March 15, 2009. I had been off meds for 18 months following a rough bout with the SNRI Effexor. Effexor is one of those meds that affects your norepinephrine and your serotonin. These meds are not for me, but I'll tell that story later.
I started with my current therapist on December 17, 2007 after deciding to go off of Effexor. She explained to me that my issues were largely based on my chemical imbalance and that meds were probably going to be necessary, and sooner rather than later. I resisted, for the same reasons everyone does, I suppose: I don't feel like myself on that med, I don't want to be reliant on a psych med to get through my life, therapy will help me, etc.
Christmas 2008 was the first really bad panic attack I'd had in over a year. My nephew, Zach, was five weeks old. I had cut some people from my life that were more than unhealthy for me. I was living in my first house that I bought and signed the papers for myself. Life was pretty spectacular. The only thing I really struggled with was my weight.
I had decided that, despite being 25 years old and having my own house, that I would spend the night at my parents' house on Christmas Eve. My older sister was there, in from Seattle, and it was fun to stay at home, even if it wasn't the house I grew up in. Let's face it, Santa knew where to find me.
That night was wonderful. We did our traditional sibling gift swap and took turns holding the baby. Everything was great. Until bed. I got ready and curled up in one of the guest rooms on the second floor of the house. I was cold, I couldn't shake it. I was curled up in sweats under the covers, and couldn't stop shaking. I got up and asked my sister, who was in the other guest room, if she could turn the heat up a little, as there was a separate thermostat on the second floor. And yet, I couldn't stop shaking. At some point I realized that I was not cold anymore, but still tense and shaking. Like a couple years before, I immediately assumed I was getting sick. The thought of being ill, with the flu even, and not being at home propelled me into a state of panic. I cannot describe why, to this day, this is a trigger for me, but it is. All I could think was that I was going to miss Christmas, because if I had the flu, I couldn't be around the baby. I was enamored by him... still am to be honest. I couldn't bear the thought of getting him sick.
Finally, after what felt like a few minutes sleep, I took a Xanax around 3:00 in the morning. After what had happened on the plane, my doctor prescribed a limited amount for emergencies just like this. I finally slept a few hours, and when I woke, I felt fine. This time, I wasn't in denial. I knew it had been another panic attack.
Things progressed a bit from there. I experienced anxiety on and off throughout that winter. I continued to resist meds, being the stubborn Taurus that I am. Until March.
It was a Sunday night. I had been doing somewhat well, considering I was feeling symptoms of panic somewhat regularly. I thought I was getting better. As I lay in bed that night, my mind was filled with dread about having to go to work the next day. Thoughts raced: This really is what I have to do for the rest of my life? I hate it there. I don't get the respect I deserve, and I work so hard. I feel like I'm going nowhere and I am going to be stuck there for my career. Stuck. Trapped. Unable to escape. That's how it started.
Because I was not on medication and was still terrified of the things I felt when having a panic attack (I guess that's why it's called "panic"), it progressed throughout the night. My stomach was a mess, I was terrified to be in my own house, in my own mind. I slept a few times, for a few minutes each, it felt. I felt all the same things I had felt before, only for hours on end. And then I had what I consider my first suicidal thought. No ideation, no attempt, no consideration of doing anything about it. But I had never before thought about it. And without warning, the thought invaded my mind: "If this is going to be the rest of my life, maybe I don't want to live the rest of my life." I shot from a 10 on the panic scale to about 100. This completely debilitating fear continued until about 6 am. Below is something I wrote that night, around 11 pm:
I started with my current therapist on December 17, 2007 after deciding to go off of Effexor. She explained to me that my issues were largely based on my chemical imbalance and that meds were probably going to be necessary, and sooner rather than later. I resisted, for the same reasons everyone does, I suppose: I don't feel like myself on that med, I don't want to be reliant on a psych med to get through my life, therapy will help me, etc.
Christmas 2008 was the first really bad panic attack I'd had in over a year. My nephew, Zach, was five weeks old. I had cut some people from my life that were more than unhealthy for me. I was living in my first house that I bought and signed the papers for myself. Life was pretty spectacular. The only thing I really struggled with was my weight.
I had decided that, despite being 25 years old and having my own house, that I would spend the night at my parents' house on Christmas Eve. My older sister was there, in from Seattle, and it was fun to stay at home, even if it wasn't the house I grew up in. Let's face it, Santa knew where to find me.
That night was wonderful. We did our traditional sibling gift swap and took turns holding the baby. Everything was great. Until bed. I got ready and curled up in one of the guest rooms on the second floor of the house. I was cold, I couldn't shake it. I was curled up in sweats under the covers, and couldn't stop shaking. I got up and asked my sister, who was in the other guest room, if she could turn the heat up a little, as there was a separate thermostat on the second floor. And yet, I couldn't stop shaking. At some point I realized that I was not cold anymore, but still tense and shaking. Like a couple years before, I immediately assumed I was getting sick. The thought of being ill, with the flu even, and not being at home propelled me into a state of panic. I cannot describe why, to this day, this is a trigger for me, but it is. All I could think was that I was going to miss Christmas, because if I had the flu, I couldn't be around the baby. I was enamored by him... still am to be honest. I couldn't bear the thought of getting him sick.
Finally, after what felt like a few minutes sleep, I took a Xanax around 3:00 in the morning. After what had happened on the plane, my doctor prescribed a limited amount for emergencies just like this. I finally slept a few hours, and when I woke, I felt fine. This time, I wasn't in denial. I knew it had been another panic attack.
