On point, on fleek, on... antidepressants...
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| (Okay, so I spilled soy sauce on one of them and also the pharmacist spelled my name "JAMIMA", proving that even when I take measures to make myself better and follow my doctors advice, I am still a mess.) |
I had planned to do a blog post all about why I don't take medication for my anxiety/depression symptoms, but before I got round to doing that, a few things happened and I changed my mind. I have officially started taking drugs for my brain because I really don't know how else to help it anymore and to be honest, I just don't really trust it.
When I first posted about mental health awareness and some of the things I've been through, I thought I was doing really well. I thought I was coming out of a really bad patch of my life and that I was going to be okay. I mean I literally thought "Oh my god, I've just started talking about it and now I don't have any problems!" ahahaha. Then anxiety was like LOL OKAY BAE and here we are.
The reality of the situation is that I actually have a lot of issues and I'm not even aware of half of them. I've learned over the last few weeks that although I genuinely believe I can handle a lot, I can't handle everything and sometimes something which might seem quite small can leave me completely destroyed and unable to function normally for days, even weeks. I mean... I'm actually very bad at handling anything, to be honest, and usually choose just not to but I like how I've convinced myself that I'm good at handling things! I'm just really fucking good at denial, ignoring and/or running away from my problems and, in the words of my doctor, "going to extreme lengths to avoid dealing with my emotions". Perhaps not skills I'll be mentioning on my next job application...
So, why now?
A few weeks ago, something happened that triggered a huge emotional response from me. I didn't expect my response to be so extreme, but it makes sense now. I'll be posting about it soon in more detail, but yeah, something happened and it got me craaaaay for a few weeks, making me unable to really enjoy myself, hardly able to attend my classes, staying in bed for much longer than is socially acceptable, crying in public, failing midterms etc. All aboard the hot mess express... literaaaalllyyyy.
It happened on a Thursday night and on Monday morning I went back to the doctor, 'cause clearly I (and the people around me) identified that my behaviour and emotional response was bizarre and extreme. I've seen this doctor a few times since I've been in Seattle and she's prescribed me medication before, but I never took it because I thought I'd be okay on my own. That'll be that denial again... This time she referred me to 'The Crisis Centre' so that I could speak to a therapist instead, not only because I still wasn't sure if I wanted to take drugs, but because my doctor actually said "I would be happy to prescribe you something if you want, but I just don't think you'll take it." She was probably right...
So, I went to therapy for a couple of weeks, obviously counselling is not a quick fix, but I felt like it would help get me through the next few weeks and I knew that it was something I'd do more of when I get back to the UK. After two weeks I was able to function normally-ish again. I wasn't going to let this ruin the remainder of my experience studying abroad, I was going to be okay and I was glad I decided not to start medication.
Two days later something else happened.
I'm not going to go into too much detail, because based on the situation that would be kind of weird, but let's just say I was drunk and there was a guy. Honestly, it really wasn't about the guy, it was about me and my self-esteem issues, lack of ability to handle rejection, fear of abandonment etc. It was about my many, many deep psychological issues, but there was 100% a guy there and it caught me off guard and I couldn't handle it.
I don't remember everything that happened, because I'd been drinking and I was having a panic attack, but what I do remember scares me.
I basically walked into the club... or danced in... I think I danced in because I was in a good mood before I got there. We'd just been to a bar, I looked great, everything was wonderful and then AS SOON AS WE WALKED INTO THIS CLUB I immediately saw this guy who I kind of... knew (let's just leave it at that!)... but hadn't seen for a month or so and low-key still had a little bit of a crush on. A normal person might have just smiled, or waved or whatever... like he smiled at me, why wouldn't I just smile back and get on with my night? Instead, I freaked out and went to the bathroom where I had a panic attack. It's like how a normal person might be like "oh shit, do I look hot enough for him to see me?" but times 1000 because I have anxiety.
The worst thing was, I had kind of jumped the queue so my female friends were still outside. I wasn't alone because I'd sneakily snuck in with my bloke friends, but I really didn't think they'd:
a) be able to understand why I was freaking out, to be fair, even I didn't know or understand the reason, I think it might be because - *spoiler alert* - I have severe anxiety and can't handle anything. It's funny because I still like to think I'm a pretty chill person. HELLOOOO! DENIAL, IS THAT YOU?
or
b) be able to hide in the girl's bathroom with me.
It was a problem.
I was stressed the fuck out, I didn't understand what was going on in my immediate surroundings and everyone just thought I was really drunk. I remember a couple of girls asking if I was okay, as I gently rocked back and forwards in the toilets and I assured them I was just a bit drunk. The truth is, I really wasn't that drunk, but being tipsy and having a panic attack is THE WORST combination. I probably SEEMED really drunk, but I probably often SEEM really drunk when I'm having a panic attack, because I can't really move, or talk, or function and I just stare into space like a weirdo. It's just, in a club situation and based on my history of drinking... like a lot... drunk just seems a lot more likely. I get it and honestly, by that point I don't really care what people think.
