Rest Peacefully Heather, a few thoughts on the suicide of the mom blogger at Dooce
We were both mormon mommy bloggers with post partum mental health problems
A few blog posts written by me and Heather detailing the post partum depression WAR between natural healing and psychiatry that took place online these past few years.
Jenny Hatch
Psychiatry, a few thoughts
In June of 2009 Heather AKA Dooce decided to write a blog post dumping on those of us who choose to give birth alone in our bedrooms after mostly doing our own prenatal care.
She was about to give birth and had been posting quite a bit about Anti-Depressant use during pregnancy and breastfeeding.
I chose to leave a comment on her site and then wrote a blog post at the Bitter Pill where I am a guest blogger:
*Note: This post at the Bitter Pill has quite a few comments that are completely relevant to the mental health issues we are all currently debating.
A few weeks ago Heather again shared an innovation in psychiatry that she claims has helped with her depression.
https://dooce.com/2018/01/16/today-is-a-good-day-to-die/
She is writing a book about participating in a study this past year with her psychiatrist titled The Valedictorian of Being Dead.
I was so alarmed by the little bit that she shared that I sent her this email…
In the subject heading I titled the email: (She likes caps, so I capped it)
HEATHER!!! DO NOT GO DOWN THIS PATH!
And my email:
Good Grief Woman. You are smarter than this.
I have read you for so many years and wept for your struggles with emotional illness. I too have struggled and found healing.
You CANNOT become an electroshock advocate.
My heart hurts just thinking about this.
There is healing to be found, but if you continue to scramble your frontal lobes, your powerful amazing voice will eventually be lost as you drown into the nothingness that results from turning your brains into jello.
Article: CCHR: New Call for Ban on Electroshock Treatment, Citing Violence Against Women, Children and Elderly
Please, please, please, do not let psychiatry rob you of your humanity!
With much concern and deep love,
Jenny Hatch
About two hours later she responded:
I didn’t get electroshock therapy. I was not ever hooked up to electricity. No frontal lobes were scrambled.
I found my healing and am very grateful for it.
And then I typed up this immediate response:
Heather,
What was this if not Electroconvulsive therapy? You have already been so instrumental in getting many women to take toxic drugs. Now this?
I am so sickened thinking of the many people who will choose to do this because of your example. Please Heather, do not do this any more.
There is healing to be had using the tools of the orthomolecular docs. Vitamin therapies, quiet living, whole foods, hydration, essential oils, all of it gave me my life mostly back. I swear, if I see you writing non sensical insanity down the road because you have allowed them to deprive you of your brain power, I will be so angry that you were seduced into this new thing.
It is why I hate psychiatry. They know their crap just makes people worse. But they always have some new drug at some new dose waiting in the wings, and now this new type of brain zap that is “NOT ECT”, just a seizure and a shut down of your mind by the local “expert”. I was so upset after I read your post I ranted to my husband for five minutes the other night before bed.
The thing is, I am damaged, I am not totally well, I still get depressed, I still struggle. Emotional illness is a bitch. But I have my precious mind and my pain belongs to ME. Whether you shut down your feelings with a chemical lobotomy or an ECT zap or this new thing you are raving about, or the “new” lobotomies they are doing which they just rebranded as a cingulotomy it all has the same effect….it robs you of your humanity and kills your frontal lobe.
QUOTE:
“I participated in this clinical trial in March of last year and have kept it and the idea for the book and the book deal a secret until now. Close friends knew about the procedure, but some of them had no idea just how badly my depression had destroyed me. I never talked about it, didn’t write about it, tried to will myself out of it. And the harder I tried to fight it alone, the further it choked and suffocated me. This episode of depression was like imposter syndrome had metastasized into every organ of my body, and by the beginning of 2017 I had given up on the idea that I would ever feel better again.”
I am glad you are getting symptom relief, not questioning that at all, but healing?
The psychiatric profession knows NOTHING about healing. They just treat and treat and practice and prosper and treat and at the end of the day you turn into a stepford wife and have lost all of your brain power. Please, I pray you can divorce yourself from that world and find relief without all of their drugs and surgery.
The relief is out there. Healing is out there. You can do it. The mind freedom movement is loaded with survivors of psychiatric abuse who have experienced deep healing.But the therapy world is riddled with the bodies and minds of those who lost everything because they used the drugs and surgery without truly understanding the long term side effects.
