Matthew White4 said:I was taking Normabrel three times a day during my pregnancy, and honestly, once I stopped, it felt like nothing had even happened. Now, I’m just popping Ativan whenever I need to, and I’ll admit, I’ve started overdoing it because my life is basically a nightmare right now... constant anxiety, this heavy cloud of depression dragging me down everywhere I go.
I actually had a neurologist prescribe those little green pills once because I was dealing with some neck issues. Look, the doses you're on aren't even that high; I was on much heavier stuff. You should totally be upfront with him about what you told us—tell him straight out that you're worried about getting hooked and that you don't want him messing with your meds. If Seroquel isn't doing the trick, there's a whole mountain of milder antidepressants out there that could help you taper off the Normabrel for good. Make him explain himself, too—ask him clearly why he keeps pushing those specific ones. They aren't always a necessity; most people can manage just fine with a standard antidepressant.
Just don't be intimidated. He's literally there to support you and listen to what's going on in your head. There's really no reason to feel like you're walking on eggshells around him.
I try to be tactical about how I approach things, mostly because my initial diagnosis was Borderline Personality Disorder, paired with anxiety and depression. Luckily, I’ve managed to work through most of those BPD symptoms thanks to some incredible sessions with my private therapist. Still, I can’t help but remember the heavy-handed labels people slap on anyone with BPD, so I make sure to build real boundaries around myself to stay protected. Looking back at my darker chapters—back when I was seeing a different shrink (this is actually my fifth one; my previous doctor treated me like a total pushover, so I had to get out of there fast)—things were a mess. Between therapy, antidepressants, and Xanax, I was also self-medicating with alcohol to numb the restlessness and anger. That "brilliant" strategy eventually turned into a daily habit, which ended up masking what were actually bipolar symptoms. Because of that, I have to avoid certain antidepressants like the plague, specifically anything that doesn't have a sedative effect. Once, after a mild nervous breakdown about three years ago (nothing where I lost touch with reality), I decided to take a little Zoloft on my own just to lift my mood, since Tegretol had left me feeling completely knocked out and depressed. Within half a day, it was like my brain was being eaten alive by obsessive thoughts. My head was racing so fast it felt like storm waves crashing against a cliffside. I had to stop taking the antidepressant immediately. Even though my doctor calls it a "mild" version of bipolar disorder, Zoloft and similar meds trigger hypomania for me, and let me tell you, it isn't pleasant. So now, I stick strictly to the downers.
I don’t know, I’ll just ask my doctor about other options and keep pushing back. I’m stuck in this loop with my shrinks: either I’m acting like some stubborn anti-psychiatry zealot who spends all day bashing meds for "frying the brain" and killing creativity and life force—which was more of a thing for me back then, before I realized that black-and-white thinking is just a dead end and a sign of immaturity—or I have to act like I’m absolutely nothing. I feel like if I show any teeth, they’ll jump on every single word I say, blow my symptoms way out of proportion, and use it as an excuse to ramp up the medication.
My new shrink is actually alright. He’s charming enough, but he doesn't flirt and he isn't about to let me flirt with him either. He keeps things strictly professional—not cold, just disciplined. Word on the street is he’s one of the best psychiatrists in the city, but still... whenever I bring up Normabelle, he gives me this subtle eye roll, like I'm some kid screaming for a lollipop. Like I'm turning down a literal sugar high. He just sighs, rubs his hand over his face like he's trying to wipe away the weight of every patient's confession, and tells me, "Don't get hooked," before shutting the conversation down. Apparently, I'll have to take fadedbear9's advice. Or just start getting aggressive about convincing him.
Oh, and by the way, he had the nerve to claim that with thirty years under his belt, benzodiazepines like Xanax or Ativan are basically the only non-addictive options left. Honestly, who would even dare challenge a titan of medical expertise like that? How am I supposed to argue? What weapon do I even use to convince him that I’m actually listening to my own body? Despite all his massive medical erudition, there's this little internal voice telling me when something just feels off—when things aren't right, or when I'm actually hurting. Even with the best psychiatrists in the country, I constantly run into this immovable, authoritative wall where their "experience" always trumps my intuition. In that fight, I never stand a chance. It's hard to find a middle ground between being defiant and just giving up in total resignation. I know, I know—it sounds pathetic. But it really is.
