JENNIFER'S STORY: I did not believe I would heal.....but I DID

[WebDevElijah]

JENNIFER'S STORY:

 

I have over the years been in the position of being a caretaker many times. As a mother of two, a wife, a daughter, and a friend, I have stayed by the bedside of children, partners, friends, and parents. I maintained a daily presence through months of illness with my husband and helped my daughter through several surgeries. But when I struggled with the worst physical and mental pain I have ever experienced, I, for the most part, walked that road alone.

 

Yes, I have anxiety issues. At times, I had some severe bouts that led me to the doctor and resulted in a prescription for medication. I took Benzos for a month or so a couple of times over the years and never had a problem—until 2008. I took a small 0.50 dose every night, and after a year, I tapered over about a month or so. It had never really eliminated the anxiety, and during that time, Cymbalta was added, although I couldn’t tolerate more than a smidge of that. I never thought much about it until three weeks off. I was standing at the sink, washing dishes, and the most severe tsunami of anxiety I had ever experienced hit me, and I had no idea what was happening. It just stayed with me. I drove to work, and my leg made these weird twitching movements. I shook, and I couldn’t eat. Obviously, my doctor said I needed to be back on the Klonopin. It was a couple of days before Christmas, and my family was arriving. Sheepishly, I went back on the benzo.

 

I had a couple of weird panic attacks, and during a late-night Google search, I decided that the Cymbalta was the culprit and saw horror stories about getting off Cymbalta. So, I tapered slowly off it. I had about four bad weeks of dizziness and was shocked at how sick I felt.

 

A few months later, I wanted to be free of the Klonopin as well, as I was still having anxiety and panic and feeling dizzy at times. I was taking 0.25 once a day. It was then I read about withdrawal. I tapered even more slowly, titrating the last bit. I felt better, but then again, at three weeks off, I was hit very hard. I lasted a couple of months and was entering my last year of college, having gone back to school when my oldest started college herself. I had so much at stake: a budding art career, a family, kids, and a job. I went to the doctor to see what I should do about my troubles with anxiety from getting off, which were now coupled with a good deal of depression—something I was not prone to. The doctor said I just needed to realize that I was an anxious person and that I needed medication for life. She also implied that I must not have been using the coping tools, i.e., CBT, that I was taught in therapy. I felt like a scolded child yet was desperate to feel better, so once again, I went back on the benzo, always feeling like it was “me.”

 

But this time, I did some serious research. I learned that I had been in tolerance and that my yo-yo on and off was called kindling—that others had experienced this. I saw my problems mirrored in the experiences of hundreds of others. I read everything I could find. I took the 0.25 a few months longer, never feeling free of anxiety, and I knew there was no choice but to either increase my dose over time or stay off the stuff no matter what it meant. I began another taper and titration over a spring and summer (2011). It was my third attempt, and I knew it would be my last one way or another.

 

I am now 18 months free, and free is how I feel. I could list for you the hell it has been, but if you are reading this, you are probably aware of what that is like. I have never felt so sick or so mentally anguished in my life, and never would I have thought a low dose—a tiny pill that was not abused—could have done such a thing. There were days I thought I would not make it through, but the reality is: I went to grad school, changed jobs, exhibited art, gave my first artist talks, traveled to artist residencies, and taught for the first time—all while enduring the worst nightmare of my life.

 

I say this not to show what a superhero I am—oh no, far from it. I stumbled. I swayed like a drunken sailor, nauseous and dizzy. Inside, I was freaked out and "sobby." But I had been through the other two attempts, and at that point, I felt like I had nothing to lose. I was going to be freaked out no matter what I did and probably was “not going to make it,” so I might as well just push myself.

 

I did not believe I would heal.....but I did. I did not believe I would make it. But around a year off, things started to improve. Little by little, so slowly I didn’t think they were really getting better—but they have. I wake up without that crushing dread. I no longer shake internally, and I can walk a bit steadier. It is amazing.

 

Writing this is hard. It has been a journey I walked alone, trying so hard to appear normal to family and coworkers. Nobody really suspected. My husband tried to be supportive but had his doubts that it was all withdrawal. Well, I know now. And I have made it to the other side. I am exhausted but still here.