Tag Archives: wellbutrin

Stupid Weight Loss Means I Can’t Have Carbs.

18 Thursday Aug 2011

Posted by in Belly Battles, Me vs The Sad

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I had an appointment with my shrink yesterday.

She said that they often try taking people off of their meds a year after the baby is born, but she didn’t think that I was ready, especially since I’m about to start a new job and you all know how WELL I deal with change! Not to mention that I get blue just thinking of losing my Babby time, and the fact that I develop anxiety when away from Babby for more than two or three hours.

I start next week, full time. It’s going to be FUN.

She was also intrigued by my new diet.

“Have you tried, just… moderation?” my shrink asked. (I hate it when people ask questions like this. Do they really expect me to say “No, I haven’t tried just eating less. What a great idea!“?)

“Yes. I gain weight.”

“You can’t do it?”

“No, I can’t, and on the rare occasion that I succeed, it doesn’t matter,” I said. “I gain weight if there are any simple sugars in my diet. But no, I can’t do moderation. One piece of bread leads to more. Always.”

“I thought that you said the Wellbutrin reduced your carb cravings?”

“It did.”

And I told her how it was before.

How, whenever I tried to cut out carbs, I would find myself near tears in the grocery store, looking longingly at the Olivieri pasta.

How, one time, when I couldn’t find the dregs of a bag of chips, I ransacked the entire house (including linen closets) trying to find it. It turned out that PH had finished the bag and thrown it away.

You know that Sex and the City episode, where Miranda takes cake out of the garbage and eats it? That was me.

The Wellbutrin DOES help.

I have passed day three of my no-carb diet, and I haven’t cried at all. Mind you, I’m not being overly strict. On Monday I ate PH’s Strawberry and Spinach salad, and on Tuesday we dipped our fried tofu in Sweet Chili Sauce, and yesterday I ate more tomato in my Greek Salad than would be ideal for “induction” Atkins.

But no bread, no pasta, no potatoes. That’s HARD. Especially since I am still giving Babby bread and fruit. I actually asked Perfect Husband to cut up Babby’s strawberries this morning, because I didn’t trust myself. As it was, when one piece got pushed out of Babby’s reach, I licked my fingers after handing it to him.

My cravings may be reduced, but they’re still there. In fact, in light of the fact that I don’t dare/want to do it more strictly than I am, I keep wondering if it’s even worth it.

I decided that if I hadn’t lost weight by today, I would give up.

I have lost two and a half pounds.

DAMN. That means I have to keep on this, because it may be starting to work.

Hell.

So, for motivation, here are some picures of me, before and after carbs:

Remission

11 Tuesday Jan 2011

Posted by in Me vs The Sad

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I had an appointment with my psychiatrist yesterday and she thinks I’m doing fine. I’m still on my original dose of Wellbutrin and she doesn’t want to change that.

Neither do I.

I guess that I am supposed to want to try to wean myself off of the Wellbutrin, to “gain independence from medication” and all that jazz. But quite frankly, I’m terrified that the depression will come back if we meddle with things, so I’m always relieved when she doesn’t suggest it. If it is still fixed, let’s not mess with the duct tape we used when it broke. You know?

I read on a forum that many depressed people have difficulty explaining to their significant others why they need the pills/therapy to deal with their problem. That made me think:

Do you think of depression as a disease?

You should. Some people do (mostly people who have suffered from it). Other people think of it as a fancy name for someone being mopey. Even though depression is a recognized medical condition, everyday people don’t think of it as such.

Isn’t that strange?

I mean, just like any other medical problem, mood disorders have a known etiology, recognized treatments, and even have medical doctors who specialize in the area. If I told you that I was going to see a cardiologist, or a podiatrist, or an oncologist, or a nephrologist, you’d think “Oh, she must have a medical condition” and you wouldn’t judge me as a person because of that.

But if I told you “I’m going to see a psychiatrist,” you’d think “oh, she must be crazy.”

People who seek help for mental disorders like depression or anxiety are perceived as weak. Many people, even those who try to be sympathetic and understanding, secretly feel that if you just pulled your socks up a bit, you’d be fine. But if you sought help for eczema, or poor vision, or ingrown toenails, or any other (much more trifling) matter, people wouldn’t think that you lacked willpower. They wouldn’t congratulate themselves on their superior moral fibre, capable of resisting such afflictions.

Quite frankly, mood disorders are simply not taken very seriously by most people. Chances are that some part of you, or someone you know, secretly believes that depression is just a form of laziness, best cured by “sucking it up.”

And yet, people die of depression. We call it suicide, but that’s really what suicide is – dying from depression.  Nor is it as simply treated as many other diseases. Our brain is our most vital, most irreplaceable organ. You can transplant a heart or liver or kidney. You can even temporarily cover for these organs with bypass and dialysis machines. But you can’t transplant a brain. Nor can you run someone’s thoughts through a machine to cleanse them of debris. We can cure leprosy and unblock arteries and even return severed digits to their rightful places, but we can’t stop the progress of Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s disease.

