New Lease on a Swing Set

So, I finally began the Prozac about thirty day ago. I've been hesitant to write this post, because I wanted to see how the medication really holds up. I may be a lot happier and anxiety free these days, but I'm still a skeptic at heart. Also, I realised I can't make this post funny. I've tried thinking of how getting better is hilarious and I just can't put a funny twist on it. I'm lame, I know. So instead I'm going to go the opposite route and probably get a bit cheesy and a touch sentimental, but fuck it.
(butt fuck it...heh heh heh)

ANYWAY

To explain what it's like to have anxiety, the only example I can think of is drowning. If you've ever stayed under water just too long, your heart starts to race, you become somewhat disoriented, and lose sense of what's up and down then you have an idea of what it's like. Just an idea. Now...try living with that feeling for 6 years. It becomes a physical weight on your back.

And to explain what it is like for me on Prozac, I feel like I've finally surfaced. After being disoriented, unable to breathe and panicky, it feels like I've finally come out of the waters. Quite a similar feeling too. The feeling of relief and complete gratitude for having made it out fine. I no longer fear my surroundings. I enjoy them. I feel almost nostalgic. I remember this is who I use to be and it feels foreign yet familiar.

I have to get use to being normal again. It's been so long. Sometimes I noticed my old habits. My brain telling me "No, you'll have anxiety". But it doesn't work anymore. It no longer has the control over my personality that it once had. I'm not a person of hesitation. I do stupid things. Reckless maybe. It's who I've always been. And my anxiety robbed me of the carefree sense of living that I absolutely loved. I realised today before I climbed on the back of a Harley that I could slip and fall in the shower and die. I could die tomorrow. I could die in a hundred years. But the point of my life is not to fear death, but to live life. It's the first time I've really thought about death since I began the Prozac. It was one of my greatest fascinations prior to the Prozac.

I use to say that I didn't fear death or impermanence, and while that may be true that I, who I really am, do not fear death, my anxiety had caused me to dwell on it.

I was afraid the Prozac would change who I am. That it would turn me into a robot. Then I realised that it had been the anxiety that had done that to me all along. The medication didn't change me. It fixed me, so I can be myself again. And I've never been happier.

I feel so very different today. I realised it when I was outside.

While making dinner, I decided to pop outside really quick to play on the swing set. I'm much too old for it, but I still love it. I walked barefoot to the swings, my feet not missing any stray acorn or pointy sticks. I sat, facing the field, the sun just beginning to set beyond the trees. The air is warm, but not suffocating. The weather could not be more ideal. Birds in the distance were chattering back and forth and I closed my eyes and pushed myself with my feet. As the wind hit my face, the reddish glow from the sun illuminated the inside of my closed eyelids. I could see nothing but red spots. And at that moment I realised I felt something I hadn't in several years. It's the closest thing I've ever felt to any sort of divine religious experience, but it wasn't God. It was serenity. For once in many years I feel completely and utterly at peace with who I am, where I am, and where I am going. I am not only comfortable with the randomness of life, but I can't wait for it. And I feel grateful. I have never felt more grateful. Not for any one thing or person in particular, but rather just grateful to be alive. Maybe it's all the Buddhist books I've read catching up to me, but I can honestly say I am so very thankful to be me, and to be happy and healthy again. It's something I had doubt was even possible.

I'm still new to this whole getting better thing, but looking back at where I've been and come from, I don't feel sad. I don't see those 6 years of anxiety as a waste of my life. I really don't. I look back and see what horribly dark days I've had and I'm just happy I made it through in one piece. I feel grateful for those experiences, too. I feel stronger than I've ever felt mentally. I know human nature and I understand a fair bit of it and I know had it not been for my anxiety and depression, I would never be able to be this grateful for life. That is why I don't see it as a waste.

It truly feels like I have a new lease on life. And I'm certainly not going to waste it.

Fluoxetine

After about four months of the back-and-forth visits to my doctor I am finally making some progress, or feel I have made some progress. Rejoice.

The heart monitor results came back fine. So after the EKG, echo-cardiogram, and heart monitor it turns out my heart is just peachy. Good thing, because I was close to punching that sonofabitch right in the cockles.

The doctor appointment was pretty routine. Nothing particularly hilarious. Although, I brought up that I was experiencing a bit of depression here and there to which the doctor and nurse starting asking a bunch of questions.