Most of the night is a blur, but between trying to hide from this guy and drinking water from the bar in a desperate attempt to sober up (not that that would've helped, because you can't sober your way out of a panic attack), I'm pretty sure I spoke to him. I don't really remember the conversation because I was so out of it with panic, but I remember desperately just trying to appear normal because... well, like I had a crush on this guy and he's seen me naked and I didn't want him to think I was really drunk or really weird. LOL when you have anxiety and hot guys give you panic attacks instead of goosebumps...
We laugh, but mostly we cry.
I probably should've just left before, to be honest, but it's hard to make good decisions when you're drunk and having a panic attack. I mean, I rarely make good decisions when I'm sober and not having a panic attack!
This is the part that scared me.
After we spoke, I felt so fucking sick to my stomach and I was such an anxious wreck that I made my way back to the bathroom, looked in the mirror... and shoved my hand towards the back of my throat. I heard someone coming and locked myself in the toilet and tried again, I put my entire hand in my mouth, I felt parts of my throat that only food and dicks had been to. TMI? Soz. Honestly, it's probably for that reason that I don't have much of a gag reflex and couldn't make myself sick (AAAAYEEEE... awkward but true) but the fact that I tried is scary enough.
Not because I was drunk and tried to make myself sick, because I'm pretty sure half of my generation has done that before... like none of us are good at drinking, don't kid yourself. It scared me because I know it wasn't about being drunk, because I wasn't that drunk. I've certainly been drunker in my time and not tried to throw up - although it should be noted that that's mainly because if I'm THAT drunk, the throwing up isn't really optional.
(I may consider giving up drinking again...)
It scared me because I know I did it to get rid of the pain. I did it because I was stressed and hurting and I wanted it to stop and I didn't know how to make it stop and, as uncomfortable as it makes me feel to say it, it just kind of felt right. I don't know how else to explain it. It just felt so fucking right, it seemed like a logical choice, it seemed natural... almost instinctive. I didn't even think about doing it, I just reacted to a situation. It was an impulsive thing that happened, not a thought process and although the outcome was fairly minor this time, the act itself and the behaviour is what was frightening.
After I failed to throw up, I went to find my friends and luckily, I had a lot of good friends out that night, who somehow managed to get me home even though I seemed like a total drunk mess - which, just to reiterate, I WASN'T.
Also, FYI, this wasn't really about the guy and had I been sober, it probably would've been fine, but the combination of alcohol and men has never been a good one for me! AHA. No but really, add anxiety into the mix... it just doesn't take much to trigger me when I'm already at a relatively low point and just being caught off guard was enough.
The next day I felt awful, not so much physically, but mentally. It wasn't a hangover, it was a panic attack/intense anxiety 'comedown'. I was completely drained. I couldn't remember the whole of the night before, but that doesn't really matter because honestly, there was nothing specific about it that was upsetting and it wasn't about that anymore. It was just a panic attack, a guy I kind of liked who, to be totally honest, probably has no idea because I am an emotionless brick wall, and a failed attempt at making myself sick. It just wasn't about any of that anymore though, it was about the aftermath.
I was so, so anxious. I woke up every day for the next week with the feeling of a heavy weight on my chest, or shaking, or heart palpitations or a combination of the three. I would literally wake up to find myself in a physical state of anxiety and stress, before I even had the chance to think or be triggered by anything I was already there. It felt so out of my control.
I just didn't want to leave my bed... and like, yeah, no one wants to leave their bed at the weekend, but I physically and emotionally struggled.
I had plans with a friend, and I somehow struggled my way to her and then to Discovery Park for a little bit of a hike but I feel like I was literally just miserable and probably ruined the entire thing.
It was beautiful, but beautiful doesn't fix broken.
Ahh shit, my therapist says that I have to stop calling myself 'broken' and 'damaged' and 'fucked up'... It was a pretty deep line though, right? I'm keeping it in.
I just wanted to go home and lie in bed and I'm pretty sure that's what I did as soon as we were done. Honestly, I just really wanted to hurt myself but didn't have the physical energy. I was just numb.
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| Poor sad child |
The next day was worse. I woke up and didn't get out of bed... I drifted in and out of sleep, I struggled to reply to anyone's text messages or anything. I lay in bed completely numb and frozen. It's not like I'm lying in bed watching Netflix and eating and stuff, I just lie there and drift in and out of consciousness, hoping that it won't hurt the next time I wake up. But it always does.
During the times I was awake, I read messages from my friend, asking me to promise not to hurt myself because it won't help and to please just reply because she was worried but I couldn't even bring myself to reply for hours. It's hard to explain, because I didn't understand either. I wanted her to know I was okay - well not okay, but alive - but I couldn't move. When I finally managed to respond I had to ask her to come over and essentially babysit me... Yup, at twenty two years old I found myself unable to leave my bed, asking someone to sit with me because I don't actually want to kill myself but I think I'm pretty close to being capable of it this time.
