"Have you ever been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life. You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real get-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love."
Neil Gaiman
Friday, December 4, 2009
Another Day, Another Insult
I know this blog is supposed to be about anxiety, depression, OCD, and BDP, but I've spent a lot of time covering anxiety, and since I'm writing from my heart, I only write when I feel the emotion to do so. Today is one of those days. But once again, I'm writing about BPD and depression. You see, my BPD friend is so critical of me that no matter how happy I am at any given point during the day, it almost brings me to tears sometimes. And sometimes it actually does bring me to tears.
I am close to crying as I write this, but I haven't yet. Maybe afterwards -- I feel the need to put my feelings down on paper before I can allow the emotion to flow out of me physically in the form of tears.
No matter what I say, no matter what I do, he criticizes me. Today I said something about how cold it is going to be over the next couple of days, and he starts going off on me telling me that "It's wintertime, it's supposed to be cold. Shit!" Now, that makes sense, but do I really deserve to be spoken to that way? Am I that small of a human being, with so little to offer that this is the way someone should show me love? Am I so desperate that I should accept it? Not very many days ago, this same person was complaining about how they had planned on going out but changed their mind because it was simply too cold. Now, I didn't go on a tangent talking about how it's winter and he should expect it to be cold. When I brought this up today, his response was "I'm an adult and I can change my mind about going out for whatever reason I want to -- sleepy, tired, too cold, WHATEVER!!!"
I truly, deeply care for this person. But I'm so tired of being his whipping post, his dog to kick, his trash. Why can't I make him understand that I don't deserve to be spoken to like this? Why do his words have to be filled with venom and his tone so harsh and nasty? I think it's time for me to really take a look at what's wrong with me that makes me stay with a person who continues to treat me like this day after day after day. Oh, some days are wonderful, but some are so horrible, I can't even find the words to express the depth of hurt that I feel. I've hurt him with my anxiety, and I acknowledge that. He hurts me with his words. But he will say something and then swear he didn't say it -- it's just my mind playing with me.
My future is very unsure right now. I know what I want, but I also know what's not good for me. Maybe he's not good for me, and maybe I'm not good for him. Maybe, even as much as I want to be, I just can't be enough for him. And maybe, as much as he wants to be, he just can't be enough for me. Because I don't want to hurt all the time. And I don't want to feel like I'm pathetic, ruined, or less than what one's standards desire. Every time I get to this place, I just want to say, please let's just go our separate ways. I'll always love you (and I will), but I don't want to live like this anymore. I've hurt too much for too long now. Sometimes, having nothing at all is better than having something that's hurtful. I can be alone. I can be okay alone. But I cannot continue to be mistreated. My self esteem is not nearly where it should be, but I do know that I deserve better. This guys needs a crash course from Will Smith in how to treat a lady. But, for some strange reason, I think the only person he treats this way is me. The question is, why do I continue to take it. And when will I stop? If you're reading this blog today and can offer me some words of advice, please do. Because right now, I'm drained emotionally. I must be finished writing my blog because the tears are starting to flow now. May God help me, what have I done to deserve this?
I am close to crying as I write this, but I haven't yet. Maybe afterwards -- I feel the need to put my feelings down on paper before I can allow the emotion to flow out of me physically in the form of tears.
No matter what I say, no matter what I do, he criticizes me. Today I said something about how cold it is going to be over the next couple of days, and he starts going off on me telling me that "It's wintertime, it's supposed to be cold. Shit!" Now, that makes sense, but do I really deserve to be spoken to that way? Am I that small of a human being, with so little to offer that this is the way someone should show me love? Am I so desperate that I should accept it? Not very many days ago, this same person was complaining about how they had planned on going out but changed their mind because it was simply too cold. Now, I didn't go on a tangent talking about how it's winter and he should expect it to be cold. When I brought this up today, his response was "I'm an adult and I can change my mind about going out for whatever reason I want to -- sleepy, tired, too cold, WHATEVER!!!"
I truly, deeply care for this person. But I'm so tired of being his whipping post, his dog to kick, his trash. Why can't I make him understand that I don't deserve to be spoken to like this? Why do his words have to be filled with venom and his tone so harsh and nasty? I think it's time for me to really take a look at what's wrong with me that makes me stay with a person who continues to treat me like this day after day after day. Oh, some days are wonderful, but some are so horrible, I can't even find the words to express the depth of hurt that I feel. I've hurt him with my anxiety, and I acknowledge that. He hurts me with his words. But he will say something and then swear he didn't say it -- it's just my mind playing with me.
My future is very unsure right now. I know what I want, but I also know what's not good for me. Maybe he's not good for me, and maybe I'm not good for him. Maybe, even as much as I want to be, I just can't be enough for him. And maybe, as much as he wants to be, he just can't be enough for me. Because I don't want to hurt all the time. And I don't want to feel like I'm pathetic, ruined, or less than what one's standards desire. Every time I get to this place, I just want to say, please let's just go our separate ways. I'll always love you (and I will), but I don't want to live like this anymore. I've hurt too much for too long now. Sometimes, having nothing at all is better than having something that's hurtful. I can be alone. I can be okay alone. But I cannot continue to be mistreated. My self esteem is not nearly where it should be, but I do know that I deserve better. This guys needs a crash course from Will Smith in how to treat a lady. But, for some strange reason, I think the only person he treats this way is me. The question is, why do I continue to take it. And when will I stop? If you're reading this blog today and can offer me some words of advice, please do. Because right now, I'm drained emotionally. I must be finished writing my blog because the tears are starting to flow now. May God help me, what have I done to deserve this?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Quote for the Day
“The one who loves the least, controls the relationship.”
(Dr. Robert Anthony - Self Help author)
(Dr. Robert Anthony - Self Help author)
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
Once again, I'm blogging. My day started out pretty decently -- I slept a little late before going in to work, and my work day was going just fine. But my BPD friend found a way to screw it all up for me. I was on a conference call with my boss, and because I'd slept late, thereby getting to work late, I wasn't able to call my friend to say hello. When he called me (5 times back to back on my cell phone), I was talking with my boss, so I couldn't just hang up the phone or take the call. When I was free, I called him back, and he just raged on me. He complained about how selfish I am and said that I mistreated him by not answering the phone. I explained the circumstances, but it was like I'd said nothing at all. He was unphased and definitely not empathetic.
I tried calling him several times during the day after that, thinking he would ease up, but every time I called, he did the same thing -- blame me for neglecting him. I finally got so angry that I had an outburst myself and told him that I had never been more sick in my entire life than since I'd met him (which is absolutely true and I think it's from the stress of the relationship), and that I was tired of being frustrated and angry all the time. I'm verbally abused by him and I know it. A thought occurred to me tonight that he does spend time telling me how beautiful I am, and how special I am. I think he does that just to make me stay in the relationship, because he also spends plenty of time criticizing my every move -- everything I do. More than one person has noticed how much he criticizes me. And I think the reason he does that is to keep me feeling badly about myself because if I felt really good about myself, he'd have to go. So he alternates between the two, manipulating me like a professional.