Read Peter Breggin. His books were my lifeline for many years.
Jenny Hatch
She responded angrily claiming I just wanted to sell her vitamins and oils and claimed the therapy she did was not electroshock.
Then a few days later she wrote this blog post mocking me for trying to warn her:
https://dooce.com/2018/02/02/the-end-of-the-rolling-groceries/
QUOTE:
This post may contain a capital letter or two given what a relatively shitty week it has been, so if you even think about counting out characters or sending me an email telling me that I should have treated my most recent depressive episode with herbs and fucking essential oils I might just have to come over there and stitch a cactus to your asshole with a rusty needle I found on the sidewalk outside of Big Lots.
COMMENTARY:
OK fine Heather.
I was just trying to help.
As I said in my post nine years ago I am concerned about you and your children, but I am MORE concerned with the INFLUENCE you use in attempting to educate others about the glories of Psychiatry.
And because I suffer with emotional illness and have parents and siblings who would love to medicate me into frontal lobe nothingness, your role as influencer does affect me because you willingly promote the BIG LIE.
Listen to my podcast above to hear more about Psychiatry’s Big Lie.
Jenny Hatch
Heathers full rejoinder to me:
The End of the rolling groceries
A few years ago I had just driven out of the parking lot at the grocery store when I pulled to the side of the road to tweet something like: “The sound of all of the food rolling around in the back of my car as I drive home from the grocery store is responsible for at least 80% of the murders I commit.” Not that exactly, Susan, because you’re about to point out that a few years ago twitter only allowed 140 characters and that sentence is 161 characters long. I SAID SOMETHING LIKE. This post may contain a capital letter or two given what a relatively shitty week it has been, so if you even think about counting out characters or sending me an email telling me that I should have treated my most recent depressive episode with herbs and fucking essential oils I might just have to come over there and stitch a cactus to your asshole with a rusty needle I found on the sidewalk outside of Big Lots.
YES. SOMEONE SUGGESTED THAT. AND WAS VERY MAD THAT I HAD PREFERRED PSYCHIATRY OVER FRANKINCENSE.
This post is going to be a briefer than normal post (oops, turned out IT ISN’T) given that I have approximately 15 minutes of free time to get it all out—I got really, really sick earlier this week and then even more sicker and then even the most sickest, and because my primary care physician left the practice and I haven’t chosen a new doctor, AND because I have less than zero extra minutes in any given day I decided to self-diagnose my churning stomach and took some Cipro I had on hand. Be ye not so stupid. Do not attempt. Abort. Might as well drink your own toilet water, that’d be a more smarter move.
It expired in 2014, a year after I’d had it filled when I traveled to Haiti for the first time. And it turned my churning stomach into a cauldron of fire and piss and moldy lima beans. Five stars. Thumbs up. Will come back and visit with the kids!
Point is, I got a whole bunch of recommendations after that tweet as to how to solve the problem of The Rolling Groceries, and all of them were along the lines of, “Get yourself one of these. Or these. Or try this. Or this.” And I thought, but wait a minute. I have to buy a container for my car which is itself a container, to hold the groceries that are in bags (CONTAINERS), groceries which themselves are CONTAINED in boxes or cartons or tubes. I declare a conspiracy! WHAT ON EARTH. A container for a container for containers for even more containers? It’s like someone got high and thought, “You know what? This cheese doesn’t taste enough like cheese, so I’m going to sprinkle some cheese on it and then dip it in cheese and then throw it away and just stick an entire block of Velveeta up my butt.”
I have no opinions on anything.
You know what is responsible for the other 20% of the murders I commit, by the way? People who do not know how to navigate a four-way stop. Round those motherfuckers up and deport THEM. ICE needs to stop ripping apart families and just run surveillance at four-way stops and yank people out of their cars by their hair when they needlessly hesitate and wring their hands when it is CLEARLY THEIR TURN TO GO. I apologize to my children at least four times every morning for rolling down the window in the freezing cold so that I can wave an inappropriate hand gesture at the van in front of me that has 17 stick figure decals on their back window. You think I am exaggerating. Have I ever been known to exaggerate? This is Utah. 17 is weak sauce.
