Walking through glue

Three days ago, it was my birthday.
I turned 28.

This may not seem like much of an accomplishment, but when you have been told repeatedly by the person who gave you 50% of their DNA what a failure you are, anything past 18 is really nothing to sneeze at.  Now I can say that I have officially exceeded my father's expectations of my life span by an impressive ten years.

Traumatic childhood aside, I had intended to spend my birthday with my grandparents, and of course BEB.  I had already booked lunch at a delicious Japanese restaurant in the city, and had planned to meet my grandparents at Central station, where we would catch a cab to said restaurant.  Later, BEB and I would spend a leisurely few hours strolling around the city, before catching a ferry to Portside to attend the premiere of Precious.

Unfortunately, in the morning when I called my grandparents to finalise plans, my granddad (Gran) informed me that my Grandmother (Nanny) was too unwell to attend.  She was refusing to get out of bed and take her medication and Gran didn't like his chances of getting her onto a train, much less keeping her settled for the hour-long train ride from their bayside residence to the city. 

Nanny has Alzheimer's disease. 
She is existing, but stopped living a few years ago.
Now my granddad lives for both of them.

I actually wasn't that upset.  I knew that it couldn't be helped.  And coincidentally, I wasn't feeling too flash myself. 

The day before, on Australia Day, I had battled through the eight hours or so spent with my friends and had cleverly concealed the aching withdrawal symptoms I was experiencing as a result of weaning myself off Pristiq, an anti-depressant.  Seeing as I now had the day free, I decided that my birthday would be the day that I commenced cold turkey Pristiq abstinence. 

My doctor told me that coming off Pristiq would not be nearly as agonising as coming off Efexor, an adventure I had the privilege of experiencing several years ago.  After being on varying doses of Efexor for over six years, I had finally found myself at a place in life where I wanted to taste life without the aid of an SSRI.  And with the help of BEB and my doctor, I gradually came off the tablets I was convinced I would be taking for the rest of my life. 

It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but not needing to feel that awful sense of dependence was wonderful.

And here I was again.  Dependent on a chemical for emotional stability.  I often wonder if it will ever end.

I started taking Pristiq on my doctor's advice, a few months before my wedding.  I wasn't handling the prospect of being the centre of attention and in many ways I was dreading the day.  The day I was to marry BEB seemed to have transformed into some kind of demon to be slayed.  I never had cold feet about marrying BEB, but the wedding was a constant source of anxiety. 

The worst part was the well-meaning excitement heaped upon me by well-meaning friends.  And why wouldn't they be excited?  There was a day of getting dolled up, drinking champagne and scoffing wedding cake on the horizon!  Oh, and of course witnessing two souls being united as one blah blah blah...

It soon became abundantly clear that admitting to my friends that I had to take an anti-depressant to get me through my wedding would really have ruined their big day.

So instead, I remained silent on my latest prescription.  I told BEB and my best friend and swore them to secrecy. 

And now, two months post-wedding, it is time for me to bid farewell to the best wedding assistant I ever had.

By the time Precious had ended, the emotional rollercoaster of withdrawal symptoms was just beginning.  And as a side note, let me stress that watching a movie on your birthday which deals with issues of parental abuse/neglect, when you have experienced parental abuse/neglect (albeit on a significantly lower scale), is not a good idea.  It was right up there with the mistake I made on my birthday two years ago by seeing Juno, a film showing the intricacies of teen pregnancy/adoption.  In hindsight, having been raised by my grandparents after my 19-year-old unwed mother flew the coop probably should have alerted me to the fact that Juno was not going to be the comedy riot for me as it had been for others.

The day after my birthday (48 hours sans Pristiq) was the worst.  There was no way I could go to work - I could barely get out of bed and the dizziness left me nauseous.  But I could hardly tell my colleagues that withdrawal symptoms from my medication were keeping me home for the day.  BEB asked me to describe what I was feeling.  I told him it felt like i was walking through glue.

So to avoid the unspeakable, I lied to my workmates.  And to make the lie believable, I used Nanny's illness as the reason for my absence.  I said she was too unwell and that I needed to stay with her for the day.

And because I work with lovely, caring people, they believed me.
And when I returned to work, not only did they have left over birthday cake for me (which they had intended to give me the day before, when I was absent), they were also asking me all about my Nanny - offering their assistance and goodwill.  Then they sent me home early with extra pieces of cake to give to my grandparents.

I felt awful.  I wanted to punch myself in the face.
I also ate the cake intended for my grandparents.

Over the course of the next 24 hours I managed to scream at BEB for incorrectly wording a letter of complaint to a phone company, hallucinate by seeing an abused cat sitting in a shopping trolley in the car park at the end of our street (it was actually a loaf of bread) and cry hysterically on several occasions but for only minutes at a time.

Today is day three.  I have masted 72 hours without Pristiq.
And there is no turning back.

I am still dizzy and disoriented, but I no longer feel like I am walking through glue.
Instead, it feels more like I am walking on a cloud.

I just hope it doesn't rain.