An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation


I’ve been throwing up, off and on, here and there, for a little over three weeks now, and although I’d love to report that I’m pregnant with cute little monobrowed babies, because that’s seriously what I’d love to report, I have to confess, sadly, that I’m not pregnant.

I am so not pregnant that my biological clock refuses to talk to me anymore. She used to wake me up in the in the middle of the night and say, hey, it’s me again, where are the babies? And I’d say, girlfriend, tell me about it!

Now my biological clock ignores me. I hate her.

I hate that I can’t blame her for the nausea, although I’m pretty sure I can blame her for craving those goddamn French fries. What is it with the goddamn French fries? They’re like orgasms, only more starchy.

So my doctor told me that if I wanted to lead a more active lifestyle I should switch depression medications. Crazies like me, crazies who have to pop a pill everyday to connect certain chemicals in the brain, have few options when it comes to stopping the insanity. We can:

1) ignore that weird “sad” feeling
2) do what my father once suggested and just be happy, for crying out loud
3) overeat in hopes of drowning the sorrow
4) pray real hard that, like, God will make all the bad thoughts go away (this involves having your entire family pray real hard as well, particularly out loud at the dinner table when guests are in attendance)
5) shut the fuck up and try the meds already

Seven years ago on the brink of dropping out of college I finally tried number five, and folks, if there’s any evidence that medicating an illness might actually medicate the illness, whether the illness be asthma, diabetes, or (gasp) depression, your beloved Dooce is living proof that science is a wonderful, wonderful thing. My hair color is also good proof, but that’s another post entirely.

Unfortunately I’ve been taking the medication with the worst documented side effects, the nadir of which is fatigue. I’m a tired motherfucker, all the motherfucking time.

The co-worker who’s asleep in the car? That’s me. The co-worker asleep in a ball under her desk? Me. The co-worker with the snooze bruises on the side of her forehead in the shape of those zig-zag tiles on the floor in the bathroom? That’d be Dooce.

So here I am, seven years later, 2,557 pills later and I’m attempting to switch. At least, that’s what the doctor called it, switching. I’d like to call it Re-enacting that Scene from Trainspotting. You know the scene, the one where the dead baby is crawling across the ceiling and Renton is all, oh god, oh god, please, please, make it stop, and the walls and bedspread are all 1978 and he’s really sick but still really, really cute.

I’m looking at that dead baby right now. It’s crawling across the ceiling and its rigor-morted head is twitching from side to side and it’s getting closer and closer and I’m like, please, this is so not fair, Ewan McGregor at least got paid to go through this.

And you know the worst part? The worst part isn’t the constant urge to puke my spleen out my nose, or the itching, or the dizziness, or admitting that this is really fucking hard.

The worst part is throwing up chocolate pudding. I really liked chocolate pudding.

  • …Er, ok, so that was just one article. You still would appreciate it (and I couldn’t find the other one).

  • Pascale

    Weaning self off Effexor, so far, so okay. Got sick of wanting to sleep all the time. Also, the annoying inability to think of anyone thing for more than 5 minutes at a time.

    Since I seem to be backwards girl, my experience was contrary to many others’.

    Going ON Effexor made me nauseated for about 3 months, with the result that I lost about 20 pounds.

    While on Effexor, rather than losing my sex drive, I experienced multiple orgasms for the first time in my life. I have to say I’ll be mildly bummed if that goes away along with the pills.

    It remains to be seen whether I’ll wind up looking for a replacement for Effexor.

  • Aye

    My fiance is on paxil but not for depression more for anxiety. He’s been on it since he was a teenager, and I would hate for him to be on it for the rest of his life. Is there any way of getting off it?

  • you’re on paxil, aren’t you? I tried to wean myself off it once. a tragic mistake. death woulda been preferable to the sick I got.

  • angelo

    I Love You.Marry Me

  • I came down with some serious depression when I was a teenager and henceforth was successfully brain-washed by the psychiatric establishment into believing in the myth of biological psychiatry. Only in the last year have I realized the truth about psychiatrists: they are all either fools, madmen, or evil. I’m talking about the ones that push drugs. They have no idea what these chemicals do to our bodies. Looking back on those early depressive spells, I can see major situational factors at play, combined with a diet which at its center featured sugar, yet another drug.

    I would encourage you to examine the entire medical model of depression extremly skeptically, and to perhaps use the suffering you are now feeling to empower you to seek your own personal truth. The doctors are lying to you, and they are perpetuating your suffering. Depression is *not* diabetes.

    If your doctor doesn’t believe you are ever going to get better (and that means healthy, which means without drugs), it is time to get a new doctor.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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