"Any thoughts of suicide?"
"What? No!"

"Are you showering regularly?"
"Uh, yeah, I mean...like enough." (Honestly, every day is not necessary if you do nothing.)

          Behind the scenes Pigpen struggled with clinical depression.
       Just look at the cold dead stare in his eyes. 

A boy who's obviously given up on life.

"And how is your motivation?"
"Uh...well...*chuckle nervously* I'm here right?"
And the nurse and doctor exchanged one of these looks:

                  "Clearly depression. It's only logical."

When all was said and done I walked out with a fancy new prescription for fluoxetine, or in layman's terms, Prozac.
I'll hopefully be starting it this weekend. I am, however, dreading the side effects. A lot of antidepressants seem to come with some crappy (childish pun intended) gastrointestinal side effects.
Prozac and Celexa (which I've tried before and disliked greatly) are in the same "family" so I was told. This worries me a bit as the Celexa had some very strong side effects to the point of me not being able to take it again.

But hell, crazy side effects and violent diarrhea is probably better than what I've had to deal with for 6 years. I'm sure the side effects will fade too.

In the mean time, I'll just take this in stride.

                    "BE RIGHT OUT!"


*Also, about 6 weeks since I quit smoking. Still rocking it.*

The Ultimate Love/Hate Relationship

Every time I go to the doctors I get this question: "How much do you smoke a day?"
"A pack."
"Ohh...that's not good for you. You should quit."
"...yeah, I know...I know."

So, I did.
I finally frickin quit smoking. I believe I read a statistic on how many people with mental disorders smoked and it was a ridiculously high amount. If I remember correctly, it neared 60-70% or so.

Let's start from the beginning. At around age sixteen, I picked up my first cigarette. About a month after, I learned how to inhale. What a genius thing to be taught.

In the 6-7 years I've been smoking, cigarettes have gone up $20 by the carton, after starting at $30. It's a shit load of money for a slow suicide is basically what I'm getting at. I mean, health risks didn't scare me. My family lucked out in that department. What bothered me more was the money I was putting in, the time I had to take out from my day to stop and smoke outside, the unpleasant stink it left on everything, and the feeling that everyone can tell you're a smoker immediately and the judgment that came along with that.

So, those were my reasons for stopping. What ensued I would never have guessed. Every smoker has heard the horror stories of withdrawal. Some have experienced them at varying degrees. I, thinking I was prepared for the worst (7 years of anxiety, withdrawal ain't got shit on me), went in full force. That's right. The two word phrase every smoker cringes at - cold turkey.

I figured, 'So I hunker down for a couple days, get a little pissy, watch some movies until the lightheaded cloudiness goes away and then I'll be good.'

Here are my experiences in those days written in the style of a post apocalyptic journal:

Day One: (A snow storm leaves me internetless and cableless)
I wake up. The sense of determination running through my veins. I've got this.
An hour passes. 'Okay, time to smoke....shit. NOPE.'
Two hours. 'CIGARETTE CIGARETTE CIGARETTE CIGARETTE'
Three hours. 'OH GOD WHY AM I STILL ALIVE?! THIS IS THE WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT ALL STOP'
Four to Sixteen hours. Position: Fetal. Status: Sobbing.
Symptoms: Lightheadedness, Despair, Anger, Apathy, Headache, Chills, Nausea, Loss of Appetite, Foggy Thinking, Memory Problems, Anxiety, Random Bouts of Crying, Cough, and just a general feeling of absolute shittiness.

Day Two: (Still no internet, all hope is lost)
Repeat of Day One. Slightly milder side effects. Still wish the world would go fuck itself. Is resolute in the fact that smoking isn't that bad.

Day Three: (Internet returns midday, that's when I pull myself out of bed)
Symptoms have lightened up a lot. Cravings have gotten much less desperate. Things are looking up. Dragged my ass on the treadmill and didn't suffer for it. Random bad mood comes on and strong cravings. Immediately reverts back to sobbing mess. Insist cigarettes are a necessary evil to be happy in a cruel world. Still don't give in.

Day Four: (Current Day)
Rediscovers the glory of caffeine. THE DAY IS FUCKING AWESOME.

The End.

Lorazepam!

