I drove to Wal-Mart.
I took my walk of shame right up to that pharmacy counter. I stood tall and announced my name, “Julie Rothacher. R.O. T.H. A. C.H. E.R. {cause with a name like “roth-ache-r” that’s what you automatically do}. Eight. 20. Eighty four.” “Your prescription will be ready in about 10 minutes.” “Thanks” but not really. I don’t want this medicine but you don’t know that so I won’t be a jerk to you.
I wandered around looking at unnecessary plastic objects and very necessary bright colored decorations that need to be in my home before returning to the counter for my “consultation” on my medicine. The pharmacist gently looked at me and began, “Have you ever taken this medicine before?” I shook my head “No.” Trying to add a lil pep to the consultation, in a peppier voice he said, “Well, this medication is used for depression or sleeping disorders.” I flashed a meek smile. I think he thought I would confess to him which I was taking it for. He continued with a list of possible side effects as I put on a brave face hoping he and those around me would think I just had trouble sleeping.
Returning home as a bonafide pill popper I dreaded answering questions from family and friends. My husband was so supportive. With a simple, “Maybe this will help. I know you don’t want to take medicine for the rest of my life. Hopefully it will only be a short season.” conversation he promised to never ask if I’d taken my “happy pills” if I was having a rough day.
Over the next 6 months, I slowly confessed to a few of my family and friends in passing that I was taking anti-depressants. No one seemed to treat me any difeent. There has yet to be a movie made of my "episodes". Everyone’s response has been positive with fellow “pill-poppers” telling me stories of when they had to take similar stuff or are currently being “leveled out.” It may not be right but it was comforting to know other people were struggling with depression, mood swings, and imbalances.
Most days now I don’t think much of the pill added to my nightly routine. Other days I regret watching movies like The Ya Ya Sisterhood. My fears flood back like a typhoon taking over my entire being. These kinds of movies have always bred my phobia of being "crazy." While watching Sybille years ago, I was wide eyed, concerned I would be “crazy” like that. Having undisclosed family history of "mental disorders" added to the stigma of "pill poppers" being sinful or something. Mental illness is often hereditary just like "bad knees" or a heart murmur. By my family not talking about those with "issues" made me feel even more ashamed to take an antidepressant home. Some still treat mental issues different than physical one; with less understanding, sympathy; out of ignorance. I've never wanted to be the “yelling mom”. That’s why I’ve chosen to go this route. Stigmas and all.
~~~
Sorry if there wasn't much conclusion to this. I like stories with a pretty bow at the end. But I'm pretty sure this story is a work in progress and always
To Be Continued...
Three Part Series {on depression}
- That Day... {Monday}
- That Night... {Tuesday}
- The Pickup... {Wednesday}