I'm so torn because I feel so very badly about the circumstances in which he grew up, which were deplorable. No one should ever have to be treated the way he was. But I too grew up in difficult circumstances, though they were different. I've had problems all my life, and anxiety since I was 18. So what the hell am I doing with this person whose ultimate goal in life is to build me up and then tear me down. We're on a rollercoaster that just won't stop and let me off. I feel sorry for me and I feel sorry for him. I can't wait for the day that "me" is no longer in this "we". My life is a living nightmare. I don't know how to wake up. Sometimes I wish I wouldn't -- literally.
I tried calling him several times during the day after that, thinking he would ease up, but every time I called, he did the same thing -- blame me for neglecting him. I finally got so angry that I had an outburst myself and told him that I had never been more sick in my entire life than since I'd met him (which is absolutely true and I think it's from the stress of the relationship), and that I was tired of being frustrated and angry all the time. I'm verbally abused by him and I know it. A thought occurred to me tonight that he does spend time telling me how beautiful I am, and how special I am. I think he does that just to make me stay in the relationship, because he also spends plenty of time criticizing my every move -- everything I do. More than one person has noticed how much he criticizes me. And I think the reason he does that is to keep me feeling badly about myself because if I felt really good about myself, he'd have to go. So he alternates between the two, manipulating me like a professional.
I'm so torn because I feel so very badly about the circumstances in which he grew up, which were deplorable. No one should ever have to be treated the way he was. But I too grew up in difficult circumstances, though they were different. I've had problems all my life, and anxiety since I was 18. So what the hell am I doing with this person whose ultimate goal in life is to build me up and then tear me down. We're on a rollercoaster that just won't stop and let me off. I feel sorry for me and I feel sorry for him. I can't wait for the day that "me" is no longer in this "we". My life is a living nightmare. I don't know how to wake up. Sometimes I wish I wouldn't -- literally.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Who, What, Where, When, Why?
This weekend has been really difficult. I mean really, really difficult. I'm in a relationship with someone who is BPD. At times, he can be sweet, funny, attentive, loving -- you name it. Anything you want in a relationship, at times he can be that. But then there are those times when you realize that he's in a relationship with you because he's scared to be out of a relationship with you. He hides things (i.e., people) from you. He makes excuses for being around women that just don't make sense. He treats you like you're nothing. He says things to you that let you know he feels like you're property, not a person. He rages, gets angry, accuses you of things you haven't done, and is ever suspicious. He makes hateful statements and then seconds later, can't (or won't) remember saying them. And when you try to end the relationship because of all the pain you feel, he makes you feel guilty...no, I take that back. No one has the power to make you feel anything. They have an action and you have a reaction. My reaction is to feel sorry for him, guilty that he's hurting so much, and it makes me feel like a lowlife to let the relationship go because of all the pain he's experienced in the past? But what about my pain?
Today is one of those days when I don't care whether I live or die. The pain is too much to handle. I try to love his pain away, but I can't. No one can. And the pain inside of me continues to grow. I know that for most people, the answer is easy -- just leave. But, I think I must be an enabler or something because I can find the words to say "I'm done, and it's over," but I can't stick to it once he starts talking about his childhood and how I know he has problems and he doesn't have anybody else but me. But who do I have? Who do I turn to when I want to suck down every last pill I have and screw this world that today, I feel, has so royally screwed me. I'm caught in a cycle of love and hate. Life and death. My heart is empty and I just HURT. And I'm tired of hurting. I am not the savior of the world. I don't want to be. I just want to save ME. Because there are days when I have so much pain, I don't know who I am anymore. I'm lost inside someone else's identity. And they don't care as long as they get what they want. Who is there for me, what can I do to escape this misery, when will this end, where can I find help? Why is this happening?
Today is one of those days when I don't care whether I live or die. The pain is too much to handle. I try to love his pain away, but I can't. No one can. And the pain inside of me continues to grow. I know that for most people, the answer is easy -- just leave. But, I think I must be an enabler or something because I can find the words to say "I'm done, and it's over," but I can't stick to it once he starts talking about his childhood and how I know he has problems and he doesn't have anybody else but me. But who do I have? Who do I turn to when I want to suck down every last pill I have and screw this world that today, I feel, has so royally screwed me. I'm caught in a cycle of love and hate. Life and death. My heart is empty and I just HURT. And I'm tired of hurting. I am not the savior of the world. I don't want to be. I just want to save ME. Because there are days when I have so much pain, I don't know who I am anymore. I'm lost inside someone else's identity. And they don't care as long as they get what they want. Who is there for me, what can I do to escape this misery, when will this end, where can I find help? Why is this happening?
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
No More Secrets
I've had so many panic attacks over so many years that I don't remember them all individually. But some are so horrible, that they just stick out in your mind. The very first one I had, I remember vividly and have described it in a previous blog entry. The worst ones that I tend to have come after serious emotional turmoil and unrelenting stress.
I remember going to the library one day while I was on my lunch break. I was perfectly fine, and standing in line talking to my favorite librarian. He was checking out my books and videos, and all of a sudden, I just got this sick feeling. I mean, it just really hit me hard and fast. My hand started shaking and I felt dizzy, so I put my hands on the counter and leaned over it to steady myself. The librarian continued to chatter away and I felt depersonalization starting to set in, followed by a cold sweat (if that makes any sense -- I suspect it will to those of us who suffer from anxiety/panic attacks). By that time, I looked flushed, and the librarian asked if I was okay. I told him that I wasn't feeling so well, so he came from behind the counter to help me over to a nearby chair. By that time my teeth were chattering, and I do mean loudly.
Once he had me sitting in a chair, I was in full blown panic mode. My arms and legs were violently shaking, I was thrashing about and hyperventilating, and all of a sudden I was transformed into another world. I could hear him asking me if I was okay, but it sounded like I was inside a booth or something and he was talking to me from outside of it. Several people had started to gather around me by that time. They asked if I wanted them to to call someone for me, any after many desperate tries, I finally squeaked out a request for them to call my boss so she could drive me back to work. While they went to make the call, all hell broke loose and I began to have what looked like an epileptic seizure. The paramedics were called, and they came quickly, but could not calm me down. The next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance headed to the emergency room. They gave me oxygen and told me to try to slow my breathing down. I'm not sure what else they did because I couldn't really focus on them. I was in full blown panic attack hell.
