Went to visit Dr. M today. He's this delightful Nigerian man that seems genuinely dumbfounded that I've survived the past eight years of bullshit and fuckery without medication.
I tell him the truth: The Saphris isn't working and I've gained fifteen pounds in the past month. What I don't tell him is I was drinking copious amounts of wine, eating shitloads of unhealthy fried foods, and forgetting to take my meds at least three times a week.
It's okay-- the doctor has a plan! (because he's not an idiot and my H&P says I have a history of non-compliance with treatment)
And the plan is: Throw more meds at the problem!
Now this would be all well and good if it weren't for two things: A) New meds fuck me up for at least a week, if not two, and that would be okay if it were not for B) Fat Louie.
How am I supposed to do a half-assed decent job of taking care of this tiny little human if I don't have my shit together? Mr. Poppins works 16+ hours a day, and my parents are out of town until further notice. Mr. Poppins' parents are out of the question because there is no way in hell I'm sending my infant son out of state without me tagging along.
So the fabulous new cocktail I'm going to be taking is as follows:
Morning:
50 mg Zoloft (titrating up to 150 mg)
25 mg Lamictal (titrating up to 200 mg)
Evening:
25 mg Lamictal
10 mg Saphris
Bedtime:
10 mg Ambien
....
Ambien?! Really?! I have a baby! I can't be sleepwalking or burning the house down trying to sleep-toast some fucking bread!
The divine Mr. M told me that side effects are rare (bullshit- see ambienoverdose.com or .org, something like that) but I could take a half a pill to see how that worked for me. No, I will be hacking each one of those little fuckers into fourths, and will have Mr. Poppins ration a quarter out to me every afternoon before leaving for work-- AND, he'll be hiding the bottle from me so I don't end up like Heath Ledger, being so fucked up out of my head that I unknowingly take half the bottle. Oh, and I've asked him to rig the bedroom doors with bells and hide the keys from me. As paranoid as I am, I'm taking every precaution to make sure I don't sleepwalk, sleepcook, sleepdrive or (God forbid) attempt to sleepparent. The last thing I want or need is for Fat Louie to get accidentally injured because Crazy Mommy is on new meds.
I pick up my meds from the pharmacy tomorrow. Seriously considering lying to my doctor and telling him I had adverse effects with the Ambien, just so he'll put me on something a little less hardcore and a damn sight less controversial.
And the Lamictal can cause a deadly flesh eating rash. Isn't that fucking delicious? I think my doctor is actively trying to find a way to kill me since apparently my crazy ass has nine goddamned lives.
The cherry on this whole situation? Alcohol will kill me, if I imbibe on this regimen. I'm in AA, so it shouldn't make much of a difference, but I am mourning the fact that I can never have a teeny-tiny nip ever again. Dammit. And with the holidays coming up. How the hell am I going to get through the holidays sober?
Okay. Baby's down and House is on. Until tomorrow, lovelies.
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