July 2010. Ben and I had our first apartment together, a first floor duplex in the Fan. Someone entered our apartment from the open window in the kitchen. Luckily we had gone out that night. It was a convenient snatch-and-grab. He, she, they took our digital cameras, Ben’s laptop, my jewelry, a bowl of change, the open bottle of wine on the counter, and a bag to put it all in.
We came home that night, not realizing what had happened. I smoked at the time. I wanted to have another cigarette before we went to bed. I put my hand on the back door to go out on the back porch. I vividly remember asking Ben if he had unlocked the back door. Though I don’t remember his answer.
The next morning when we got up, I noticed that a small black jewelry box of mine was on the floor. I knew for a fact that I hadn’t taken that piece out in ages. I picked it up, opened my jewelry hutch, and instantly realized that something was wrong. The drawer was empty. The drawer below it was empty, and the one below that. Shit! We had been burglarized.
We called the non-emergency police, and they sent over a detective. Sounds fancy, huh? One thing that I learned from this experience (besides locking your windows when you are not home) was that it’s not like it is on television. Police can’t get a print off anything unless it is as smooth as glass. My jewelry hutch is out; it’s wood, not smooth enough. Everything else we could tell that they touched they either took or we also touched, ruining any possible print.
Ben was supposed to work a double that day. He called out. I didn’t want to be alone all day. I felt violated. Someone came into my home, and took my things. They were in my personal space. This set off my panic attacks. But at the time, I didn’t know what was happening. I thought I was having a heart attack; I thought I was dying.
I went to the emergency room twice. All they did was sit me in a room by myself, and then send me home with a 30-day prescription for Ativan. Two different doctors. Zero explanation about what was happening to me. But the panic attacks kept coming back. I made an appointment with my general practitioner, and he started me on Celexa, an antidepressant that is commonly used in patients with anxiety.
I came back a week later with another panic attack. He admitted that he couldn’t help me any further. I was reaching the edge of his education. He suggested that I see a psychiatrist. I sat down with one of the nurses to try and help me find someone I could talk to, but there wasn’t a single practice on their list that was accepting new patients. The only other option was for me to go another emergency room, one that has an emphasis on mental health. I got in the car, and that is where I went.
I went through triage. The girl ahead of me admitted to the intake nurse that she was thinking about committing suicide. They took her in immediately. My turn. My answer was no. I waited in the main area of the waiting room for another nurse to call me over. As I walked through the corridor to the little individual glass rooms, I noticed police officers standing outside of them. This must be where they bring the people from the jails when they need to be seen.
I sat in one of those little glass rooms and talked with the nurse, this wonderful and amazing nurse. To this day I wish I knew her name. I wish she knew how much she helped me that day. I told her about all the emergency room visits, all the doctors appointments. I handed her all of the medications I had been given so far. And I cried. I told her that I didn’t want to die, that I just wanted someone to tells me what they hell was going on. That nurse sat there and explained to me what a panic attacks was, and what anxiety is. Oh! You mean I’m not dying?
That nurse looked me in the eyes and told me that she was going to help me. And I believed her. She knew of a new therapy office that was accepting new patients, but it was a 45 minute drive from my house. She said that her son goes there, and he loves it. Yes! Sign me up! She got me an appointment with a doctor and a counsellor the VERY NEXT DAY.
The next day I went to my very first therapy appointment. I started by seeing the counsellor. I spoke with her, and told her all of my problems with panic attacks and the burglary. She made some notes and then sent them on to the doctor. I met with him next and we set up a medication plan. I was feeling good! Things were looking up.
Slowly with weekly counselling sessions and medication, I was able to dig myself out of the hole that I was in. My counsellor taught me some relaxation techniques to help me sleep. I was making great progress, except something wasn’t quite right. I was no longer having panic attacks, but I was feeling like a zombie all the time. I told my doctor, and he took my off the Ativan and put me on Xanax. This was much better for me. With Xanax I just felt normal, myself.
Jump forward to today, I am still on medication. While I do prefer the more natural approaches, such a breathing and CBD (this post explains more on that) I am fully aware of the fact that I needed it to get to where I am today. I have changed medications and dosages a few times actually. Do I intend to be on this medication for the rest of my life? Most likely, not. Am I grateful for them being there when I needed them? Absolutely.
The world breaks everyone, & afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
Ernest Hemingway
There is such a stigma surrounding mental health and its medications. Maybe if we talk about it more, it won’t be so scary. And if it isn’t as scary, then maybe more people will get the help they need. I am not saying that everyone should be on medication, nor am I saying that everyone needs to go see a counsellor (although I really do think it helps). Everybody’s perfect scenario is different. Just know that there is no shame in needing help, and there is no shame in needing to take medication. I do. No shame in my game.
XOXO – Jenna
