I try to divorce Michael at least once a month. I blame this on my PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder, or what I like to call "PMS on crack"), though I've also been diagnosed with chronic depression and anxiety and, once, a psychopharmacologist told me I had obvious bipolar tendencies. Either way, I'm not the easiest person to live with (as if you didn't already feel bad enough for my husband, due to my sexual issues). Sometimes, I fling my wedding band across the room, or lock myself into the bathroom, or scream myself raw. And once, I dumped a freshly-baked pan of cookies on top of his freshly-cleaned clothes and stomped up and down on them.
The worst was the time I tried to barricade myself in our bedroom. After sweating and straining to move his nightstand in front of the door, he pushed his way in. When I made a run for the great outdoors, he wrestled me to the floor, and carried me back to the bedroom. I kept fighting him, my hair dripping with my tears, my body weak but my adrenaline pumping. At one point, my tooth got chipped, and my lip bloodied. The ironic part? He was trying to keep me safe. He didn't want me driving my car while angry, because he was afraid I'd hurt myself.
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We haven't had a bad scene like that for quite some time now. I put myself back on Lexapro for awhile. Then, after the PMDD diagnosis, I realized that switching to Yaz (a birth control pill that is also supposed to help with PMDD) was sufficient for managing my wild mood swings. I kept a bottle of Xanax in my top dresser drawer for emergencies.
Then, I decided to have a baby.
This, of course, required going off the birth control, the one thing that was keeping me sane. Your Love Life on Drugs
I've been off my Yaz for a couple months now. The depression has already creeped back. Last week, I picked a fight with my mom, became ridiculously emotional and then wandered about in a weeklong depressive haze. This past weekend, I was also feeling blue. I played the recluse, and cried quietly to myself on and off. I didn't touch the Xanax.
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Becoming a mother terrifies me for a number of reasons. Will our child be healthy? Will we have enough money? Will I know what to do? Will I be as good a mom as mine was (and is)?
But my struggles with depression scare me on a whole other level: