Know Thy Brain Chemistry

I'm at Medici, a coffee place, on South Lamar in Austin. I'm here because I need someplace to go while the cleaning lady cleans the house I'm sitting this week. I had intended to write something today - at least that was the plan before a really shitty run this morning drained every ounce of water and motivation out of me - so being here is kind of a sign. There are signs I heed and signs I don't. This one... I'd really like not to heed. I mean what's the damage if I don't write today? Sure, I have no idea when I'll have the time ever again (No, that doesn't seem like an exaggeration at this point). And I do like to stay in practice. But seriously, on the scale of signs to heed, sitting in a coffee place poised in front a nearly fully charged laptop with nothing to do for the next foreseeable several hours, what havoc is it going to wreak in my life if I surf the web for Nevada specialty license plates and kitty condos instead?

Alright, here's the thing. Writing has always been my escape and my sanity. When I'm struggling, I write. Well, at least historically speaking, for almost a decade and half. I don't know what I did before. I probably vented to my friends and my mom. Writing, though, prevents me from becoming my pet peeve and exorcises demons I probably wouldn't trot out for friends and family. 

Anywho, I'm once again struggling. Thank GOD it has nothing to do with a woman. Ok, it does - partly - but that woman is my mom so it doesn't count. For the totally uninitiated, I'm moving in three weeks and my mom's cancer is being a complete fuck-waffle after not spreading at all for a whole bunch of years. I've loooooooong said I have abhorrent timing (Usually that's a reference to my timing with women. Interestingly, recent evidence has done nothing to convince me my timing in that regard has improved one iota) and in this case it absolutely could not be worse. You can refer to my blog entitled, "A Little Unsteady," for the gory details, but suffice it to say that my life went from being merely stressful to requiring pharmaceutical intervention in 2.2 seconds flat. 

Yessssssss. You read that right. Pharmaceutical intervention. Meaning after five years completely unmedicated, I'm back on the Anti-Everything Pills (AEPs). It's a failure of sorts. I have been so proud of my - perhaps irrational and compulsive - ability to control my life. I've written about it, talked about it, bragged about it. It's not that I think there's anything wrong with taking medication (obviously) but I was determined that I didn't need it. If I could control every aspect of my life (Hello, I was an anorexic for a decade and that was ALL about control so I've had lots of practice)... If I could control the things that make my brain chemistry go wonky... In other words, if I could control my brain chemistry, I wouldn't need drugs to do it for me. Let me tell you, I'm fucking phenomenal at it. Need evidence? (a) I have three novels on Amazon, and (b) I've been to Europe five times in three years. I also haven't been heartbroken nor have I gotten exceptionally emotional at all. I'm level. Perfectly - if a bit maladaptively - so.

Ok, was. I was level. Then I had a near panic attack at work last Tuesday and decided that I'm facing way too much change and uncertainly to go it alone any longer. I made an appointment, talked to my new doctor who totally gets me, and committed to a three month course of sertraline (Zoloft). I've been medicated now for one week. When I'm not foggy, fighting insomnia, and my heart isn't racing during exercise, I honestly feel like I made the right decision. Because if I know anything, it's my brain chemistry. 

Look, if I'm not going to be able to control veritably everything in my life (Let's face it, that control is sailing out to sea as we speak), my brain chemistry is going to need a boost. I'm moving to a new city, working at a new store, and leaving all but one member of my support network behind - Sisters rock, FYI - while simultaneously dealing with my mother's tenuous health and my other sister's tenuous grasp on sanity (She's at Ground Zero with my mom's cancer). One or the other would be challenging, but both? I'm not that good; my control isn't that absolute. So when my doctor recommended starting on the drugs now before it gets really bad (which it stands to), I swallowed my feeling of failure and ponied up. 

I know the risks my brain chemistry presents. I know the depths it can take me to. I've seen the inside of a psych ward and I've been on suicide watch. I've wanted to die and been pissed that I didn't. And frankly, it scares me. My brain chemistry scares me.

So to prevent another Epic Fail (or Epic Success, for that matter), I have to do what needs doing. If that means I have to accept defeat and go back on the AEPs, so be it. I cannot and will not risk my life (and the lives of the fictional characters that live within me) by attempting to control what I damn well know I won't be able to control. In the immortal words of Kenny Rogers, "Know when to hold 'em. Know when to fold 'em." Well, I fold. And I have the pill bottle and brain fog to prove it.