOT, GEORGE. COME ON.”

“BUT I’M HUNGRY, MATE!”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE HUNGOVER.”

“I AM! AND HUNGRY!”

“COME ON.”

 

 

 

 

“HELP ME PUSH THIS.”

“WHAT? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“IF WE PUSH THIS OFF WE’LL EAT LIKE KINGS.”

“FOR GOD’S SAKE DON’T BE STUPID. LET’S LOOK AROUND FIRST.”

“FOR WHAT? MORE FOOD? THERE’S FOOD RIGHT HERE.”

“SHUT UP, GEORGE. COME ON.”

 

 

 

“THIS MIGHT TURN OUT ALL RIGHT. SEEMS QUIET.”

“FUCK QUIET. I NEED A NOSH.”

“WE’LL EXPLORE A LITTLE BIT MORE, THEN GET YOU YOUR BLASTED NOSH. COME ON.”

 

 

“I DUNNO, FRED. I FEEL A LITTLE…EXPOSED.”

“PLEASE TELL ME YOU DIDN’T TAKE YOUR PANTS OFF.”

“I DON’T WEAR PANTS.”

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, GEORGE–WAIT. WAIT JUST A SECOND. DO YOU HEAR THAT?”

“HEAR WHAT? I’M HUNGRY, FRED.”

“SHHH. GEORGE…I THINK WE’RE NOT ALONE.”

…to be continued

Why I Even Opened My Mouth

I’ve told you about my particular anxiety disorder, my decision to go on medication, a bit about the side effects of said medication, and how that wasn’t the end of what I needed to do to get healthier.

Even now, multiple years after those events, I’m still not done. I’m still actively working. I’m sure I’ll be a project until I shuffle off my mortal coil.

But I wanted to talk about one last thing. I wanted to tell you why I even opened my mouth about this at all.

It’s a difficult decision. Partly for all the usual reasons–I am, despite what one might think reading my blog, a pretty private person, and there’s also the fact that a series of posts like this can be blood in the water for stalkers or people who might not necessarily want to offer support. Besides, there is a huge social stigma around any sort of mental disorder, as well as a toxic set of assumptions about anyone who admits to having to take meds. Of those reasons, the blood in the water was the biggest one on the side of refraining.

There’s also the fact that my story is very common, and I have not made art of it the way some other people have. My struggles are mild in comparison. I stay silent about a number of issues stemming from my childhood for my own reasons, and I think they’re good reasons. Also, fear. Just plain, simple fear. Not the kind that I can grab and force into a story to make it manageable. Not the kind that fuels a book. Just a creeping, cringing, terrible fear.

Balanced against all that were the reasons to speak.

* I felt it was time, for my own health. To face my own fear. Selfish, but true.

* I’m not going to lie: part of it was a dare to those who smell blood in the water. It’s been educational and interesting to see them come out of the woodwork. It’s been healing to not respond, or to put my barriers up, and to realize that I have a right to speak even though some would prefer I keep silent. To speak or not is my choice, and I am going to make it myself. And only by myself.

* I’ve read, in the past few months, some searing, honest, and marvelous things from people who struggle with similar (albeit much larger) issues. In particular, Allie Brosh speaking about her depression helped me to feel much, much less alone and freakish. This is my way of passing that help on.

* Because–and this is the biggest reason–I desperately hope that someone, somewhere, will feel less alone reading these posts. If even just one person might feel slightly less alone, slightly less isolated, slightly less of a freak or an alien as a result of me speaking publicly about having to take meds, or about what led up to that and how I made my decision, or even just that I wanted to reach out…then every single instant of pain was worth it, because it led me to a place where I could have a chance of hopefully ameliorating someone else’s agony.

Again and again I come to the place of simply holding the line and hoping. The older I get, the more I think that’s the point of life, and the only thing that truly survives anyone’s brief tenure on this rock hurtling through space. The ripple effect, as it were, from being as decent as you can on a day-to-day basis, shouting into the void and holding the line even if you fear nobody will grab it. The act of holding is important.

And so, I continue.

Thanks for listening.

