HISTORY: Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

*I first mention PTSD in a post I intended to devote only to medications.  This post is a continuation/clarification of that original post, which you can read here.

When Dr. S mentioned PTSD, I wasn't entirely surprised.  It made sense and after I had shared a lot of my history with him, I knew he might go that route and tack a PTSD diagnosis on with everything else.  He strongly recommended counseling to work through those issues.  That wasn't going to happen and it's not going to be happening any time soon.

I think the PTSD label is semi-accurate.  I don't overly identify with it but know that it is part of who I am and will be something that I will struggle with, perhaps forever.  I'm okay with that.  As much as my past is painful, it has made me who I am and I really like that person.

HISTORY: Agoraphobia

*I first mention Agoraphobia in a post I intended to devote only to medications.  This post is a continuation/clarification of that original post, which you can read here. 

Agoraphobia is more than just the fear of leaving your home.  It is more of a fear of being unable to get out of a situation or location.  This fear may be of being embarrassed or just not seeing a way out.  It is because of the perceived fear that some become unable to leave their own homes or safe areas.

I was able to leave my home but there were moments that I simply could not handle the thought.  This makes life very difficult when you have obligations outside of your home.  And I did.  Often I would work myself up into such a panic that I couldn't leave.  Sadly, this also created some permanent memories of bad experiences that I was unable to get past and prevented me from being present in some aspects of my life as well as the lives of my family members and close friends.

I still have issues from time to time but the anti-anxiety medications have helped immensely.  There have been very few incidents in the past three years that have actually forced me to stay home.  I feel like I've mostly conquered my agoraphobia, so much so that I no longer consider it to be part of my diagnosis.

HISTORY: The panic attacks

*I first mention panic attacks/anxiety disorder in a post I intended to devote only to medications.  This post is a continuation/clarification of that original post, which you can read here.  

I cannot remember when I had my first major panic attack but I do recall that it kicked my ass - mentally, physically and emotionally.  It must have been in late 2004.

When they first started, they were small.  I'd get worked up and have problems calming down and catching my breath.  Generally they were short and about the time they started, I would be able to work myself out of them.

But something changed.  That first major panic attack left me gasping for breath.  The tightness in my chest was nearly unbearable and I honestly wondered if I was having a heart attack.  My throat was raw, my muscles were sore from getting so tense.  I was crying and panicked.  This sucks!

I would have panic attacks while at home.  I would have them in public.  I would have them in my sleep and wake up in the throes of a full-blown panic attack.

Getting back on my Zoloft helped and the Ativan really made a difference.

I still have panic attacks from time to time.  They occur much less than they did in the beginning and it is rare that I have the big, full-blown panic attacks.  I have begun to recognize situations and environments that are more apt to cause me to have a panic attack and I have been building up my arsenal of coping mechanisms.

HISTORY: The bi-polar diagnosis

*I first mention the bi-polar diagnosis in a post I intended to devote only to medications.  This post is a continuation/clarification of that original post, which you can read here. 

In my post on anti-depressants, I talk about Dr. R giving me the diagnosis of bi-polar instead of just depression.   When I first heard the term, I was terrified but in some ways, it made sense.  The cycling, the highs and lows...these were hallmarks of bi-polar disorder.  But was I?

I'd been wearing my depression diagnosis for seven years at that point and we were getting pretty comfortable with each other.  This was something different.  This was something new.  This was something I knew very little about and couldn't wrap my brain around it.

I freaked out.

Upon arriving at the pharmacy with my new prescriptions, this time to include Lithium for my bi-polar disorder, I called my mom.  I was in tears and scared.  I don't know why I was scared but this was new and different and I needed to talk to someone.  Since my husband was at work, mom won the lottery.

When I told her about this new diagnosis, her comment made me angry.  She told me that I wasn't bi-polar.  When I asked her how she knew, she said "I know you and know that you aren't bi-polar."  She doesn't know me.  She knows what I choose to let her see.  She knows what I let her know, nothing more.  She is not in my head and she doesn't walk in my shoes.  It wasn't for her to decide.  I know she was probably reacting as a mother and not wanting this for her daughter.  I understand that now but, in that moment, I was pissed off that she made the statement. 

I was on the Lithium for a while but it made me a bit of a zombie and I was someone that was unrecognizable.  My husband was especially concerned.  After discussion, I was weaned off the Lithium and Dr. R changed my diagnosis back to depression.  I don't remember what reasons he gave for the change in diagnosis.

