8/15/14 -
I
just got home from a baseball game, with my boyfriend, and our son. And on a
nice summer night in August, who could complain about enjoying a baseball game
with the family? Huh, well like so many others, I have anxiety, and I can tell
you, it was not an easy night for me. My anxiety takes many forms, and it
creeps up on me even when I take precautions like avoiding triggers and taking
time to de-stress. One of my biggest triggers is crowds.
I
tell people often, “I don’t do crowds.” I hate crowds. I have never really
liked close spaces, and as I have become an adult my dislike of crowds has only
grown. I don’t exactly know what it is about crowds that I hate – maybe
everything. I don’t like people who stand too close and invade your personal
space, I don’t like not having direct, easy access to an exit, I don’t like
talking to people I don’t know… the whole thing, really. Hate it. Sometimes I
can take crowds in small doses for things that I really like (Truckee 4th of July comes to mind), or if I am not
too stressed out sometimes crowds are OK. Aisle seats help. Knowing my car is close so I can make a
quick escape if need be helps. And despite my aisle seat, for some reason
today’s crowd at the baseball game just wasn’t working for me. We came into the
stadium on the opposite end of where our seats were, and had to swim through
swarms of people with a stroller (not easy). I was exhausted and close to tears
by the time we sat down. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be there – crowds just
really make me anxious. I have gone to several minor league baseball games this
season (I don't think I'll ever go to another professional sports event ever again - the crowds - *shudder*), and was able to tolerate the crowds all right. The marvelously
frustrating thing about anxiety is that it is hard to know how bad the crowd
will bug me on any particular day.
I
have been dealing with anxiety and depression for most of my adult life. Anxiety
seemed, at the time of my diagnosis, like a nice way of saying “too emotional”
“sensitive” “takes everything too serious.” I did not consider it then to be
anything more than a bin they threw people in who they wanted to medicate and
not deal with. I think very differently now, but stigma and mis-perception
still block people from seeking the help they need, and I, like so many other
friends this week, am writing this so that they know they are not alone. I also
hope that maybe this will reach someone and help them in some way. The road to
health for mental illnesses can be long and filled with obstacles. Health
insurance, if you are lucky enough to have it, often has no or little coverage
for psychiatrists and mental health counselors and therapists. And even then it
can take a while to meet a therapist who is the right fit. Medication for
mental illnesses is more likely to be covered by insurance, but any changes in
coverage can cause disastrous disruptions in care, and even if your insurance
does not change, the price of these drugs and what the insurance company will pay, in my experience, changes
dramatically year to year.
The
past few months have been tough for me. After graduating with my bachelor’s degree (finally) I moved to Sacramento. Moving was a lot harder than
I thought it would be. It was traumatic. I know that sounds so dramatic, but
anyone who tells you moving is a breeze is lying. There is still a lot of
adjustment going on (my boyfriend has never lived with Otto and I full time, so
needless to say we are still working out the kinks). Financial stress,
compounded with job stress (and a speeding ticket, parking ticket, old landlord
who is trying to charge me obscene amounts of money for imaginary “damages” and
a needy and active toddler) has made it really hard for me to handle much at
all this month.
I
know everyone goes through hard times, gets stressed out sometimes and has bad
days, but the thing that is critical to understanding depression and anxiety is
that people who have these disorders have it to such a degree that it
interferes with their ability to successfully live life. Anxiety interferes in
my life in several ways. I have panic attacks, and when my anxiety is bad, it
disrupts my ability to concentrate and get basic daily tasks done. My experience
with depression and anxiety has been long and complicated and exacerbated by
several big life events.
I
have been having panic attacks for a long time - since at least the age of 14.