When we got to the emergency room, they called my brother and sister, who both came right away. The panic attacks would stop for a few minutes, and then the next thing you know, I would be right back into one, shaking so violently that they had to strap me down on the gurney and continue to give me oxygen. I was there for about two hours as I continued to have one after another repeatedly. They gave me a sedative, and it eventually released me from the nightmare I was in. I cried and cried. I was humiliated. I was embarrased. My secret was no longer a secret. The whole library knew, everyone at my job knew. I was damaged goods. My brother drove me home, and I went to bed and slept for the remainder of the afternoon and early evening.
When I went in to work the next day, everybody gave me that look. You know the one -- the "I'm looking at you, but I don't want you to know that I'm looking at you" look. The "Did you know she's crazy?" look. The "Boy, did you hear what happened to her yesterday?" look. I was a walking nut factory. The joke of the building. When would I explode again? Life sucked for a really long time after that one.
I remember going to the library one day while I was on my lunch break. I was perfectly fine, and standing in line talking to my favorite librarian. He was checking out my books and videos, and all of a sudden, I just got this sick feeling. I mean, it just really hit me hard and fast. My hand started shaking and I felt dizzy, so I put my hands on the counter and leaned over it to steady myself. The librarian continued to chatter away and I felt depersonalization starting to set in, followed by a cold sweat (if that makes any sense -- I suspect it will to those of us who suffer from anxiety/panic attacks). By that time, I looked flushed, and the librarian asked if I was okay. I told him that I wasn't feeling so well, so he came from behind the counter to help me over to a nearby chair. By that time my teeth were chattering, and I do mean loudly.
Once he had me sitting in a chair, I was in full blown panic mode. My arms and legs were violently shaking, I was thrashing about and hyperventilating, and all of a sudden I was transformed into another world. I could hear him asking me if I was okay, but it sounded like I was inside a booth or something and he was talking to me from outside of it. Several people had started to gather around me by that time. They asked if I wanted them to to call someone for me, any after many desperate tries, I finally squeaked out a request for them to call my boss so she could drive me back to work. While they went to make the call, all hell broke loose and I began to have what looked like an epileptic seizure. The paramedics were called, and they came quickly, but could not calm me down. The next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance headed to the emergency room. They gave me oxygen and told me to try to slow my breathing down. I'm not sure what else they did because I couldn't really focus on them. I was in full blown panic attack hell.
When we got to the emergency room, they called my brother and sister, who both came right away. The panic attacks would stop for a few minutes, and then the next thing you know, I would be right back into one, shaking so violently that they had to strap me down on the gurney and continue to give me oxygen. I was there for about two hours as I continued to have one after another repeatedly. They gave me a sedative, and it eventually released me from the nightmare I was in. I cried and cried. I was humiliated. I was embarrased. My secret was no longer a secret. The whole library knew, everyone at my job knew. I was damaged goods. My brother drove me home, and I went to bed and slept for the remainder of the afternoon and early evening.
When I went in to work the next day, everybody gave me that look. You know the one -- the "I'm looking at you, but I don't want you to know that I'm looking at you" look. The "Did you know she's crazy?" look. The "Boy, did you hear what happened to her yesterday?" look. I was a walking nut factory. The joke of the building. When would I explode again? Life sucked for a really long time after that one.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Pass It On
Yesterday, I had a panic attack. I was really shocked because I do still take medication for panic attacks. In fact, I take enough medication to keep them from occurring (under normal conditions anyway). But yesterday wasn’t a normal day. In fact, the last few weeks haven’t been normal. I haven’t been exercising, I haven’t been eating properly, and my sleep has been minimal at best. I am alive, therefore, I have problems.
I’m currently working a full time job after which I go to work at another full time job that I’m transitioning into. I’m in the middle of a divorce. My bills are overdue. My kids won’t even answer my home phone anymore because no one calls but creditors. My soon to be ex-husband has a six figure salary, but he’s hiding money in various places and paying his bills while I exist on a meager $18,000/year. At my last physical, my physician told me that there was a buildup of plaque in the arteries in my neck, my cholesterol was high, and that I was at increased risk for a stroke. Three weeks ago, I had the flu and was at home for several days for which I will not be paid. One week ago, my daughter had the flu and was out of school the entire week. My teenage son spent the last few days at home, suspended from school, because he had so many things bothering him (that he wouldn’t talk to anyone about) that he finally “snapped.” I spent my entire evening yesterday at a disciplinary committee meeting only to find that he was not expelled from the school (which is such a blessing), but that he had lied to me about the incidents that occurred, has been lying to me for the past two years, and he is on probation for the next two years at school. He also has to go to counseling (which I have to pay and provide transportation for). I don’t mind taking him to counseling if it will help, but I’ve taken him before over the years (to 3 different counselors for several months each) and he just sits there eye to eye with them, not uttering a word.
I have to ask myself, did I fail as a parent? I was always there for school events, homework, sports, awards days – I coached, I was room mom, I went to school for their presentations, helped with projects, and did everything I thought a mom should do. I have told my kids that I love them each and every day of their lives. I hug them constantly. So what happened? Is there something wrong with me? Am I okay? Why are so many things going so wrong in my life all at once? And then, I have to stop and realize that this is my “pain body” (read Eckhart Tolle’s “The Power of Now”) exerting its control over me. It has no control that I do not allow it to have. My job is to remember that I am not my circumstances. I have to realize that I still have a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in, eat 3 meals each and every day (in fact, losing about 15 pounds wouldn’t hurt one bit), I love my kids and they love me, and I have a wonderful, caring, supportive (though slightly dysfunctional) family. And they say what doesn’t kill you stronger. (Although I do sometimes wonder if the person who said that is still alive.)
Yes, parts of my life are terrible right now and I have to take medicine just to get to sleep at night, no matter how tired I already am. Then, in the morning, I have to drink coffee just to stay awake. But each day is a new day, and every now and then, I’m filled with hope by some little thing, some small kindness bestowed upon me by a loved one, a co-worker, or even a stranger.
Yesterday, I checked my email for the first time in a couple of weeks and there was a message from Luz. That one email message from Luz really touched my heart, and made me feel like, even if from afar, someone is thinking about me. Someone cares. And I care about Luz and everybody else who is going through difficult situations. Panic attacks, anxiety disorders, OCD, bipolar disorders, overdue bills, kid issues, health issues, health insurance issues, the loss of a loved one – the list goes on and on. So, I’m asking anybody who reads my blog today to do me a favor: do or say something nice to somebody today. Say something nice to someone every day and mean it. Make it your goal. You never know how much one small thing can do to make a difference in someone’s life. It doesn’t take much – just to know that somebody noticed you or cares enough to give you a smile when you don’t have anything but frowns inside. Thank you for the smile you gave me yesterday Luz. Hugs to you for that!!! And hugs to you too Marcy (you know who you are) because you make me smile too, and I love you for that.
