Month: March 2019

Yes, I’m still here . . . still in limbo, but doing fine. ish

I mean, I could tell you that my car died. Like off to the junkyard dead. Technically it still runs, but the engine isn’t getting enough air so when I push on the gas pedal the engine skips and sputters and the car moves forward, but on these roads I need a car that moves when I tell it to go so it’s dead to me. Which is sad because I love that car. It’s 15 years old and a beast on the road. Big enough to not get pushed around by other drivers, small enough to maneuver in traffic, old enough to not worry that the paint is going to be chipped by a stray rock, and it just suits me. In a world where most people drive new cars, I’m rather fond of my unique “antique.”

Josh rented a brand new Toyota sedan for a week with less than 100 miles on it and I would have chosen my red Pajero over it in a heartbeat. Our current rental (for the next month) is a Kia sedan that isn’t anything special either. We’re waiting around for a used SUV with 4 wheel drive that we can take camping — as we reach the end of the school year and people leave to move home there should be some decently priced options to choose from. Presuming that we are still here past this summer. I mean, I think we will be, but it’s all still unknown.

I’ve been reading a lot this month. I’m making an effort to spend less time on technology and more time being present in life. It’s kind of difficult because it turns out that real life takes more effort than mindlessly scrolling through my email or Instagram . . . shocker. Books have been a happy medium. I can appear intellectual while still escaping from reality.
Win. Win.

I have a stack of books lined up for spring break — and I’ll have plenty of time to read as these two boys are off to the Seychelles for vacation. I know. Crazy, right? We are thankful to have great friends who love to travel and love our boys. Someday I’ll visit that island paradise for myself . . .

We are trying to do a few special things at home over the next week to make up for the fact that the boys are island living and Camille is home with us. She picked a visit to Ski Dubai this morning so she’s making sure to squeeze every last bit of fun out of us.

I’ve almost reached the 14th anniversary of my relationship with Zoloft. It sounds a bit ridiculous to call it that, but in the early years I really did celebrate my “Zoloft birthday” because it felt like my life started over again once I finally broke down and started taking it.

Since UAE has a complicated relationship with mental health, I brought over a supply of Zoloft that has lasted until now, delaying the hassle as long as possible. But as my bottle gets lighter and lighter the nagging voice in my head gets louder: you need to find a new supplier — don’t run out!

The problem is my meds are considered a controlled substance. Not just prescription, but they can only be prescribed by a psychiatrist and even then, can only be given out 30 days at a time. That means to get my meds I have to go see a psychiatrist every month. I haven’t needed a psychiatrist since 2006. Typically I pop in once a year, the doc writes a script for a year, and I go on my merry way, picking up my refills every 3 months from the pharmacy (actually through the mail). No fuss at all.

Thankfully Josh has amazing medical insurance that actually includes mental heath coverage, something most local insurance doesn’t. That means while it is an inconvenience, at least I don’t have to pay an expensive psychiatrist bill every 30 days. That would be adding insult to injury!

All that to say, I’ve been putting it off. But over the weekend, when I glimpsed the bottom of my bottle through the remaining pills, I knew it was time. My insurance requires that I get a referral from a general doctor first, but thankfully they had one on site and could set me up with back to back appointments.

Josh dropped me off at an old villa that has been converted to a medical clinic — not really confidence inducing, but all I need is that piece of paper with the magic word Sertraline printed on it and I’ll be good. The GP wanted to get all up in my business and do blood tests to see if I had liver damage from taking the medicine for so long . . . sigh, I hate that stuff. I’m only seeing you because I have to and I’m not getting blood drawn in a space where people used to sit around eating bread and biriani. Just give me my referral and let me go. I escaped by telling him I have a regular doctor who takes care of all of my normal health care. And I do . . . ish.

Then I headed upstairs to the third floor to one of the bedrooms to see the psychiatrist. Who thankfully was happy to see me, give me what I needed, and apologetic about the system. He agreed that someone in maintenance mode doesn’t need a psychiatrist, but that’s just the way things are here. He wrote the prescription so I could stretch my visits out to 6 weeks instead of 30 days and said the appointment next time would be even faster. Yay!

So now I’m set for the next 30 days. Woo. Hoo. I really can’t complain. My visits are covered, my meds are covered, and all that it costs me is a bit of time and inconvenience.