Posted on by Dissy

New Stuff and Things

Today, I woke up knowing that this was day 1 of weaning me off of my prescription of Effexor.

Prior to getting out of bed, I did all the usual things I do in the morning. My doggie loves wake up time. For her, that means she gets to roll around in the bed, slobber all over my face, and, then, for her crowning achievement, she climbs up on my mountain of pillows and sits on my head. Every morning. For me, this means giving her the time she deserves while hitting the snooze button exactly 3 times. No more, no less.

Eventually, Daisy-Lou and I got up and went downstairs. After she tore around the yard like the Tasmanian Devil, we went into the kitchen and she got her customary doggie treat for making piddles outside. Then I knew it was time to get down to business.

I’m not sure whether it sounds like it or not, but I’m actually pretty jazzed about doing this. I’m hoping it proves to be a successful decision I made and that it’s the beginning of a better time for me. I’m a bit ambivalent about the weaning period, as, per all my research, Effexor is the worst antidepressant to come off of, but I am committed to the process.

That being said, I pulled out the doctor’s instructions, and I got a little concerned.

My normal dose is a 100 mg pill three times daily, so a total of 300 mg a day.

My new prescription was for 25 mg. I’m to take 3 and a half pills a day for a week, then decrease by half a pill until I’m done. So I’m going immediately from 300 mg to 87 mg? Okay, doc. If you say so. I also took the other medication she prescribed to help with symptoms of withdrawl, Clonodine HCL.

Right now, all I feel is a little weird, and that could just be because I’m expecting to feel weird. My mood is steady, I’m not short fused, nor am I feeling overwhelmed.

Next Wednesday, I see my therapist. Won’t she be surprised. haha.

FYI: this blog is not medical advice. If you think you want to stop your antidepressants, do so under the instruction and supervision of the doctor who prescribed them to you.

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The Other Side of the Hill

Without a ton of kicking and screaming, I went on ahead and turned 50 yesterday.

In all, I’d say it turned out to be a pretty swell day.

In all, I’d say I’m embracing this change. It appears to have been significantly more than my number of years increasing by one. I actually feel like I’ve leveled up in many ways. I feel ready to take over the world.

Since I’ve committed to sharing my mental health journey, I will share that I started yesterday off with a visit to my primary care doctor. She and I discussed weaning off of the Effexor I have been taking for about 2 years now. Many factors have gone into this decision, for me.

  1. I will chuckle if I’m amused by something, but I have not experienced uncontrollable laughter in 2 years, and I miss it. I will cry if something horrendous happens, but I also enjoy those tears that come during a movie or during those stupid Hallmark commercials.
  2. The circumstances that were contributing to my anxiety are no longer factors in my life. By and large, it was my old job that prompted me to look into medication. I have a new job, one that is devoid of the factors that caused my problems at my old job.
  3. Depression may still be a factor, and we shall see if it is, but I think I may be able to do this with just a therapist.
  4. I finally have found a primary care doctor who understands how trying it is to transition off of these pills and was willing to prescribe something to help with the anxiety and dizzy spells that are sure to come during the transition and while my body adjusts to the new reality.
  5. I sort of miss having a libido. For as small of an amount of a sex drive as I had, I really couldn’t afford to lose what Effexor took away. I mean, I’m not shopping for a new boyfriend any time soon (if ever), but it also sucks to have certain parts of yourself closed down prior to you being ready for that to happen. Maybe there’s a friend out there. A friend who is a friend and also puts out (damn… do I sound piggish, or what?). Maybe there isn’t. Who knows? The option to find out does need to be present, though.

Sure, I am completely open to being on medication again, down the road, if I need it. I’m just hoping that I can make positive changes on my own now. You know, with the help of licensed mental health professionals. During this process, it will be nice to laugh so hard that it makes my stomach muscles hurt and to cry over the way that movie or story turned out. Anyone who has known me for any length of time has to have noticed how flat I’ve been.

Anyhow… Fifty is here, and she is nifty. This is the absolute first time that turning any age has caused me to feel anything, and I’m glad it is a positive thing.

I hope it turns out that way for all of my friends who are entering this decade this year.

Have a good one!

Posted on by Dissy

None Left to Give

When I was out with my friend the other night, I mentioned Barb’s and my blog So… Your Friend is an Asshole. I said the writing wasn’t very gratifying because I still felt very censored.

See, there are a lot of things I feel like I can’t or shouldn’t say. For no other reason than that people may judge me.
Who is going to see it?
What will they think?
What will they say?
Can I handle unsolicited opinions and advice?
Am I too old and tired to explain it all when someone asks me?