REVIEW: The Gift of Fear, or, Figure Out Who’s REALLY Going To Kill You

This is one of the posts that was lost in the hacking, all the way back from January of ’09. I’ve been asked to resurrect it, so…here it is.

Gavin de Becker’s The Gift of Fear is a forehead-slapper of a book. By this I mean that what he says is so simple and practical, not to mention useful and logical once you think about it, that you will slap your forehead repeatedly and say, “DUH I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THAT!” De Becker manages to share a whole lot of this sort of stuff without making the reader feel stupid, which is an achievement in and of itself.

I’ll be honest: this book is largely for women. From the back of the book:

A date won’t take “no” for an answer. The new nanny gives a mother an uneasy feeling. A stranger in a deserted parking lot offers unsolicited help. The threat of violence surrounds us every day. But we can protect ourselves, by learning to trust–and act on–our gut instincts.

These are female problems. As de Becker himself points out, there’s a basic rift in our society: at bottom men are afraid women will laugh at them, women are afraid men will kill them. Women are also socialized to make us good victims, another thing de Becker deconstructs. We’re taught to play nice, get along, make someone feel better, let someone down easy. Even if we do feel uneasy, or if our intuition tells us something is off, we’ll play along just to be nice.

And a lot of times, these nice cooperative things are used so someone can get inside our homes or our lives to hurt us. We are capable of predicting the behavior of our fellow beings–we do so every day we drive, stand in a line, talk on the phone with a friend, get on an airplane, or do any number of everyday things. We are experts when it comes to other human beings, and we often get into trouble when we don’t trust what our expertise tells us.

De Becker also speaks directly about the techniques someone will use to get within range before they perpetrate violence on you, techniques like “typecasting”, “loan sharking”, and “too many details”. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen these techniques used, and having something to call them helps immensely. Not only does it give these techniques, but it also gives women permission and strategies for shorting them out. This can help in all sorts of situations, not just the ones we’re afraid might erupt into violence. And it was immensely helpful and

I found this book immensely, intensely valuable. I’m going to be buying copies to give to my sisters and my female friends, as well as recommending it at the bookstore. It’s taken me thirty years and several bad encounters before I’m comfortable saying “no” or enforcing my personal boundaries. If I’d read this book sooner I could probably have saved myself a lot of grief.

There are flaws with this book. Chief among them is de Becker not talking about one of the bigger reasons women stay in abusive relationships–because the first thing an abuser tries to do is get control of the financial situation, and women (especially women with children) often cannot afford to leave without starving on the streets. He also glosses over the shell-shock and several other important issues when it comes to battering and domestic violence. I can see that it’s outside the purview of what he set out to write, and all in all the book is so goddamn valuable this is a tiny little quibble.

De Becker also talks about separating anxiety, uneasiness, or other feelings from fear. Fear is a survival mechanism, and it’s serious business. Jacking yourself up to feel fear when you don’t need to–a trick lots of people do with the help of the evening news–is counterproductive, because it drowns out all those little things your intuition is taking note of to help keep you safe.

The book is a quick read, and I’ve marked several passages for rereading. Going through and reading a self-help book won’t actually change anything, I know–but reading a self-help book, paying attention, and working hard on the issues you find will help.

Case in point? About halfway through this book I had an Encounter.

It was after dark, and the kids and I were at Safeway picking up some groceries at the end of a long day. The UnSullen One stopped with the kids at the quarter machines–he saves his quarters from change and gives them to the kids to get stickers, gumballs, or little figurines at the bank of machines at the grocery store. I carried four bags and two gallons of milk out to the car, he would bring the kids when they were done.

I scanned the parking lot. There were a couple people on foot talking to someone in a parked car, and they made me slightly uneasy. I am a tempting target–female, weighed down with groceries, alone. I kept an eye on them while I walked to my car, got everything in the trunk, and since I had them in my peripheral vision I was prepared when they approached. A man and a woman, both obviously homeless.

“Excuse me,” the man says, politely enough. I slammed my trunk and turned on my heel. “Can I ask you a favor?”

No you can’t, I think, but I draw myself up and make eye contact. “You can ask.”