I’m currently working a full time job after which I go to work at another full time job that I’m transitioning into. I’m in the middle of a divorce. My bills are overdue. My kids won’t even answer my home phone anymore because no one calls but creditors. My soon to be ex-husband has a six figure salary, but he’s hiding money in various places and paying his bills while I exist on a meager $18,000/year. At my last physical, my physician told me that there was a buildup of plaque in the arteries in my neck, my cholesterol was high, and that I was at increased risk for a stroke. Three weeks ago, I had the flu and was at home for several days for which I will not be paid. One week ago, my daughter had the flu and was out of school the entire week. My teenage son spent the last few days at home, suspended from school, because he had so many things bothering him (that he wouldn’t talk to anyone about) that he finally “snapped.” I spent my entire evening yesterday at a disciplinary committee meeting only to find that he was not expelled from the school (which is such a blessing), but that he had lied to me about the incidents that occurred, has been lying to me for the past two years, and he is on probation for the next two years at school. He also has to go to counseling (which I have to pay and provide transportation for). I don’t mind taking him to counseling if it will help, but I’ve taken him before over the years (to 3 different counselors for several months each) and he just sits there eye to eye with them, not uttering a word.
I have to ask myself, did I fail as a parent? I was always there for school events, homework, sports, awards days – I coached, I was room mom, I went to school for their presentations, helped with projects, and did everything I thought a mom should do. I have told my kids that I love them each and every day of their lives. I hug them constantly. So what happened? Is there something wrong with me? Am I okay? Why are so many things going so wrong in my life all at once? And then, I have to stop and realize that this is my “pain body” (read Eckhart Tolle’s “The Power of Now”) exerting its control over me. It has no control that I do not allow it to have. My job is to remember that I am not my circumstances. I have to realize that I still have a roof over my head, a bed to sleep in, eat 3 meals each and every day (in fact, losing about 15 pounds wouldn’t hurt one bit), I love my kids and they love me, and I have a wonderful, caring, supportive (though slightly dysfunctional) family. And they say what doesn’t kill you stronger. (Although I do sometimes wonder if the person who said that is still alive.)
Yes, parts of my life are terrible right now and I have to take medicine just to get to sleep at night, no matter how tired I already am. Then, in the morning, I have to drink coffee just to stay awake. But each day is a new day, and every now and then, I’m filled with hope by some little thing, some small kindness bestowed upon me by a loved one, a co-worker, or even a stranger.
Yesterday, I checked my email for the first time in a couple of weeks and there was a message from Luz. That one email message from Luz really touched my heart, and made me feel like, even if from afar, someone is thinking about me. Someone cares. And I care about Luz and everybody else who is going through difficult situations. Panic attacks, anxiety disorders, OCD, bipolar disorders, overdue bills, kid issues, health issues, health insurance issues, the loss of a loved one – the list goes on and on. So, I’m asking anybody who reads my blog today to do me a favor: do or say something nice to somebody today. Say something nice to someone every day and mean it. Make it your goal. You never know how much one small thing can do to make a difference in someone’s life. It doesn’t take much – just to know that somebody noticed you or cares enough to give you a smile when you don’t have anything but frowns inside. Thank you for the smile you gave me yesterday Luz. Hugs to you for that!!! And hugs to you too Marcy (you know who you are) because you make me smile too, and I love you for that.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Panic Attacks: No Respecter of Age
I haven't blogged for a while because I've had so much on my plate, I really haven't had time to, and I don't blog just for the sake of blogging. It has to come from my heart. And when I'm mentally and physically exhausted, it's just not there.
But today, I was at work, and watched as a 7th grade student was brought into the office. Her teacher was wide eyed, and the girl was crying. I had no idea what was going on, but as the teacher continued to question her about what the problem was, I heard this young 7th grader say that she was having a panic attack.
This really makes me sad. I was 18 when I had my first panic attack, and it changed my life forever. Now here's someone who is having panic attacks in the 7th grade? And apparently, it wasn't her first one. She was sent to the hospital by ambulance the first time she had one because nobody knew what was going on.
I know that all of us who are living with this disorder are facing a terrible time, but as adults and young adults, we can at least understand it a little better, even if that doesn't make us feel much better about it.
I wonder what is going on in her life, in her home, in her heart that is causing her panic attacks. Is she being molested? Is someone verbally and/or physically abusing her? Did she witness something traumatic?
When I was growing up, I never even heard of panic attacks. Now, lots of people have them. Do we ever stop to ask ourselves why this is the case? What's so wrong with our society, where we have more than we've ever had before, but we're also more stressed than we've ever been. Can we change this cycle? How do we do it? And when?
I have no answers today. Only questions and distress.
But today, I was at work, and watched as a 7th grade student was brought into the office. Her teacher was wide eyed, and the girl was crying. I had no idea what was going on, but as the teacher continued to question her about what the problem was, I heard this young 7th grader say that she was having a panic attack.
This really makes me sad. I was 18 when I had my first panic attack, and it changed my life forever. Now here's someone who is having panic attacks in the 7th grade? And apparently, it wasn't her first one. She was sent to the hospital by ambulance the first time she had one because nobody knew what was going on.
I know that all of us who are living with this disorder are facing a terrible time, but as adults and young adults, we can at least understand it a little better, even if that doesn't make us feel much better about it.
I wonder what is going on in her life, in her home, in her heart that is causing her panic attacks. Is she being molested? Is someone verbally and/or physically abusing her? Did she witness something traumatic?
When I was growing up, I never even heard of panic attacks. Now, lots of people have them. Do we ever stop to ask ourselves why this is the case? What's so wrong with our society, where we have more than we've ever had before, but we're also more stressed than we've ever been. Can we change this cycle? How do we do it? And when?
I have no answers today. Only questions and distress.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Quote for the Day
“He who is not everyday conquering some fear has not learned the secret of life.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Musical Meds
Over the years, as my anxiety disorder stabilized and destablized, and the panic attacks came and went, my physicians prescribed several medications for me. Some of them worked for a while, and some of them didn't work at all. There were anti-anxiety meds, antidepressants, antipsychotics, and who knows what else. There were combinations, additions, subtractions, dosage increases, dosage decreases, and cocktails -- you name it, I've probably had it. I never thought I'd ever have taken so much medication by the time I reached 44, but here's the list of meds that I was on over the years:
Xanax, Imipramine, Valium, Wellbutrin, BuSpar, Neuronton, Ativan, Klonopin, Restoril, GABA, Remeron, Trazadone, Vistaril, Paxil, Serax, Ambien, Lexapro, Zoloft, Effexor, Prozac, Elavil, Serzone, Desyrel, Risperdal, Seroquel, Mellaril, and even Lithium.