Yesterday, I blogged about the Crone Sisterhood Circle I attended. We all talked about what cronehood meant to us. One of the ladies said something that really made an impact on me. “Crones are all out of fucks to give.”

Boy, isn’t that the truth? Because, guess what? I just realized that I ain’t got none (shitty grammar is for artistic purposes and should not be used to condemn me as a moron).

So let me tell you a thing or two.

This past year, I have been trying to process the ending of my relationship. I have tried to be the person everyone thinks I “should” be, but that just isn’t working for me. I’m sick and tired of feeling like “so and so won’t like me anymore if I don’t get over this quickly.” or “this person will think I’m weak if I cry after all this time.” “Being sad will make people feel like you’re ungrateful for the things they’ve done for you.”

Well, fuck it. I guess that’s their damage and not mine if things go down that way.

I’m pretty well past the “person” involved in the breakup, meaning, my ex. Growth, evolution, and change were not going to happen with me being there. I can’t spend the rest of my life bemoaning that.

So what’s going on now?

I’m lonely.

I miss being close.
I miss my head on a shoulder.
I miss kissing.
I miss laughing and those private jokes no one else will ever understand.
I miss making meals just for two or for the whole family when we were all together.
I miss music nights.
I miss surprise flowers.
I miss not having to drive.
I miss holding hands.
I miss being able to trust.
I miss human warmth.
I miss giving.
I miss singing stupid songs in the car about the dog we just drove past.
I miss the cows talking back to me.

So, there it is. What I have yet to process and get past, and here’s me talking about it because, I’m an old lady now, and I don’t care what anyone thinks about any of this.

Have a good Sunday night.

Posted on by Dissy

Boom Boom Boom

She said she thinks I’m a firecracker. If she only knew. I’m talking about my shrink, of course.

This was after she asked me what I wanted to do with my life and I communicated it quite clearly. Sure, lady, I have an idea and zero clues how to make it happen.

This clinic works on a 45 minute hour, and I suppose it would feel more helpful if I went more than once every two weeks. I do really like her, though.

This time, I was a little more down than I was last time. I guess I’m trying to decide if I’m doing that thing I always do… Usually, I act like I’m in better shape than I actually am so the therapist ends up wondering why I’m even there. It was my brilliant idea to go there, so why would I want to talk myself out of needing help?

I feel like this is going to be a slow process for a while. That’s okay, I suppose. I have time.

Later in the evening, I went to dinner with a friend. It’s amazing I even made it out of the house. This was supposed to happen last week, but my dog was sick, so I wanted to keep close to her in case I needed to take her to the emergency vet. I feel like I might have found another excuse to reschedule just because I’m so out of the loop and out of practice with the whole “going out” process that the thought of socializing gives me anxiety. Add to the mix that this isn’t a friend I see very often, and it’s the first time we’ve hung out without the rest of our mutual friends being there, and there’s a recipe for me to sit there looking like a deer in headlights.

Let’s just say I’m a teensy bit of an awkward person. Well… I guess that’s what pina coladas are for. It does make one wonder, though, when and why this shit started happening. I’ve never been a particularly awkward person before. I’m not the best with small talk, but, hey, I probably wouldn’t be hanging out with this friend if I felt like that was an expectation.

“Let’s talk about the weather.”
“Let me choke you with this bowl of tortilla chips.”

I have a few friends coming over on Tuesday for my birthday. That felt like the right thing to do. I think I might make a cake, too. I want a damn cake, and I don’t want anyone to go buy me one because, unless it’s NY style cheesecake from Giant Eagle, it will be wrong, and I rang in my birthday last year with cheesecake, and, while it was wonderful, I really just want some regular, normal cake.

So, I’m basically just rambling on now trying to take up time at work. It’s slow here. I’d better stop rambling, though. Along with small talk, that’s another thing I’m not especially fond of.

Til we meet again.

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The Golden Age of Disstina

Almost two weeks ago, I made the stunning realization that I now have more years behind me than I have ahead of me. You know, unless I actually meet my goal of living to be 134. Don’t ask where I came up with that random number. I kind of just pulled it out of my ass one day and ran with it.

That statement, though, should clue you in to the fact that I have no clue how goals are supposed to work. Shouldn’t they be attainable? Is 134 attainable? Maybe I should get more seriously back into yoga. I’m sure that’s the one thing that has the best potential of getting me there. Maybe I’ll lay off the caffeine, too. Eventually. One day. Maybe.

The looming Five-Oh has prompted me to think about some other goals that are, quite possibly, attainable or, maybe they’re as ludicrous as expecting to live to 134.