Though I didn’t have a name for them then. I have been claustrophobic and afraid
of heights for as long as I can remember. My fear of doctors and medical
facilities is a more recent development, and so is my irrational fear of
talking to people on the phone whom I do not know (seriously could not pick up
the phone to talk to an insurance adjustor one time when I was rear ended –
they kept calling for a statement, and I just couldn’t pick up the phone. The
accident wasn’t even my fault. I don’t know what I thought would happen, I just
couldn’t talk to someone I didn’t know on the phone). I have always been very
particular about the way my clothes lay on my body (putting on snow clothes as
a child was quite a process: socks had to be all the way up, not scrunched down,
mittens had to go OVER the coat sleeves, snow pants had to go OVER the boots)
and my perfectionist tendencies have always swung far into OCD territory. I
have had a lot of gaps or lapses in care for my anxiety - some of them my
choice, some of them not.
When I switched to Medicaid in
Nevada, The pharmacy I tried to transfer my prescription anti-anxiety
medication to told me that Medicaid would not cover a prescription from a
California doctor. This meant that I would have to find a new psychiatrist and
primary care provider to work, as a team, to prescribe me my normal anti-anxiety
medication, or pay full price for my medication ($90/month – something I could
not afford). So I felt I had no choice but to discontinue taking my medication.
Finding a psychiatrist is an exhausting process, and as a new mom completing
her last semester of college and working part time, opening up to possibly
several psychiatrists about all of my most painful moments in life was more
than I could take on. Add in talking to a lot of people I don’t know on the
phone to make appointments, and lots of unfamiliar, weird-smelling doctors
offices, and I could not run fast enough in the opposite direction. This is a great example of how my anxiety
interferes with my life. Still to this day it is hard for me to pursue the care
I need because of my anxiety.
Now I am in California with no
insurance or coverage at all (because Medicaid is administered by state and
cannot be just transferred across state lines). I am in the process of applying
for MediCal for both Otto and myself, but the process can take up to 90 days. I
had to apply Medicaid in Nevada twice because they lost my application the
first time, and they treated me like a criminal in the application process. I
fear that I am gearing up for a demoralizing process that may take much longer
than 90 days, but I am trying to trust and choose optimism. I am looking into
free counseling services in the mean time, but I have not found any that can
prescribe medication. I hope writing this for all to see will help keep me
accountable for pursuing getting back on medication.
Below is a longer account of my
battle with anxiety and depression. I hope for this story to be an argument for
awareness. Mental illness is not as easily spotted as other physical illnesses,
but they are still just as important. I
hope to advocate for a better healthcare system for mental illness because the
current state of coverage is abysmal. I want to tell all the new moms out there
(and especially ones with anxiety) that you are doing such a good job, even if
it doesn’t feel that way. I want to tell everyone with anxiety and depression
that how they feel is OK. Are you upset? It’s OK to feel that way. Are you
freaking out? It’s OK to feel that way. I’m concerned about you, but it’s OK to
feel the way you do. You are NOT crazy. You are NOT alone. Please please
please, ask for the help you need. You deserve it. Please be prepared as the
following is very raw and contains a lot of things that I haven’t shared with
too many people. I don't mean to upset anyone, I am just trying to tell a complete, honest account of my struggle with anxiety and depression in the hopes that it will help others who struggle with it and help those who don't to understand it better:
When I was 13, I was made to go see
a therapist after my parents saw razor marks on my arms before the 8th
grade winter formal. A lot of kids my age were cutting at the time, and though
I was experiencing what I would call now an anxious day, it seemed to be the
end of the world to a 13 year old me. I felt everything so intensely and felt
so confused by a new adult social landscape where people said things they
didn’t mean and didn’t say things at all when is would have been so helpful and
even necessary. I am not saying it wasn’t a good idea for me to go see a
therapist at that point, but it felt like a punishment. It was mandatory for me
to go, and I really felt more embarrassed about getting caught and having to
talk about feelings I didn’t understand than alarmed or motivated to change. I
don’t remember how many sessions I went to. It couldn’t have been more than 2
or 3. I suffered from insomnia a lot in
8th grade and once when my mom caught me up watching music videos on
MTV at 2 a.m. she asked me if I was on speed (I wasn’t). She thought my boyfriend at the time was a
bad influence, and I don’t blame her for wildly wondering what was troubling
her young, suddenly mute teenage daughter, but needless to say I stopped
watching TV when I couldn’t sleep (I read Harry Potter instead).
