Oct 27, 2017

Medicated


My dad flew up our driveway, on the hunt for my mom, panicked, as always.
I watch him shuffle up to the front door as a I muttered under my breath...you have got to be shitting me.

Trying my best to keep my cool, I step onto the porch to greet him before the dog realizes he's there. I re-explained to him, for the millionth time, that she is not here, that I am not including myself in this chaos, to please calm down and relax, that there is nothing to worry about.

The conversation always goes the same way...I know, I'm sick. I need help...he will say.

I know Dad...I really hope you are making the appointments that you say you are and trying to get the help you need. I can't help you with this part. You need professionals.

Do you know where your mom is...my dad stutters again...as if he hadn't heard the last few minutes of our conversation.

I can feel my blood boiling.

Dad...you have to quit following her. She is a grown ass woman with her own life. Please, PLEASE make an effort to have your own life as well. Please find help. Please make the calls. Please see the doctors. You are ruining the dynamic of this family. You are making me crazy too!

I know. I'm sorry....his voice is pitiful as he retreats to his car.

I slam the door shut. And cry loudly.

Mark is swearing in the other room because he just plated dinner and it's getting cold.
He is frustrated because this chaos interrupts our lives very often.

I am buzzing.
After two weeks of antibiotics and what I thought was the right road to recovery, the floating feelings and dizzy spells were back.

I wipe my tears, compose myself, and meet Mark in the living room to eat dinner.
That night I have nightmares about the struggle I have been having with my family....for years.

The next morning, while driving to work, the all-too-familiar feeling of me losing control rises again.
The sweaty palms.
The tunnel vision.
The spinning.
The buzzing.
The choking feeling.

I am on the brink of another panic attack.
I try to talk myself through it, tell myself I am better than this. It's not a big deal.
But I find myself pulling off the road to gather my thoughts and breathe.

I can't live like this anymore.
I feel like I am dying sometimes.
I feel out of control...crazy...mad....insane.

I find myself back at the doctor's office that morning.

He tells me I am having panic attacks. I have extreme anxiety and sometimes this stuff just happens as we get into our 30's and 40's, especially after major, life-changing events.

Our minds start to do crazy things.

I have a family history, after all.
I suppose I shouldn't be overly surprised.

But the thought of being....medicated....that stigma, you know?
Like....who needs pills to live their life?

Me.
I do.
I need that to help with my life right now.

My emotions are either 0% or 1,000%.
There is no in-between.
I am on edge.
I am always pissy.
I am not a nice person. Overly snarky.
Not very warm or loving to Mark.
I have nightmares and night sweats.
I get overwhelmed with all I have to do, and all I have been through, and all that still needs to be done.

The doctor looks at me, and smiles, and says...if only you knew how many people were on this stuff, you'd be shocked. I would bet many, many of your friends are, and they just haven't said anything.

Well here I am....saying it.

I have started a new chapter in my life that includes a psychiatrist, therapist, and pills.

This village, if you will, has been helping me work through all of the shit that has built up over the years, including IVF, my miscarriage, my family, and, well....life.

It has all become too much for me.
For a while I resisted...because, you know, I have GOT to be stronger than succumbing to pills.

But I'm not right now.
And I'm slowly learning to be okay with help...after being so stubborn for so many years.

So after trial and error between a few different types of medications (I fell into the 1% that has an allergic reaction to the additives in some of the pills), I landed on a daily, low-dose of Lexapro.

And it gave me my life back.
I breathe more freely.
I let the little things slide.
I'm not so uptight with EVERY.THING.
I'm just....living.

And it feels good.
Thanks for reading. XO

3 comments:

  1. Good for you Tia....proud of you for reaching out and knowing when you needed help....no shame....like your Doctor said..join the club..lol

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  2. Tia, there is no shame in identifying that you need help. It's the bigger person that seeks that assistance in whatever forms. I pray that you will continue on a road of recovery to happiness.

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  3. I know this post is a couple months old but I'm just now reading it. Kudos to you for getting help. Women are strong but it's okay to ask for help. I went through a big depression a year ago in September. Mine was due to my mother's death. I went for months letting it run my life. Now I'm on Lexapro and feel normal again.

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