Vitamin D and Me: A Story of Choking and Happiness
I have been taking vitamin D3 supplements over the last few winters in an effort to lighten the load of my seasonal depression. My winters tend to be about as fun as drowning really slowly for six months — no, wait, that is exactly what my winters are like — so I knew I needed a little more juice to keep me from going under. In previous years, I took 1000 IU a day, but this winter I did some reading about vitamin D3 and depression, checked with a doctor, and chose to up my dose markedly.
I can't say for sure that it's the vitamin D3 that has helped keep me afloat, because I also use a SAD light, exercise, and daily chocolate truffles, but I have been feeling much better this winter than any other in the last ten years or more. Hallelujah. Of course, I still have to weep into a hot bath occasionally and curse my birth and decided not to die some days, but I also get to smile and actually feel that smile on other days, which is like having the heavens pour down while the voices of the Vienna Boys' Choir soar above my head.
(I'm not even religious, but sometimes the religious talk is the only thing that fits.)
I still have one major problem, though. I keep buying the wrong kind of vitamin D3 pills. There are the 1000 IU softgel kind, which I like, and there are the 400 IU chalky tablet kind, which I don't like, and, inexplicably, I keep buying the 400 IU chalky tablet kind.
I knew depression lied before. I just didn't know it would lie every two weeks about which kind of vitamins I should buy. Bastard.
Because I keep accidentally buying the wrong kind, and because I cannot fathom throwing out what are otherwise perfectly good supplements, rather than getting to take 9 of the vitamin D3 1000 IU softgels, I have to take 22½ of the 400 IU chalky tablets to reach my dose. TWENTY-TWO-AND-A-HALF.
The problem is that they're tiny enough to tend to suck up into my nasal passage or lodge behind a tonsil when I swallow, and they're chalky enough that they immediately swell into a pasty marble, so I end up choking and spewing chalky water onto a cat, because there is always a cat, for some reason. If you have more than one cat, you know what I mean.
Every time I buy the wrong kind again and spit up on a cat again, I do the calculations again and think ONCE I'M DONE THIS BOTTLE OF STUPID VITAMINS IN 12 DAYS, I WILL BUY THE RIGHT KIND again. And then 11 days later, I come home with these stupid chalky numbers and spit up on the cat for another 12 days.
I know what the answer is. In fact, I know that there are a few answers:
- I can return the bottle.
- I can throw the offending vitamins away.
- I can stop taking vitamin D3 and save all nearby cats from my gross habits.
Except that I can't do these things, because:
- I hate returning things in person more than I hate dentists.
- I grew up in a house where we washed used tinfoil and put it away for future use.
- I can't quit taking vitamin D3 in case it's what's making my life more bearable, and the cats puke on my stuff all the time, so they have it coming, anyway.
So, I have eight more days left of this damnable bottle of chalky choking hazards during which I can feel hopeful about remembering to purchase the softgels I dream of buying one day when my depression doesn't fool me into another 12 days of choking and spewing on my pets.
I am very much the smartest.
The moral of the story:
Finding the will to live is worth puking on a few cats,
or maybe it's
Depression lies, but not always well enough to thoroughly thwart your efforts,
or maybe it's
Your stupidest problem might still be the thing that saves your life.