As anxiety goes, I found that Klonopin worked best for me. As an antidepressant, Remeron works best for me. Sometimes to get to sleep, Trazadone was the key. And for times when I had rages (after traumatic events that occurred in my adult life), there was Lithium. Ashamed to admit it, but yes, I took it. Not for long, but I did. And I'm glad I did. Because it worked and it helped to keep the anger that was consuming me under control.
The funny thing about taking all of these medications is that while they might work (for me, you, or whomever), there are side effects. First of all, don't even try to get pregnant taking them. Secondly, your body begins to adapt to them and you need more and more to keep the panic attacks under control. More meds, higher dosages. And finally, you have a serious tolerance to most meds, including those that are used to "put you under" for simple medical procedures like colonoscopies and things of that nature. When you get to that point, it's pretty bad. Let me tell you just how bad it is.
After being on medications for years and developing an incredibly high tolerance for them (I can take Flexeril on top of anxiety meds and go right to work unphased). Meds that have warnings about making you drowsy don't even phase me. I wish it weren't the case, but it is.
I have a history of cancer in my family, particularly colon cancer, so I have to have regular endoscopies. I also have a hiatal hernia, and sometimes, my general practitioner lets me know it's time to have an Esophagogastroduodenoscopy (EGD) and colonoscopy to check on the two conditions. These are both minimally invasive outpatient procedures where you go to the hospital and they put an IV in your arm, then put Versed or something of the sort into the IV and out you go while they put a tube down your throat or insert one into your rectum to examine your colon. No problem because you're asleep and you don't feel a thing. You go to the recovery room where the doctor gives you the results of your test (which you won't remember because you're so zonked out, so they also tell the person who drove you to the hospital to make sure that someody knows what the results actually were). Hospital staff puts you in a wheelchair, takes you out to your car and helps you to get in, and then your designated driver takes over. Home you go, to sleep for a large portion of the rest of the day. And this is the way it went the first couple of times I had these procedures done.
Unfortunately, over the years, because I had developed a higher tolerance for medication until it got to the point where they could no longer "put me under." So the very last time I had the procedure, the doctor ordered the nurse to put about 3 different medications into my IV, but I never went under; there was just no response. The doctor was looking at me and I was looking right back at him as if to say, "So what do we do now, doc?" Well, he had other patients to take care of, so I'll tell you what he did. He had two really huge nurses (one male and one female) to strap me in, and freaking hold me down and performed those procedures while I was WIDE AWAKE. Yes, that's what I said. A tube went down into my throat and into my esophagus, and another one went into my rectum and through the colon. This was over the course of minutes, not seconds, mind you. I tried to ask them to stop, but they did not. When they finally wheeled me out to my husband and child, my face was red and swollen from the tears I'd cried because I was in so much pain. If I had had good sense (or a good lawyer and the money with which to pay him or her), I'd have sued the hell out of that doctor. But he did tell me one thing. The next time I come in for a procedure (which I'll definitely be getting from a different physician), I'll have to have general anesthesia administered by an actual anesthesiologist. And that's all thanks to the anxiety meds that I take to make my life bearable, to function, to feel normal. But if that's the case, why do I feel so abnormal? I don't abuse my meds, I only take them as directed. And that's why I implore anyone who has an anxiety disorder to try to take minimal meds, or even try herbal remedies (Hops, Valerian, Chamomile) as directed by a physician. Because there comes a point when you wonder whether the meds are your friend or your foe. That's a question that I'm still trying to answer.
Xanax, Imipramine, Valium, Wellbutrin, BuSpar, Neuronton, Ativan, Klonopin, Restoril, GABA, Remeron, Trazadone, Vistaril, Paxil, Serax, Ambien, Lexapro, Zoloft, Effexor, Prozac, Elavil, Serzone, Desyrel, Risperdal, Seroquel, Mellaril, and even Lithium.
As anxiety goes, I found that Klonopin worked best for me. As an antidepressant, Remeron works best for me. Sometimes to get to sleep, Trazadone was the key. And for times when I had rages (after traumatic events that occurred in my adult life), there was Lithium. Ashamed to admit it, but yes, I took it. Not for long, but I did. And I'm glad I did. Because it worked and it helped to keep the anger that was consuming me under control.
The funny thing about taking all of these medications is that while they might work (for me, you, or whomever), there are side effects. First of all, don't even try to get pregnant taking them. Secondly, your body begins to adapt to them and you need more and more to keep the panic attacks under control. More meds, higher dosages. And finally, you have a serious tolerance to most meds, including those that are used to "put you under" for simple medical procedures like colonoscopies and things of that nature. When you get to that point, it's pretty bad. Let me tell you just how bad it is.
After being on medications for years and developing an incredibly high tolerance for them (I can take Flexeril on top of anxiety meds and go right to work unphased). Meds that have warnings about making you drowsy don't even phase me. I wish it weren't the case, but it is.
I have a history of cancer in my family, particularly colon cancer, so I have to have regular endoscopies. I also have a hiatal hernia, and sometimes, my general practitioner lets me know it's time to have an Esophagogastroduodenoscopy (EGD) and colonoscopy to check on the two conditions. These are both minimally invasive outpatient procedures where you go to the hospital and they put an IV in your arm, then put Versed or something of the sort into the IV and out you go while they put a tube down your throat or insert one into your rectum to examine your colon. No problem because you're asleep and you don't feel a thing. You go to the recovery room where the doctor gives you the results of your test (which you won't remember because you're so zonked out, so they also tell the person who drove you to the hospital to make sure that someody knows what the results actually were). Hospital staff puts you in a wheelchair, takes you out to your car and helps you to get in, and then your designated driver takes over. Home you go, to sleep for a large portion of the rest of the day. And this is the way it went the first couple of times I had these procedures done.
Unfortunately, over the years, because I had developed a higher tolerance for medication until it got to the point where they could no longer "put me under." So the very last time I had the procedure, the doctor ordered the nurse to put about 3 different medications into my IV, but I never went under; there was just no response. The doctor was looking at me and I was looking right back at him as if to say, "So what do we do now, doc?" Well, he had other patients to take care of, so I'll tell you what he did. He had two really huge nurses (one male and one female) to strap me in, and freaking hold me down and performed those procedures while I was WIDE AWAKE. Yes, that's what I said. A tube went down into my throat and into my esophagus, and another one went into my rectum and through the colon. This was over the course of minutes, not seconds, mind you. I tried to ask them to stop, but they did not. When they finally wheeled me out to my husband and child, my face was red and swollen from the tears I'd cried because I was in so much pain. If I had had good sense (or a good lawyer and the money with which to pay him or her), I'd have sued the hell out of that doctor. But he did tell me one thing. The next time I come in for a procedure (which I'll definitely be getting from a different physician), I'll have to have general anesthesia administered by an actual anesthesiologist. And that's all thanks to the anxiety meds that I take to make my life bearable, to function, to feel normal. But if that's the case, why do I feel so abnormal? I don't abuse my meds, I only take them as directed. And that's why I implore anyone who has an anxiety disorder to try to take minimal meds, or even try herbal remedies (Hops, Valerian, Chamomile) as directed by a physician. Because there comes a point when you wonder whether the meds are your friend or your foe. That's a question that I'm still trying to answer.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Quote for the Day
“There is nothing to fear but fear itself.”
