Mother's little helper

I went to our family doc today to discuss my continuing post-partum anxiety. Really, I went to ask for a prescription to replace the 100 mgs of Zoloft I'm taking each morning. Give me drugs. Now give me better drugs.

The anxiety, I explained to her, is better but still there, still a big ball of "aaaaaack" sitting on my chest and in my gut when I rise and shine each morning, still a fuzzy grey filter over the lens I use to view the world, still a soggy blanket draped over my head, still ... you get the idea.

So I asked for something else. And she said no. A friendly but firm no.

Her thinking: The Zoloft has helped alleviate the all-over sadness that was bothering me during the first couple of months home from the hospital. Shifting to a new drug would mean slowly coming off the Z, which could bring the depression back with a vengence. Plus, I'm fully aware of how irrational my anxiety is. I'm worried about feeding TheGirl, will I have enough milk, will I have to dip into the freezer stash, etc. But I know good and well that she's a healthy, happy, huge little thing. (Like mother, like daughter, apparently.) Since I'm so self-aware, my doc says, the best course of treatment is counseling, exercise and time. "You have to train yourself," she said. "We can leave open the possibility of trying another prescription. But I don't think we need to go that way right now."

So instead of a magic pill, I got a little tough love. We'll see how that works.