Short version: Doctor Excellent wrote me a list of meds and said, okay, go research these, come back in a week and tell me what your thoughts are.
And I looked at it and said: Lithium's too big a gun; Depakote gives you PCOS and I already have that; Lamictal is good but requires a very slow titration up to dose to avoid Stevens-Johnson Syndrome and we want something faster-acting for now; Tegretol is a little heavier than Trileptal in terms of side effects and it's more likely to screw up my birth control; so that leaves us with Trileptal, which is weight neutral and that's what I want.
Oh and Lamictal may be affected by my estrogen oral contraceptives. Serum concentrations of lamotrigine were substantially lower in women taking estrogen.
And the good doctor threw up his hands in the air and laughed and said yeah, that was what he was going to recommend.
And THAT is how I have fun these days. I totally got an A+ in mood stabilizers. And saved myself an unmedicated week.
Speaking of: I am up late enough that I am getting punchy and silly, but today was a rough one. This shit cannot start working fast enough. It would be downright magical not to fly into insensate rage at the possibility of the broccoli water getting the taco shells soggy when both occupy the same plate. Or see a jogger, on my one well-earned rest day (I am underslept and got a bunch of vaccinations yesterday), and not feel a wave of panic and rage and self-hate at not being out running myself. Or read a graphic novel or a biography without the bully chorus in my head shrieking about how I never do anything like that, I'm a quitter, I never SHOULD do anything because everything I do is crap and everyone wants me to just stop trying to make things and go away and quit coming around and don't I see I'm embarrassing myself?
Et cetera ad infinitum. It is boring in both senses of the word: indescribably dull and repetetive, and able to drill a hole neatly and surgically into what's left of my sense of self.
Gah. I look back over it and it just looks like whining, like self-pity for a normal onslaught of feelings, like still-just-making-it-up.