After this (mis?)diagnosis, I did further research into bi-polar disorder.  I am much better informed.  Do I think I'm bi-polar?  I'm not sure.  If I am bi-polar, I would have bi-polar disorder II, which is where the mania episodes are less intense.  I would also often be in the mixed state where the mania and depressive states overlap.  I'm not a doctor so until one tells me otherwise, I will keep my depression diagnosis and work towards maintaining my mental health.

HISTORY: Leave it to the professionals

*I first mention counseling in a post I intended to devote only to medications.  This post is a continuation/clarification of that original post, which you can read here. 

Here's the scoop:

To start with a bit of history, I should share that I've seen various counselors over the span of my life.  When I was 9 and my parents divorced, we all went to see a counselor.  It was a wonderful experience that helped me a great deal.  I saw her off and on for several sessions.  I do not remember/know how long I saw her but she was an amazing therapist.

The next counselor I was forced to see was shortly after my brother's accident.  It was a so-so experience.  I was able to vent my anger and worry but didn't get much out of it.  I was 14 and only went a handful of times...maybe only once but I cannot really remember.  My mom and dad probably tried to get me to go more but I did not.

In college I spoke with a counselor a few times for random issues.  It didn't feel right and I definitely did not click with him.

In early 2002, I started having issues again and went to see a psychiatrist, Dr. M.  So, the counselor I saw in association with Dr. M is the whole reason for writing this post.  She was a piece of work.  Our first visit went okay.  It was the first visit type of conversation where she was feeling me out and I was trying to be cooperative, honest and open.  I got an assignment to create a "pain list."  I was to write down everything bad that had ever happened to me, anything that had caused me emotional pain.  So I worked on it.  And worked on it.  And worked on it some more.  I was getting more and more depressed as I compiled this list.

On visit number two, I shared my list with her.  She actually had the nerve to question why something I had written on my "pain list" was there.  Why would that cause me pain?  The audacity of this woman!  But I shrugged it off.  Maybe she was right.  Was it really that big of a deal?  Should it have caused me pain?  Honestly, if I would have been at a better place at that time, I would have realized that I had every right to have whatever I wanted on my list and that everything on that list was valid TO ME.

The third visit was even worse.  The woman talked more than she listened.  And this talking wasn't offering me sage advice or introducing me to new coping mechanisms.  No.  She was talking about herself and telling me about her problems.  Seriously?!?!?! 

I was done.  I wasn't going to pay a person who wasn't doing the job I was paying for.  I wasn't going to sit there and have my feelings negated.  I wasn't going to play counselor to the counselor.

I never went back to her.

Years later I had a preliminary meeting with a different counselor since it was suggested that counseling might help me.  It didn't go well but it also didn't go poorly.  I haven't gone again and don't know that I ever will.  Counseling just isn't for me, or at least it hasn't been for me since that first magical time.  However, if I could find the right counselor and clicked with him/her, then I would definitely give it a try. 

HISTORY: The anit-depressant dance

In hindsight, I find it ironic that I wrote this post pinpointing the "start" of my depression knowing that my depression is not the result of some incident or moment of crap in my life.  It is based on a chemical issue in my brain.  Sure, that post is when I recognized it and had my break, but it's rather likely that it has always been a part of me.  Dr. E likened the chemical unbalance in my brain to a helium tank.  It's full and totally useful until it starts to get low or runs out completely.  You have to keep it maintained and filled by, among other suggestions, taking medication.  That makes total sense to me.

On to the dance...

I started my relationship with anti-depressants but taking the popular Prozac.  It felt good to be doing something to help me get to a more so "normal" me, but after time, Dr. E and I began to see that it was not working for me.  The dosage was upped but it did not make any difference.  I was sad but still remained hopeful as we moved on to a different medication.

 Effexor was next and it did seem to take the edge of the depression but the side effects were horrible.  The best way to describe the side effects would be to say that I felt like I was looking at everything in the movie version of warp speed - you know, that cool result of driving at night while the snow is blowing at you, making you feel like you are actually traveling much faster than you are?  Yup, imagine that every time you moved your head in the slightest way and there were tracers or drag marks from everything and it took a split second to catch up with a real view.  Okay, they weren't horrible unless you wanted to move, walk, or drive.  I needed to do all those things in my life so before too long, it was time to try something else. 

The next stop was my miracle drug - Zoloft.  I started off taking a 50 mg dosage and it worked some but once we upped it to 100 mg, I finally saw a little bit of light.  I don't know how to fully describe the happiness I felt once the fog started to lift.  It was like I was back and my life was a bit more in my control.

