Mens Sana.
I woke up this morning feeling like myself. Perhaps still subtly unwell (and running a fever), but firmly myself, back in possession of both my reasoning faculties and my perspective. I was so relieved to find myself returned that I twirled around on the sidewalk outside my house. As I drove to work, the public radio station played what sounded very like a country song, and instead of scowling and forcefully changing the channel, I bopped along in my seat to the banjo and wondered when the trees got so green, the sun so shiny.
I haven’t had an episode like the one that descended upon me this past weekend for quite some time, but I recognized it instantly: whether caused by medication irregularity or emotional whim, these episodes are all alike in their ability to convince me that they will last forever, their ability to strip me of every coping mechanism and bit of faith in myself that I possess. During these episodes I remember hospitals—the time my father spent in them, the weekend I spent in one, and my fear since I was a little girl that I would end up institutionalized. Or worse, that I would build a happy life for myself, and one day, maybe as I was unpacking groceries in my sunny kitchen, madness would swoop grayly down and take me without warning.
It seems amazing that only three days have passed, but that is all it was, and now I am back at my computer, clacking gratefully away.
I think the worst thing about having a mentally ill parent is the fear it has given me. My aunt Marie, who grew up during the Depression, watched her parents continually struggle for money. As a result, she saves things—sugar packets from the tables of restaurants, plastic silverware, department store boxes, ribbon, tinfoil. Growing up, the world must have seemed to her to be a changeable, unreliable place, and I think it did to me as well, but in a different way: I don’t worry about losing my job or my house, I worry about losing my mind. It is this fear, ironically enough, that is at the bottom of my anxiety disorder. I wake in the night, worried about some small thing, or with my heart beating heavily from a dream, and it trips an alarm—I rapidly convince myself that a night of sleeplessness is only the first in a series of events, events that will culminate in me shuffling through a psych ward in my slippers, every moment suffused with the pain of anxiety, my mind unable to hold a single joyful thought. People who say “The only thing to fear is fear itself,” are, I think, missing the point: Isn’t that enough?
I am terrified by the possibility that mental illness might strike me when my children are just old enough to understand what is happening. I am paralyzed by the specter of post-partum anxiety. Most frightening of all is the prospect of becoming suicidal–not that I have ever had a suicidal thought in my life, mind you. But I am afraid of suicide the way other people are afraid of snakes or bears; I think of it as something that happens TO you. Rational or not, I fear it in my bones.
But today I am well, and the moral of the story is never, ever, skip a dose of Lexapro. Better yet, never take Lexapro in the first place—choose something gentler, like Prozac. Oh, how I rue the day I abandoned Prozac! Of course now I can never switch, god help me.
Tonight I will celebrate the gift of my fine, healthy mind with wine and salmon and a Gilmore Girls DVD.
And perhaps a cookie. I think I deserve a cookie.
15 Comments
You deserve three cookies, dear.
Glad you’re back to yourself.
Perhaps rebelling against my mother’s OCD is what made me a total fucking slob.
Actually, nope. Just laziness.
You’re back! That’s fabulous news. :-)
I’ll keep that medication tip in mind. I told my relaxation therapist (Mind/body stuff) that I might be depressed. If it persists, no doubt I’ll get prescribed something.
Now, I didn’t live through the Depression, but I can’t throw away food without feeling remorse. The exotic explanation is that I did in a past life. The pragmatic explanation is that I was brainwashed that way by my mother and grand-mother. (It didn’t work when it comes to orderliness) The things you take with you out of childhood.
Wine, a cookie, some Gilmore Girls and salmon? Sounds like heaven.
I just started reading your site this weekend, and must say, I love your writing!
Alexa, we must get together for a drink some time. You are such a talented writer and I relate to so much of what you say.
My grandmother has several of the same Depression-era-induced hoarding instincts you write of. When you open the door to her dishwasher, you’re attacked by a flurry of plastic shopping bags that have been jam-crammed inside.
So glad you are feeling better. I am so sorry that you have the fear of mental issues in the back of your mind.
Take care and sending you a big hug!
