Most people wouldn't admit to the fact that they take an antidepressant or any other type of medication that's prescribed to "crazy" people. For whatever reason, there's this social stigma against taking medicines that aid in the creation of normalcy (whatever that is) in a person's mind and behavior. I have taken antidepressants and anxiety medications off and on for the last six years. I am currently trying to wean myself off of Cymbalta...This is my story.
In 2005, my dad was in a horrific motorcycle accident. I don't know that the accident itself was horrific, but its aftermath was. I remember sleeping downstairs at my parent's house and hearing heavy footsteps coming up the front steps. This woke me up because no one (and I mean, no one) uses the front door at my parent's house. Everyone comes in through the garage. I awoke to the footsteps and then became alert as my mom told me that there had been an accident and she had to go. It was like talking to a zombie...every word that came out of her mouth sounded hollow and as if it was being spoken by a different person completely.
I probably wouldn't be writing this blog if my dad hadn't lived. It was a traumatic time in all of our lives, and thankfully, it ended "happily". I can now make light (well, somewhat) of the situation and what I went through. This accident marked the beginning of my prescriptions to anxiety and antidepressant medications. I needed to take them because I suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. At least, that's what my doctor said.
In addition to Xanax and Klonopin, I was a constantly rotating host for myriad antidepressants. Prozac, Effexor, Celexa, Lexapro...you name it, I took it. Nothing really helped long-term. Not that I can remember anyway. I just kind of drifted through life in a fog anyway. Eventually, we stopped my treatment, and the only medications I continued to take were Klonopin and Ambien. See, from my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, I had now developed Generalized Anxiety Disorder and along with it, insomnia. Well, that's what my doctor told me anyway.
Fast forward several years...it's now 2010 and the day after Thanksgiving. I should be out shopping or eating leftovers. But no, instead I go "crazy" and have a self-proclaimed nervous breakdown. In the medical world such a thing doesn't exist, but in my world, it does. My mother refused to let me got to a hospital because she was afraid I'd be committed. Instead, she forced me to call the 24-hour "Nurse Line" that my insurance company provided. What a crock of bs that was. Do you want to know what the "nurse" suggested I do to calm down? "Why don't you go outside and run?" She asked. This question made me even more livid. Um, maybe because I've had four knee surgeries and I can't run? The whole conversation is funny to me now, but it sure as hell wasn't at the time.
I don't know if anyone else out there has tried to find a psychiatrist around the holidays, but it just doesn't happen. Every doctor's office I called told me they weren't accepting new patients. I'm sorry, but if you're becoming slightly more crazy with each passing day, you'd think that there would be a doctor that could see you. Nope. Doesn't happen. You see, it's quite normal to become crazy during the holidays, and it's a race to see who can obtain the doctor's new patient slots first.
I finally found a doctor who would see me, and so began a new medication adventure. I again was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder. This time, I took an even higher dose of Klonapin, along with a high dose of Cymbalta. And Wellbutrin. And Ambien. And Trazadone. I can tell you that I honestly didn't feel a thing. I became a zombie. And not the kind that you hear about with all this Zombie Apocalypse nonsense. No sir, I was the real deal. Assholes at work? No problem. I could deal with that. Atlanta's rush-hour traffic? Loved it. Just turn up the music and drive. Hell, I couldn't even remember the drive home. Fights with my boyfriend? What fights? I wasn't listening. I'm sure our neighbors were, but I never heard a word.
Ah, those were the days. I was super nice to everyone. Even people I despised. Yes, I was that creepy kind of nice...the kind where you just know that someone's either already lost it or is on the brink of losing it. And to be quite honest, I didn't care about anything. I possessed emotions of steel. You couldn't make me cry or feel sorry for you. I just didn't have it in me. While I kind of enjoyed being devoid of emotion, apparently everyone else around me didn't. Eventually, I convinced my doctor to cut me back to just Cymbalta, Klonapin, and Ambien. The people at the pharmacy were still super nice to me with even this small concoction. I'm sure the poor girls that worked there wondered what I had done to become a walking pill mill. I sometimes wondered it myself.
I discussed this with my doctor and was advised that I should take the Cymbalta until at least December (a year from when it was started)...I pretended to agree, but insisted we lower the dosage. That's when my Electric-Shock Therapy began.
Randomly, I would feel a buzzing, very much akin to an electrical shock (think bug zapper) in my cheeks. I would then get a dizzy feeling, but it would quickly pass and I'd feel fine again. Approximately ten minutes later, I'd be zapped again. As I continued on at the lower dosage, the electric shocks eventually went away (or became unnoticeable...I'm still not sure which). That is, until I began weaning myself entirely off of the medicine. I now receive a nice, super-charged electrical shock approximately every two to five minutes. And this shock is more in line with how I imagine being tasered feels.
Have I gotten used to it? Yes. Do I like it? Absolutely not. Is it worth taking the medicine full time again? Eh...not really. And when I come entirely off of the Cymbalta, I wonder what I'll be diagnosed with next. It's fun sometimes to get creative with the possibilities of what my Generalized Anxiety Disorder will morph into. I mean, I definitely need to thank the creators of WebMD for that. All I have to do is type in a few symptoms, then bam! A whole list of potential disorders pops up. It's great.
I can't say that being a zombie or continually receiving Electric-Shock Therapy of the face is really better either way. I could do without either. I'm seeing a Chiropractor now. Apparently, they can fix anything. Even "crazy".
Yes, I'm being tasered to the face as we speak,
Freeway Fairington
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