I'm a Weaner

Paxil, this. Paxil that. Paxil, Paxil, Paxil.

Giving Paxil the “axe”-il, as I so cleverly put it (if I do say so myself) turned out to be a poor choice (Sometimes I make poor choices.) which sent me into a downward spiral straight into withdrawal. Quitting Paxil cold-turkey should NOT be done, unless constant dizziness, extreme fatigue, irritability, short tempered outbursts, hot flashes, strange dreams and a basic lack of the ability to organize thought sounds appealing.

Add to all of those side effects, a daily eight-hour shift of supporting three senior-level managers who dole out an almost daily dose of attitude and condescending behavior peppered with occasional helplessness. All this in a very busy technological department filled with egos and too much testosterone (and I’m not counting my own). Don’t get me wrong. I actually genuinely like all three of my bosses. They can’t help that they were born males. Surreal is what this past week has been. Surreal and filled with a nightly crushing grief-breakdown. I am certainly exhausted, to say the least.

Solution? I came home and dropped half a Paxil. Weaning is key, here. It’s actually fun to say. Go ahead. Say it. Weaning is key. I’m back on the pill and I’m already feeling better. Drug dependency really pisses me off.

I saw my new social worker for the first time yesterday. He’s very nice and very good at what he does. That’s a switch from my former therapist.

I’m blaming it on Paxil-withdrawal, but I could barely choke back my tears walking from Central Square to his office. Though I bought them as a fashion statement, my sunglasses come in handy when I need to hide my stupid teared-up eyes from the general public. I’m still working on stifling the hyperventilation.

All things considered, I’m still doing well...the “new” well, that is. My breakdowns since I moved into my new apartment, however, have become very powerful and I find that it suits me best to just fall onto my bed or my couch and sometimes even sink to the floor and dive right into them. I refuse to take a passive stance with my crying fits. I make a choice, every time, to go with them willingly. They do NOT overpower me. I believe it is absolutely necessary to feel every second of them in order to continue to move through my grief.

I still can’t listen to Ellis Paul. I still can’t read a novel. I still have trouble spending money on myself. I still can’t believe my husband got cancer and died. I still, sometimes, feel like a 52-year-old woman wearing a flowered house coat. I still fear that it may be too late for me to find love again...and I still feel guilty about the possibility of it not being too late. The term “letting go” has no meaning to me. When I think about it, I’m stumped. I know I have said this before, but the thought of letting go produces the same feeling in me as the feeling I get when I try to look at the back of my own head. I do not comprehend it.

Today, a co-worker said to me, “You’re never going to get over it, you know. It will ALWAYS be with you.” It’s funny. She meant nothing but kindness, concern and nurturing, but man that’s a tough sentence have handed down. A L W A Y S. First of all, that’s a very painful word now. There IS no “always.” It’s a fallacy. It doesn’t exist. You love someone as long as your love lasts and that’s basically the end of the story. I suppose it’s the beginning of another story, though. I just have to learn how to want a new story, because I still want my old one.