Because I have bipolar disorder – and because I was raised with such crazy – I’ve been in therapy (on and off) since my early twenties. I do well with therapy. I find it’s helpful to have an impartial sounding board. Many of my reactions to stressful situations aren’t quite normal, and over the years I’ve made real progress to shake behaviors that aren’t good.
Friday night was my last Lamictal pill. It’s my goal to get through my first trimester without the drug that has a chance at harming my baby. I think I can do it. I will not fight going back on the drugs if I can’t handle it. I have been working towards this all year. With seven years of healthy history, I feel like I’ve got a good chance of getting through this. But, I’d feel better if I had a weekly visit with a therapist. I need someone else to watch over me — and while my family and K have totally stepped up, I’d feel better if I got a professional on the team.
For the last two days, I’ve been calling therapists to get an appointment. Only one actually called me back and when she heard I had stopped taking my medication, she said she couldn’t take on a patient like me. At most – I have seven weeks of Lamictal-free life left. I know that there’s the potential for real crazy in my brain. I remember it – the lack of sleep, the change of colors, my hairdryer and I having conversations.
The thing is – I’m more worried about my emotional baggage than my brain chemistry at the moment. In the last four years, that baggage has shrunk considerably, but I’m not sure how being pregnant will change, bloat and create new issues. Knowing is half the battle, right?
I’ve never been turned down by a therapist. [deep breath] It’s okay. I’m going to choose to be happy that she was honest about her caseload. I know I’m healthy enough to handle this. I know I’m capable of knowing the moment when I’m not healthy enough to handle this. On to the next twenty on the list…