Chapter Seven - I Started Zoloft Today

I am so sensitive to medication changes. Vomiting, nausea, derealisation, headaches, physical pain…each and every time a new scored pill enters my bloodstream, it is hell for weeks. I try to remind myself that the hell will end, or at least moderately subside. I swallow my tablets, and, as the nurse goes to take away both medication and drinking cups, I stop her in her tracks.

“Can I please take these to my room and recycle them?”

She looks at me as though I have just asked for her first born child, but eventually complies. Soon enough, I have a bag filled to the brim with all the squishy, shiny plastic in the world. I make a mental note that this is utter bullshit, and march to the foyer to discuss a more eco approach with a student nurse, Maria, who would soon be my favourite.

She tells me that nothing in this hospital is recycled. We bitch about eco ineptitude before returning to my room for my obs.

I don’t think I’ve met a more gentle human. Her soft smile, shiny black hair and caring nature made me feel safe, at home and as though I had finally gained a friend – after all, she’s only two years older than me. After joking about my perfect physical health (oxygen levels 100% despite the sheer amount of nicotine I have been consuming since being here was… surprising to say the least), she turns to my nightstand and scours the 946 books I brought with me.

“Are you reading the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society?!” She asks excitedly, eyes bright and smiley, as though I am a friend instead of a patient. I smile widely and nod, asking her who her favourite author is.

She sits on my bed and we talk. I thank her for being so…human. Her eyes dart around before settling on my own.

“I’m not supposed to do this, I’m not even supposed to form any kind of relationship with patients, but you’re a special case, Ruby.

I have depression too. I saw they’ve put you on Zoloft—I can tell you about it if you like.”

I smile. I get this reaction every time from nurses. The one where I am told that I am intelligent, a “special case”, that I myself should be a mental health nurse one day. They open up to me because I understand. I open up to them because they understand. There is not enough humanity in the health care system.

We talk like old friends about life in Melbourne, boys, food, books, university, culture, how disgustingly clinical it is in here.

She plants the seeds of hope in my heart – the next generation of medical professionals are finally here, and we’re the same fucking age. She suggests possible ECT – but can only remember the abbreviation.

“Electroconvulsive Therapy?” I chime in.

“Can you do my exams for me?” She replies, smiling.

Again, not the first time I have had to help a nurse/doctor/psychiatrist.

We had a meeting today – group meetings are held every day, which I like. They’re optional, but I still go. Anything to help.

Today’s meeting is about medications. We sit in an AA-esque circle as the pharmacist asks if we have any questions, queries or concerns about the medications we are currently on. The room stays silent – it is agonisingly awkward. I gather my strength and break the silence.

“I’ve just started Zoloft, and I’m really scared. I’m so sensitive to chemical changes, and I just want to get better”

Everybody turns to face me, and the pharmacist gives me a “thank you for encouraging them” smile. Soon others are piping up and questioning things, as they should.

She begins drawing on the whiteboard, explaining our medicines in simple, accessible ways. We start with SSRI’S – the most common. She asks if anybody knows what that means. Silence.

I sigh again, wishing people would do their research.

“SSRIs stand for Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors. In simple terms, they slow/inhibit the absorption rate of the neurotransmitter, serotonin, in the brain. They help keep the serotonin in your brain to feel a sense of wellbeing and normalcy”

The pharmacist looks at me with eyebrows raised.

“That’s…um…exactly what they are” I smile wryly and shrug in response.

“This ain’t mama’s first rodeo”.

Michael absolutely pisses himself laughing, and soon we are all actively engaged in what the pharmacist has to say. I am really happy that I could get everybody involved – it’s in their best interest. It’s in all of ours.

We begin to talk about antipsychotics, opioids and mood stabilisers – not something I am overly well versed in, but I pay attention nonetheless.

“Hey, um…I’m really sorry and I don’t mean to like…undermine your, um, authority or anything but, um…that’s not correct – norepinephrine doesn’t do that”

She looks back at the mistake on the white board and her eyes widen in surprise.

“Ruby, do you want to come and teach this class?” She laughs. I join in.