I stayed on my meds.  I went to work on a regular basis.  Everything was going well.  In January of 2002, I hit a bit of a snag.  I decided to see a psychiatrist instead of just relying on my general practitioner's knowledge of mental illness.  I moved on to seeing Dr. M and also decided to visit a counselor.  Dr. M kept me on Zoloft but added Trazadone to the mix to help me sleep since that was a lingering issue that the Zoloft wasn't able to remedy.  Trazodone worked a bit too well causing me to sleep too much.  Dr. M discontinued it and and I used an over-the-counter sleep aid when necessary.

Oh, the counselor - I will talk about that more in a later post since I'm dedicating this post to the medication dance. (You can read that post here:  HISTORY: Leave it to the professionals.)

The psychiatrist was getting costly and I was driving to a different town to see him.  He also wasn't giving me anything new - information or medication-wise - so I returned to Dr. E.

Life is going well.  I'm doing great and so I decide to take myself off my meds.  Obviously my "helium tank" is full now so I can coast without the aid of the medication.  I also elected to stop taking my meds because they were evening me out a bit too much and I wasn't able to experience some emotions or cry.  On a day-to-day basis, not crying isn't a big deal but when I attended my step great-grandmother's funeral and watched my step father break down with NO reaction from me, I knew I needed a change.  I didn't consult my doctor, I just quit.  This was in October 2002.

I managed to make it around eighteen months before trouble started brewing.  From the time I'd quit taking my anti-depressants until this point, there had been a lot of changes in my life.  I'd met a guy, we moved in together, I quit a job I loved and we moved to a different town.  But I seemed to be doing okay.  In June of 2004, I finally found a job.  It was going well enough.  Until November.

Sometime in me clicked...or rather, it came undone.  I couldn't function.  I had a mini-breakdown and actually thought about committing myself to a mental hospital. With the help of my fiance, I made it through and stated seeing Dr. S.  I was back on Zoloft, 100 mg. 

Stayed on the meds for a while and then money came into play and we couldn't afford for me to stay on them.  I cannot remember when I went off them but once I was on my husband's insurance, I went to a psychiatrist and resumed meds...somewhat.

I say somewhat because Dr. R had a slightly different diagnosis for me.  He felt I was bi-polar.  (My thoughts on that here.)  Because of his suspicions, I was put on Lithium Carbonate, 300 mg, three times a day.  I was also back on my Zoloft, 100 mg, once daily.  I'd also developed anxiety disorder (read about my experiences with panic attacks here) and what can only be accurately described as agoraphobia (will talk about that separately in this post).  Dr. R added Ativan, 0.5 mg up to 4 times a day to my program.  This was April of 2006.

The Lithium was something I felt kept me even.  However, my husband saw it turning me into a zombie.  I didn't see it fully but I was developing some weird and destructive habits.  After much discussion and listing the pros and cons, I was off the Lithium and Dr. R changed my diagnosis back to depression.  I continued with my meds and seeing Dr. R until April 2007.  At that point, my husband lost his job and I lost my insurance.  Dammit!  Again, I was med-free but doing mostly okay.

Depression and anxiety started taking over my life again so in October 2009, I went back to Dr. S to get on Zoloft, only 50 mg once daily this time and Ativan.  I also started going to a support group affiliated with the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI).  Based on a reference from that group, I also checked out a counselor again but it once again didn't work out.  (If you want to know more about my counseling experiences, here's that post.) It was also during this round of visits that Dr. S mentioned Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) which I elaborate upon here.

I stayed on my meds until September of 2011 and have been off them ever since.  Monday, September 17, 2012, I will go back to Dr. S and hopefully will be starting back on my meds that day.  I'm ready to get back to me.

HISTORY: Pinpointing the beginning

When I look back on when my depression started, I could honestly pick any number of moments that life had pretty much gone to shit and I was more than just feeling "blue."  I'm not going to go into said shit moments because everyone has them and I get disgusted when it becomes a pissing contest of sorts to one-up someone about who has had more terrible things happen to them.  It's quite sad really.

Back on track...I am pretty sure I know when it started or at least when it started fucking up my life. It was my last semester in college - 1997.  I was terrified of graduating and leaving the comfy environment I had carved for myself.  Seriously, my life was a pretty cool dream.  I had wonderful friends, was in several leadership roles in various clubs, doing well in my classes, and was taking courses I loved.

I had just changed my major by dropping the teaching aspect of my degree.  Yes, that was a huge thing but I knew what I wanted to do instead and had a plan in place of how to make that happen.  I'd found my passion and knew what I wanted to do with my life.

