OK, let’s talk. Haul up a chair, and let me tell you about
the worst night of my life.
Since earning a diploma at a small broadcasting college and
working for a few years, I returned to post-secondary school in Halifax , enrolling in
Saint Mary’s University. I made new friends easily, lived next door to Dal
campus in a huge house with a great bunch of guys. I was soon settled into
student life as a “den mother” figure, the type of person to approach for
advice, to get things organized, and definitely the one to go to for yakking
over a few drinks or to chip in on an order of take-out. I was lively,
talkative, and incredibly social.
I chose to stay in Halifax
and take summer classes while working a job in security, working nights and
weekends at an office complex. I found myself soon withdrawing more and more,
staying in my room. I’m not sure if the reason was the exodus of my huge circle
of friends for the summer, or anxiety over courses and money, or a combination
of factors but I was getting pretty miserable. Watching TV or reading was all I
could bring myself to do. I was getting very little sleep, and my busy routine
had taken a nose dive. The friends I had around I didn’t avoid exactly, but I
didn’t speak about how I was feeling. I mentioned nothing to my parents in Newfoundland . I suffered
in silence. It took me about 6 weeks to say enough was enough and to go seek
some help from a professional. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about my emotional
viscera; it was hard enough for me to comprehend what I was feeling.
I went to a clinic and described my low energy, poor
sleeping and general dissatisfaction with life to a family practitioner. She
excitedly described an antidepressant that could be of help, and soon I found
myself taking a small dose of paroxetine, with the dosage increasing over a few
months. I wasn’t leaping for joy at the thought of taking medication, as I only
take an aspirin when aches or pains are unbearable, but I figured it could only
help and things couldn’t keep progressing as they were. I needed to get things
done; life was passing me by.
The months passed and things improved slightly. How much of
that I can contribute to paroxetine, I’m not sure. Some good friends and I
moved into a high-rise apartment downtown just above some girls we were
friendly with. I began working fulltime overnights as well as attending school
fulltime. My schedule was packed but I was getting rest and my schedule allowed
me to connect socially every other weekend, schoolwork permitting.
Things took a turn downward when I was in an accident,
leaving me on crutches for 6 weeks. I had to leave work and I chose to withdraw
from my courses for the semester. Anxiousness enveloped me once more, and again
I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it with friends or family. The crutches
soon disappeared, but my elusive positive moods and energy did not. I returned
to the clinic and, having mentioned that the paroxetine wasn’t helping much
previously, the doctor and I decided I would stop taking it. Not only was it
not working well, but there were some side effects I was not happy about. Let’s
just say unless the medication had been doing its job perfectly, there are
certain side effects that a college student who had been busily making up for
his awkward teenage years would have very little patience for. She had
previously referred me to a psychologist and though I dreaded the thought of
taking that step, I had agreed.
She advised me to stop taking it medication immediately.
Cold turkey.
A couple of days later I had an irresistible impulse to gather
up everything I owned in the apartment, which was nearly every piece of
furniture, and take it all into my room. I used it to barricade the door. I flung
my mattress over the pile of furniture and huddled in my blankets. I was
hysterical. I’d howl with laughter, hide frightened in the closet, and bawl my
eyes out at random intervals: I was completely out of control. I hallucinated.
One corner of the room appeared to open up and Jesus strode into my room. What
a chat we had! It was a meeting of the mutual admiration society, most
definitely.
It’s easy to joke about now but I still get chills thinking
about living those hours. I thought I was dying, when I could pin down a
thought at all. Speaking with my roommates about it years later and we find the
whole episode hilarious, but at the time they didn’t know what was going on. I
hadn’t told them anything about taking medication or feeling down. All they
knew is I had lost it. One fellow tried knocking just to see if I was OK and I
could barely answer him, telling him I’d talk to him later, though I wasn’t sure
when later would be. Late that night the other lad angrily yelled into my room
to knock it off and I was too scared to answer, even though he was and still is
one of my best friends. Early that morning I finally fell asleep for a few
hours.
After waking I felt calm and somewhat normal. I cleared the
furniture away from the door and sheepishly put it back. I told my roommates
about the medication and apologized profusely. They were very understanding about it all. Our routine resumed and I got
back to living life, and awaited my appointment with the shrink.
Sometime later I was in the psychiatrists office, and
telling him of my experiences and symptoms so far. I began to describe my
medication history, and got to the point where I stopped taking paroxetine. He
blanched, and asked “You didn’t taper off the dosage? You were told to stop
right away?” and I replied in the affirmative. He drew a deep breath, stared at
me intently and said gravely. “I’m very sorry you had to experience that. That
should not have happened.” I soon learned more about paroxetine than I ever
wanted to know, even though I had researched it before agreeing to take it. Any withdrawal must be done with great care, with diminishing dosage over time.
