I finally bit the metaphorical bullet and called my doctor’s office. Shockingly they did not berate me for being a hypochondriac pussy, but rather said it sounds like I have PPD and set me up with a prescription and a referral for some therapy. I’m now taking Zoloft, which, entertainingly, was the antidepressant I so indignantly refused back in 1995. To be fair, at that time it was being pushed on me in lieu of therapy. By a nurse practitioner, no less, who had spoken to me for all of ten minutes. But I digress.

I took my first half pill yesterday morning and right away noticed that my mouth dried right up. Dry mouth, exhausted, nauseous, peeing all the time…it’s just like being pregnant. Whee!

Aside from that, the main thing I notice is that my depression is a lot worse. I assume this is normal, and temporary. Still, it sucks. I’m having just as many obsessive thoughts about something terrible happening to the baby, only I’m so tired and out of it that I can’t make my brain switch tracks. I’m still lethargic and unmotivated. I still feel useless (and the fact that I can’t think straight and am too tired to do any housework doesn’t help matters). And food doesn’t taste good anymore. That’s a party. I took a bite of chocolate last night and said mournfully to Not So, “I know why people lose weight on meds.”

Speaking of Not So, he’s being fabulous. It must be hard to deal with someone who’s all doom and gloom all the time, but he seems to like me an awful lot. Right now he’s snuggling with the baby, who’s just been changed into a fresh pair of jammies and looks particularly delicious. They both do. I’m a very lucky girl.

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