Amanar: Thanks! I can definitely tell it's helping, or at least it was. It feels like it's not at its peak helpfulness (at which point it felt almost like a palpable voice would gently tap on my shoulder and encourage me), but it does feel better than before I started the medicine.
To start at the beginning (Wall o' Text, activate! Read if you dare!):
I'd been increasingly experiencing signs that would, ultimately, lead to a diagnosis of mood disorder and possible PTSD. I suppose they started around five or six years ago, but they'd been increasing in both frequency and severity.
Friday, February 13th of last year, I was sitting in my office, and felt an overwhelming pain grip my chest. It was like a vice had been tightened around me and wouldn't stop, terrifyingly tight and increasing. It didn't go away, and my left arm began tingling, I was short of breath, dizzy and lightheaded...all of the classic signs of a heart attack. Now, I'm 32 (well, I was then), get annual checkups that have never shown a problem (even at my heaviest weight), and have no family history of heart disease, so a heart attack seemed unlikely. I did talk with a friend who had a heart attack at a young age (around 30) and described everything to him; he confirmed that it was probably OK. So I decided to just keep an eye on it, and if anything changed, I'd go the ER. It seemed to ebb overnight, but the next day (
"Valentine's Day. Bummer."), with my wife at work, I was still feeling it. So my wife took me to the hospital.
They ran a battery of tests on me, and every single one came back negative. No trace or evidence of a heart attack. Official diagnosis: panic attack.
I didn't think much about it (at least, in terms of placing it into the bigger tapestry of my mental state). I just chalked it up to stress at my job (even though it was a strangely un-stressful day that Friday).
A couple of years ago, I made some major changes in my life, including changes to my diet that led me to drop 70 lbs. and the addition of exercise. That was great...until I got to the point that I hated myself so much that eating at McDonald's was preferable to eating healthy food, specifically because it felt like a slow form of suicide. Speaking of, I've always been someone for whom that act was unthinkable...except I starting thinking about it. A lot. And it started to seem preferable to continuing.
Phe and I talked, and she voiced her concern that I didn't seem like
me, and that it had been getting worse over the past few years. It wasn't something that I could see; I knew how terrible and worthless I felt, but that seemed normal to me. I put around 15 lbs. back on, just because I didn't feel like I deserved to do any better. I stopped eating properly. I stopped exercising. I struggled to find a reason to get out of bed in the mornings, and most days I couldn't; I did so more out of habit than anything else. I went between work and home, and that's all I wanted to do. It's all I could do. I started having anxiety in stores or restaurants if there were too many people around.
There's the matter of work as well; there was a particular person (in charge, to boot) who was an abusive, emotional terrorist. He was unceremoniously terminated (mostly), so he's thankfully out of our lives. I hate hate
hate to even bring up the term, because I hate the idea of even beginning to compare what I experience to something like a soldier who's experienced war goes through, but several of us here have legitimate PTSD because of him. My heart still freezes when I hear the "ding!" of the elevator, because I'm scared it's him. I have nightmares about him. I struggle to go to sleep at night because I'm certain that he's gotten into our home and is waiting, in the dark.
I would have brief spurts of "good" times, but the "bad" times (and thoughts) were increasingly overtaking my life. I woke up one morning, just like every other, showered, brushed my teeth, sat down on the bed to slip on my socks...and began sobbing. No reason. At least, not one I could (or even now, can) pinpoint. It wasn't an isolated occurrence.
I tried around a year ago to find a mental health care professional to talk to, but what was already an intimidating experience became one that put so many hurdles in the way just to get some help (side note: our attitudes toward mental health care, and insurance coverage for such, absolutely must change) that it felt impossible.
So I made an appointment (which wound up not being for several months, as she's booked solid), but spoke with her about it. I trust her implicitly; she's far and away the best doctor both Phe and I have ever had, and we both think the world of her. I'm normally wary of ulterior motives with doctors, just because there are a host of issues that can present themselves even if one does have nothing but the best intentions. Short version, though, she's one of the good ones, and I trust her judgment. She told me to start on this and scheduled a follow-up for six weeks later (that'll be next Tuesday).
Seeing the urgency, she wanted me to try the Celexa, which spurred this thread. I dunno if it would have worked like gangbusters or not at all; I know there are pitfalls in trying to fix a squishy computer like the brain. But I didn't get to go down that path very far. She switched me to the bupropion (Wellbutrin), which I've been taking ever since, and the difference after a couple of weeks on that has been remarkable. I'm not 100% back to old me, but I'm definitely heading in that direction.
It wasn't until I got turned around that I was able to see the forest for the trees: the panic attack, the depression, the history of it all. And the stigma attached to anything related to mental illness is destructive as hell. The fact that we're still kinda fumbling around in the dark regarding psychological issues (and their physical causes) doesn't help. But treating mental illness as though it's a shameful failure of character is not only wrong morally, but empirically.
When I was growing up, I lived on a farm. My dad was a dirt farmer (still is, to a degree, unfortunately), and I'd help him out when he needed it. I didn't mind the work, but I did mind having to do it outside...not because of discomfort like heat or humidity, but because I'm allergic to pretty much anything green. A triggered allergy attack would pretty much completely sideline me for two to three days. His side of the family used to make me feel like **** for that, like I just wasn't tough enough or if I'd just man up, my allergies wouldn't be a problem. Even knowing factually that it was a matter of biology and not a question of constitution, I still internalized that. Applying it to something intangible like mental illness is a recipe for disaster.
Also, there is of course the question of family history. Normally I'll rattle off the things my parents or grandparents experienced, like diabetes, hypertension, etc., but no one's ever told me about any mental illness in my family (the closest anyone comes to talking about that was my maternal great-grandmother, who suffered from Alzheimer's in her waning years). Only pressing the issue results in potential relevance coming to light. Like my mother being on antidepressants since my grandfather passed away, and going to therapy when I was in middle school. Or her mother contemplating suicide (decades ago), and her obsessive cleaning compulsions (still going on) being viewed as just family joke fodder. Or
her father, who
did commit suicide a few years before I was born.
Because those things aren't "mental illnesses". They're viewed as just isolated incidents, completely unrelated and not discussed because they're "embarrassing". Taken together, though, it's a helluva pattern; one that might have helped me identify this earlier. Dad asked me why I didn't look for help sooner; the simple answer is because I didn't even realize I needed it. And how do you say "I feel suicidal" without causing friends and family to panic? It's difficult to modulate the difference between "Do you think I need to find some help?" and "Holy **** WTF is going on emergency emergency stop everything". Everything's relative to the experiencer. Plus, it just felt like whining to me.
Which brings us to today. I'm on the Wellbutrin (generic), and I, along with Phe and my friends and family, have seen a big, big difference. The Wellbutrin has had some bumps (like the spazzy muscle/thought thing, and the tinnitus exacerbation), but it's definitely helping. And the muscle/thought issues seem to have abated; only the tinnitus remains, so I just want to check on that.
Aaaaaand incredibly long text is over! *tap dances away*
Edit: Skipped a word. Fixed now.
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