Things progressed a bit from there. I experienced anxiety on and off throughout that winter. I continued to resist meds, being the stubborn Taurus that I am. Until March.
It was a Sunday night. I had been doing somewhat well, considering I was feeling symptoms of panic somewhat regularly. I thought I was getting better. As I lay in bed that night, my mind was filled with dread about having to go to work the next day. Thoughts raced: This really is what I have to do for the rest of my life? I hate it there. I don't get the respect I deserve, and I work so hard. I feel like I'm going nowhere and I am going to be stuck there for my career. Stuck. Trapped. Unable to escape. That's how it started.
Because I was not on medication and was still terrified of the things I felt when having a panic attack (I guess that's why it's called "panic"), it progressed throughout the night. My stomach was a mess, I was terrified to be in my own house, in my own mind. I slept a few times, for a few minutes each, it felt. I felt all the same things I had felt before, only for hours on end. And then I had what I consider my first suicidal thought. No ideation, no attempt, no consideration of doing anything about it. But I had never before thought about it. And without warning, the thought invaded my mind: "If this is going to be the rest of my life, maybe I don't want to live the rest of my life." I shot from a 10 on the panic scale to about 100. This completely debilitating fear continued until about 6 am. Below is something I wrote that night, around 11 pm:
i just need to release what's in my head for a few minutes. my panic disorder has been so bad the last few weeks. i feel so lost and incapable of dealing with everyday life. the thought of going to work tomorrow is getting me worked up. most of that is because i can hardly stand to be in the building anymore. i feel really hopeless right now. like there is no light at the end of this tunnel. i have definitely made the decision to go back on an SSRI. i cannot handle this anymore, i have to get some treatment. i hope so much that it works. i need to change some things to get to where i want to be. i am so far from happy right now. i have good days, okay days, and right out bad days.... but more bad than anything lately. Sundays used to be my day to chill and now it seems to be the worst day of the week because of the sense of dread of the week ahead. i just have to make it to Thursday when I go see Jodi. we'll decide which med i should be on and i will get it taken care of. i can't keep these thoughts inside my head, i just had to get them out. they "ruminate" and i get even more freaked out. why did this have to happen to me? i just want to be happy.
I called my mom at 6:00 the next morning and told her that I thought I had had a nervous breakdown. Don't laugh at me, I pleaded. I explained what happened. I called and left a message for my therapist that I needed to see her that day if at all possible. I decided that night to go back on meds.
Within 48 hours, I was taking Prozac. Later that week, it started to happen again, only this time I knew I could take a higher dose of the Xanax (I had taken the smallest possible dose on Sunday). I finished dinner, took the pill, and managed to sleep that night. The next day, Friday, I completely broke down at work. I decided to spend the weekend at my parents house as an escape - just to ignore the world for a couple of days. Sunday night when I went home, I felt scared instantly. My house was no longer a safe place. It was a scary place. For no reason other than my mind was imbalanced.
I spent a majority of that spring and early summer basically living with my parents. I was afraid to be alone, in my own house. I had, until that point, loved living alone.
I came home every day but I couldn't sleep there. It took months to recover, even though the Prozac was working about 5 weeks after the panic attack. I went on intermittent FMLA from work, to cover any absences that occurred because of my issues. Lucky for me, I had a boss who was neither compassionate nor compliant with the rules of FMLA and treated me like a slacker.
Meds may not be for everyone. For some, they are a temporary solution. For me, I know that at least for the foreseeable future, I will be reliant on an anti-depressant. It is the only thing that keeps the panic at bay, even if it isn't a cure-all.
There is nothing wrong with taking psych meds, if they help. A person with high blood pressure takes medication for that, and there is no stigma against it. So why should there be for a drug that helps people manage their lives in the midst of panic, depression, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, OCD... the list goes on. I ask you to consider that.
I called my mom at 6:00 the next morning and told her that I thought I had had a nervous breakdown. Don't laugh at me, I pleaded. I explained what happened. I called and left a message for my therapist that I needed to see her that day if at all possible. I decided that night to go back on meds.
Within 48 hours, I was taking Prozac. Later that week, it started to happen again, only this time I knew I could take a higher dose of the Xanax (I had taken the smallest possible dose on Sunday). I finished dinner, took the pill, and managed to sleep that night. The next day, Friday, I completely broke down at work. I decided to spend the weekend at my parents house as an escape - just to ignore the world for a couple of days. Sunday night when I went home, I felt scared instantly. My house was no longer a safe place. It was a scary place. For no reason other than my mind was imbalanced.
I spent a majority of that spring and early summer basically living with my parents. I was afraid to be alone, in my own house. I had, until that point, loved living alone.
I came home every day but I couldn't sleep there. It took months to recover, even though the Prozac was working about 5 weeks after the panic attack. I went on intermittent FMLA from work, to cover any absences that occurred because of my issues. Lucky for me, I had a boss who was neither compassionate nor compliant with the rules of FMLA and treated me like a slacker.
Meds may not be for everyone. For some, they are a temporary solution. For me, I know that at least for the foreseeable future, I will be reliant on an anti-depressant. It is the only thing that keeps the panic at bay, even if it isn't a cure-all.
There is nothing wrong with taking psych meds, if they help. A person with high blood pressure takes medication for that, and there is no stigma against it. So why should there be for a drug that helps people manage their lives in the midst of panic, depression, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, OCD... the list goes on. I ask you to consider that.
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