Store Bought Serotonin

If You Can’t Make Your Own Serotonin, Store Bought is Fine

The other day, I was talking to Dissy about how I still chuckle to myself a bit when I think about the day my doctor gave me my antidepressant prescription.

After some trial and error, my doctor decided we were going old-school, and prescribed me Prozac. Why is this funny? To answer that, we have to jump into our wayback machine. The first antidepressants came out in the mid-1950s, and they had a terrifying list of side effects, that essentially took over the lives of patients on them.

When Prozac hit the market in 1987, promising all the benefits without the problems, it became hugely popular. Depression was slowly shedding the massive stigma that comes along with mental health issues, mostly among women. Which would have been a great thing, if not for the fact that people suck. Like, all the time.

Starting within a year of its introduction, Prozac became the go to joke for every mediocre dude who wanted everyone to think he was funny. All you have to do is make sleazy, sexist remarks about how middle-aged white women were all drugged out of their minds because they’re all crazy, and you’re suddenly a comedian.

When I was first diagnosed with anxiety and depression in my mid-20s, I spent most of my formative years being flooded with the message that these weren’t real illnesses. Instead,they were proof that women were, by their nature, unstable nutcases.

Naturally, I resisted these diagnoses, not wanting to believe I was one of those useless broads who couldn’t handle reality. Interestingly enough, mental health issues don’t just go away if you ignore them hard enough. Especially not when you’re in a horribly toxic relationship with someone who likes to deliberately make things worse. After all, if everyone knows your wife is a nutjob, who’s going to listen if she’s ever brave enough to seek help for the abuse you’ve been inflicting on her for years?

Fortunately, I was finally able to get rid of the dirtbag, and eventually started dating, then married Jay. Being the amazing human being he is, Jay started pushing me to take better care of myself. Apparently, running yourself into the ground trying to do everything for everyone isn’t particularly healthy. Imagine that!

 So first came therapy, and then I came to the realization that life would suck a lot less if I had medication to help my brain do the things it couldn’t do on its own.  I tried several other prescriptions, which didn’t work well for me, and so the doctor decided to try out old faithful.

Bottom line, we’re all fucking disasters. Everyone goes through shit, so if you’re having a really hard time, get some help. Maybe you need to see a therapist. Maybe you need medication. Or maybe both. There’s no reason to stubbornly continue suffering for years, because you think you’re supposed to just deal with it. Anyone tells you different? Fuck ‘em.

Cent’anni Bitches!

Is There a Prize for This?

Barb here, I had an incredibly surreal experience this past weekend and I’ve decided to share. Because I’m nice like that.


Jay gave me the plague last week. It’s actually just a head cold, but I like to exaggerate in case no one has noticed.

Anyway, Saturday rolls around, and I feel like warmed over ass. We get up, go to the grocery store, and upon arriving home, Jay tells me to take medicine and go to bed.


Sounds great to me, so I down a shot of NyQuil and start taking off my shoes, only to get a reminder on my phone that it’s time to leave for my therapy appointment.

Well fuck.

So, I yell upstairs for Jay to drive me to the appointment, and we rush out the door.

The next hour was spent talking to my therapist, while stoned out of my mind on cold medicine.

The doctor gently offered a couple times to cut the session short so I could go home and go to bed, which I cheerfully declined, insisting I was fine.

Spoiler alert: I was not. In fact, a few days later I realized he was very kindly trying to get me to go home, because the poor man was probably sitting there thinking, “Holy shit, this bitch doesn’t even know what planet she’s on
right now.”


Which got me thinking, am I that patient? I often throw something out as a casual aside when talking to my therapist, only to have him turn into the White Guy Blinking gif.



On more than one occasion, I’ve mentioned something that I think of as Not A Big Issue, only to have him respond with, “Wait, what?!”


I’m sure some of you are thinking I would be horrified, but surprisingly enough, it’s kind of reassuring. These are the experiences I’ve been repeatedly told I’m making too big of a deal out of. This awful thing I’m upset about is perfectly normal and happens to everyone. The reason no one else talks about it is because they understand how completely ordinary it is, and they don’t freak out over everyday things.


