A little over three weeks ago, I had a miscarriage.
I did not know I was pregnant. It was not planned. And at the time, maybe I was in shock, I wasn’t fully aware that’s what was happening. But research, a visit to Planned Parenthood, and what I witnessed have proven this to be the case. These are the kinds of details no one ever should have to relive.
For the past 13 years, I have been on and off psychiatric medications. After my bouts of psychiatric hospitalizations last spring, I finally found a medication that not only worked for me, but worked well. Without being properly informed, I was put on a dangerously high dose (which made me susceptible to serotonin syndrome). This scared me, but being committed scared me more. I did not know how I had gone from an over-achieving perfectionist that loved her family to someone who had been homeless, jobless, and ended up in the back of a police car more than once because I was threatening suicide. The benefits of taking medication seemed to outweigh the cost.
After I miscarried, I didn’t tell anyone. I was worried my fiance would be disappointed, would be worried, would blame me, would think I was incapable of having children (etc. etc. the negative self-talk really had a field day). So from that next day, I decided to begin titrating off of my medication. Knowing that psychiatric meds are not a science, that the particular one I’m on is notorious for causing birth defects, that if I were to become pregnant again I would need to stop a large dose immediately…I thought, stupidly, I could do this on my own.
Michael was confused as to my sudden change of heart, my intense desire to stop taking medication. He has seen me at my worst many, many times. I know I have brought a great deal of stress and grief into his life. His family hates me for a lot of these reasons, and is scared that he’ll “wake up in bed one day with [me] over [him] holding a butcher knife.” Because having mental illness automatically means you’re a potential murderer.
Not surprisingly, down my spiral began. The past three weeks have been excruciating. Panic attacks, insomnia, crippling depression. Then…then came along the PMDD.
I hurt myself a lot. I hurt him, emotionally. I binged and purged, I disassociated, I trying to self-sabotage in every way imaginable.
He didn’t spend a night at home. I wasn’t sure if we were together or not.
He came home. I told him about the miscarriage.
We’re working on things. But I’m tired. And this is just all so hard.
