I’d forgotten just how miserable adjusting to antidepressants can be. Some things flew out of the window, despite my promises to myself that they wouldn’t. Writing being one of those things, sleeping another.
I twitched and worried at things, paced around the house constantly, played with my children, laughed and smiled, before collapsing into a heap on the couch with a small tired baby and a series of books [these ones this time].
It’s easier in a way and harder. I feel disconnected and a bit discombobulated, but it’s easing and I can feel my head and my sanity trickling back in. Which is nice, frankly.
Some things are harder to deal with. I have no appetite and have to force myself to eat. My mouth is dry constantly and I have electric shocks behind my left ear, which has also, strangely, gone numb. My teeth ache because I keep grinding them and my ability to type comes and goes, depending on how distracted I am at any given moment.
That’s okay though. The depression is lifting and I’m happy to be me again.