Today I had an appointment with a cardiologist but I slept through it. Whoops.
My heart rate is a little slow, which, according to the doctor, is probably just because of all the exercise I do. For people who work out a lot, it takes less beats per minute for their hearts to pump blood. So just to be on the safe side I was supposed to get it checked out.
So after I finished napping through a considerable health obligation, I went to see my therapist for our standing weekly meeting. I started seeing her when I was twelve for panic attacks, and since then she's seen me through bouts of anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder, binge eating, anorexia, and now this. What is this? Anyways, she and I were wondering aloud to one another about why the bingeing in particular is becoming more and more frequent. I sort of casually confessed to having gone off my antidepressants about two weeks ago. "Why? Why would you DO that??" She asked. I shrugged. The truth? I HAVE NO IDEA. Sure, they taste kind of like feet and every so often one gets stuck in my throat and I have to swallow huge globs of peanut butter in order to force it down but STILL. Surely a few moments of discomfort don't explain why I'm skipping out on a medication that has helped me so much in the past.
Fluoxetine is a happy little drug, despite whatever gripes I may have. It works for the treatment of major depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, bulimia nervosa, and panic disorder. About a month ago my psychiatrist upped the dosage to 60 mg, and it was around then that I just sort of... stopped taking them. The worst part is, every time mom hands me the pills in the morning I end up hiding them in random places around the house- drawers, flowers pots, shoes. Not the best idea considering I have a little sister. And cats.
BUT TOMORROW I START TAKING THEM AGAIN. No matter what.