“Do you happen to have a spare $2.50 for the bus?” He’s sizing me up. I can feel it, and the woman is looking at the ground.

“The bus?” I raise an eyebrow.

The kids are coming, each of them holding an UnSullen One’s hand. I make a series of lightning-fast calculations. Since I’ve been reading this particular book, I am not frightened. I am a little uneasy, but for good valid reasons. I don’t need to be afraid at this particular point.

I have my wallet and my car keys in my hand. The man steps forward, and something in the set of his shoulders warns me.

I say, “That’s close enough.” In my Mommy Voice–the one that stops people in their tracks, even adults at the mall. I don’t think he would have committed any violence had I not said that. But I do think he and his partner would have gotten aggressive when it came to begging for cash.

He stopped dead, the kids got closer, and he and his partner wandered away. It might not have been dangerous, but it could have been unpleasant, and adding my kids to the mix changed what I was willing to do in the situation.

That’s just a small story and a small incident, true. But it was amazing how I suddenly saw from another point of view while in the incident. The book had immediately proven practical and helped me save myself some unpleasantness. Granted I was slightly annoyed and anxious, but I wasn’t crippled by fear because I had faith in my predictive ability in the situation.[1]

This is why I recommend this book, and why I’m going to be buying copies for people I know. I could go on and on about the useful things in The Gift of Fear, but that would make this review almost a book in itself. So, be safe out there. And do yourself a favor: read this book.

Who knows? It could save you annoyance, or it could save your life. I call that a good bargain for a trade paperback.

[1] Of course, I also had faith in my ability to kick some ass if the guy got snitty with me or frightened my kids. But that’s an entirely different set of mama-bear reflexes.

photo by:


fabbio

Persephone

A scarlet windflower. Anemone. Still figuring out how to make the SLR focus where I want it to. Grrr.

Not Done Yet

The panic attacks had stopped. I was sleeping at night. It was great. It was flat-out wonderful.

And it meant more hard work.

What does your body do when it’s adapted to constant crisis and you try to rewire it? Confusion. Dogs and cats living together. Anarchy.

Well, maybe it’s not quite that bad.

I spent the first month or so in a sort of emotional decompression sickness. (I called it the Mental Bends, and Calm Therapist looked at me sort of blankly. I found it funny though.) I just didn’t know how to handle the relief. I would expect a panic attack, get all ready for it…and nothing would happen. It weirded me out, intensely. I didn’t want to leave the house (I mean, even more than usual) because if I wasn’t having panic attacks, surely a whopper of an attack was lurking out there in the world, waiting. Just waiting for me to be stupid enough to try and go somewhere or do something. Sometimes I could even feel a panic attack trying to start itself, only to spontaneously ease before it ever got started. Feeling your own internal chemistry fight with you is an exotic and exquisitely terrifying sensation.

Despite that, life went on, kids had to be taken to school, and groceries had to be bought. So I spent errands etc. in a sort of fugue state, hyperalert for any hint of an impending attack. It eased bit by bit, over the span of about a year.

Yes, a year. These things don’t happen all at once. Eventually, I was driving one day and I realized I hadn’t thought about where to pull over if an attack hit for a while. It was incredibly liberating. There was also a period where the endorphin highs from running got so intense I was a little afraid of them. The feeling-good frightened me in a way feeling crappy had never managed to do. Fortunately, my body adjusted quickly to that, and the endorphin rush went back to normal (very pleasant) proportions.

Therapy also got…harder. Not more intense, precisely, but now that I wasn’t in crisis and just treading water, there were things that I needed to do to address deeper issues. Training myself to act in a healthier manner, stopping and redirecting unhelpful thoughts, trying not to work myself into a downward spiral of shame and self-blame, exercise after exercise to teach myself that I had rights as well as obligations, that I could say no and refuse to interact with people whose only goal was to hurt or use…it was a pretty tall order.

The meds helped. If I wasn’t drowning in anxiety or perpetually sleep-deprived, I suddenly had energy to defend myself against more insidious inroads on me. It’s no wonder that certain people fell out of my life during that time (and into the black hole of Your Emails Are Filtered So I Don’t See Them, Thank God) and my relationships with other people became much stronger. Calm Therapist recommended Byron Katie’s The Work. While I had some purely personal reactions to her story, I found the simplicity and directness of the four questions incredibly useful.

