Psychiatrist

I hired a new psychiatrist Wednesday.

To be honest, that black box antibiotic broke more than just the tendon in my jaw. I started having several panic attacks per day.

In case you’ve never ridden the roller coaster of panic, let me explain what it feels like “for me”
Tiny things can set it off... loud noises, heat, light, people or nothing at all. I feel it coming like a wave. First I feel 20 degrees hotter, I stop being able to hear anything except for, say the tv, everything else sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher, I can’t breathe, I sweat like I just busted through the Black Friday line at target and I feel the fight or flight so badly that I could probably wrestle a bear or run faster than a cheetah. It’s paralyzing.

The new psychiatrist said that she works the intake of a psychiatric hospital and has seen people on that antibiotic who do not have a history of any mental illness come in having a psychotic break. Hearing voices, seeing things that aren’t there. Needing to be strapped down and reeling through a mental downward spiral.

I guess a torn jaw tendon and paralyzing panic is better than that. So, there’s that. Silver lining!

Here’s where I’m proud of myself. Everyone knows the rules right? You answer questions in such a way that you will not be hospitalized. Do not freak the doctor out with your suicidal thoughts or talk about how bleak you’re feeling. Throw in a joke here and there and make it back out the door.

I decided going in that for the first time in my life I would answer honestly. No, I’m not suicidal. Do I feel like if I happened to die that it would be alright? Sometimes. Do these panic attacks feel like I’ve died and this is my hell? Frankly, yes. Do I cry... a lot. Yup. Do I self medicate? No. But the option is on the table.

And she was kind. I didn’t look her in the eyes at all except for one time and that one time, she wouldn’t look away first. It was.... hard. One feels ashamed that their brain is controlling them and they don’t have the ability to tell it what to do. Shape up, Mother Fucker!! I’ve had enough of your shit!

Ah, if only.

Still, I’ve been around this dark amusement park long enough to recognize the signs of when to get help. Robb reminded me that that is a good thing. My husband is a rock. I asked him to read a book that really struck me and says what I can’t say and he did. And he asked what I wanted out of him reading it and I told him.... I want you to know, don’t give me advice on how to “fix it” that will not, does not, never will be, helpful. Just.... be. Sit with me. Touch me in some small way... not a hug, I already feel trapped in my head.. just a finger on my hand. Let me find my breath.

And it’s been a lifesaver.

So, I recommend The Valedictorian of Being Dead: The True Story of  Dying Ten Times To Live by Heather B Armstrong

I’ve followed her blog, Dooce, for over 15 years and felt like I knew her by the time she wrote this book this year and I highly recommend it to anyone who can’t find the words to describe what depression feels like and for close friends and family members of those people.

It made me call and make an appointment to help me find my joy after that stupid drug broke me.

Love you,

Tracy