It seemed to my teenage self that that incident was enough
to make my parents insanely worried about me for the rest of my life, and I
felt horribly guilty for causing my parents so much worry. I spent a lot of
time signing up for every extracurricular under the sun while ensuring I was
fetching perfect or near-perfect grades. It’s as if I was trying to say, “Look,
mom and dad, I’m fine. I’m perfect. I’m not going to be your problem child that
you have to worry about all the time.”
I was so busy my senior year of
high school that in one afternoon during the fall semester I had 3 meetings at lunchtime,
went to golf practice, left early to catch the end of marching band rehearsal.
Then I had to attend a dress rehearsal for a dance recital, leave in the middle
to drive 20 minutes while changing in the car to a band concert, perform, help
clean off the stage, and drive back to the dress rehearsal to rehearse the
finale. And no one knew. I don’t think even my parents or my closest friends
had any idea that I was that busy. I was just doing it all – seamlessly, I
thought. Just with a few panic attacks thrown in – no big deal, right?
My next encounter with therapy came
in the form of a life-coach. This was also suggested and arranged by my mom
whose worry clearly had never subsided. This is the therapy that, looking back,
most helped me. I did a lot of work just figuring out my personality and what
really does and doesn’t work for me. I spent a lot of time clarifying what I
wanted out of life (which shockingly wasn’t always what I thought I wanted, or
what I felt pressure to do). I hadn’t been diagnosed with anything (yet), but I
still felt so guilty and like such a failure that my mom thought I needed that
help (even though I did need it). I know it was stupid to think that, but it
was part of the equation on this long, complicated therapy history of mine. My
stint in life coaching was also brief -
not more than a summer.
Then… I was raped in college. By
someone I knew, in a position of power over me, who I thought highly of at the
time – you know all the statistics. It
was a classic case. A few friends who sensed something was wrong moved quickly
to remove me from the situation and insisted I report what happened to me. I
did, and it seemed my whole world collapsed around me. Funny how though the
rape itself was traumatic, what I remember being just as traumatic (or even
more so) was the reaction of my peers and being ostracized from social groups
for speaking up.
This all happened the night before
a football game, and when your section leader in marching band doesn’t show up
on game day, it does not go unnoticed. Just before we went on to
play, another section member said some very rude things about how our section
leader should have been there no matter what some “bitch” said he did. He
didn’t know I was the victim, and he was angry, but it became very clear how
victims reporting a rape were viewed by people who I thought were my friends,
who otherwise were nice people. I felt like no one wanted me there. I thought
that because my attacker was the one being kicked out of the organization, I had a right to be there
and he didn’t. It’s common sense right? Do something wrong - get punished for
it. But that didn’t seem to be how any of my peers felt, at least not that day.
Moments later I found myself standing in the middle of a football stadium marching
before thousands of people under bright lights, and every fiber of my being was screaming (wow, maybe this is
why I don’t like crowds?!?). I was so sore from the rape that I couldn’t sit or
walk comfortably. I had scrapes and bruises on my forehead. I was so short of breath I couldn't play. Why did everyone
want him there instead of me? There were people all around me, and yet I had
never felt more alone or less wanted in my whole life. Luciano Pavarotti had just recently passed away and we played “Nessun Dorma” as tribute to him during that field show. That song still makes me
scream-cry. Not just cry hard, or cry hysterically – scream cry. It’s a thing.
The fog of depression and shame and
guilt that followed lasted at least a month, and I have very few memories from
that time. The mushroom cloud of anxiety and depression from being raped and
all of the aftermath that followed ballooned outward and upward for several
years. In the first few months, I sat out in front of my dorm for what felt
like days. With my backpack fully packed, as if I was about to go to class, but
I just couldn’t go. The picnic table in front of building E in Cerro Vista was
as far as I could move. My dad came down immediately to visit. My parents
wanted to move me home. I understood that they wanted to shield and protect me
and take me away to where they could care for me, but I refused to go. I didn’t
want to be the one fleeing. I felt that I shouldn’t be the one having to drop
out of school and run away in shame. That weekend with my Dad was full of the
most long and painful silences of my life. I was glad he was there, but had no
idea what to say. I had never talked
about sex with my Dad at all; so to tell him about how I was violently raped
seemed so far beyond my capabilities.
