Change of Pace

Now that we are well into summer, I've determined that my constant tiredness was not simply a result of school year stress. In fact, some days, it's worse than ever. Hmm. Dilemma. I wake up so very tired (and often sore) every morning, go to work, and never quite wake up. Yesterday, it was my turn to mop the kitchen and it took me twice as long as it did before because I had to stop and rest so often. I feel so pathetic in this malfunctioning body.

A few Sundays ago, something truly scary happened to me. I yawned my way through morning church, much like the way I yawn my way through devotions and Bible School on the weekdays, and when I got back to my cottage, I fell into bed and closed my eyes. Three hours later, I woke up and got out of bed, but only because I knew I needed to eat something for lunch. It was a good thing that my parents had left some lunch in the refrigerator or I probably would have sat at the table and just stared at the cupboard, waiting for something to jump out and land in front of me. My motivation to find something to eat was zero.

I crawled back into my bed after returning to the cottage. There was nothing I wanted to do. Nothing sounded good. I had no energy and no motivation to do anything but lay in bed with my eyes closed. I didn't even care that I wasn't sleeping. Usually, if I'm in my bed under the covers, I'm trying to fall asleep. This time, I didn't even care. I passed several hours this way that Sunday. My housemates thought I simply wasn't feeling well, mostly because I didn't correct them when they asked what was wrong. And truly, I wasn't feeling well. They assumed physically, and I didn't tell them otherwise. My mind was a dangerous place.

Now, wait a minute, Andrea...aren't you taking medication that is supposed to get rid of these types of feelings and symptoms of depression?

My meds, which I have depended on since September, weren't working anymore. Or rather, they were working to make me worse. I was experiencing negative emotions that I never even had before meds. I spent awhile on the phone with my friend Jessica that night talking about how I felt and wondering aloud why I felt this way when I wasn't supposed to. She kept telling me that it was probably the result of my medication, but I was so reluctant to believe her. I refused to believe that my medication had failed. In my mind, it meant that I had failed. To the rational mind, this makes no sense. I have no power over how my body reacts to certain chemicals. But my rational mind was on vacation at that point.

I finally saw my doctor yesterday and asked to switch anti-depressants. In hindsight, it seems like it should have been so much easier than it actually was. Why on earth would I want to continue taking pills that make me feel worse than I already feel? I came back over and over to the feeling of failure. In truth, failure has absolutely nothing to do with it. My meds did not fail. They worked for me for over nine months. My brain eventually built up a tolerance to them, and they stopped doing what they were supposed to do. The time had come to find a new medication to do the job my old meds did.

I did not fail. Failure would have been refusing to be courageous and make a change.