Today was my follow-up appointment to my doctors. In preparation I popped an Ativan before heading out. I had been taking them for a couple days and felt no effects. I had no anxiety, but I normally don't when I'm home. So, no side effects or any noticeable effects whatsoever was good enough for me. I thought maybe they're placebo's. That'd be a great practical joke.

                "Hey, grandma I replaced all your pills with Smarties. Pretty good one huh? Oh relax, I'm sure your blood pressure is fine!"

Once I got into the car with my mother I realized taking a pill to reduce my anxiety was the smartest thing I've done in a while. After being stuck in traffic with her, hearing her pick apart every living person that walked by, yell at a bunch of kids for crossing the street wrong and generally just being my mom I was glad I had a little chemical help. 

"LISTEN KID I WILL COME OVER THERE AND GODDAMN STRANGLE YOU WITH YOUR LOWER INTESTINE IF YOU DARE CROSS THE PATH OF MY CHILD CRUSHER MOBILE!"

She didn't say those exact words, but if she had my respect-o meter would've certainly shot up. 

 

We finally get to the doctors office. I'm quasi-traumatized from the ride there. I was sure if they were gonna make us wait, she'd go Bruce Campbell a la Army of Darkness on everyone's ass. I prayed to the Pfizer gods everything would work out, not for my sake, but for everyone's lives. I'm thoughtful. 

"We don't have you scheduled for today...", the receptionist informed me.

'Dear god, lady. You don't even know what Pandora's box you just opened. Ever see Hellraiser?', I thought to myself. 

"Well, I have my appointment card right here...", I pulled it from my wallet. My mom grabbed it out of my hands. "See...the 28th!"

My mom paused. Someone was going to get hell. 'Please don't take it out on these poor innocent folks', I begged, hoping my thoughts could transfer.

 

She makes it look easy. It's not. 

 

 

 "Erin, this is for NEXT MONTH!", my mom said, rolling her eyes. "Ya fahkin retahded, ya know that?" 

I was happy it wasn't someone else's fault. I can handle the rage. I've grown a thick skin to it. 

"Mum...I love you. This was a ploy to spend time with you." It seemed like a proper response. I gave her my best please-don't-tear-me-a-new-one-look.

Pretty much this face here. Minus the ass head.

So, we went to the express clinic downstairs. It didn't appear very busy. (I needed something for my jaw pain. Never having had my wisdom teeth removed, I got to experience the facial equivalence of child birth pain.) So, "EXPRESS" clinic. Let's find out exactly what that word means first and then we'll move on.

 

"ex·press [ik-spres]

 

11.direct or fast, especially making few or no intermediate stops: an express train; an express elevator."

 

I don't know if that term is subjective or not, but 3 hours in an express clinic is not very "express" to me. If 3 hours is express, what the goddamn hell is lengthy? 

Bottom line of that story, the nurse practitioner, who bared the best resemblance I've seen to Cruella DeVille, gave me some pain relievers to get through the weekend before I make a dentist appointment. 

"And I expect you to take these twice a day, or I'll turn your beloved family pet into mittens!"

After that fiasco, we went to the pharmacy to pick up the prescription. It was called in at the wrong pharmacy. Another hour of my life gone, wandering down the isles looking at cheap Halloween decorations and tampons. 

What I've learned today:

Double check appointment cards

Cruella DeVille loves making patients wait 

Lorazepam is extremely helpful

My heart rate wasn't the usual 130bpms with the medication

It was 82bpms. Win.

My mom's wrath is ungodly. (This is a continual learning process)

Well, until my next appointment...

(P.S. Still waiting on a call from the endocrinologist for an appointment, and no results yet from the heart monitor. I'm getting use to waiting. My anxiety isn't gone, but my patience is getting to the monk level. DING!)

Beep...beep...beep..beepbeepbeepbeepBEEPBEEP!

Finally went back for the follow-up to my blood tests today. Everything went great! Except for, you know, that part that didn't. That part went not great. One of my thyroid tests came back showing an under active thyroid, which technically should make me lethargic and my heart rate slower. My body said "FUCK THAT" and decided that despite what the results are saying my heart rate will remain fast and anxiety full force.
My thyroid is like America- lazy, under active and, strangely enough, really enjoys McDonalds.

Ultrasound of my thyroid.