It wasn’t the incredibly intense emotional battle therapy had started out as, and I’m not going to lie. I resisted sometimes. Living in crisis for so long addicts you to adrenaline, and when an addict craves another hit it’s never pretty. Calm Therapist and the few friends I’d been able to trust with highly personal information kept me on the rails, usually with applications of “Stop running in circles and barking, Lili. Just calm the fuck down.”

*winces a little in embarrassment*

Yeah, some of those weren’t pretty. They receded more quickly each time. It is a hell of a lot easier to learn new habits when you have energy to spare and aren’t struggling just to survive.

Each time I visited Frau Doktor, she would ask about my sleep, any other side effects, etc., etc. Each time, she also asked about my writing.

During the initial consultation, we talked about how I made a living writing, and she was concerned that maybe the meds would disrupt my creative output. I didn’t think it likely–words got to get written, son, or we don’t eat–but still, hearing her concern each time made me more concerned. Turns out I needn’t have bothered worrying (when did that ever stop me from worrying, I’d like to know, but still…) because all that extra energy, not only channeled into teaching me better coping mechanisms I’d lost out on learning earlier, also translated into the ability to write more. Not necessarily better, maybe, but certainly more.

…I’d speak a little more about how the meds actually did affect my creative process, but I’m not ready for that right now. Suffice to say they did not have a deleterious effect, period.

When I consider it, the decision to take the goddamn pills was really a very small part of that entire process–going into therapy and retraining myself, rewiring my responses. It FELT huge at the time, but there was so much around it that was much bigger and had much more lasting effects on who I am and who I’ve become.

So why did I say anything at all?

I want to talk a little bit more about that, but it’s going to have to way for (say it with me) the next blog post.

Next: Why I Said Anything At All About This

photo by:


Raphael Goetter

Side Effects

I should register that this series of posts is about things that happened a few years ago. The divorce was final in early 2011, which means what we’re talking about started in the latter half of 2010-ish. Thank you to everyone offering support, I appreciate it. Part of this is me being able to talk about the bad part now that it’s pretty-much-past.

When last we spoke, I had left Frau Doktor’s office with a prescription. Which I got filled, and bought a pill cutter for good measure, since the initial dose was so low they didn’t have tablets in that weight. And I settled down to wait for whatever would happen next.

The only instantaneous effect was slightly more anxiety. My biggest objection to medication came from the fact that I wanted to fix myself by myself, dammit. Sure I’d hire a professional to help–Calm Therapist was, after all, working for me as well as with me–but my view was, well, if I did it myself, it had a better chance of sticking. My second, almost-as-big objection was that I had seen people I cared about go on meds, then use the chemicals as an excuse to keep doing the same horrid things to other people they’d done pre-meds, as well as regularly going off said meds and blaming whatever horrible episode that followed on the pills instead of taking any personal responsibility.

Lest that sound harsh, I’ll just say that a lifetime of watching someone you love do that is pretty harsh too. It can turn a lot of your optimism sour.

Balanced against all my objections was the prospect of ameliorating the panic attacks even further, and the assurances from both Calm Therapist and Frau Doktor that I was probably the client least likely to pull that go-of-your-meds shit. And the support from the two or three trusted friends I worked up the courage to ask about the whole thing. Most of said friends had no idea it had gotten so bad, because I was so good at covering it up and putting on a happy face. I’ve been adept at hiding behind a screen of “I’m fine” for nigh on thirty years, deflecting with humor and interest in other people’s stories, so I suppose it wasn’t surprising.

I’d read the list of side effects over and over again. This probably made me a little paranoid, but Frau Doktor had assured me that since I had blood relatives who took the same type of antidepressants without serious side effects, my chances were good. Still, I was on tenterhooks waiting. I knew it would take weeks for the effects (if any) to start, and during those weeks I held myself very much as someone on the deck of the Titanic watching the last lifeboat slip away. Bracing for icy water and thinking a lot about the past.

