“What’s madness but nobility of soul at odds with circumstance?”
—Theodore Roethke
The second time was
much worse. During the
latter half of 2017, a
series of misfortunes
ranging from an
unexpected medical
crisis to loss of a
part-time job teaching
writing that I loved
and was driven from by
erroneous accusations
collected into a
full-blown breakdown
by the beginning of
2018. I spent that
entire year enjoying
the best that the
American mental
healthcare system has
to offer, with a few
side forays into
physical illness and
injury care thrown in.
My former anxiety of a
few years earlier came
roaring back
intensified with a
generous portion of
depression on the
side.
1.
“This is what
bothers me, then way
people (and NAMI, the
National Alliance on
Mental Illness,
doesn’t help)
embrace diagnostic
identities—for
themselves or their
family members.
However useful it may
be, it is often
another way to get
stuck in a limiting
story, someone
else’s
story.”
—Suzanne Scanlon*
This particular story
began as described
above. At Thanksgiving
with my brother and
family in Dallas, I
noticed I was becoming
irritable and out of
sorts sporadically,
especially regarding
my very young nephew.
By Christmas I was
consumed with
anxiety-depression (I
don’t know a
clinical term that
covers such a
combination of
conditions). I begged
my psychiatrist for a
renewal of my Ativan
so I could handle the
post-Christmas trip
with my partner to
Portland. I managed to
keep it together while
feeling absolutely
miserable, but when we
returned, I was barely
functional. I spent a
huge amount of time in
bed, managing with
difficulty to get
myself to an AA
meeting once in a
while, eating little,
and rationing my
Ativan to get through
the day.
The tipping point
arrived on an
unseasonably warm day
in late January. My
anxiety had ratcheted
up to a near panic
attack, ironically
enough as I was
heading for an
appointment with my
psychiatrist. Long
after I should have
quit or tapered off, I
still wanted Ativan. I
had noticed the doctor
growing increasingly
impatient with me, as
if my failure to
improve was somehow my
fault, and on this
visit she grew angry
and told me not to
make any more
appointments. If I
really felt
overwhelmed by
anxiety, I should go
to an emergency room.
I believe now,
especially after other
experiences with
psychiatrists, that
she was angry at her
own inability to make
me well and turned
that outward to me. I
didn’t fit the
diagnostic identity,
take my place in the
required narrative.
2.
“We had an
obligation to recover.
The narrative of
progression. This was
not only for the
medical-pharmaceutical
establishment which
required our before
and after stories, but
also for a culture
that locates mental
illness in the self
and not the
society.”
After this summary
dismissal by my
doctor, I was left
completely adrift. I
tried changing
prescriptions from
Ativan to
Xanax—no help.
Thinking I was
possibly becoming
addicted to the
benzodiazepines I
decided to check into
a drug rehab.
The folly of this
decision soon became
apparent. I was not
addicted, I had only
been desperate for
some relief from the
overwhelming symptoms
of anxiety-depression.
I suffered no
withdrawal or craving.
(The day I made this
decision was a cold,
wet, January day and
my partner was away
and unavailable to
discuss the matter
with. I mention this
not to blame her in
the slightest, merely
to show how poorly I
was functioning and
unable to avoid sudden
compulsive choices.)
Unsurprisingly the
stint in rehab made no
improvement in my
condition, though it
did bring a couple of
new psychiatrists to
poke and prod my
“sick”
mind and continue the
search for the right
treatment, primarily
the right meds.
This unsuccessful endeavor led to the last step off the ledge.
***to be continued***
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