When One Door Closes, Another Opens (and more crap falls out)!


Unfortunately, the new open door is filled with crap too! My mother has always had a phrase that I grew up listening to.

“If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.”

Same sentiment. Terribly true. Frustratingly accurate. It seems every single time I get past a hurdle, the next one slams down in front of me so suddenly, I don’t have time to jump. My knees smack into it, yet my head, shoulders, and rest of the torso keep moving forward. Much to my chagrin, their trajectory has changed from straight ahead toward victory, to straight down, face in the dirt! Each time, I’ve gotten back up to continue the race, even though I fell several laps behind quite a while back. I keep running. How many times can I do this? I haven’t found the limit as of yet, but I’m sure there is one.

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Of course, I’m glad I haven’t reached that point yet. That place where all hope ends. That place where Eeyore, Marvin the robot, and Sadness hang out.

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That place where the future is so bleak, you gotta wear safety goggles. I expect that, at some point, the next door that opens will be that dreaded place. I’m more frightened by that prospect even more, after a recent incident.

I cracked that door open a little just a several weeks ago. I had finally accepted the fact that I might need medicinal help with the depression I had been fighting for what seems like forever. My Neuro prescribed what would be my first ever anti depression medication. Cymbalta. With high hopes, I stopped at the pharmacy on my way home to grab the new prescription. This was going to be my ticket to better times! (Insert record scratch here.) The reality was much different than my hopes. Almost to a tragic end.

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Immediately, I disliked the way it made my head foggy(er). It was a feeling that I can only  describe as having a complete separation from reality. Like I was watching a movie. I was there, but I wasn’t a part of it. I had no control. It was like the worst acid trip ever! All the bad stuff without all of the fun. No hallucinations. No magical feeling of euphoria. Only a dead, emotionless feeling. I simply didn’t care…….about much of anything!

Now, everyone I talked to, and everywhere that I researched told me to give the drug six to eight weeks before I would see the benefits of Cymbalta. I gave it time. Suffering through feeling worse than without meds in hopes of a turnaround that never came.

The night I realized this particular drug wasn’t for me. (Just like this stupid disease, anti depression meds can have drastically different effects on people.) was a night I will never forget. Jen was out of town with some of her friends. I was home alone. I had decided that it was time to stop opening doors. I was done. I was ready to call it quits for good. I simply needed to figure out how I was going to do it.

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The most frightening part of the moment was the fact that I flew right past wether or not I should do it, and straight to how I was going to do it. The decision to do it was barely even debated inside my brain. I wasn’t frantic. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t distressed in any way. I was merely tired, ready to move on. Calm. Collected. Content to end the journey.

I went online to research how. What was going to be the least painful? What would be most efficient? What would be the least messy? What would be the most likely to work without a chance of survival? These were the only questions I felt I needed to find answers to. After that, there would be no more questions for me to ask.

Well, needless to say, since I am writing this, I did not follow through. The sane part of me finally pushed through the fog and screamed, “What the fuck are you thinking?” I thought of five years ago, when I lost my best friend Matthew to suicide. I remembered the fear and worry I had while he was missing. Hoping to hear he was okay. He just needed a little alone time. I remember the crushing blow of his sister in law calling me later that night to tell me “We found him. I’m so sorry, David, but Matthew is gone.” It was like getting a punch so hard, it impacts and breaks the soul. I remembered going to the wake. I remembered viewing his body, thinking, ‘Is that really him? It doesn’t look like him. Maybe they made a mistake.’ I remember that room full of people crying, wondering why this happened. Wondering what we did wrong. Wondering why? Just why?

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A picture from the last time I saw Matthew.

It still brings tears to my eyes when I think about it. I’ve been fighting back tears while I write this, in fact. The pain, loss, and lack of understanding why he is gone is still a very present brutal punch to the gut. Five years, and I still ugly cry when I try to talk about it.

I know I’ve got people who care about me. If I was the cause of making any one of them feel the way I do, dealing with the loss of Matthew to suicide, I don’t think I could live with myself. (You see what I did there? 😉)

There was one major silver lining to the experience. I felt that, maybe, I understood his state of mind at the time, better than I did before. I saw how easy it could be to come to that decision. How there was no way I would have called someone that I knew might try to stop me. I didn’t want to be stopped, in that moment. I just wanted to get it done and over with.

After that experience, I no longer had the question of how someone with so many people who care about them could do that. I could understand that part of it. I guess he simply didn’t take the time to research too much. If he had, maybe he would have snapped out of it as well. Maybe.

The following business day, I called my Neuro’s office in search of something other than Cymbalta. I wasn’t going to let a drug make me a statistic. We need to try something else.

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Enter Welbutrin! So far, loads better. I’m not much foggier than usual (That wonderful MS fog is always there.) I don’t feel like I’m watching everything from a distance. I feel like a part of the human race, again. Most of all, no thoughts of suicide.

My advice to anyone who might be venturing into the land of ‘mental meds’ as I like to call them, don’t wait too long. If it feels wrong in the first couple of weeks, don’t wait until you almost kill yourself. Trust me. No one that actually matters in your life wants that.

I mean, you don’t want to go to bed yet, do you? Cool shit might be about to happen! I want to be here when it does………….I hope it does.

Okay, that’s it for this one. I know it had been a while since my last post, but that’s what happens when you are using your time to research painless, low mess ways to die. Everything else sort of falls away. But I’m back. Ready to tell you awesome stuff. (It is awesome, right? I’m just going to assume it is.)

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P.S. Last week I was a guest on ‘Hey Human with Susan Ruth’. Go check it out. It’s a great podcast, hosted by a friend. For all the MSers, there is a great interview with a brain expert just a couple episodes (I think) before mine. I will have links to mine, and the brain guy on my ‘additional resources’ page. Check it out. If for no other reason, you’ll then be able to imagine my actual voice as you continue to read here. And who knows, maybe I’ll parlay this blog into a podcast in the near future. That way you won’t have to imagine my voice. You can get sick of the sound of it on your own! See you next time!

 

 

 

 

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One thought on “When One Door Closes, Another Opens (and more crap falls out)!

  1. I am thankful for the sane part of your brain giving you a swift kick in the ass. Cymbalta works for me, but I started with Lyrica and reacted as you did to Cymbalta. I am very glad that Welbutrin is working for you, good meds make a HUGE difference .
    Stay strong and keep sharing your story with the world. You’re one hell of a “speaker”. 👍

    Like

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