So I have deliberately chosen to continue to drive around with groceries weaving their way, all zig-zagging, around the back of my car for a few years, the sound of it driving me murderously goddamn bonkers. And then, I don’t know, a couple of weeks ago I thought, “Maybe processed cheese up the ass would be fun?” So I bought one:
If you say ONE SINGLE WORD to me about the plastic bags, Susan, so help me Heavenly Mother. I am walking Coco almost four miles a day now and I use them to pick up her poop. And then I smear that poop on church doors and dump the bags in streams used for drinking water.
I am always trying (mostly) to be a good example to my kids, and so whenever I curse in front of them or, you know, AT them or lose my temper or make an irrational, heat of the moment declaration or hand gesture, I apologize and admit that I was wrong. And so here I am apologizing to all those generous people who years ago told me about the containers for the containers for the objects already contained. Because this thing has totally changed my life. Like, I kind of want to start a religion based on this container and pray to it and perform secret ceremonies and handshakes in its name. And in this religion no man would be allowed to hold the priesthood. Only women and rescue dogs.
And since it easily collapses when I’m not using it, I ordered another one today for those trips to the grocery store that are double or triple this size—I am feeding growing girls, and dear god, the fucking cereal.
And Advil.
Groceries no longer roll around the back of my car and, holy shit. The coincidence. I am committing 50% less homicides—the remaining 30% got transferred to the occasional tweet I see referencing Tomi Lahren and emails from people who tell me that I should have cured my depression by eating kale.
End of post
And finally, this is Heathers whole post about the COMA she was put into, shared here out of deep concern for any patient who has willingly submitted to this most invasive proceedure. I share her post fully because the public needs to read her words before someone deletes her blog and this story is shoved under the rug by Psychiatric interests.
Today is a good day to die
Dear god, I can finally talk about it, my mild to moderate fibromyalgia—wait. Sorry. Not that. I can’t get that stupid commercial out of my head from the months of watching “Felicity” on Hulu and having Leta say every word to the commercial out loud exactly as it was being said. And she’d do it specifically to annoy me, to get back at me because sometimes when she’s relaxing in her room I’ll walk up to her and stand there poking my index finger on her forehead, over and over again. Just because I can. And when she asks me to stop I say, “Stop what?” This is the kind of parent you become when you grow up with an older brother named Ranger Hamilton.
I can finally talk about THE BRAIN DEATH:
This is the reason I went to Paris last summer, to write the first few chapters of this book so that I could try to sell it. I got the good news in October and the contract in November, and ever since Thanksgiving I have dedicated myself to a writing schedule that is about to make me fall over. Sometimes I get to the end of the day and when I see a piece of paper with words on it, I’m like, MAKE IT STOP. NO MORE WORDS. STOP THE WORDS. MURDER ALL OF THE WORDS.
I participated in this clinical trial in March of last year and have kept it and the idea for the book and the book deal a secret until now. Close friends knew about the procedure, but some of them had no idea just how badly my depression had destroyed me. I never talked about it, didn’t write about it, tried to will myself out of it. And the harder I tried to fight it alone, the further it choked and suffocated me. This episode of depression was like imposter syndrome had metastasized into every organ of my body, and by the beginning of 2017 I had given up on the idea that I would ever feel better again.
I told my mother that this was the nervous breakdown from which I would never recover.
I want to save most of the details for the book, but a lot of factors contributed to the severity of this episode, starting with rigorous half-marathon and marathon training while sticking to a strict vegan diet and traveling more than 100,000 miles in less than six months. Oh, also! Mental health is not covered by my insurance and I avoided seeing my psychiatrist for over nine months. When I finally did sit across from him on the afternoon of Leta’s birthday last year, he looked at me and said, “I would ask you how you’re feeling, except you don’t have to tell me. It’s all over your face. It has stolen your eyes.”
I didn’t have to tell him that 2016 was by far the worst year of my life. I had never before felt more discouraged by the idea of waking up in the morning.
There are eighteen months of my life I haven’t told you about. And now I will.
I’m not giving away the end of the book by saying that the procedure worked. It reversed my depression. In fact, when it did work—and my god, wait until you read that part—I realized that until this study gets more attention and more funding, there will be more and more people who are suffering who do not have to suffer. This method could change everything. The point of this clinical trial is to prove that through the use of anesthesia alone, doctors can produce the same positive results in patients that they do when performing ECT. Except, without the side effects. Without the possible permanent memory loss. Without the possible permanent migraines. Without, maybe? hopefully? the stigma. Also, this process could theoretically be done in one or two days, not over the course of a month or more. But they need the money and the attention to prove this.
