I enjoy many things in life. Red wine, white wine, naps. One thing I do not enjoy is the feeling of being a complete, raving, off-my-rocker lunatic. And unfortunately, that pretty much sums me up lately. I thought for sure the words of a former student were ringing true; he must be right, I am “cray cray.”
Last week, I was *this* close to selling Brady on eBay for spilling his milk, and I was tempted to make an even trade, Ella for groceries, when she threw a tantrum in Walmart. And then I would flip the switch and in the next instant, bawl my eyes out because my baby boy is turning 3 this month and the baby girl is no longer a baby. THERE ARE NO MORE BABIES! The smallest things were setting me off. Of course, these things could also just be a sign of being a mother, but it’s worse: I’ve been mean. It’s like I’ve been searching for a debate, an intellectual fistfight if you will. I’ve been picking my husband apart, rolling my eyes at my parents, and yelling at the dogs for barking. That’s like yelling at Gary Busey for being one fry short of a Happy Meal. Or for having the most gigantic teeth ever. You kiddin’ me, Gar? If you paid for those, you’re going to want to go ahead and headbutt your dentist. At any rate, neither the dogs nor Gar-Bear should be held accountable for doing what comes naturally. Yet there I was, ready to snap because my German Shepard mix was growling at the UPS guy. Blah.
No matter what I did (took deep breaths, walked away from a situation when I was angry, etc.), nothing was working. I tried telling myself it was all in my head; I just needed to (wo)man up, shake it off. Mood swings got worse. I could tell Zach was contemplating taking off in the middle of the night, never to return. And I couldn’t blame him. I was a real jerk face and it was affecting my family.
My annual check-up happened to cross paths with my psychotic episodes, so I thought it wise to ask my midwife WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON. It went something like this:
Me: Please fix me.
Midwife: What’s the problem?
Me: I’m a real psycho.
Midwife, reviewing my charts: Oh! That’s because of the pill you’re on.
Turns out that for the past THIRTEEN months, I had been on a progestin-only pill that essentially doubles the amount of my crazy lady hormones. Guess it’s good while nursing a baby; not so much after the fact. This information would have been invaluable, say, 3 months ago.
Here’s hoping once this crap is outta my system, I’m back to my normal kind of crazy. I can’t risk having the locks changed on me. Again.
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