One antidepressant was for the anxiety. The other was to be taken at night as quasi-sedation, because the insomnia had become such a matter-of-course both Calm Therapist and Frau Doktor were a little worried. Even though the nightmares had stopped when I finally exhausted myself enough to crash (thanks, EMDR! You were horridly frightening sessions, but you worked!) sleep was still dangerous for me. It meant my defenses were lowered, and night-time held particular terrors for me from the time I was about eight. Anyway, long story short, I couldn’t reliably sleep, and the effects on my physical health, not to mention my mental and emotional state, were pretty dire.

About three or four days into taking the meds right before bed, I laid down fully expecting to stare at the ceiling until about 2am, when I’d get up and probably write some, or wander the house listening to Mahler’s Fourth, which has long been the music of insomnia for me. Miss B would follow me, having become accustomed to my nightly rambles. I’m sure I agonized over the meds, too, because chewing it past the time when the flavour’s gone is just what I do. I can’t remember what else I thought about, because I…

…fell asleep. And slept. And slept, and woke up to Miss B’s nose in my face. I was muzzy-headed and blinking against morning light, and I wanted to sleep like that again.

That was the first sign I had that the chemical balance inside my body and brain was changing. It was a welcome one…but what followed wasn’t.

Two weeks to the day after my first dose, about 4:30PM, I was attacked by a wave of nausea so bad I thought my entire digestive system was going to crawl out through my nose. I couldn’t vomit, even though I tried in the faint hope that it would get whatever was hurting out. I HATE throwing up, almost as much as I hate people messing with my feet, but I was willing to if it would just make the sensation stop.

It lasted half an hour. I was paper-white, sweating, curled up on my bed and reassuring the kids (and Miss B, who had Arrived by that time) that I just felt tired, I’d be okay in a little bit, when between one minute and the next, it stopped. A frantic call to Frau Doktor’s voicemail got me a response after I’d made dinner for everyone else–I was afraid to eat. She reassured me that nausea was a pretty common side effect, and while she hadn’t seen this particular pattern, everyone was different and if I had any of these other side effects, I should call her, my primary care provider, and/or 911.

“How are the panic attacks?” she added.

“Two today,” I replied, breathlessly. “If I have to choose between them and the nausea, I’ll take the nausea.” Which was nothing less than the truth.

“It’s likely just your body adjusting, and it will probably fade.”

“Oh, hey…”

“Yes?” She sounded cautious, guarded. The phone crackled against my ear, and I heard my daughter laugh in the living room.

“I’ve been sleeping. Actually sleeping at night.”

She went from guarded to pleased in a hot second. “That’s a sign it’s working! How does it feel?”

“Fantastic.” We hung up after confirming my next appointment, and I felt a little better. Even though the nausea returned every damn day, at 4:30, for a solid week. Then it vanished.

My next appointment with Frau Doktor was probably the biggest breakthrough. “So, how’s the nausea?” She settled in her desk chair and regarded me with bright-eyed interest.

“It lasted about a week, at the same time each day, and then it vanished.” But, I explained, it was at the same time each day, and so I’d just scheduled around it.

She nodded, taking notes. “And the panic attacks?”

“Just a couple per day. Which is like a vacation. Especially since they come at the same time now. Right before lunch and in the middle of the evening after the nausea.” It was getting to the point where I could set my watch by them.

“Well, we’d like to get you down to none.”

I flat-out stared. “Do you really think that’s possible?”

“We could increase your dosage slightly. You’re at about a third of the normal starting dosage, so if we double your dose it will still be below that benchmark. Do you think you can do that?”

I thought it over. Finally, I nodded. “I’ll try it.” And when I went in to see Calm Therapist later that week, she agreed that it was a good idea to try.

My dose went up a couple times after that, very slowly, and each time, two weeks to the day after the higher dosage went into effect came the nausea. But the most amazing, incredible thing happened the second time we upped my dosage. When the nausea stopped, the panic attacks throttled back. First they dropped to one a day, just before lunch. Then the daily panic lowered in intensity. Each day was a little less than the one before.

Then…they stopped.

Next: We’re Not Done Yet

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