Sooooo, where were we? Oh yes, the sleep doctor.
If I was to wrap up that visit without boring you to death with all the gory details it would be this:
I walked in exhausted, beside myself with fatigue and an inability to make my own important decisions. I walked out with a mood disorder and a prescription for anti-anxiety medication.
Yep. I did. I walked in tired and walked out tired and crazy. At least, that's how I felt at the time. Just another crazy girl roaming the earth.
I was mad.
Who are we kidding? I was down right pissed off. I would be damned if I was going to be another drugged up, zombie-fied Mormon housewife who is so overwhelmed, or bored, with life that she needs to pop a pill just to get out of bed in the morning.
I wanted to lament and cry to the world about how everything is so hard and why can't I just ask the doctor, "Why can't I sleep?" And have him respond with, "You will, after I wave my magic wand and click my heels together three times."
PMDD. Ever heard of that? I had and for many years I thought I might have it. I googled the crap out of it and denied myself help because I am so anti-labelling.
Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder.
That's the new me. Just a girl, a mom, a wife. A woman with raging, uncontrollable PMS and.......
.....and that's not all.
"You have anxiety," he said to me.
"Um, yes, I know," I replied.
"No. You have an anxiety disorder. And it's keeping you up at night."
The realization that this was in fact what was keeping me up at night finally being said out loud, by me, was the scariest thing I think I have ever done.
Besides writing this all out, of course.
That doesn't mean anything though when I sat firmly upon my pedestal and announced that I refused to be medicated. "There has to be another way," I said to him.
He shook his head no. "Take this prescription. Go home and talk to your husband. Take some time to let it sink in. If you decide not to take the pills then call me and we'll talk. Otherwise I'll see you in a month."
I took that prescription out of his hand, shoved it into my bag, walked to my car, closed the door and screamed.
I screamed at him. I screamed at the world. I screamed at stupid Willacy, I screamed at my kids and the man, I screamed at God. At life. At messed up menstrual cycles and messed up heads...
If mind over matter could have triumphed that day I would have minded that matter right in the youknowwhat.
I have always wanted to use the word gobsmacked. I think this is as good a time as any.
The drive home was long and confusing. I needed to talk to the man. And later that evening I complained about how silly the whole thing was. "What do I do?" I asked him. You see, I had PMS that day and felt completely incapable of deciding what to make for dinner never mind whether or not I should start pumping anti-anxiety meds into my system.
"Well," he said, "I'll tell you what you'll do..."