I was so desperate that I was willing to risk it all and give my body and my brain to science if it would help even one person who felt as hopeless as I did.
Now, I’m giving it my platform.
People have already been arguing with me about the term “brain death” and this is where you will let me take the creative license that my physiatrist did when he was trying to convince me that this would work. And if you disagree with the science behind what I am about to tell you, you should take it up directly with him. He’s been running the ECT clinic at the University of Utah for over 25 years and has an unparalleled success rate. He’s revolutionized the entire method to make it more effective and to try to reduce its side effects. He genuinely wants to improve people’s lives—as does his entire team—and I owe him mine. Twice, now.
ECT works not because of the seizure produced by the electrodes. It works because that seizure causes the brain to flatline. And that flatline is like someone rebooting a computer. The brain shows no electrical activity for a short period of time. And then it lights up again. If that seizure doesn’t produce the flatline, ECT won’t help the patient get any better. And just like a computer, it takes anywhere from 6-12 rounds of the treatment to fully reboot the system.
During this anesthetic procedure, my brain flatlined for a far longer period of time—a full 15 minutes or more. And I could not breathe on my own. My mother will testify that she did not enjoy witnessing it all ten times. But she did, and so did my stepfather, and for that I owe them my unending gratitude. And at least one chapter in my book. I want her to write that chapter.
After I got better—so, so, so, so much better—I not only started attracting happy things into my life, but I also started attracting people who wanted to share with me their own stories of depression or the stories of the people in their lives who suffer from it. I talk quite a bit about this in this week’s episode of my podcast (to be published on Thursday, last week I talked about being in love, oops! Have I not told you about that?), but totally random people were suddenly opening up to me about depression and anxiety and suicide and medication and wishing they had something that they could hand to someone to say, “This is what it’s like. Just read this. Just read a paragraph.”
I tried to do that for postpartum depression with It Sucked and then I Cried. With this book, I want people like my sister to come away understanding her son better. Why, even though he’s healthy and loved and successful he could feel like all of it is a fraud he is pulling off on everyone in his life. And he’s worried that when everyone finds out he won’t physically be able to handle the disappointment. And can someone please make him stop feeling like this? Just make it stop. Please, make it stop.
I was running marathons, eating the healthiest foods on the planet, and traveling the world. And yet, I was certain I had squandered the best years of my life, that all of what I had accomplished was a fluke, that I was an embarrassment. And it feels so good to know now what I didn’t know when I couldn’t see any clear lines through the dizzying haze of my anxiety—that the best years are waiting for me like a kid at Christmas.
I AM HEATHER B. HAMILTON
Here is the post I wrote on the Bitter Pill website when I first crossed paths with Heather.
Jenny Hatch
Take the BLUE PILL DOOCE….Please oh please, take the blue pill…
Posted on June 14, 2009 by Jenny Hatch
ORIGINAL POST (June 14th, 2009)
Written by Blogger Jenny Hatch
I’ve been a vocal supporter of home birth for many years.
As a childbirth educator I felt it was my job to tell pregnant women the truth, even if what I said was uncomfortable and painful for them to hear.
A few months ago I read a blog post by Heather Armstrong AKA Dooce. Heather is considered an expert on post partum depression and motherhood. She is also a liberal ex-mormon – sort of the anti-Jenny Hatch. She regularly stands against just about everything that is important to me.
I found that she was an articulate, smutty, sometimes funny but mean spirited blogger. And that those who tended to comment on her blog also used tons of profanity and were hostile to my LDS religion.
I was intrigued by the amount of conversation going on about Antidepressants. It felt like her readers were asking her drug consultation questions as if she was some sort of a medication guru. I was extremely dismayed to read that she was pregnant with her second child and had been taking anti depressants during her pregnancy.
But as with all of my personal judgements around issues with pregnancy etc al…I did not feel the need to contact her personally and let her know how deadly and damaging her choice would prove to be to her unborn daughter.
I get annoyed when others write me emails telling me how I am a bad mother for giving birth at home, and I am a very live and let live person.