The young man who raped me was banned
from band, which was the only activity we shared at the time. But because no official explanation was given why he, the section leader and former leader of the marching
band, was suddenly gone, rumors flew and tempers flared. People were so vocally
angry at whoever had said anything to cause his departure. People leaned to each other and to me, asking
questions. Some were innocent (“what happened?” “where is he?”). Some were
meaner (“who’s the snitch?”). Some were
much meaner than that, but I honestly can’t recall them because my memory has
blacked it out.
I reverted to old habits and
overcommitted and extended myself. I rushed a sorority and a service
fraternity, joined as many musical groups as I could, trained to be an
orientation leader, and navigated upwards to positions of leadership in almost
every organization. It’s as if I was trying to scream, “Look guys, I’m gonna be
just as good a leader as you thought my attacker was. It’s really OK that he is
gone, cause I’m SUPER WOMAN!!!!! I’m gonna fix it all!” Unlike in high school,
however, my grades suffered. I withdrew from classes left and right, but
explaining to teachers over and over again that I was raped and took on a
little more than I could handle this quarter became more and more painful. So
then I just stopped going to classes. Then I was failing classes left and
right. Then I was on academic probation. I swear I was darn close to getting
kicked out of Cal Poly for poor academic performance by the time I left. Not
because I wasn’t smart, or couldn’t do the work, I just couldn’t find the
strength to ask for the help I needed. And I couldn’t recognize or admit that
the whole situation in San Luis Obispo really wasn’t working for me.
I did see two different
psychiatrists while at Cal Poly. My
first stop was actually the counseling center at Cal Poly. On my first visit I
ran into my attacker (who was mandated to schedule a session as part of his
“punishment”), and I never went back (duh, who would?). The first psychiatrist
I saw diagnosed me as manic-depressive and prescribed me Wellbutrin. I knew the
diagnosis wasn’t right (any girl who was just raped is going to be manic
depressive for a while), and the pills made me feel super numb.I started
to feel sure I was crazy. They were giving me drugs that suppressed my
feelings, and my diagnosis seemed to say, “You are permanently depressed. You
are a Debbie downer. You will never be happy again.” I felt like I deserved to
be locked up in a padded room. My poor boyfriend at the time had no idea what
to do with me. I cried all the time over very small things because I was only
able to hold my emotions just below the surface, so something as small as
having no clean pairs of jeans left turned into huge crying fits.
The second psychiatrist I saw was
in Reno, and I did more sessions with her than with any other combined. I liked
her immediately, and she was reputed to be one of the best psychiatrists in
Reno for victims of sexual violence. I did a lot of writing activities with
her, which I found very therapeutic. She had this very direct style of asking
questions that was very disarming, yet strangely helpful. She helped me realize that I have been
struggling with anxiety and depression for a lot longer than I thought. She
helped me acknowledge and make peace with my claustrophobia and some ODC
tendencies. She helped me realize how common anxiety issues like mine are and
that I am not crazy, I just needed help managing my anxiety so it didn’t
overtake my life. She diagnosed me as having Generalized Anxiety Disorder and
prescribed me Lexapro. She explained that Lexapro is designed to just keep me
from hitting the floor or ceiling emotionally. I didn’t feel numb at all and
have been on and off this drug ever since.
Unfortunately, our relationship
ended in a flash-bang when I had a phone session with her from SLO, and she
scolded me for “not doing my job” as a student and “wasting my parents’ money”
by flunking classes (which, in all honesty, was true, but not therapeutic, it totally made me shut down). She even told me that my rape wasn’t even that horrific
compared to some other clients she had (a woman abducted, blindfolded and raped
with a broom handle for 3 days – thanks for the nightmares!). I have not spoken with that psychiatrist
since. I don’t know if she was just having a bad day, or didn’t want me as a
client any more or what. I felt like I was in this perpetual cycle of opening
up to people, and then they would see how truly “messed up” I was, and they
would RUN for the hills. It seemed to confirm that I was indeed crazy, too
needy, too broken to fix.