After discussing things with my roommates a few more times,
since they were concerned and cared about me (and probably wanting to make sure
they were safe from dealing with any future surprise freakiness) I grew more
relaxed with myself and what I was trying to deal with. I finally opened up to
more of my friends and soon I found out I wasn’t alone. One friend was on
similar SSRI’s, some had been in therapy for years: and it was impossible to
tell they had been suffering. For several months I had felt alone, guilty over
an imagined character flaw or angry at myself for not finding the energy to
make myself do the things I usually loved doing, for not meeting my
responsibilities. Before I knew it I was benefitting from an extensive support
system of friends who were familiar with what I’d been going through.
The point I’m trying to make is that speaking with other
people was the biggest help in getting me back to normal. I’m not here to argue
for or against anti-depressants or SSRI’s, they work for many people around the
world, helping them functional lives. I will just mention that everyone should
be very respectful of any medication they take and be aware of what it can do
to you. My doctor at the clinic was not aware. If I had just said, “Hey, you
got a minute? I’m having some trouble here, man…” to someone I trust, things
might’ve been different and I might not have wound up ranting and raving in my barricaded
room, alarming my friends.
Taking personal, emotional inventory is some real dirty work
but necessary. It's necessary for good mental health. The reasons for debilitating depression or anxiety are unique to each individual, and it took me a long time to get a grasp on what drives me down into a paralysis of my rational thought. I envy those for whom these things come naturally, or those that
learned these good habits early on. Everyone is a unique collection of fears,
prejudices, neuroses… trying to eke out a space for themselves within the space
of unspoken social agreements. Everyone has a different degree of
self-awareness as well. One person may see nothing wrong with getting two
knuckles deep into their nostril in a public place, while another person may be
aware of how disgusted that could make other people. Some of us have been
raised not to reveal any weaknesses, and the definition of what a weakness is
can be hard to pin down. It is never a sign of weakness to ask for help. The
definition of what a makes a man manly, or makes a woman a woman can be asked
of a dozen people, and they could give you a dozen answers. There's nothing unmanly about admitting to a personal struggle. There’s space on
this planet for us all, and we have all have to put up with each other. Being
aware of ourselves is key, and being aware of each other and what we’re dealing
with can help us learn about ourselves.
No one worth a damn will think less of anyone for asking for
help, or merely saying they’re not feeling well and could use a little
consideration. Everyone should feel free to share with others, to seek help. A person’s
world can start shrinking when they’re not aware of themselves, when they don’t
seek help when they feel something is wrong, when they don’t speak up when they
feel something isn’t right.
Since my episode with sudden withdrawal in Halifax , I’ve been surprised by some people
disappearing from my life tragically, suddenly. I’ve had friends whom I know
were struggling and I’d bring it upon myself to gently question on how they’re
doing, hear them reply that all is fine, then later see them surprise their
family and others with some sudden, desperate actions. The lucky ones survived
to learn that it doesn’t diminish them in anyone’s eyes just by sharing their hidden
ordeals.
When people don’t talk about what they’re struggling with,
it can manifest itself in horribly destructive ways: self-mutilation, substance
abuse, lashing out at loved ones or strangers. Even if the pain doesn't become visible in such manner ones life can get smaller, and smaller as they leave behind their hobbies, responsibilities, time socializing with friends or at work. We all have to feel comfortable
with sharing, maybe not with the grocery check-out girl or the guy at the bus
stop, but with people close to you or with a medical professional. Shame or
guilt over how one is feeling shouldn’t ever enter the equation when it comes
to ones health.
My world has shrunk and grown in alternate measures in the
years since, and I’ve learned that excavating where my thoughts and habits come
from is valuable, necessary work. I have friends I am comfortable going to when
I’m feeling down or have a problem. Same as anyone with diabetes or a similar
affliction, I can’t ignore being severely depressed or anxious and I would
never consider it a flaw in character. I know who I am and I am comfortable
with sharing who I am with others.
We all should be comfortable with talking and sharing with
each other. Society took a great leap forward when coffee shops began to equal
the number of taverns, as we were stimulated into sharing our ideas rather than
dulling ourselves to the experiences of our joyous existence. With all the
methods of communication at our fingertips in this age, we are able to share
with the whole world. Let’s do it.
Let’s talk.