Franklin D. Roosevelt quotes (American 32nd US President)
Franklin D. Roosevelt quotes (American 32nd US President)
Death by Meds???
Anxiety free! That's what I was! And I stayed that way for many, many months. Then suddenly, without warning, I had a panic attack. Followed by another panic attack. And so on and so forth. I was back to square one. But this time, I had the magic word in my head: MEDS. I tried to find the doctor who had given me the prescription for Imipramine, but he was no longer practicing, so I desperately sought out someone else to save me. I accepted the quickest appointment the new doctor had, and waited...experiencing each moment as if it were an eternity. And finally, appointment day arrived.
I completed the usual barrage of insurance forms, releases, etc. and sat back down in my chair awaiting my hero -- the wonderful guy with the prescription pad! He'd take care of me. I knew he would. When he called my name, I followed him to his office like a puppy whose master had just come home. We got the usual formalities out of the way, and I relayed my story about the Xanax nightmare and the doctor with the Imipramine. His mouth fell open and I will never forget the words that came out: "He took you off of six Xanax a day cold turkey? You could have had a seizure and died. You're very lucky." Now, right about that time, I didn't feel very lucky. I was pissed. How could someone do that to me who was a medical expert? Didn't he know? Did he care? What's happening to people these days? There's a such thing as a medical oath, you know. To this day, the only answer I can come up with is that Dr. Imipramine really believed in the power of the mind to control the body and thought that as long as I believed I would be okay (and didn't know he was risking my freaking life), I'd be just fine.
Still reeling from the uppercut my new hero had given me, I gathered my faculties and asked a simple question. "Can you help me?" Yes, he definitely could. Turns out there was a new wonder drug called Prozac, and he even had samples for me. I happily took my prescription, and left his office with my next appointment date and a new found hope. I had my cure. I just had to get to my next hero -- the pharmacist.
It didn't take long for me to notice the effect of the new "super drug" Prozac. Sitting at my desk in my office, I realized that my tongue felt funny. Really funny. Then my face began to swell. OK, so I'm not a medical expert or anything, but I knew something was badly wrong. I called my hero, uh, doctor's office and was told that I was having an allergic reaction to the medication and to discontinue it immediately. Now this is when I realized that it's possible to have more than one thought at the exact same time: "What do you mean stop taking the WONDER DRUG???" and "Duh, did you think I was going to actually put another one of those death pills in my mouth?" And thus began the search for a new medication. Actually, make that medications. You see, not only was I being treated for anxiety and panic attacks, I was now also being treated for depression. Why? Ask anybody who's ever had a panic attack, and they can tell you all about it. Depression and anxiety go hand in hand like yen and yang, surf & turf, or peanut butter and jelly. You see, when your life is turned completely upside down, and even the most normal, basic things become difficult to do, you're going to be depressed. The question is, do you wallow in it, or count your blessings and try to bring yourself out of it? I did the first for a very long time, and if there's anybody out there who is reading this, please let me say to you: You are NOT alone. You are NOT crazy. You are NOT going to die from anxiety/panic attacks. You CAN overcome this disorder. But it is going to take effort, patience, resiliency, resolution, and every bit of fight that you have within yourself. The bad news is that it's hard. But the good news, the great news, is that it can be done and you don't have to go through it alone. You just have to love yourself enough to do it. That begins with trying to understanding why you are having panic attacks in the first place. What are your unresolved emotional issues and past traumas? Who hurt you when they should have protected and nurtured you? I suggest you think seriously about this for a while, and then write letters detailing everything you can remember and feel to the people who played a role in your pain process. You don't have to mail the letters, or you can mail them if you want to. The point is to get in touch with your pain and fear. Feel it and go through it, so you can get rid of it. Because that's what anxiety is all about -- unresolved, traumatic emotions.
I completed the usual barrage of insurance forms, releases, etc. and sat back down in my chair awaiting my hero -- the wonderful guy with the prescription pad! He'd take care of me. I knew he would. When he called my name, I followed him to his office like a puppy whose master had just come home. We got the usual formalities out of the way, and I relayed my story about the Xanax nightmare and the doctor with the Imipramine. His mouth fell open and I will never forget the words that came out: "He took you off of six Xanax a day cold turkey? You could have had a seizure and died. You're very lucky." Now, right about that time, I didn't feel very lucky. I was pissed. How could someone do that to me who was a medical expert? Didn't he know? Did he care? What's happening to people these days? There's a such thing as a medical oath, you know. To this day, the only answer I can come up with is that Dr. Imipramine really believed in the power of the mind to control the body and thought that as long as I believed I would be okay (and didn't know he was risking my freaking life), I'd be just fine.
Still reeling from the uppercut my new hero had given me, I gathered my faculties and asked a simple question. "Can you help me?" Yes, he definitely could. Turns out there was a new wonder drug called Prozac, and he even had samples for me. I happily took my prescription, and left his office with my next appointment date and a new found hope. I had my cure. I just had to get to my next hero -- the pharmacist.
