I’ve been on antidepressants for my PND twice now.
I call them my magic beans. I don’t know why. They don’t lead me to a castle in the sky or an ogre or anything that ends like a fairytale. I think it helps me deal with the fact I take them.
The first time I was diagnosed with PND, I felt shame. I don’t remember much from those first few weeks of diagnosis but I remember being prescribed antidepressants and being outraged at the suggestion. And shame. And guilt. Surely I wasn’t that bad?
I quickly learnt they’re not something to be ashamed about. They helped level out my moods so I could start helping myself to get better. They stopped my mood swings, endless days of crying and dulled the deep pain I felt.
They didn’t turn me into a zombie. They didn’t completely numb my feelings. They didn’t remove the pain altogether. I’m not addicted to them. I’m not fat because of them (that’s the cake)!! They didn’t cause insomnia. Nobody knows I’m on them unless I tell them. *
*all things I thought would happen.
Recently I’ve missed a few days of my magic beans. Not on purpose, just slipped my mind to take them. I know why. I’m starting to think I’m doing well. Really well. I’m starting to think I don’t need them any more.
I know I’ll be discussing this with my doctor soon. I know I’ll come off them gradually. I know I’ll probably wait until after the kids are back in their routine and I’ve gone back to work.
I know I’ll probably miss the initial high I sometimes feel when I’m on them (oh look doesn’t the sun look lovely today?) but I won’t keep taking them forever. For what they’ve helped me achieve is much more magical.
They’ve given me my life back. They’ve slowed time so I can enjoy my children. They’re opened my eyes to the sun so I can let the warmth back in. They’ve helped me look forward to things again.
Perhaps they are magic beans after all.