The Right Stuff
mental health medications once ruined me, but the right prescriptions saved me
It was late 2001 or early 2002, I forget exactly when because that time is a blur. I was reading Stephen King’s “Dreamcatcher,” sitting on my couch in my basement apartment. My partner was playing some video game. Glassjaw’s Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Silence was playing at a low volume in the background. I felt the familiar stirrings of a panic attack brewing and I put the book down, did my anxiety breathing exercises, and waited for the attack to subside. But it didn’t. This panic was bloated, heavy. It was constant instead of coming in waves like it always did. In with the good, out with the bad. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth like I did so many times before, but the panic only built and built until my hands were shaking and I broke out in a sweat. I thought I was dying then, that I was breathing my last labored breaths. I felt like my tongue was swelling up, like I was going to suffocate myself. I got up and paced around the living room, waving off my partner, who had no idea what to do.
This went on for two hours, the panic ebbing and flowing, my breathing coming back to normal, only to have the anxiety set in again moments later, gripping me, making me wish for the death I felt was coming. By the time the attacks stopped I was exhausted, but also concerned. I had been having attacks frequently but nothing like that, nothing so prolonged and all encompassing. It was time, I thought. I needed help.
My doctor saw me that day. I talked to him for maybe five minutes and he immediately prescribed Paxil without hearing much from me beyond “I’m having panic attacks” and I walked out of his office with my new prescription and a nagging little worry in the back of my head that it was all to easy. But if this was going to help, if it was going to alleviate my panic and anxiety, I’d give it a try.
At first I felt great. There were no more anxiety attacks, no shortness of breath all the time, no feeling that constant sense of impending doom. I chastised myself for waiting so long to get help. I felt free, unencumbered.
I don’t know exactly when things changed. A few weeks in, I suppose. I started to feel on edge on all the time, like I was ready to throw down with anyone who looked at me sideways. I was tense, wound up tight. I had a blog back then, and I could feel my writing turning from soft little essays about life to angry rants about anything at all. I started to have nightmares every single night, lucid dreams in which I was fighting recurring demons. I was restless. I was worried. But still, there were no more panic attacks, so that was something.
When I saw my doctor next, I told him what was going on. He said the Paxil was doing it’s job, but I needed something to “take the edge off” and he prescribe Wellbutrin, on top of the Paxil. I would now take two pills every day to stave off the anxiety, the anger, the tension, the panic. I felt weak, I felt like a failure. I couldn’t control my actions on my own. I needed medication. The stigma surrounding mental health meds was huge back then, and I kept it a secret to everyone but my partner. There was just something about needing two medications instead of just the one that made me feel very bad about myself.
I waited for the Wellbutrin to take hold, to make things better. My nightmares increased; I was experiencing sleep paralysis three or four nights a week, which was terrifying. Sex was an exercise in futility. I felt like I was losing control of myself. I had road rage every day. I was fighting with people on my blog, taking stances I previously abhorred, I was oppositional and fierce in my arguments, ready to explode at a moment’s notice. I noticed these changes in my personality but I was past the point of caring that I was alienating people and behaving like a jerk. All I cared about was expressing my rage.
I started drinking to take the edge off at night; tequila mostly, shots in my kitchen, hoping to lull myself into a place where I could sleep without dreaming. The drinking carried over to the daytime and I’d often go out to lunch at a place called Blue Tequila, where I’d down a large margarita and a shot, then go back to work and try not to fall asleep at my desk. I became near agoraphobic and called in sick to work often. I was falling apart and I knew it.
I spoke to my doctor, told him everything that was going on. He insisted I stay on the meds, or risk the panic attacks coming back. At what price, I asked him. I didn’t like who I was. I hated my life. I wanted out. He got angry with me and I left the office, vowing to find another doctor. This all wasn’t working. Soon after I left his practice, my doctor was arrested for selling pills. I laughed at this, came to the realization that I let a quack diagnose and medicate me. So I did the only thing I felt I could do under the circumstances: I quit both meds cold turkey.
The worst few weeks of my life were upon me. I had brain zaps - little bolts of electricity running through my head every couple of minutes - and I thought I was going crazy. I was filled with rage, even more than I had been. I was throwing up, feeling flu-like body aches, hallucinating, and was unable to sleep. I literally wanted to die and thought long and hard about killing myself. I took a week off from work and waited for the poison to leak out of my system. It was a slow leak, and the agony of withdrawing was going to kill me, I was sure. I waited for death.
Eventually the withdrawal effects lessened and then were gone. I still felt off; I would feel like that for a long time after. It took a long time for the rage to disappear, for the dark clouds that had been following me around to lift. Still, I never felt right after that. And I swore off meds for the time being, fearful of them and their side effects. I was convinced there were no “good” meds, that the stigmatization was correct, that no one should be taking these evil pills. I would suffer with anxiety on my own, and learn to live with it. Except I didn’t. I never learned how to handle it. I never learned how to combat it.
Many years later I started with a new doctor. He listened to me for 45 minutes as I described my anxiety and depression. He asked a lot of questions and made me feel like he really wanted to help me. I told him about the Paxil and Wellbutrin and he said he never prescribes Paxil to his patients. We talked about various meds and how they could help me, and he helped me get over my fear that all meds are bad. He wanted the best for me, I trusted him and walked out with a prescription for Abilify, followed a few weeks later with a script for Trintellix.
The change was welcome. The panic attacks that had found their way back into my life were gone. The constant anxiety I felt, so much that my legs and hands would shake all day, was gone. The depression was lifting. I saw my doctor every two weeks so he could monitor how I was doing, until I didn’t need to do that anymore. I trusted him. More importantly, I trusted these medications. I learned the meds are not evil at all, but doctors who prescribe things for you just because they get a kickback from the pharmacy are.
I take these meds every day and I am better off for it. My loved ones are better off for it. My life is even-keeled. There’s no rage, no anger, no violent mood swings. Sure, the depression and anxiety are still there, they’ll never disappear completely. But I am in a place where I can handle them, where I have a grip on things. Being diagnosed correctly, being taken care of by a caring doctor and being in therapy for a while have all helped me live a better life. For a long time I lived in fear of slipping again, of going back to that horrid life that Paxil gave me, because I didn’t want to go back on medication. I take meds gladly for my acid reflux, why wouldn’t I treat my mental illness the same?
There’s still a stigma surrounding mental health medications. People still will look down on you for seeking help, for admitting that something is wrong with you, for trying to rectify that. I had to fight through that stigma in order to medicate again. I’m glad I did. I feel whole again. I feel good. I’m thankful to my doctor for listening to me, for caring about me. I’m thankful for Abilify and Trintellix. And I’m thankful for the people who didn’t abandon me when I all but abandoned them.
[If you’re experiencing things like panic and depression and you’re not sure if you want to medicate, all I can do is tell you that the right meds are a godsend. The right doctor, the right prescription, can turn your life around.]