I kept thinking I'd be okay the next day, but I wasn't. Every day was the same, for five days I woke up and still found myself unmotivated to get out of bed. By Tuesday evening I managed to venture on to campus, I think I made it to the gym and I thought I felt okay again and then it was Wednesday morning and I stayed in bed until 13:00. Honestly, I probably wouldn't have got up at all, but I had an appointment with my therapist and CLEARLY I really needed that appointment.
I had woken up with a heavy feeling on my chest, I mean it literally felt like something was pressing against my entire chest, making it difficult to breathe. Luckily, my appointment wasn't until 15:00, giving me plenty of time to shower for the first time in days and eat what I could, which from what I remember was fairly minimal.
As soon as I told her what had happened, she wanted me to see a doctor immediately. She called downstairs ('cause the mental health place is above the doctor place) and got me an appointment for 16:00, rescheduled our appointment for Friday and then walked me downstairs. She spoke to my doctor in another room for about twenty minutes while I filled out that form with those questions like "HOW MANY DAYS THIS WEEK DID YOU WANNA DIE?" and I was like, all of them, bruh. I messaged my friend to tell her how embarrassed I was and also to express my fears that they were going to put me in an asylum... which FYI, just isn't something people have done for many, many years.
Long story short... she says, hundreds of words into the post... we discussed the situation, we discussed my poor coping methods and inability to deal with emotions, we talked about how it may not be the most sensible idea to travel this summer and how I might benefit from going home early and having intense therapy instead... and then we discussed medication for the fifth time this year, because... I mean... CLEARLY I can't deal with stuff. I think she was surprised I even mentioned it based on my previous attitude and fear of medicine, but that's just how bad it had got. Honestly, I'd already started taking them two days before from the prescription she gave me in February.
The rest of the week was still pretty low. I didn't go to any of my classes, I missed tests and homework deadlines and I'm still in the process of emailing teachers and explaining.
I tried to carry on in the best way I could. I tried to start going back to the gym, even though one day I literally had to sit outside for half an hour having a panic attack and waiting for a friend to distract me enough to go inside. I swear, it's almost like I enjoy suffering sometimes (WHICH I REALLY REALLY DON'T) but, like why do I do this to myself? The week was distressing enough! I really didn't have anything to prove...
Anyway, back to the drugs, which as of today, I think have finally started to work.
I've decided to give them a go, for three main reasons:
1. I don't know that I can trust myself anymore. The whole time I wasn't on medication, I've been really struggling, but I didn't feel unsafe and through all the suicidal thoughts, they were just that... thoughts. I can't say for sure now that they wouldn't have turned into actions.
Maybe this time I failed to throw up in a club bathroom, fairly minimal - but had their been a knife there, had I been in a tall building, had I not fallen asleep as soon as I got home, had the situation allowed me to be more at risk, I genuinely don't know what would've happened last weekend... and that is terrifying.
2. I am wasting way too much time in bed, I'm bored of having unpredictable moods and triggers and I'm missing out on amazing experiences because of it. I'm just so done with that, what a shitty way to spend your twenties!
3. I've tried pretty much everything else.
SO YEAH. That's basically why I'm taking antidepressants now. I don't know for sure that they're going to help or how much, but I can't risk myself getting any closer to hurting myself. Fortunately, I'm self aware enough to realise that's a risk and to do something about it.
I really, really, really didn't want to take drugs for this. I have been avoiding this for years, literally years. A few days ago, the first time I took a pill, it took me well over two hours to actually put it in in my mouth. I mean, it took me all day really... Two days, maybe. I don't remember, but there were several hours between, deciding it was time to try the meds and actually putting some in maaaa bodaaaay.
Like, I am not happy about this. NOT BECAUSE OF THE STIGMA! I couldn't care less, I'm very anti-stigma now and also, like clearly I have issues, I don't think the prescription changes anything. I'm just sad that it's got to this point. I think if I'd dealt with some of this stuff before... like seven years ago... it might not have got to this point.
I don't know, mental health is weird!
The main thing is though, I know I don't want to hurt myself. For me, suicidal thoughts have always been a comfort, not a reality. Knowing I could kill myself, knowing how I could kill myself, knowing that I could stop the pain if I needed to was enough. Last weekend, it got too close to a reality because it wasn't just a thought or a back up plan, it felt like it could be a reaction or an impulse.
I don't love that this is my reality now, but I'm tired of the instability. I'm twenty two and I don't want to keep struggling through every day, missing out on my youth because I'm so busy trying to be 'strong' or whatever. Lemme tell you, taking medication is terrifying for me, so if anything's strong or brave, this is.
I don't have to be on medication forever - in fact, I know I won't be - but if this helps me get through the summer, or the rest of my degree, (or you know, even if it just stops me from killing myself!) while I work through my issues and learn some coping mechanisms, I think it's probably the right choice for me right now.
PS. SHOUT OUT TO HANNAH AND EVERYONE ELSE WHO STOPPED ME FROM KILLING MYSELF, OR WHO GOT ME HOME FROM THE CLUB OR JUST LIKE UNDERSTOOD THAT I'M A MESS AND STILL LOVED ME AND WAS THERE FOR ME
YOU'RE THE BEST KIND OF PEOPLE
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