It didn't take long for me to notice the effect of the new "super drug" Prozac. Sitting at my desk in my office, I realized that my tongue felt funny. Really funny. Then my face began to swell. OK, so I'm not a medical expert or anything, but I knew something was badly wrong. I called my hero, uh, doctor's office and was told that I was having an allergic reaction to the medication and to discontinue it immediately. Now this is when I realized that it's possible to have more than one thought at the exact same time: "What do you mean stop taking the WONDER DRUG???" and "Duh, did you think I was going to actually put another one of those death pills in my mouth?" And thus began the search for a new medication. Actually, make that medications. You see, not only was I being treated for anxiety and panic attacks, I was now also being treated for depression. Why? Ask anybody who's ever had a panic attack, and they can tell you all about it. Depression and anxiety go hand in hand like yen and yang, surf & turf, or peanut butter and jelly. You see, when your life is turned completely upside down, and even the most normal, basic things become difficult to do, you're going to be depressed. The question is, do you wallow in it, or count your blessings and try to bring yourself out of it? I did the first for a very long time, and if there's anybody out there who is reading this, please let me say to you: You are NOT alone. You are NOT crazy. You are NOT going to die from anxiety/panic attacks. You CAN overcome this disorder. But it is going to take effort, patience, resiliency, resolution, and every bit of fight that you have within yourself. The bad news is that it's hard. But the good news, the great news, is that it can be done and you don't have to go through it alone. You just have to love yourself enough to do it. That begins with trying to understanding why you are having panic attacks in the first place. What are your unresolved emotional issues and past traumas? Who hurt you when they should have protected and nurtured you? I suggest you think seriously about this for a while, and then write letters detailing everything you can remember and feel to the people who played a role in your pain process. You don't have to mail the letters, or you can mail them if you want to. The point is to get in touch with your pain and fear. Feel it and go through it, so you can get rid of it. Because that's what anxiety is all about -- unresolved, traumatic emotions.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
This One's for Luz
I have been ill for the past few days, so I haven't been blogging. Today, however, I saw a comment from Luz (you should check out her blog - http://luzmcosta.com/) asking if my weight was perhaps a factor in the doctor's decision to prescribe six Xanax a day for me. My answer to that question is that at the time, I was approximately 120 pounds, and I'm 5'9", so I definitely don't think it was a factor. I don't know many 250 pound men that wouldn't be groggy or just plain knocked out by that amount of medicine. Anyway, I visited her blog, and I encourage anyone who is reading mine to read hers as well. I found something very interesting in her blog, something that we have in common. We have both been molested.
The first time I was molested, I was a virgin, and a senior in high school working for the office as an aide. They asked me to take something to the gym to the coach, and when I did, he asked me to come into his office that needed to be received in the main office. When I entered, he slammed the door behind me and tried to take off my clothes. I screamed and fought back, but there was a gym class going on, and nobody could hear me. He grabbed me in places that only one's husband or OB/GYN should touch. I don't remember how I managed to get out of there, but I was able to before there was any actual intercourse. I went to my next class wiping away tears, and terribly upset. When I went home, I told my mom what happened. She was upset by it, but said that we didn't need to make a big fuss about it because of all the attention that would be cast upon us. I honestly think that at that moment, my self esteem plummeted, and I began to feel as if I didn't matter, that what happened to me wasn't important. I wasn't good enough for someone to stand up for me. I was officially a "nobody." And to this day, it's hard for me to stand up for myself, because I don't want to cause problems. People walk all over me and they get away with it. I hate them for doing it, and I hate myself for letting them do it.
The next time was at my first job where one of my two bosses couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself. His hand would brush against my ass as he passed me, no matter how much space there was for him to get by. Once, he even pulled me into his lap, and I struggled to get up. He brushed it off as a joke, and everybody thought it was funny. Everybody but me.
The time after that was a church member who had always stared at me in a peculiar way even though I was underage. He watched me for years, with eyes full of lust, and made comments to me that he shouldn't have. I just did my best to stay away from him because I knew that if my mom didn't want trouble at school, she surely didn't want it at church.
I changed churches and years went by. My mom invited me back to see this great new preacher that had just come. He was supposedly so vibrant and such a godly man, I had to see this for myself. So, I went for a visit. Mom introduced me to him and he thanked me for coming. I picked up the phone at work one day to hear the sound of his voice. My mom had given him my telephone number to try to get me to come back to my old church. Initially, the conversations were innocent, but they became very different very quickly. It got to the point where he invited me to a hotel and told me what he could do for me in bed. I went to my mom and told her what he'd said to me. Her response? I must have misunderstood him. She did not want to talk about it any further. As far as I know, he's still married with two children. I feel sorry for his wife.
In yet another episode, I had a pair of white shorts and my college t-shirt on (extra large because I like big shirts) with no bra, but it wasn't provacative or anything like that -- just a tee-shirt. A male relative came downstairs where I was alone (in my family home) and started tickling me. I asked him to stop, and when I tried to get away, he put me in a bear hug, grabbed me from behind, and somehow or another, in the process of trying to get away, I found myself upside down with my shirt revealing my breasts. I told mom about that one too, but she said that it would upset the family and might cause a divorce if that ever came out, so she asked me never to say anything about it. And to this day, I haven't.
The last episode that I remember was when I went to another church member's house for Bible study. There were many people there, so I didn't feel uncomfortable. In fact, I even had a friend there with me. When I got home, I received a phone call from this man asking me if I could come back to his house. Apparently, his wife was out of town, and he "really wanted to be with me that night". This time, I took action. I talked to my minister about what happened, and he confronted the person (who actually admitted what he'd done), but said that his being sorry for it and repenting was enough and that it would not be taken any further. I left the church.
The problem with all of these events was not so much what the men did to me as what my mother did to me by making me feel unworthy of being taken care of, stood up for. I will always love my mother, but to this day, I don't think she has any idea about what kind of damage she caused by allowing these things to happen without consequences. I have a daughter. If anyone touches her, I'm not sure that I could even let the law intervene. I'd have a hard time not killing them, and I'm NOT a violent person. No one should be allowed to take away someone's innocence and get away with it. And no parent should ever sweep it under the rug for the sake of not opening a can of worms. Just let someone touch my daughter. Or son. You'll see worms flying all over the damn place, along with men's body parts.
I'm convinced that there is a correlation between having been molested and anxiety/panic attacks. Because when someone molests you, they take away that feeling of safeness that you have. They take away your power, and they leave you with suspicion, guilt, and the thought that you had to have done something to cause it. I know now that I didn't cause any of these events, but for the longest time, I thought there must be something wrong with me or it wouldn't keep happening to me. I didn't know anyone else that it had happened to, so it must have been me. I was the faulty one.
The first time I was molested, I was a virgin, and a senior in high school working for the office as an aide. They asked me to take something to the gym to the coach, and when I did, he asked me to come into his office that needed to be received in the main office. When I entered, he slammed the door behind me and tried to take off my clothes. I screamed and fought back, but there was a gym class going on, and nobody could hear me. He grabbed me in places that only one's husband or OB/GYN should touch. I don't remember how I managed to get out of there, but I was able to before there was any actual intercourse. I went to my next class wiping away tears, and terribly upset. When I went home, I told my mom what happened. She was upset by it, but said that we didn't need to make a big fuss about it because of all the attention that would be cast upon us. I honestly think that at that moment, my self esteem plummeted, and I began to feel as if I didn't matter, that what happened to me wasn't important. I wasn't good enough for someone to stand up for me. I was officially a "nobody." And to this day, it's hard for me to stand up for myself, because I don't want to cause problems. People walk all over me and they get away with it. I hate them for doing it, and I hate myself for letting them do it.
