In Truer Ink: Niki Turner: Antidepressants

MUST we have "wake-up calls"? Can't we just WAKE UP?

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Coming Back {Day 17}

Sunday, June 17, 2012

It has been two weeks since my last dose of antidepressant medications.

I'm weepy (at the drop of a hat) and achy (like I've run a mini-marathon every day) and still have moments where the "brain zaps" try to get me. (If you are not familiar with the symptoms of withdrawal from many antidepressants, "brain zaps" or "brain shivers" are common. Imagine being connected to an electric battery at random moments, like every time you turn your head.) The nausea has lessened, thank goodness, and I'm starting to feel a bit more energetic.

Crazy woman that I apparently am, I opted to start weaning myself off my prescription in the same month that we packed and moved... Maybe I want extra points or something. I knew it was time, just as surely as I knew (after dragging my feet for ~~months~~ years) that I needed help to overcome the cumulative effect of stress, distress, and biological weakness on my spirit, soul, and body.


Bwhahaha!

Anyway... I'm nearing the end of the withdrawal phase, supposedly. It takes 19 days to work the chemicals out of my system, so I've got this week left. I'm pleased to say that despite the sudden urges to sob hysterically over a 60 Minutes clip about Taylor Swift, I can feel ME coming back to life, coming out of the fog.

Some of my Christian acquaintances (and myself, at one point) shun the use of antidepressants. Knowing what I know now: Don't shun someone for getting a prescription for something until you've walked a mile in his or her moccasins. I even had to look back and ask myself, "Why did I get on this stuff, it's a nightmare to quit!"

Well, to answer that... Because I was at the end of my proverbial rope. Looking back, I can see that the prescription I agonized over getting succeeded in toning down my emotions, reducing harmful physical reactions to stressors, and moderating anxiety enough to keep me functional (as opposed to going postal, which was looking like my other option) for the past few years. As a result, I'm not in prison and have no bodies buried anywhere on the property.

No, really.

I'm still married (to the same man, even). All my children are still speaking to me, and not in curse words or screaming arguments. I've renewed relationships with my parents and others who'd offended or hurt me. In other words, that prescription got me through a season of life that was taking more of a toll than I realized.

God knew what was going on... if it hadn't been for considerable time spent in prayer and His faithful persistence to keep telling me "go to the doctor," I would have never gone in and admitted (GASP) that I, a pastor's wife, a spirit-filled, word-of-faith Christian believer, was teetering on the edge of a crumbling cliff of depression and anxiety. Sometimes you've gotta trust God and what He's speaking to YOU personally than whatever traditions and doctrines of men you've bought into. Just a thought.

Anyway, this next month, the 42nd anniversary of my birth, should be interesting... let's just hope we don't have too many moments like this as I return to myself:

Taking a risk, here.

Monday, September 27, 2010

It's time to come out of the ~~closet~~. Er, cabinet.

The medicine cabinet, that is.

It's possible I'll lose friends, readers, respect. But, in the wise words of Dr. Seuss, "Those who matter don't mind, and those who mind, don't matter."

I'm on an antidepressant.

Yep, me. The anti-antidepressant chick.

*Gulp.* Any number of you are probably laughing ... wondering why I thought this was a big deal.

Because I once judged and condemned those who resorted to medication to deal with symptoms of mental and emotional distress. I considered them weak, even while I battled increasingly frequent and severe panic attacks and depression. I watched the commercials for Prozac and Zoloft with outward disdain, and secretly wished I had enough guts to admit I had a problem I couldn't control on my own.

There's nothing like pride to trap you in a pit.

Oh, it's not like I wasn't fighting and resisting the enemy. I confessed scriptures, prayed, repented, cried, took herbal supplements, started exercising, meditated, received communion. I tried every method in, and out, of the book to get my wayward self under control. And all the while a still, small voice kept whispering in my ear, "Go to the doctor."

But I didn't want to go to the doctor. I didn't want to admit my failure to overcome, to be victorious in this quest for mental and emotional stability. Even though I firmly believe God gives man knowledge and wisdom to find and create medical treatments so His children can have health. Even though I'm the first one to say "do everything you can in the spiritual realm, and everything you can in the natural realm to achieve and maintain health." Sure, I'll say it to someone else, but not to myself.

I cracked (the genteel Southern term is "dropped my basket") one day on the way to the ski area in nasty weather. My husband was driving, the kids were all in the car, on the way to an activity I don't particularly enjoy. I'd made myself go anyway because the LAST time I didn't go, my oldest son severely dislocated his elbow and required an ambulance, emergency surgery, and physical therapy. Was I thinking my presence would somehow prevent another traumatic experience? Possibly. I do tend toward the "control freak" side of the personality spectrum.

Ingredients for a breakdown? In my case, yes. I started crying and could not stop. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Couldn't think clearly. For a few terrifying moments I felt certain I was going to self-destruct right there in the car, like those people who spontaneously combust in the middle of a crowded sidewalk. By the time the attack finally ended, thanks to a praying husband, I was exhausted. I spent the day in the lodge at the ski area, too physically and emotionally drained to even think about hitting the slopes.

A few weeks later, teary-eyed and humbled, I described my litany of symptoms to my doctor. She asked me a few pointed questions about how I was sleeping (um...people sleep?), did I feel angry all the time (you mean it's not normal to always be ready to fly into a rage?), etc. And then she told me I had something akin to a repetitive-motion injury in my brain. Too much stress for too long = body chemicals all out of whack. I was existing in a perpetual state of fight-or-flight response.

The medications she prescribed had some side effects, but the side effects were nothing compared to the wonderful realization that I was reacting and responding to things like a regular person. Things that previously threw me off-kilter for days were still upsetting, but only briefly. I could move forward. My children (who did not know I had started taking 'happy pills') asked me what was up ... I was so relaxed, they said. Wow. Had I been that crazy?

Medication is not a magic bullet. I know a lady who was taking so many prescriptions that her medicine was what was messing her up! She needed to get OFF the meds.

Son of Groucho via Flickr

And there isn't a perfect Stepford-wife "happy pill," either. I still have bouts with the blues and flashes of anger. I still deal with pretty severe PMS and have to work through things like turning 40 and watching my kids grow up and leave the nest. Sad things make me cry (though I can watch a sad movie or book without getting hysterical now). I still struggle with social activities, but I hosted my husband's entire extended family at our house for several days without blubbering on the bathroom floor even once!

I still have to rely on God to maintain my peace. I still need Him, as much or more than ever, because I know He has my best interests at heart.

Why have I shared all this? Maybe it's a kind of public confession. Maybe I need to (virtually) stand up and apologize for being critical and judgmental of those I considered weak. In reality, I was the weaker one, because I allowed religious pride and fear to hold me hostage in a pit. Pride always makes us weak.

Maybe you have some prideful attitude about something or someone, even though you secretly (or not so secretly) struggle with the same issue. Shakespeare put it this way, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks." The Apostle Paul put it like this: "Let him who thinks he stands, take heed lest he fall."

Mostly I'm writing this (the draft has been in my computer since I started this blog) because perhaps someone else out there is buckling under the pressure and stress and needs to know God has a precise and individualized plan for your good. If that's you, my prayer is that you will take heed to His still, small voice, and obey His leading.