When I saw my psychiatrist on Wednesday, she decided to raise my Prozac because I was feeling a smidge better but not all the way. I had been on a higher dosage before, and tolerated it just fine, so she thought that rather than prolong the misery, she should just try the higher dosage and see what happened. I took the first higher dose on Friday, and felt drained and dopey. Ditto for yesterday. I kept thinking "Must blog...must blog...must sleep..." and, suffice to say, sleep won.
Today, I woke up bright and early (for me, on the weekend)- thankfully I slept later than yesterday when Aria saw a bird right outside my window at 8:30am and just about went bonkers. She was hissing and "chirping" and running around the bed and...good morning, Your Royal Fuzziness. Thanks for the wake-up call. I spoke with my good friend IrishUp this morning as well, as we worked on a project for FEAST, and it was nice to hear her voice.
Then, as I was getting dressed and getting ready to make my weekly grocery run, it struck me: I felt strange. Like really strange. The weather is gorgeous out. Aria was acting freakishly cute. Though I wasn't looking forward to going grocery shopping, I wasn't exactly dreading it either. My body image isn't spectacular, but it's been worse.
I realized: could this be happy? Could it?
When I was in residential treatment about 2.5 years ago (has it really been that long?), I remember when the other SSRI started to kind of work. I remember being utterly convinced that I was manic. That this chatty feeling, these giggles, were NOT NORMAL. It had to be pathological. I was not upbeat and talkative.
I explained these freakish symptoms to my therapist who looked at me and said: "Umm, honey, I think that's called happy."
I guess it kind of drives home the point of how long I've been depressed, when having a good mood feels almost wrong. That it feels pathological, that I must be bipolar if I'm having a fraction of a happy thought.