For the past two days I have woken up growling. Well, almost growling. There’s been a mood shift and I was aggressive, rageful and all around full of grrrrr. On Monday, I rationalized it as stress. Tuesday, I kept it at bay by intently focusing and when I woke up with it still hanging around my neck on Wednesday, I realized it might be time to call the doctor.
Now, at the bottom of this pile of rage are a few things… My grandfather is having surgery and there’s something up with their housing situation that everyone seems to tip toe around. My uncle is dying and I can’t do anything about it. My aunt – his wife – is my person. And it is breaking my heart.
Work is intense as all get out and to top off that perfect sundae of shit, my crazo mother has been trying to friend me on facebook, commenting on posts on mutual friends’ pages and is all around trying to nose her way into my tent. Holy Toledo.
This morning, when I realized I would have to call my doctor to tell her that Lamictal made me feel like I could star on American Gladiator, I started to cry. Crying at 6:22 AM does no one any good. K. isn’t even fully functional yet. He barely noticed that I already had coffee made. (Also, he’s totally had his week of PMS and is vacillating between “I’ll never get a job,” “I’m not good enough for a job,” and “Why did I go to law school, again?” The whole thing is requiring a lot of gentleness, an increase in blow jobs, and steady patience. So far, so good.)
I was crying because I am a perfectionist. I’m a good patient. I take my medication. I journal my moods. I am introspective and alert and I really really wanted it to work because Lamictal is safe for pregnancy (as safe as I’m going to get). And instead, my brain decides it does not want to be a team player. I need to trust my brain, and this whole trust relationship thing was not starting out as gangbusters as I wanted it to. Well, shit.
K. was the quarterback I needed him to be. He mentioned that I may – just a suggestion – have a shit ton of stuff on my plate right now. He didn’t see my moods as varying from other times of heavy stress, but he’d call a few people I’m close to at work and check in with them. If I wasn’t feeling better by Friday, he’d call the doctor and we’d figure out what was next.
Holy shit. I had a partner. I had a life raft. I had what I’ve always wanted – someone that I can let my guard down to who isn’t going to hold it against me, isn’t going to run away, isn’t going to swoop in. So, I’m giving this another 48 hours. And after my emotional vomit, I felt a lot better. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow in a happy mood, but – y’know – not too happy.