Some Antidepressants are Funnier than Others
This antidepressant is stealing all my funny.
I've been on medication since I was 12. Without it, I sit in corners of dark rooms and listen to Counting Crows CDs on repeat. That's right, I go straight 1994. And I'm hard core, baby, writing angsty poetry between debilitating anxiety attacks and episodes of Friends. I'm funny, but only in a dark, fatalistic sort of way. Like Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice, except without the shoplifting a few years later.
With the help of modern pharmacology, I am lollipops and rainbows. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration. At the very least, I am Cuba Libres, witty one-liners, and imaginative, entertaining banter.
I like my meds like I like my men: strong and lab-tested for adverse reactions. A few weeks ago, I flipped the script and started on baby-friendly antidepressants in case our plans for #2 materialize. It turns out I don't do as well on the less-potent dope. Since then I've downgraded from rum and sarcasm to caffeine-free tea and the occasional pun. *Cue sad trombone.* The funniest thing I've said in a while was an opportunistic one-ball joke interjected while my hubs was engaged in a game of Roll Toys Down the Stairs with our toddler.
Husband: Hey, Jack, look here! I have two balls!
Me: No, you don't.
The truth is, I'm not quite up to being funny. Irritable and resigned? Sure, no problem. Able to leap to irrational conclusions in a single bound? That's me. But humorous? Not so much. Here comes the science: different antidepressants affect different chemicals in your brain. For some reason, whatever part of my brain houses the humor isn't titillated by this medication. I don't quite feel like myself; lately I'm more Two and a Half Men where I used to be Arrested Development.
Further compromising my sense of humor is the hormone headaches induced by the estrogen I have to take. It continuously feels as though my sinuses are stuffed with angry puffer fish. Believe me when I say few things can ruin your mood as completely as vengeful sea life. Have you ever seen The Little Mermaid? There's a reason nobody wanted to screw with purple-skinned Ursula. She had six tentacles and two arms, and could slap you with each and every one of them if you crossed her. There are days I'm glad I have only two arms and I mostly keep them to myself.
I should mention it's not my first psychotropic rodeo. Previously I was on this drug for three-and-a-half years of trying to conceive, plus nine months of pregnancy, plus three weeks of attempting in vain to breastfeed, plus another three weeks of slightly delusional "maybe tomorrow I'll feel better" before I finally switched back to something with more oomph. That's a whopping 1,562 days that I probably wasn't funny -- save for one legendary Pineapple Buffalo joke that, in all honesty, I can no longer remember if I said or if someone else said. It had to do with whether you could smell buffalo coming...never mind, you had to be there. Just trust when I say it should go into the annals of comic history. For the other 1,561 days, though, I feel owe many apologies.
While I'm at it, let me also apologize for all the upcoming unfunny days you're about to experience too. As soon as pharmaceutical companies come up with a pregnancy-approved antidepressant that doesn't dampen my humor center, I'll switch to that. And I'll send some to Ashton Kutcher and Jon Cryer as well, because Lord knows they need it more than me.
I've been on medication since I was 12. Without it, I sit in corners of dark rooms and listen to Counting Crows CDs on repeat. That's right, I go straight 1994. And I'm hard core, baby, writing angsty poetry between debilitating anxiety attacks and episodes of Friends. I'm funny, but only in a dark, fatalistic sort of way. Like Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice, except without the shoplifting a few years later.
With the help of modern pharmacology, I am lollipops and rainbows. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration. At the very least, I am Cuba Libres, witty one-liners, and imaginative, entertaining banter.
I like my meds like I like my men: strong and lab-tested for adverse reactions. A few weeks ago, I flipped the script and started on baby-friendly antidepressants in case our plans for #2 materialize. It turns out I don't do as well on the less-potent dope. Since then I've downgraded from rum and sarcasm to caffeine-free tea and the occasional pun. *Cue sad trombone.* The funniest thing I've said in a while was an opportunistic one-ball joke interjected while my hubs was engaged in a game of Roll Toys Down the Stairs with our toddler.
Husband: Hey, Jack, look here! I have two balls!
Me: No, you don't.
The truth is, I'm not quite up to being funny. Irritable and resigned? Sure, no problem. Able to leap to irrational conclusions in a single bound? That's me. But humorous? Not so much. Here comes the science: different antidepressants affect different chemicals in your brain. For some reason, whatever part of my brain houses the humor isn't titillated by this medication. I don't quite feel like myself; lately I'm more Two and a Half Men where I used to be Arrested Development.
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| Is this also a Rorschach test? Because I see dinosaurs. |
Further compromising my sense of humor is the hormone headaches induced by the estrogen I have to take. It continuously feels as though my sinuses are stuffed with angry puffer fish. Believe me when I say few things can ruin your mood as completely as vengeful sea life. Have you ever seen The Little Mermaid? There's a reason nobody wanted to screw with purple-skinned Ursula. She had six tentacles and two arms, and could slap you with each and every one of them if you crossed her. There are days I'm glad I have only two arms and I mostly keep them to myself.
I should mention it's not my first psychotropic rodeo. Previously I was on this drug for three-and-a-half years of trying to conceive, plus nine months of pregnancy, plus three weeks of attempting in vain to breastfeed, plus another three weeks of slightly delusional "maybe tomorrow I'll feel better" before I finally switched back to something with more oomph. That's a whopping 1,562 days that I probably wasn't funny -- save for one legendary Pineapple Buffalo joke that, in all honesty, I can no longer remember if I said or if someone else said. It had to do with whether you could smell buffalo coming...never mind, you had to be there. Just trust when I say it should go into the annals of comic history. For the other 1,561 days, though, I feel owe many apologies.
While I'm at it, let me also apologize for all the upcoming unfunny days you're about to experience too. As soon as pharmaceutical companies come up with a pregnancy-approved antidepressant that doesn't dampen my humor center, I'll switch to that. And I'll send some to Ashton Kutcher and Jon Cryer as well, because Lord knows they need it more than me.
I love how open you are
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