Sweet Xanax

On my second emergency trip to the psychiatrist this week he finally gave me something that he SAYS will make my life feel less like I'm riding spread eagle on a moving train that is fast approaching a tunnel. I had a whole Xanax before bed and I think it helped me sleep. Took a half of one when I got to work this morning and have felt like a zombie all day.

The doctor offered to put me on disability leave. A sweep of relief washed over me when he said that until I realized that I would undoubtedly lose my job if I do that. Not that they will fire me, but that they will marginalize me (even more than now) and I will come back to find something so different and frightening I don't know if I can face it.

My ego won't let me be on mental disability leave though my head says "OH YEAH BABY THAT IS WHAT I WANT TO DO."

So instead I screamed for 90 minutes, straight, on the phone with someone I thought I loved. For 90 minutes. And he kept hanging up and I kept calling back and screaming some more. I truly don't know why he didn't just turn off his phone. (Not that I'm trying to make it his responsibility to get me to stop screaming, but because I'm actually incredibly curious as to why he'd listen that long ...)

Hello, EmSam

I've been depressed as long as I can remember. It's not just like "Oh this is so depressing" kind of depressed. It's the insidious kind, the kind that steals moments of my life and never gives them back. It's the kind that makes me want to close my eyes and sleep, all the time. The kind that makes it hard to give a damn about anything.

They call it "major depression," and in my case it's chronic -- which means it is there, always. My particular type is treatment resistant, which means that even if I'm lucky enough to find a drug or combination of drugs that help me for a time, they eventually poop out.

I visualize it as a cloudy figure, surrounding me with silvery fog. It's deceptively soothing, but really is much more like numbing. I care about things and people, but not about life. I'd rather just have a nap, thanks.

I don't realize how depressed I am until I get a flash of it lifting, when I see a color I haven't seen in a while or have an inspiration to actually pursue a hobby again. I take it as a good sign when I wander around inside a craft store, for example, and imagine all the things I'd like to make. If only. If only I had the energy, or the desire for more than a flash or two.

I have tried all the SSRIs, one by one, for the past 15 years. It started with Prozac, which was described after an especially acute episode of public rage. I was scared into taking a drug I knew would alter my brain chemistry in the bizarre and somewhat frightening ways that anti depressants do.

I've been on a rollercoaster ride of various drugs since then -- when a new SSRI comes out I was switched from Prozac to Paxil to Effexor to Zoloft to Cymbalta. Probably a few others in there, too. I tried Wellbutrin and had one notably frightening experience with lithium.

Nothing lifts my moods. I am somewhat resigned to living a life that is not worth living (considering the alternative is too costly). I have researched vagal nerve stimulation and transcranial magnets. I read Kitty Dukakis' book about electric shock therapy and have seriously considered it. Am seriously considering it. Would do it if given the chance without the red tape involved.

Instead, today, I'm on Emasam. It's a new antidepressant, named for the daughter Emily and son Sam of a marketing person somewhere. Well, hello there.

Some people out there say it works wonders. Others aren't so sure.

Right now I'm in the second category. I'm experiencing withdrawal from the Cymbalta and Wellbutrin (yeah, was taking both) and am off sleeping pills and anti-anxiety drugs as well. From being on all of it a few weeks ago to being on only this.

This morning I thought it was going to be the end of me. I was so light headed, so frightened, so frazzled. It's minuscule improvement in the past few hours, but probably because I succumbed to taking a Cymbalta I found rolling around in the bottom of my purse. I felt like someone had given me a gift or a sign so I popped it and I think that's relieving some of the pain of the withdrawal. Or I'm imagining it. Or something.

Anyone else taking Emsam? How does it work for you?

Distract yourself

Simple advice, and what I tell many people suffering varying levels of emotional distress.

Just don't think about it.

There is nothing to worry about.

You're making it worse by worrying about it.

Somehow, none of those 'truths' can get through to me when I need to hear them most. I suspect it is because I know there is something to worry about, dammit, I'm worried, aren't I?


How I think about something doesn't change its outcome 99% of the time. If I worry that he isn't home yet, that he's been in a wreck, that doesn't make it more or less likely to be true, does it?

Here are the two sides: I am having emotions about a subject. The emotions are unpleasant.

There is no basis for the emotion -- say fear -- that is evident. So why be afraid?

Both can be true but I find holding both to be difficult. Yes, there is no monster under the bed. Yes, I am terrified anyway.

Yes, I am terrified anyway, and feel weary of living in fear.

Training 'that voice'

The voice in my head tells me "You don't belong."

I hear it all the time. I hear it along with a clanging noise, a false note, a claxon sound. It tells me "danger danger danger," and suggests I step aside, step aside.

So I do. I so want to belong that I try. I show up, I raise my hand, I speak well, I get compliments on what I say and how I say it. I get it, and I usually get it well.

But I never really feel like I belong. I see a sidelong glance down the table, or a subtle note being taken. I feel a fakey smile or sense that someone feels threatened. Am I imagining this? Yeah, sure. Probably. Much of it is because I am set up to expect them not to want me. It feels like the lunchroom in junior high, and even high school. Like the school bus and having nowhere set to sit.

But some of it is not made up. Some of it is my keen sense of people, my ability to read through some of the things people are saying to actually hear what they want to say. I'm quick to take offense, sure. But that doesn't mean there isn't offense offered.

I don't always act on the instinct to run. I stay, sometimes. I usually regret it, but not always. Sometimes it's OK. When I manage to stay, it's because I am telling myself "It's only a story, you are hearing rejection where there is none, they have no reason to outright reject you, you are OK."

And then I doodle on my scratch pad, drawing broad swirls, and count my breath. In, out, in, out, in, out, up to five and back down to one. It's only a story.

If I do this 5,000 more times -- about the number of times I have believed the story -- it might help.