 So, I never started the Ativan, because I'm a stubborn bitch and figured it's a temporary solution to a long-term problem and I don't like temporary solutions. I mistakenly thought, "Once my thyroids score straight A's she will see it's my brain causing all the mischief." I was wrong. Irrelevant to my anxiety or not, the thyroid issue is an issue of it self. She gave me a referral to a endocrinologist (fancy term for doctor that studies weird neck stuff) and for my heart, since I hadn't been taking the meds, she has me wearing a heart monitor for 24 hours. Is it anxiety or is my heart rate normally this fast? That's basically what she's trying to get out of that. She'll call me when she gets the results to decide whether or not she will prescribe long-term medication. After the heart monitoring, I will have to start taking my medication. 

The fun thing about the heart monitor is I feel like a cyborg. I have wires everywhere and a little handheld thing to record all my heart beats. The downside, besides the fact that the handheld device does not have Pacman (trust me, I asked), is that I have to record everything I do. So, basically what people have been doing with Facebook since it's existence.

"3:34pm - Took shit - No Symptoms"
"3:36pm - Admired shit - Symptoms: Pride"
"3:45pm - Napped - Symptoms: Dreamt of prideful poop"

"4:00pm - Sobbed hysterically into pillow about poop being highlight of day - Symptoms: Shame"

And so on and so forth...

Still better than a Wii.

Ring Around the Rosie

After about a solid week of putting off the blood work, I finally got it done.

Also, because I'm a genius and forgot that I had to bring the prescription paper to the pharmacy (I assumed they call it in and to my surprise they don't for Ativan), I finally got my prescription today. I've yet to try it, but I'm realizing the smaller the pills have the more serious side effects. Probably wasn't wise of me to browse the side effects menu they give you with the meds.

"Yes, I'd like to get diarrhea, shortness of breath, and a seizure salad, please."

So, the blood work was...interesting. I went to the place in town only to find out they close at 12pm. After a good face palm, I found out the one in the town over was still open. Part of me wanted to get it over with and the other part was hoping that since the first place was closed I wouldn't have to go. Thankfully, I'm not all stupid and know myself and my signature fight or flight (which results in lots of flights)behavior, so I had my mother tag along. She wasn't going to let me stop me.

We finally get to the place and they were still open. (Goddamnit). It was small and quiet. No one was there but a lone nurse. I noted the Halloween decorations everywhere. A gravestone that read "Out to Lunch" sat at the counter. I'm patient, but my mother isn't. She exclaimed, "I don't think anyone is here. Who's gonna help us?"

"Ma, I hear her talking. Wait a minute."

I think what went through my mothers head at that moment was "Fuck that" because she then proceeded to knock on the counter.

"I'm with a patient, I'll be right there!" We heard yelled from inside the office.

I muttered, "Told you."

And she said loudly, "See? I told you to wait a minute!"

Way to throw me under the bus for something I didn't do, mom. Between the time I was called in from the time I had to wait, I damned not being born in a test tube and wondered if bringing my mom was a bad idea.

After taking my information, the nurse lady told me to go on ahead to room 2. I walked in passing a glittery black skeleton hanging from the door, and sat down. Skeletons, gravestones and other signs of death and decay do not bode well to one who has tremendous anxiety. This was the moment of truth. To tumor or not to tumor. And yet, I was being bombarded with death symbols. Awesome. I clutched my purse as I took a seat in the chair. Two arm cushions on the side, and one to fold down for when the deed was being done. 'Reminds me of lethal injection chairs', I thought and soon regretted. Looking to my left I saw all sorts of vials. Big vials, little vials. Blue caps, purple caps. The box of sterilized latex gloves on the wall. I leaned over to pull a glove out as my mother whispered too loudly, "She's coming!"

I pulled my hand in quickly, only to realize my mother was bluffing. Strike two, mom.

The nurse lady leaned from behind her desk and asked if I had drank any coffee, used tobacco, or had tea. I said, "I had coffee and have been smoking all morning...why?"

"Oh, you weren't suppose to. The doctor never told you that? It throws off the levels."

"She never told me!", I said truthfully, yet I still always get the feeling medical folk think I bullshit them. I can't tell if it's a guilty conscious or they're just used to getting bullshitted. Probably the latter.

 Her degree is total bullshit. Who the fuck ever heard of Barbie University?

"Well, I'm just gonna do it anyway." She said as she came into the room and started prepping my arm and the vials.

