I Made It. Sort Of.
I haven’t written in months because I was going through an emotional breakdown from July 20th to August 25th. Yes, I know the exact dates. It literally felt like I fell in a hole.
I broke down and told my doctors how I was feeling and I ended up getting prescribed to Zoloft and recommended for therapy. The irony of quitting smoking weed while pregnant only to get prescribed to an actual medication is not lost on me.
Other than the usual work/taking care of my kid/doing laundry type of obligations, I let go of trying to work on my writing projects. I stopped putting pressure on myself to be productive every second.
I’ve instead been devouring books in almost every free moment. The Mars Room. The Witch Elm. The Widow. The Lager Queen of Minnesota. Almost done with 561-page The Institute.
The end of pregnancy is in sight and Newborn Hell is on the horizon.
In other news, today is the 200th day I’ve gone without smoking weed. And let me tell you. The first two weeks of being on Zoloft brought on headaches that felt like someone was jamming razor blades into the crevices of my brain, and I still didn’t smoke. Not one tiny hit.
I want to be proud of myself and this achievement, but it feels sort of anticlimactic.
But yeah, I made it to 200 days. And I’ve climbed out of my hole. Although I don’t quite feel like that happy cloud bouncing around that used to be on those old Zoloft commercials.