So why do we take psychiatric conditions so lightly?

Why are people inclined to think that you lack moral fibre, just because you have a chemical imbalance in your central nervous system?

Why do these same people, when they suddenly find their own brain imbalanced, resist admitting it and going for help? These same people who wouldn’t hesitate to seek out a doctor for a cold or a sprained ankle would insist that they don’t need help with a potentially deadly disease… just because it occurs in their brain.

A few months ago, I obtained a copy of my psychiatrist’s report and recommendations so I could take it to my doctor. In the report, my psychiatrist recommends that I stay on my antidepressants. She then reports that my depression and anxiety are currently “in remission.”

In remission.

Like it is a cancer.

That temporarily floored me. Then I thought some more. Why not use those terms? Depression isn’t like a cold or a sprained ankle. Like cancer, it can become deadly. It is a leading cause of death in people under age 35. In fact, suicide kills more people worldwide than breast cancer or leukemia do. More people die of depression than by accidental drowning. You are more likely to be killed by suicide than by another person, and again, that’s worldwide, not just in the first world.

Thank God that I am “in remission” from such a disease. I hope it never recurs.

Depression changes you. It robs you of your natural energy, your sense of self. I am no longer depressed, but I have forgotten how to be me. I have many friends who have never even known the non-depressed me. Their idea of who Carol is and how she works is totally off-kilter, because they didn’t really know Carol. Whenever I hear this song, I want to cry, because it is a little too true.

I’m not sure I know Carol either, anymore, but I’m going to try to find her.

We have a lot to talk about.

The Theme of Age 27: You Crazy, Crazy Lady.

27 Wednesday Jan 2010

Posted by in How is Babby Formed?, Me vs The Sad

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Today was a big day for me, mental health wise. Not only was it the first day of my GAD therapy group, but I got a call from the Reproductive Mental Health section of the Women’s Hospital telling me that they wanted to book me in for 9 AM the same morning. I said I couldn’t do it, because I had to be at a totally different hospital for 10 AM.

“Well, we have you listed as an urgent referral, but our next opening is in March.”

“…Okay, I’ll be there.”

So then I had to tell my manager that instead of working crazy long hours to make up for the time I’d be in the GAD group, but I wasn’t going to be able to make it in at all this morning and she would have to give me half a sick day or unpaid leave or something. I left the choice up to her so she would hate me less for buggering off for half a day. Then I had to call my GAD group and leave a message saying I’d probably be very late. The whole thing was making me very anxious.

At the Women’s Health place a psychiatrist drilled me for an hour on my history. She got me to describe any depressive instances in my life, focusing most on the episode that led to the prescription of Wellbutrin. Like all the other people I have spoken to, she raised her eyebrows and looked shocked when I described my encounter with Dr. Useless and nodded when I explained why I hadn’t taken the Cymbalta that had been tossed at me. She asked me about my family, where I was born, my drinking habits, my husband, my education, and a million other things. It was all familiar ground to me. I am getting used to repeating it to counsellors, psychiatrists, doctors etc. As usual, she seemed surprised and impressed by my description of Perfect Husband. When I called him my best friend, she looked pleasantly shocked. This makes me sad for the other wives she talks to.

“So, basically,” she summarized at the end of things, “You have a history of worrying and anxiety, with episodes of seasonal depression in winter, culminating in Major Depression last year.”

It made me sound so healthy.

Her verdict?

For Gawd’s sake, don’t go off the Wellbutrin.

Those weren’t her exact words. She used much more clinical terms to impress on me that Wellbutrin is not teratogenic, that I am on a low dose in any case, that depression can have severe consequences on the developing baby and that I am at a high risk of redeveloping the depression either during pregnancy or in post partum. As it is, she decided that I should be watched carefully for recurring depression through my pregnancy and booked a follow-up in May. She also strongly advised Cognitive Behaviour Therapy. So I told her about the GAD group and she was delighted.

“That’s perfect! When does it start?”

“Today.” (Actually, the most correct answer would have been “ten minutes ago,” but I wanted to spare myself that conversation)

“Well, that’s excellent. You’re getting mentally healthy in time for your 28th birthday!”

She had a student observer with her and he seemed simply pleased by the fact that he had met someone who was actually helped by her antidepressants.

I am clearly fortunate in many ways.

Anyway, I showed up to the GAD thing and hour and fifteen minutes late, but they didn’t scold me (if they had, it would have cast serious doubts upon their ability to work with anxious people) and they gave me a million forms to fill out, which I still managed to finish before other people there.

An emotionally exhausting day, but a productive one, at least.

Oh yeah, one more thing. She asked me what I did for Perfect Husband, after I described what he does for me. I was like “Uh… sometimes I’ll cook dinner… if I can keep him from chopping vegetables illicitly. And I encourage him to spend money on himself now and then, because if I don’t he won’t.”

She recommended that I consider some Self Esteem CBT as well, since I didn’t seem to notice my own contributions to our relationship. Maaaaybe. Or maybe I just need to start pulling my weight around the house.