It’s incredibly comforting to find out that I was right all along. This Upsetting Thing is, in fact, upsetting and abnormal. Turns out, shitty people have a vested interest in convincing you their behavior is normal, so they can continue being shitty without consequence.

Who’d have thought?


And that leads me back to the random thought that today’s post was born from. Is there some kind of award for being the patient who manages to shock and/or horrify the therapist? I kind of feel like there should be. If there is, do I have to get a dress and go to an award ceremony?

Or will they just mail it to me?

I hope it’s the latter, I hate wearing dresses.
Until Next Time,

Cen’Anni Bitches!

Idiosyncrasies

One day, while I was perusing my feed on the ol’ facety-space, I saw a link to an article about people who prefer to watch the same movie or read the same books over and over because it provides them a sense of comfort in an unpredictable world.

I remember thinking, “hey… that’s totally me.” I further remember thinking that it had never occurred to me why I did this, but that logic really made sense to me. (I do, however, refuse to accept that my former selfie addiction had anything to do with a mental issue. I point that out so you know I’m not an “I read it on facebook, so it MUST be true” kind of person. That sentiment could not be farther from accurate; I mean, didn’t you read the last blog? I rarely believe anything.)

Over the years, I’ve been labeled anywhere from “odd” to a full blown “weirdo” because of my book, television, and movie habits. See, it’s a very rare thing for me to add anything new to my “acceptable media” list, a quirk (I’m sure some would call it something a little more abrasive) that has been a source of frustration for both my son and my most recent ex (both movie junkies) for years.

In regular reading-for-entertainment rotation are The Shining, ‘Salem’s Lot, early VC Andrews series (my favorites are the Flowers in the Attic series, the Ruby series, and the Heaven series), which totals about 15 books, the Little House on the Prairie books (yes, even though I’m not 7 anymore), and any Kay Scarpetta book from Patricia Cornwell, (Black Notice being my favorite). A few other series and individual books are on my list, but this gives you a relatively good view of how my preferences run.

I should point out that I do have a considerably hefty Kindle library of witchy, spiritual, and self-help books. Those topics are ones for which I will step out of my comfort zone, though I have developed a fondness for a few specific authors.

As far as movies go… I’m a smidge more open. I remember this one night when my son, my ex, my ex’s sons and I were all going to watch a movie. They all got so mad at me when I wanted to watch the first Thor movie instead of the newer one I hadn’t seen yet. I did end up letting them have their way, and I did enjoy the newer one (at the time, it was the second Thor installment), but, would I have been happier had we watched the first one? You bet.

day-um.

I find this tendency tends to rear its head during times of anxiety, stress, depression, or uncertainty. Taking depression, for example… I already know if I watch a certain movie, it’s going to help me feel better, happier, more hopeful, or whatever (my go-to “feel good female empowerment” movie is Beauty Shop with Queen Latifah). Why wouldn’t I watch that instead of risking some new movie that won’t quite fulfill my need?

I find, as far as books go, that, with some, I take away something different from each reading. Probably the book I’ve done this with the most is The Shining. I love the book because the only clear enemies are ghosts. I read the book for the first time when I was 13 or 14. I probably resonated more with Danny during that reading. Since then, I’ve had love/hate/understanding relationships with both Jack and Wendy.

I really, really, really hate her as Wendy Torrance.

It’s actually a very interesting book to read at different life stages. Our own emotional maturity levels are what lends those changing character preferences and perspectives.

Still? Even if it’s almost a different book to me because of a different perspective I’ve adopted, I love the comfort of knowing what the ending will be.

Yep… you caught me. I LOVE spoilers. Give me all of the spoilers. It is not beneath me, when I do decide to try a new book, to read a few chapters and then peruse the last few pages to see what the ending is like.

  1. I’ve probably already made a judgement about the outcome, and I want to know if I’m right.
  2. Even if I do know what’s going to happen, I still get the full adventure of knowing how the story goes from the beginning all the way to the outcome.

Y’all go enjoy your new things. Leave me with my comfort media. I’d say it’s better habit than comfort food, but that’s an ugly habit I have as well. When I have them both together? Heaven! Some day I’ll get around to that new stuff. Maybe. Unless the first Thor movie is on TV.

You guys have an awesome week. Merry Christmas, if you celebrate.

XOXO – Dissy

Cent’anni, Bitches!