Baby... Crazy...?

Y'ALL.  Getting off birth control is a bitch.  A crazy, redneck, meth-addicted bitch, calling you a "cracker," while she aims her shotgun at you, cigarette dangling between her lips, personal-sized Jack Daniels in her back pocket.

For the last week and a half, this was me. Can't wait to impregnate that, right, fellas?!

So, after going off the Nuva Ring, I certainly noticed some side effects - fatigue, nausea, heightened emotions - enough for me to Google "going off Nuva Ring side effects" and find that many other women were experiencing the same thing.  No prob.  If they can handle it, so can I.  Then last Wednesday happened.

Went to work exhausted, came in a little late because I honestly could not open my eyes.  Every time I hit snooze, I went right back into REM sleep (bad sign).  Got a Redbull on the way to work, which I had cut out in favor of the healthier option of coffee (pulling back to 200 mg or less of caffeine per day).  Felt like I was gonna hurl, but pushed through it to try to work.  Around lunch, I realized that, in addition to feeling kinda nauseous, I was starting to feel some anxiety - like I was going to jump out of my skin.  Ok, I deal with anxiety and depression every day, I can do this.

And this sums up how well that worked...

After taking deep yoga breaths while we were all eating lunch, I finally jerked up my head, slammed down my hands and asked my boss if I could either go home and get meds, or go to the liquor store and get wine, cause I was losing my shit - "Because I'm off birth control!!!" Cat #1 out of the bag (Ryan and I haven't wanted to share the news that we are going to start trying, or TTC for you pregnancy/mommy bloggers out there.  Oops.)  Got permission to run home, took some Temazepam, and chased it with some a (juice) glass of Chardonnay (that I chugged).  -----> I fully know that this is really bad mental health management.

Was in between laughing hysterically and crying hysterically the whole time, got voicemail at my psychiatrist's office and Ryan was in surgery.  So, I called my mom. Cat #2 out of the bag.  Double oops.  To give her credit, she didn't get all super excited, gushy, OMG! on me (which would have made everything worse); she talked me down while I drove back to, then paced around my office.  (She tell me how excited she was when I called her back later to let her know I was ok!)

My shrink called me back, and I told him that I thought he might need to send the nice men in white coats to throw me in a van and take me away.  He laughed, said it was normal, and to take Lorazepam (or, Ativan, which I have a Rx for but don't use - gave me intense dreams/nightmares), as needed to get through the worst of the anxiety, which could last for another couple days (?!?!?!?).

Ryan also called me after seeing my increasingly crazy texts:

...Not that I'm complaining, but this would be justification for calling my mom!

 

He listened to my symptoms, was happy that I called my psych and not so happy that I called my mom ("You are just not good at keeping secrets!").  Luckily, he's always had a good handle on what I need when I'm having a meltdown, and knows that, overall, calling my mom was a good idea.

I don't really remember much about the rest of the day, just that it was mostly a blur and I went home and hid in bed.  For the next 24 hours.  Couldn't do work the next day.  Just. Couldn't.

 

 Everything has gotten much better since, though still feeling the fatigue and the new, fun side effect of sore boobs/nipples - again, thank you, mothers-to-be of the Internet, for easing my worries about my boobs falling off.

 

Apparently, hormones + ongoing mental health issues (that are usually under control) = crazy hormonal spazz. (or see first pic above)