When she wrote a vitriolic post about Freebirth on friday, I read through the comment section and decided to jump in the pool, as I usually do when unassisted childbirth is being discussed in the blogosphere.
My comment is found at the bottom of page one. And I wrote quite a bit in the rest of the comment section.
I defended freebirth and shared some links about orgasmic birth.
In the post and the comments we were called stupid, crazy, and some of the language was extremely insulting to our home birth community.
My inner childbirth educator decided to share the facts about antidepressant use in pregnancy and how it is a BAD thing for the baby and then linked to several sites where readers could learn more. Heather has a loyal following of dedicated commenters and many became indignant that I would heckle her for her lifestyle the same way that she had judged me and my friends in the home birth community.
I said:
“Heather has chosen to be a shill for Big Pharma by loudly proclaiming her addiction to Prozac and her use of this dangerous drug during pregnancy….do I care? Sure, I feel bad for her unborn daughter, and any potential heart problems she may have, but does that mean I am going to go on a campaign to convince or tell her I won’t tolerate her lifestyle? No.”
I summed up the conversation by explaining to those reading that we all make choices every day that impact the health of our kids. Some choose to give birth medically and use drugs for all that ails them, and we who give birth at home have decided that the medical people don’t have a whole lot to offer our children.
But ultimately I said that we should all live and let live.
Before Dooce locked the thread to more comments, a few more readers were talking about anti-depressants andthe tone was this almost pleading tone in the comments…”Dooce, take the blue pill, please oh please, take the blue pill….Dooce tell me I’m on the right meds, tell me I’m doing the right thing. Tell me the reality Jenny Hatch has just described does not exist….help me to know that the drugs I am eating every day are not deforming and killing my child…”
The emotion was real, and Heather did not respond, perhaps because she is at the hospital right now birthing her second child.
All I know is that I completely agree with Peter Breggin and his wife Ginger who in July of 2007 at the Huffington Post made the case that PREGNANT WOMAN SHOULD NEVER TAKE ANTI DEPRESSANT DRUGS.
They summed up their excellent post with these words:
“No one can or should blame the parents. But when the mother has been taking an SSRI antidepressant, increasing her risk by 240%, we must hold responsible the doctor who prescribed it, the drug company who manufactured and falsely promoted it, and the medical establishment that covers up and minimizes the drastic hazards associated with these toxic chemicals, including risks to adults, children and the unborn.”
I don’t judge ignorant women who eat antidepressants while pregnant, but I do have a sense of wanting to smack them upside the head and scream “how dare you judge me and my mothering choices when you are killing your child every single day with the toxic POISON you are eating! Wake up woman!”
I would like to challenge Heather Anderson to take the red pill and find out how far down the rabbit hole goes in terms of the truth of the coverup surrounding pregnant women taking antidepressants.
The media largely trashed Tom Cruise when he suggested alternatives to drug therapy to a mentally challenged Brooke Shields. And millions of women daily dope and numb themselves with chemicals designed by thieves who have made billions from the mental challenges of birth traumetized women. And here we are a couple of years later and come to find out in the Wall Street Journal this week that the very scientist charged with conducting the government research on antidepressants for pregnant mothers is getting paid hand over fist by the drug company that makes the drugs.
“In a letter earlier this month to Emory, Sen. Charles Grassley (R., Iowa) said he learned the school had informed the NIH last summer that Dr. Stowe had financial conflicts of interest. The senator said records he obtained from GlaxoSmithKline PLC, the maker of the antidepressant Paxil, indicated Dr. Stowe was paid $154,400 by the drug company in 2007 and $99,300 during the first 10 months of 2008. The totals included payments for at least 95 promotional talks on behalf of the company. A Glaxo spokesman was unavailable for immediate comment.”
Parents, it is time to wake up and throw the shackles of medicine off our backs!
I wonder about Heather….and how this next postpartum will go for her and her child. See, it’s not just about the mother and her feelings. It is about the health and well being of the baby too. And if the baby is born without a frontal lobe, or has a heart defect or painful drug withdrawal for days in the NICU, I think a Self Righteous, know it all blogging Mom perhaps needs to accept just a bit of responsibility for her choice to eat deadly toxins and live as a psychiatric slave.
