Day Three, Meds Free

Three days without meds.

Three days where my anxiety, already heightened because of stress, kicked into high gear.

Three days of paranoia.

During those days, small things set me off. Feeling like a failure at everything I tried, even if it was successful. Being fatigued after working a normal 8-hour day. Forgetting to call my doctor for several days because I couldn’t follow through on my thoughts. An imaginary vice grip squeezing my chest in the shower that caused burst of sobs with no trigger. Projecting onto people negative feelings towards me without any indication they were real feelings.

Anxiety is physical. Depression is real.

Let’s back up. After a series of terrible coincidences and awful memory retention, I found myself running out of my anti-depressants over a weekend I was traveling with no refills to order. I had enough to get me through half of my trip, but I would be out for the last day of my trip. One day turned into three before I finally got the prescription refilled and picked up.

For the first time in more than a year, I felt the difference between the unmedicated me and the one on “crazy pills.”

I want to make something very clear – I don’t need my pills. I won’t keel over if I don’t get them. I’m not addicted to them. I didn’t go into withdrawal without them. I halved my dose after the first year of taking them without side effects.

I simply cry less, feel in control of my emotions, am easier to live with, cope better, and enjoy life a little more when I take them.

I don’t pull my hair at the roots while driving, unable to see the road through the tears (this actually happened). While taking my meds, I don’t feel like yelling and screaming gibberish daily in public places (this actually happens occasionally while on meds). On my meds, I leave work with enough energy to cook dinner and enjoy my time out of the office.

Today is day three back on my anti-depressant, and I’m now starting to feel like a better version of my true self. Is medication for everyone? No. But I’m a better person for taking my medication, and I’ve got three days in my past to prove it.

Featured Page: EndTheStigma

UPDATED 1/4/17: There has been some confusion about the End the Sigma page – I am not the creator, but after I published this blog, I was accepted as part of the Facebook and Twitter moderation team. Please direct any questions about the End the Stigma badges to the Facebook page!

A new Facebook page has been born, and already its effects are felt around the Facebook community. End The Stigma is a Facebook page created on January 1 and has rocketed to over 9000 likes in three days (as of this writing) and continues to climb through shares, comments, and likes on its beautiful images.

It means what it says: the goal of the page is to end the social stigma surrounding invisible illnesses, particularly mental diseases and neuro-divergent disorders, by creating and sharing square “badges” with the hashtags #endthestigma and #youarenotalone. Also included are #1in5 (referencing that one in five people will be diagnosed with a mental disorder at some point in their life).

According to the first post on Instagram, the founder Kat was inspired by Carrie Fisher and her mental health advocacy.

 

Hello, I am Kat. I personally have struggled with my mental health for many years. It wasn’t until I was 19 that I received my first official diagnoses, #bipolar 1 with traits of BPD. Almost 10 years later I still have frequent struggles in maintaining my mental health. When @carriefisherofficial passed, I was heartbroken. Leia was my childhood hero, and Carrie’s outspokenness about her own struggles with Bipolar made her my adult hero as well. I decided it was my turn to step up, and make any increase I could in mental health advocacy. I never imagined that my small post on Facebook would grow by thousands. You are all strong, and you are all brave. Thank you for being a part of #endingthestigma #endthestigma #mentalhealthawareness #1in5 #youarenotalone #endthestigmabadges

A photo posted by End The Stigma Official (@endthestigmabadges) on Jan 2, 2017 at 5:20pm PST

After a terrible 2016 for mental illnesses (politics, shootings, stabbings, and court cases all vilified or laughed at people with mental disorders), we need this. We need to stand up all around our family and friends and declare that mental hospitals aren’t fodder for Halloween scares, that not everyone who is depressed is a school shooter, that PTSD happens a lot to veterans but can happen to rape victims, crime victims, and after other traumatic events too.

Let’s start off 2017 by showing our scars in the most vunerable way possible – by broadcasting it on social media and having brave conversations with families, friends, and strangers.

You can find my personal story on the End The Stigma page along with my 8-badge image and an older photo of me.

White Hot Panic

*trigger warning: anxiety*

I got in the car and turned on the headlights as the engine hummed to life. Even in the city, side streets aren’t well lit and the headlights looked like floodlights against the darkness.

I knew he wouldn’t be far behind in his own car, but since he was inside still talking, I wearily left the in-laws and turned onto the main road. Thoughts were floating here and there like clouds on a summer day – oh, that one looks like this, gee I haven’t looked at it that way in awhile, and over there is another thought.

A few blocks away, a red light brings me to a halt.

The car behind me is stopped so close I can’t see his headlights even though I’m in the right lane and the left is empty.

My heartbeat picks up. Maybe he’ll peel off at the next turn, or maybe he’s trying to turn left – this is a major intersection after all. Nothing to worry about.

Green light.

We speed along like we’re connected. He doesn’t race past, but he’s pushing me.

Are the headlights the right shape? I can’t remember. Could it be him? Probably. Will he pass me and beat me home?

What if it isn’t my husband? I hit the gas. The car is still there, riding in the right lane.

I could call him. My cell phone is within reach, and it would solve everything.

But if it isn’t him…

My pepperspray is at home. I wouldn’t have time to find it if he followed me in.

We ride on some more. My knuckles are turning white as I twist my hands along the top, undecided between gripping for dear life and nervous shiftings.

Four miles down, one to go.

I turn onto the busy street – just 2 lefts and 2 rights until I’m safe. He gets in the left turn lane behind me. I can’t make out the color of the car, even with the streetlights. I’m going to be jumped by a stranger – I’m going to die in my parking lot before I can get in my apartment – I’m going to…

I grab my phone and dial the number.

“Are you the car behind me?”

“Of course.”

I breathe again, but my hand grips the phone. “I was afraid you were someone else.”

He soothes me, his voice all I needed to rationalize the irrational. “I’ll see you at home in a few.”

I hang up and want to laugh at myself. I desperately want to laugh, scream, run, and collapse. Words start formulating in my head. I know I will write about this, even in that moment, because tonight I gave myself a panic attack so bad I couldn’t breathe and my husband thought I was crazy.

Maybe that’s just it. Maybe I’m crazy. But if this is what it takes to cope – a phone call, words of reassurance, words on the page – then so be it.

I’d rather be crazy and know it than deny it’s happening again.