The next time was at my first job where one of my two bosses couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself. His hand would brush against my ass as he passed me, no matter how much space there was for him to get by. Once, he even pulled me into his lap, and I struggled to get up. He brushed it off as a joke, and everybody thought it was funny. Everybody but me.
The time after that was a church member who had always stared at me in a peculiar way even though I was underage. He watched me for years, with eyes full of lust, and made comments to me that he shouldn't have. I just did my best to stay away from him because I knew that if my mom didn't want trouble at school, she surely didn't want it at church.
I changed churches and years went by. My mom invited me back to see this great new preacher that had just come. He was supposedly so vibrant and such a godly man, I had to see this for myself. So, I went for a visit. Mom introduced me to him and he thanked me for coming. I picked up the phone at work one day to hear the sound of his voice. My mom had given him my telephone number to try to get me to come back to my old church. Initially, the conversations were innocent, but they became very different very quickly. It got to the point where he invited me to a hotel and told me what he could do for me in bed. I went to my mom and told her what he'd said to me. Her response? I must have misunderstood him. She did not want to talk about it any further. As far as I know, he's still married with two children. I feel sorry for his wife.
In yet another episode, I had a pair of white shorts and my college t-shirt on (extra large because I like big shirts) with no bra, but it wasn't provacative or anything like that -- just a tee-shirt. A male relative came downstairs where I was alone (in my family home) and started tickling me. I asked him to stop, and when I tried to get away, he put me in a bear hug, grabbed me from behind, and somehow or another, in the process of trying to get away, I found myself upside down with my shirt revealing my breasts. I told mom about that one too, but she said that it would upset the family and might cause a divorce if that ever came out, so she asked me never to say anything about it. And to this day, I haven't.
The last episode that I remember was when I went to another church member's house for Bible study. There were many people there, so I didn't feel uncomfortable. In fact, I even had a friend there with me. When I got home, I received a phone call from this man asking me if I could come back to his house. Apparently, his wife was out of town, and he "really wanted to be with me that night". This time, I took action. I talked to my minister about what happened, and he confronted the person (who actually admitted what he'd done), but said that his being sorry for it and repenting was enough and that it would not be taken any further. I left the church.
The problem with all of these events was not so much what the men did to me as what my mother did to me by making me feel unworthy of being taken care of, stood up for. I will always love my mother, but to this day, I don't think she has any idea about what kind of damage she caused by allowing these things to happen without consequences. I have a daughter. If anyone touches her, I'm not sure that I could even let the law intervene. I'd have a hard time not killing them, and I'm NOT a violent person. No one should be allowed to take away someone's innocence and get away with it. And no parent should ever sweep it under the rug for the sake of not opening a can of worms. Just let someone touch my daughter. Or son. You'll see worms flying all over the damn place, along with men's body parts.
I'm convinced that there is a correlation between having been molested and anxiety/panic attacks. Because when someone molests you, they take away that feeling of safeness that you have. They take away your power, and they leave you with suspicion, guilt, and the thought that you had to have done something to cause it. I know now that I didn't cause any of these events, but for the longest time, I thought there must be something wrong with me or it wouldn't keep happening to me. I didn't know anyone else that it had happened to, so it must have been me. I was the faulty one.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Quote on Stress for the Day
We live longer than our forefathers; but we suffer more from a thousand artificial anxieties and cares. They fatigued only the muscles, we exhaust the finer strength of the nerves. ~Edward George Bulwer-Lytton
Seeing Clearly Again...Or Am I???
The six Xanax a day that I was taking clearly affected my ability to function and think in a normal manner. No, I wasn't having panic attacks, but maybe that's because I was so out of it that I couldn't think straight enough to have a panic attack! I was able to gather my bearings long enough to contact another physician, one who didn't want to use me as a guinea pig and then boot me out the door with enough medicine in my system to put six normal adults to sleep each day.
The new doc asked me all about my anxiety disorder/panic attacks, and seemed to hang onto my every word as I told him every little detail. He told me that he could help me to conquer panic attacks using a non-addictive medication called Imipramine. Imipramine good, Xanax bad!!! He drilled this into my head before I left and the phrase stuck with me as if it had been subliminally implanted. The really odd thing was that he wanted me to stop my Xanax immediately (in fact, he made me leave my Xanax prescription bottle there with him) and begin the process of allowing Imipramine to get into my system. Talk about pure hell!! I did trust him, and I did forego the Xanax and begin to take the Imipramine as instructed, but since it (the Imipramine) had to build up in my system over several weeks, the panic attacks came back full force and with a vengeance. Once again, my life was a living nightmare, and I could only hold onto the hope that this man whom I'd trusted so very much really knew what he was talking about and that soon I would be better. And do you know what? After about 6-8 weeks, I was better. I felt good again, I actuallly left the house in my dad's truck and enjoyed just driving around my neighborhood, taking in each tree, bush, bird and car as if it was the first time I'd ever seen any of them. I was cured! I was normal! I started exercising regularly, stripped all things caffeine from my life, got eight hours of sleep each night, and I felt great! In fact, after about a year of being on Imipramine, I stopped taking them cold turkey because I no longer felt as if I had a problem and the doc had told me that they were non-addictive so I could just stop taking them whenever I wanted to. Life was sweet, the world was my oyster, and I forgot all about panic attacks. I just wish they'd forgotten about me.
The new doc asked me all about my anxiety disorder/panic attacks, and seemed to hang onto my every word as I told him every little detail. He told me that he could help me to conquer panic attacks using a non-addictive medication called Imipramine. Imipramine good, Xanax bad!!! He drilled this into my head before I left and the phrase stuck with me as if it had been subliminally implanted. The really odd thing was that he wanted me to stop my Xanax immediately (in fact, he made me leave my Xanax prescription bottle there with him) and begin the process of allowing Imipramine to get into my system. Talk about pure hell!! I did trust him, and I did forego the Xanax and begin to take the Imipramine as instructed, but since it (the Imipramine) had to build up in my system over several weeks, the panic attacks came back full force and with a vengeance. Once again, my life was a living nightmare, and I could only hold onto the hope that this man whom I'd trusted so very much really knew what he was talking about and that soon I would be better. And do you know what? After about 6-8 weeks, I was better. I felt good again, I actuallly left the house in my dad's truck and enjoyed just driving around my neighborhood, taking in each tree, bush, bird and car as if it was the first time I'd ever seen any of them. I was cured! I was normal! I started exercising regularly, stripped all things caffeine from my life, got eight hours of sleep each night, and I felt great! In fact, after about a year of being on Imipramine, I stopped taking them cold turkey because I no longer felt as if I had a problem and the doc had told me that they were non-addictive so I could just stop taking them whenever I wanted to. Life was sweet, the world was my oyster, and I forgot all about panic attacks. I just wish they'd forgotten about me.
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