  1. Maintain my current level of sanity and/or attain a higher level of sanity. Bottom line: don’t get any worse, Dissy, mmmmkay?
  2. Continue making my house my home.
  3. Get rid of my remaining fucks. I want to be one of those “no fucks to give” people. Not in an obnoxious asshole way, but in a way that has me going out and tasting ALL that life has to offer. Unless it’s ebola. I’d rather not experience that.
  4. Get back into a regular exercise routine. I have no words for how much I miss working out and feeling strong.
  5. I want to learn how to cook one awesome dish (above and beyond all the other awesome shit I make).
  6. I want to tell one person who dearly deserves it to fuck right off. (I don’t know who that is yet, so I didn’t say that with anyone in particular in mind).
  7. Get back into a regular spiritual practice.

I think that about covers it for now. I don’t want to overwhelm myself with too much. After all, I’m almost a senior citizen.

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The Mess That Never Ends

So, back when I saw them dominating my newsfeed, I bought one of those chair cushions that looks like, for lack of a better description, a figure 8. One butt cheek goes into each “hole,” and this is supposed to help with posture and sciatic pain.

I should sue. I never got a rounder butt from this item.

While it didn’t help with the aches and pains I’m having, I did really like the cushion. It was suprisingly comfortable, and it helped me avoid having a sweaty ass from sitting in my vinyl office chair.

Fast forward to January 23, 2020. I came home, and a certain puppy dog had absolutely destroyed this chair cushion. And I don’t mean that she chewed it up and ripped the fabric. Nope. I mean she completely shredded it. It seriously looked like it snowed in my kitchen and dining room. No… not a simple snow. This was of blizzard proportions.

I swept up what was in the direct walking path last night. I had come home from work dog-ass tired (where the fuck did that expression come from? Why are dogs’ asses tired?), and I simply didn’t feel like dealing with the rest. I figured I’d get the vacuum cleaner after it in the morning.

So, this morning, I got out my handy-dandy Shark Rotator (best vacuum cleaner on the planet. they should pay me for advertisting them), and I sucked up the remainder of the mess.

Mine is better because it’s purple.

A couple things about this mess:
1. As I sucked the foamy bits up off the floor, more grew back in their place. It was like fucking Hydra. Cut one head off, and two grow back in its place. Except, in this case, it was 75 and not 2.
2. This foam was very static-y. As I buzzed along the floor with the vacuum, what didn’t go up the hose flew up into the air and stuck to EVERYTHING. The walls, the vacuum cleaner, the outside of the garbage can, me, the dog, my black appliances, and the neighbors’ houses. For added fun, any time I would empty the container on the vacuum, half of it would fly up out of the garbage bag and cling to my face, hair, clothes, and dignity.

Eventually, I found the magic amulet that stopped the regeneration, and I was able to get the bulk of it up. There are still bits and pieces of it here and there that mock me. “catch us if you can, bitch!” I seriously think this is going to be like glitter, herpes, or that visitor that never seems to want to go home.

I hope my little fart factory had fun making that mess. Momma has learned that no object is sacred when it comes to a doggie who has grown bored and has destroyed all the other toys she has. I can’t even be mad at her.

et tu, Daisy-Lou

I picture her having a joyous time creating her own private little snow globe, if only for a little while. I’d like to think she is happy that mommy got to enjoy it, too.

Posted on by Dissy

Know What I Mean?

Well, in the hopes that it may help someone, I committed to sharing about my experiences with therapy. I used to write all the time about my mental processes, and people would tell me how much what I had to say mattered to them, helped them, or made them think. That always made me happy. The last thing I would want is for anyone to feel the way I feel/have felt, and, hey, I’m probably not even a heavy case of “crazy.”

So, today was my first appointment with my therapist. I am going to reserve judgement at this time, but I am pretty sure I’m going to like her. In times past, I never really felt like I could relate to whichever therapist I was seeing or that they could relate to me. For this reason, when I called the clinic to make an appointment, I specifically requested someone closely resembling my demographic (female and within a few years of me, age-wise, either way).

The ability to relate is important to me. The last therapist I saw was some young millennial (not that there’s anything wrong with that), and I always saw her attempts to relate to me as having come from a textbook and not really being genuine. Now, that’s totally on me and is nothing bad about her. But, when I find a scab to pick at, it will be picked at.

Usually, the first appointment or two are intake-type questions, so we didn’t get into anything really heavy. From what I experienced, it seems that we have plenty in common for me to feel comfortable divulging my pent-up crud.

I’m glad I got to meet her on a good day. I was up, happy, and feeling somewhat productive. Maybe next time she will see me when I’m in a slump. That’s important, too because, hey, that’s why I’m there.