I wonder if she will take the blue pill – go back to bed, wake up, and continue with psychiatric care for her emotional issues. I wonder if she will continue to be a loud voice for drugs, gleeful in her mania, confident that none are as funny, wise, and all knowing as she in her “all is well in ZION” psychedelic high, and I wonder if she and her readers will continue to judge, hate, and mock us homebirthers and psychiatric survivors for our choice to live free.
Time will tell.
Editor in Chief of Blogging Mothers Magazine
The Paul Hatch Family in 2002 7 months pregnant with Ben
Blue Pill/Red Pill reference from the Movie: The Matrix
UPDATE: July 1, 2009
It appears that Heather Armstrong is eating her doctor approved blue pilland perhaps even the zoloftian, “breastfeeding friendly”, light blue pill…
But hey…she’s happy and free…
“So he made a minor tweak to my meds and asked me to come back and see him in two weeks, and I am not even kidding, I felt better that night. In fact, better does not do what I was feeling justice. I felt free.”
I’m glad Heather feels free on her meds. I was court ordered to take my toxic cocktail and it felt like slavery to me.
“So what about breastfeeding? That’s what you’re all wondering, I know, and this is what I’m going to say: he thinks that what I’m taking is perfectly safe to take while breastfeeding. He’s prescribed it before to women who are breastfeeding and everything has been perfectly fine. No, I’m not going to talk about what I’m taking because one, it’s no one’s business, and two, I don’t care that you think I’m poisoning my baby. I also think that anyone going through this needs to consult their own doctor and make an informed, personal decision about their individual situation. And then go on and live a better, happier life.”
Since I was the only person on Heathers blog who mentioned antidepressants being toxic in the comment section of her Freebirth post, and since I shared links to articles that proved this was the case, I can only presume that she is responding to what I wrote when she says that she does not care what I think.
That’s cool, I also do not care that she thinks I’m “stupid” for being into Freebirth. But she may want to pause for a sec and think about how her daughter will feel about her casually taking toxic poison every day while she is pregnant and nursing, and she may want to consider how her husband might feel about her eating her big bowl of prozac flakes with zoloft milk every morning while nursing her daughter, especially when true healing is to be found at the local Whole Foods market.
“Sorry hunny, I know you can’t put two thoughts together in order to solve that math problem and you started menstruating when you were five, and now as a sixteen year old you are growing a beard… but it was just so important that I not be panicked when you were a newborn, and dammit, only stupid peopleignore doctors advice and go looking for alternatives to drugs.”
Hey, to each her own.
“I’ve been on the new meds for over five days, and I haven’t had a panic attack once. I feel like a regular person who has an infant and can handle it, and during my pregnancy that was exactly what I was aiming for. Turns out I needed a little help, a tiny adjustment, but here I am and I am loving it. I love what it has done to my relationship with Leta, what it has helped me see and appreciate in Jon, and I love that I can barely stand to be away from that baby for a minute. Jon has been watching Marlo so that I could write this, and a little bit ago he came rushing downstairs with this kicking, yelling, hungry bundle in his arms, and it was like I hadn’t seen her in years. And that yelling… that raucous, staccato, one-too-many-beers yelling… it didn’t make me cringe, it made me laugh.”
As the fake ad for Zoloft says “Zoloft does EVERYTHING!” (I’m only guessing that Heathers doc put her on Zoloft because it is considered the safest to take while nursing.)
Everyone should watch Amy Philos Zoloft movie to hear her story about that nasty drug…
Pills, Pills, Pills…
ANTIDEPRESSANTS - pills, pills, and pills
“Perfectly Safe”, according to Heather’s doctor…
Please Mommies, Heather Armstrong is NO EXPERT on drug use during pregnancy and breastfeeding. (Neither am I, I only consider myself an expert on my own body and brain.) And it sounds like her doctor has drunk the big pharma koolaid when it comes to nursing moms eating this crap.
Please take the time to research, pray, and thoughtfully explore alternatives to drug therapies when making the choice whether to eat antidepressants during pregnancy and lactation.
No amount of symptom relief from panic/depression/anxiety will help you overcome the guilt and horrifying feelings you will experience when you realize that your child has been permanently brain damaged by these toxic medications. Alternatives do work! And the biggest lie of all is that only drug therapies can be used when a Mother is in the throes of postpartum emotional illness.
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To end on a funny note: (Well, funny if you have not experienced these side effects)
I was sexually dysfunctional taking Prozac. Very, very sad place to be when you are newly married…