Before long, sleeping all day and skipping classes (more than typical) became the norm.  I was slacking on my responsibilities with the internship I'd designed that would also relay directly into what I wanted to do with my future.  When I say slacking, I mean avoiding and simply not showing up.  It wasn't that I didn't care because I did.  It was that I just couldn't do it.  I didn't understand why at the time and I didn't realize that I needed to ask for help.  It just was.  Perhaps friends, professors, co-workers, and even me blamed it on senior-itis or partying too much.  Maybe I hid it well enough to not cause worry.  I honestly don't know.

Things got better and then got worse.  Damn the roller coaster.  I had a few interviews but nothing in my dream career was panning out.  I wasn't ready to go to grad school and didn't want to go home.

I ended up moving in with my father, step mother and little sister for the summer after graduation.  It was meant to be a temporary thing as I searched for jobs and tried to get my post-college life on track.  I started calling in to my job and wasn't making payments on my car or keeping up on the insurance.  I knew what I was doing was wrong and would most certainly get me into trouble but it was as though I was helpless to make myself be responsible.

After a few months, I moved in with my mother and step father.  Mom helped me get back on track with the bills...at least those she knew about...and I found two jobs and I really enjoyed them.  I ended up living with my parents for almost a year before being on my feet enough to get my own apartment in September of 1998.

Finally, I felt like a grown up and in control of my own life.  All continued to go well until October 1999.

To pick up a bit of extra money, I cleaned my parents' house on a weekly basis.  I hate cleaning but the extra money was nice.  One day, I just wasn't feeling "right."  My mom got home early and was less than enthused about the job I had done cleaning the house and let me know.  I was upset and hurt and maybe even a bit angry so, in a huff, I left to drive the ten miles back home.

I started driving my car off the road more than once on that drive.

Somehow, I managed to make it home safely.  When I entered my apartment, my beautiful cat Pacey came to greet me as was his way.  I kicked at him and screamed before crumbling to the floor, bursting into tears, and, having a panic attack.  I wanted to die.  Life wasn't worth it anymore.  Nothing was right.  I didn't want to go on.  This was not the first time I considered taking my own life.  This was also not the first time that I took actual steps to end my life. (Although I have had thoughts of wanting to die since then, I have never again taken any action towards doing so.)

 A nervous breakdown?  That's what I called it and if it wasn't, I sure as hell hope that I never have one.

It took every ounce of my being to pull myself together enough to call my mom.  She's amazing.  She was probably just as scared as I was but she remained calm and talked to me.  After I convinced her, and myself, that I wasn't going to kill myself, we made a plan.  I would call the doctor and make an appointment for the next day.  And I did.

I met with Dr. E the following day.  He is a general practitioner.  After listening to me relay the events of the past 24 hours and convincing him I wasn't a suicide risk, he agreed that I did indeed have a break of some sort.  He suspected clinical depression was the cause and prescribed me my first anti-depressant - Prozac - and the dance began.

So, why a blog now?

I'm starting this blog as a form of therapy for myself because:

Two days ago, I had a huge epiphany.  My life was out of control and I didn't even really recognize myself anymore.  My depression had become who I was.  I didn't like it.  Not one little bit.

She finally let go of her fake smile...
Tears rolled down her face and she whispered, 

"I'm sick of this..."

So I did something that is very difficult for me...I asked for help.  I knew this battle was not something I could do on my own.  I needed support, now more than ever, from my husband.  Because I do not have any form of health insurance, I needed support from my parents - emotional and financial.  In time I will ask for additional support from my closest of friends and family members.

Those that I asked for help said they would be there for me.  This was an immense relief and I felt myself actually feel hope for the first time in a long while.

If found this shortly after I had this epiphany and it nailed what I've so long put off doing.

I need to take care of this and I am very confident that I can, especially with the help of my supporters.  But even if those supporters were gone tomorrow, or no longer able to help me in any way, I am still going to fight.  I'm done with depression running and ruining my life.  I want it back and I want to find my happy.

I know this means I will need to stay on my medication even when I'm feeling "good" again.  I know this means I need to take better care of myself.  I know this means I might have to seek further professional help.  But knowing this is half the battle.

So this blog is for me.  It's for me to keep a record of my progress or lack thereof.  It is for me to express myself, especially since I often find it difficult to feel like I can do an accurate job of conveying my thoughts and emotions through speaking.  It is for me to backtrack and record what I can remember from my battle thus far.  I will eventually share it with those I love, especially my supporters, but don't care if they want to read it or not.  And if they do read it, it is up to them if they wish to talk about it more or ask for clarification.