Perfectly, perfectly written. Every now and again while on ADs, I get a wild hair up my ass and decide, “Since I feel SO FINE, why bother taking these?” Which is, of course, like saying, “Hmmmn, haven’t lapsed into a diabetic coma recently… phooey on this insulin stuff!” As always, you summed up the nasty-ass paradox of mental illness better than I ever could… how it convinces you that the day’s worth of agony you’re enduring is going to last FUCKING FOREVER.
I have a mentally ill parent as well, and fear of being like her has guided too much of my life- in the wrong ways. I have depression, but I know much better how to handle it maybe because I watched her mishandle it for so long. I’ll bet you know how to handle your issues better than your Dad. One thing you should remember though- it doesn’t last. It’s like fighting a craving: it’s really really really bad for a time, and then it lifts. If you can hold on through that, you’ve pretty much got it beat.
So glad you’re feeling better. AD are such an amazing thing. Such a little pill with such an incredible punch. I think a lot of us who take ADs can totally relate to your fears. That Lexapro sounds a little scary though! Did the Prozac work before? Can they slowly wean off the scary crap and put you on a friendly one? Just seeing my bottle of Prozac in the cabinet makes me happy! Sort of have the desire to decorate the bottle with shiny, sparkley rainbow stickers.
You deserve way more than a cookie! At least make it a cookie with sprinkles!
So glad you’re feeling better. I think a cookie is definitely in order. Maybe two cookies with some ice-cream in between? (My sweet tooth is visiting me with a vengeance these days!). I loved GG at first, but the last season or two the characters just got too annoying. It used to be only Suky who was annoying (so much so that we took to fast forwarding through her scenes!), but I really think the whole show went downhill more recently. Sad.
Cookies are essential to health and well-being. It’s a proven fact.
I can relate to this post on so many levels, and have so much to say, that I have to stop myself right now before I write a book.
I’ll restrict myself to two things: 1) This was beautifully, beautifully written. 2) One cookie? Gee, I down a BATCH of cookies to console myself for having a hangnail. You eat all the cookies you want.
I agree with everyone else in that you should eat a box of cookies and feel no remorse, and as usual I second our sister Jul; Lexapro and the like have you totally convinced that you don’t need medication because everything seems FINE. Is there a name for that, such as SSRI-Induced Normality Delusions? No, that doesn’t have a very good ring to it. Prozac Pretense? Oooh, here’s one: Ceromex Self-Deception. Or what about Paxil False Paradise? Lexapro Lapse? Faverin Fallacy? We could also call it Arapax Apparition or Deroxat Deception. Bottom line, there should be a syndrome that sums up assholes like us who get to feeling that it wouldn’t be a problem to skip a dose.
And suicide? You know how it feels to look back on the hopelessness of depression with 20/20 vision and say, “If only I’d known then that it wouldn’t last forever?” It’s scary to think that if the urge to kill yourself ever hits you, you won’t know then that the feeling is fleeting- and after you take action, it won’t matter.
I forgot to tell you. I asked my prescriber what she thought about your episode and she felt that Lexapro has a short half-life which means it comes out of your body quickly and that is why you felt so bad. Prozac is in the body longer so the transition is not so sudden and anxiety inducing.
She feels that one can come of Lexapro (slowly!! Not cold turkey!!) and onto Prozac with very little effect on your mental state. I find Prozac to be much cheaper than it sounds like Lexapro is and if it works for you you might want to think about transitioning. I hope this is helpful!
I know this fear so well. It’s easy to say the best thing to do is to concentrate on taking care of yourself and worrying about the things you can control but it’s so much more difficult when you’re dealing with such an innate sense of fatalism.
I feel you. Hang in there with the meds. I hope you are already feeling better.
I was glad to read this today. I have taken medication for depression on and off for years. I have always found prozac to be the most effective and least startling when I miss a dose. My doctor talked me into changing to Lexapro. I have found it to be less effective and very expensive. Of course, different brain chemistries require different tweaks, but my vote is prozac. I am in the transition mode and wanted to know what precautions to look for.