And here I thought I was getting off the hook. Nope. I looked away before she even started prepping the arm. I didn't want to see any of it. The less I see of it the better, I figured. I felt the cold alcohol swap. 'The needle's coming soon'. Then the elastic band around my arm, tugging at my skin. 'Okay...now it's coming.'

My mom shuffled over. "Want me to old your hand?" as she grabbed my hand.

"No, it's...", I stopped. "Going old school. Sure."

I felt the pinch of the needle. So far, so good. The blood was being drawn and I was okay.

'Maybe it's good that I brought her along' and just as that thought crossed my mind I heard my mom say, "Are you use to taking that much?"

My face at that moment.

'Oh god I'm gonna be sick. Close your eyes. Don't look. Don't look. Don't look. Go to your happy place. HAPPY PLACE.'

After it was said and done, I tried ignoring the nurse fiddling with the vials to the left of me. And whatever cursed part of my brain compelled me to glace over is an asshole. What a jerk brain. I looked at the vials. Four big vials of dark red liquid. And two smaller ones. 'Goddamn, that IS a lot.' I thought.


After we left the office, I turned to my mom and said, "Holy shit...it was like four and a half vials."
She responded, "Actually it was eight. Four big ones, and four smaller ones."

'Thanks, ma.' I thought, and I wasn't sure if I was being sarcastic at that moment.

And then we totally did this. All gay and Hallmark-like, too.

TUMORS...IN SPACE!

Another thrilling doctors appointment today. I, being the silly goose that I am, forgot to get some apparently quite important blood work done.
After telling the doctor that the Klonopin she gave me made me feel like a complete zombie, just short of nomming on brains, she prescribed me some Ativan.

"Well...at least I don't have anxiety. Or any emotion for that matter...except a very strong craving for...BRAAAAAAAAIIIIINSSSS."

Supposedly, the Ativan won't make me go all Resident Evil on everyone's ass, but we shall see. Picking up the medication tomorrow. The people at the pharmacy are going to start to recognize me. Hrmm...a place where everyone knows my name...

Time to go get me a terrible haircut. 

So, until the blood work gets done I will not be prescribed anything more long-term for my anxiety. I nodded repeatedly like a half retarded monkey while the doctor prattled on about why the blood work was important. In the midst of medical mumbo-jumbo, I heard "rule out tumor".

A what now?

....tumor?

Apparently, my mother, my father, my grandfather, and my grandmother are not enough evidence of anxiety running through my genealogical veins to come to the assumption it's just anxiety. Clearly, if most of my immediate family have anxiety I, therefore, must have...a tumor.

Okay, so she didn't say it was a great possibility. Just that she wanted to rule it out. My thyroid tests were a little wonky (which coincidentally can be caused by high levels of stress). Seeing as I am obviously the coolest of the cucumbers (I wear sunglasses at night- that's how cool), stress probably isn't a factor. Oh wait...anxiety for 7 years and a pissed off thyroid might be a tumor and not stressed? Well, mmkay then!

THIS cucumber is fucking COOL. Not at all high as a goddamn kite. He maintains this disposition despite knowing he'll be in a Caesar salad someday.

Well, whatever. Tumor, no tumor, the only thing I could think of when she had said that wasn't my loved ones. Wasn't the years I'll miss out on. Wasn't what horrid things I'll have to endure. It was this scene from Family Guy:

Damn you humor! Why must you have no boundaries?! 

You would think someone with pretty debilitating anxiety wouldn't be silently giggling in a doctors office when the word "tumor" gets tossed around, but that just goes to show you how amazingly influential television can be. Also, I just laughed at the idea of that sentence being literal. Like playing hot potato with a tumor. Oh, brain...you so crazy.

Monday I'll be going for my blood work. Some recent high school drop out with a two year education at a community college will be poking my veins with needles Monday morning. Me? Stress? Can't be. 

I would must rather have him draw blood from me. At least he knows what he's doing.

So, after that I have to wait another four weeks for my tumor to cultivate- I mean...for a follow-up appointment to which a tumor will at least be ruled out. And then maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to start a real medication and you know blend into the faceless society and whatnot. Whatever the cool kids are doing.


And if tumor isn't ruled out...then well, at least I'll have a pet to take care of. 

Tumors. Way cooler than pet rocks. At least they grow.