So, we will see what comes of this. I hope it’s for the best.

Posted on by Dissy

Lemonade

At this point in my life, I think I just have to accept that I am an angry person currently. It’s doing no one any good for me to hide this from the world.

I try to stuff it all down because, really, what can I do about many of the things that are generating the anger? Nothing really. Some things I’m not able to do anything about, and I’m simply not willing to do anything about other things.

Because of that, I think, so then why is this feeling here? Hey, self, you need to put this away since you can’t/won’t do anything about it. It’s not going to process on its own, so what’s the point in letting it linger?

The thing is… Just when I convince myself that anger is okay and that it’s all part of the process, I catch wind of someone else’s misfortune. It’s always 100 times worse than my own, so I feel stupid for feeling the way I do. I feel like the snooty chick who is all salty because she broke a nail.

Truth is? I’m tired of this life I’m living. Not in an “I wanna die” kind of way, but in the way that means something huge needs to change inside of me. I don’t know exactly what needs to change just yet, but it’s there. It’s waiting.

I have to figure out what I need to do in order to reveal it. I’m so tired of looking within and coming up with a big, fat “I don’t know.”

A lot of things, I feel like they’re too late for me because of my age. I don’t feel like I’ll ever bond with anyone on any kind of level that I’d need to in order to find a fulfilling sex life. I’m nearly menopausal, so there are the hormone issues making that unlikely along with the emotional problems I am experiencing. I’ve never been that gal who fucks just for the sake of fucking. Ever. I tried to be her, and it didn’t work. End of story.

On and on the list can go. Too old, too tired, to much “I don’t give a shit anymore.”

But, hey, I do have the best dog in the world, so there’s that.

Look at me… making lemonade.

Posted on by Dissy · 7 Comments

A Little Scary

Yesterday, I was telling one of my co-workers about my fascination with true crime and one of the stories I was reading about yesterday during work (the Sodder children disappearance). Our conversation went a little something like this:

Him: “you’re fascinated with true crime and murder mysteries?”
Me: “yep.”
Him: “so you know what to do with bodies?”
Me: “Well, not really. I mean, we know about these cases, which means the bodies have likely been found, so it stands to reason…”
Him: “so you know what not to do?”
Me: “Okay, yeah, we could put it that way.”
Him: “now I’m a little afraid of you.”

I always love it when a dude either really is or pretends to be slightly frightened by me. I’m not sure why, but I think it’s adorable. I think maybe it’s because they actually get it in a way that most just don’t.

What do they get? you ask…

They get that they aren’t in any kind of competition with me. They know who they are and they don’t need to posture to make themselves out to be tougher than some woman. For me, those kind of men are few and far between, and it’s always a pleasure to meet them. Even when it’s just some dude I work with.

And so it’s New Year’s Eve. I decided to work tonight and shake up my cosmic energy a smidge. I feel like working some overtime sets a good tone for the coming year. It’ll certainly chunk away at some debt, and that’s never a bad thing. At midnight, I’ll be driving home to my Daisy-Lou. I really do love that dog.

I’m trying to be okay with all of this. Most of it is just dealing with change. I’m classically not good with change. But, hey, I have an Insta-Pot at home full of pork and sauerkraut that I do not have to share, and tomorrow, I will be drinking good vodka drinks (if I remember to stop and buy ice cream) and painting walls with one of my besties.

We are going to slam dunk that in the happy basket and run with it. Life is good.

Happy New Year, folks! Make good choices!

Posted on by Dissy · 1 Comment

Truth or Consequences

You have brains in your head and feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose.
You’re on your own and you know what you know.
And you are the one who’ll decide where to go,
Dr. Seuss

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
Ernest Hemingway

Hmmm… I wonder if I’m ready to bleed.

People talk so much about finding or knowing their “truth.” I’m still trying to figure out what that means.

For me, everything is so subjective; everything changes from day to day and sometimes from minute to minute. How can there be a “truth”?

Truth, to me, indicates yes or no/black or white or some other absolute. I have made a practice of trying hard to not engage in absolutes.

Feeling this way makes me feel like part of me is lacking, somehow. Because I haven’t discovered my “truth,” there’s some part of fulfillment/discovery/enlightenment that I’m missing out on.

Yes. A lot of times, I don’t even know who in the hell I actually am. Wanna know the freaky thing? Nine out of ten times, I’m perfectly okay with that. That leaves a lot of doors open for me, and it has given me many opportunities and put me in contact with a lot of great people.

Truth, though? I’ll let you know if I ever find some deep, meaningful truth buried with my soul. It would surprise me, though. I love the shades of grey out there.

Hmmm… maybe my truth is that there is no truth.