Coming Out of the Medicine Cabinet

I've debated the idea of blogging about this for a while. On the one hand, I'm not one of those who opens up a vein and starts typing. On the other hand, I am a big believer in honesty leading to better creativity. In the end, I've had more than a few folks tell me, "Write for yourself" and I can't disagree - I've even passed along the advice. So – Scientologists be damned - here goes nothing.

I'm on antidepressants (yes, that is my Grandma-style pillbox on the left).

The decision to go on meds was made about two months ago and not made lightly. I’m not ashamed of the fact that I’m on medication or that I am a walking anxiety and sleep disorder, with a side of occasional depression. Yahweh knows I'm not the only one. So why didn't I write about it? I really just didn’t think there was a funny or insightful way to approach my situation as a blogger. When it all comes down to it, if I can’t find a way to make it funny, I’m not inclined to write. After all, I ought to get a kick out of this, too, right? Lo and behold, life gave me lemons. Ladies and gents, I give you lemonade - or a lemon drop martini if you prefer.

I made my appointment with the doctor. As the day approached, I was nervous and a little scared. I mean, it’s not easy to admit you have a problem. If you have a cold, you caught from something and it passes. Mental illness is more like an STD. Sure, you didn’t catch it from anyone (unless it’s genetic), but you still don’t want to broadcast that you have one. But I did it, I bit down and walked into that office and spilled my guts. We detailed my history and my present symptoms and mapped out a program. I walked out of there with a clear plan of action, a sense of accomplishment, and prescriptions for Zoloft and Rozerem (a sleep medication).

I held onto that slip of paper for almost a week before walking into the local Sav-On Pharmacy. I went one night after the gym and walked sheepishly up to the counter.

“Um, I need to fill a prescription,” I whispered. I could barely hear myself.

The nice lady behind the counter took my slip and my insurance card. Have you ever looked at what they place right next to that counter? Condoms, condoms, and more condoms. Also, a lot of incontinence-related products. At least I wasn’t picking something up for that. Equally fascinating are the myriad of pillboxes – they’ve got big ones, little ones, fancy ones that rich hypochrondiacs use. Then the lady uttered words I was definitely not expecting to hear:

“The medications aren’t covered.” She then proceeded to tell me that they would run be about $250. Suddenly, all of this political rhetoric about prescription plans for seniors meant something to me. I felt so stupid for not checking with my doctor to see if the meds or their generic equivalent were covered. I swallowed hard and paid for it. I think I heard my debit card cry a little when it realized I was spending this much and not getting a freakin’ iPod out of the deal.

I walked next door to the grocery and picked up a few necessaries. As I waited in line to pay, I reviewed my receipt. The lady overestimated a little: $246.79. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud as I heard the thought for in my head: “Being depressed is so expensive, it’s fucking depressing.” The people in front of me in line started looking at me funny, making it impossible to stop laughing.

Suddenly, I wasn't depressed or anxious. I realized if I still had my sense of humor about me, all would be good. I've been making great strides since regular sleep and regulated moods have set in. Worth way more than $246.79. Of course, I can say that now, since I have a flexible spending account that I reimbursed myself out of. But even if I hadn't gotten the money back, I wouldn't regret a thing.

So now I'm the generic for Prozac and Ambien (like those rested, happy people in commercials). I really like paying only $15 for the co-pay on two medications. Fuck Tom Cruise if he has a problem with that.

Love,
J.

This post was sponsored by the Fluoxetine Off The Handle Committee.