Risk versus benefit.
The cruelty of beneficial medication for brain problems.
Nevermind the Short Term Memory Loss.
Nevermind the acid reflux.
Never even mind the scary notion that in ten years or less my liver might be so damaged it won't matter what shape my mind is in - this is what irks me about brain meds:
Having grown up with a pharmaceutical junkie, that is someone who took dozens of pills daily for everything but the real problem- I was always opposed to the use of prescription drugs unless direly indicated. Climbing aboard the good ship brain medications was only done when my own ship capsized for the umpteenth time. before I was cognizant that I had a brain injury. Years of neglect and absentee parents had left me psychologically scarred, but I did not yet know that I had a traumatic brain injury in my past. The informed mind over matter thing, despite being incredibly interesting did not work for longterm management.
All that information.
All those therapies tried.
No regrets - I learned more about the workings of the mind than I could have in two Doctorate theses. Interesting.
Succumbing to a brain accident or stroke was becoming more and more probable. I did not sleep more than 2 hours a night for weeks on end. Once every 4 to 5 weeks I would crash. This had been my pattern for as far back as I could remember. Nothing - not alcohol, drugs or unending sexual pursuits had calmed this pattern. I also had the ability to think about many things at once; way way too many things, and combined with my hypersenses made life in the big city almost unbearable. Almost because I wore light sensitive glasses and wore earplugs.
Finally, it came to an end. I was done. Grudgingly, kicking and screaming all the way, I consented to try brain meds.
The difference after 3 months was flabbergasting. I slept. SLEPT!
The sleep debt got paid off in little bits. It was fabulous. Now I truly understood what other people took for granted - normalcy of a kind was mine. Heaven for awhile.
Five years into Brain Meds I had a seizure. Or five.
Always a heavy dreamer, a parasomniac, nighttime became a terror for those around me. Sleepwalking. Sleeptalking. Sleep SCREAMING.
Then I blanked out during the daytime. The weirdness had arrived.
This was the PTSD diagnosis.
I still have trouble saying that. But it is true.
So I have new meds. Different meds.
I am one year into this treatment.
This is what life now is:
I have a new body. It is 25 pounds heavier than my olde one.
I have a slower mind. A new ability to sleep ten hours with minimal yelling.
Is it worth it?
Well -
(heavy sigh)
I am still alive. I have not stroked out.
But I am profoundly depressed over side effects. The same medication that has kept my brain in check has also sucked my ambition and enthusiasm. I have gone from freakishly off the charts high energy levels to very low energy. I have acid reflux. My short term memory is suspect.
So we are back to the start of the rant.
This cruel choice. The trade-off.