Leaving Cal
Poly at the end of 4 years with no degree was both the right thing to do and
one of the most painful things to do. I left quietly at the end of the year,
and didn’t really tell anyone I wasn’t coming back. I honestly didn’t think
anyone would miss me. I felt like such a failure, and I felt like such a
stranger to myself.
I lived at home for another year
and finished an associate’s degree. I lost over 60 pounds (weight I had gained
from all the stress and eating crappy college food), I changed my name, I got
accepted to UNR, moved out of my parents’ house, re-discovered my spirituality,
and learned how to make beer. I made my own fresh start. Between summer 2011
and spring 2012 I had my shit together.
I totally felt like I had conquered my demons.
Then … I
became pregnant unexpectedly. And just
like that my whole world got turned upside-down again. My primary care physician advised me over the
phone that I should probably discontinue taking Lexapro at least during the
first trimester of pregnancy. So there I was, off my medication, battling crazy
pregnancy hormones while trying to finish my first semester at UNR (finals
without caffeine -yikes) and trying to decide if I was really ready to parent.
I knew parenting would be hard, but I knew the most joy would be at the end of
that road.
And then the baby was here, and it
was so much harder than I ever could have imagined. I actually thought that the only thing hard about being a new mom would be the sleep deprivation. I was sure my maternal instincts would kick in and I would have no problems bonding with my mini-me. I think it is horrible we tell soon to be moms that "it can be hard, but it's so wonderful." It IS hard. It is also wonderful at times, but having a new baby is really hard. The lack of sleep alone can
make anyone crazy, but with me having anxiety, it just destroyed me listening
to my baby cry, my whole body felt like it was on fire when the crying went
on and on. It seemed like if he wasn’t sleeping, he was screaming. Sometimes I
just buried my face in a pillow and screamed to drown out his screaming. It
seemed sometimes that no matter what I did, I couldn’t solve the wailing. Otto had a lot of
colic in the early months, and it’s so hard when they are fed and clean and warm
and there is nothing left to do but bounce them up and down the hall – for
hours and hours. Some babies just cry, some people told me.
I felt like I had to be prepared
for ANYTHING every time I left the house. If I couldn’t do it exactly the way I
wanted to do it (perfectly, of course), I wouldn’t do it at all. I felt so
overwhelmed by everything that just the thought of trying to leave the house
was too intimidating to entertain some days. This led to feelings of isolation at times.
I had no mom friends at the time, and all my close friends either already lived
far away, or had just recently moved far away. I lingered a lot picking Otto up
from daycare because often it was the only conversation I would have with
another adult and mom all day. There were, of course, some wonderful and tender
moments mixed in, and I wouldn't trade being a mom for anything - I love him to bits. But caring for a very needy tiny human who cannot thank you
or even understand how hard you are working to care for them is very hard and humbling.
I really felt much more human again
after Otto was about 6 months old. I had kind of gotten the whole mom thing
down and couldn’t properly remember my sleep-filled, social life before him.
The good thing now is that I know I can’t just let myself become so
dysfunctional as I was at Cal Poly because I have someone else depending on me.
It forces me to be very aware of how I am doing mentally and ask for the help I
need before things get bad. The amazing
thing is that, I feel so much more resilient now that I know I can come back
from everything that I have been through. I know I have the strength to take on
anything, but not everything. A good lesson for anyone, I’m sure. Being honest
with people about how I am actually doing helps me not stuff things too deep
down, though to be honest, I still struggle with that one. I feel fortunate to
have such a loving and wonderful network of family and friends who I know I can
be honest with and lean on in hard times. I don’t expect that I will ever be
able to say my struggle with anxiety is over, but I know I have the tools to
fight it. If you are reading this thinking “I don’t have the tools to deal with
my anxiety or depression,” PLEASE ask for the help you need! I’ll let you borrow
my tools if you like. I think I have a battle-axe somewhere... J
Thank you for taking the time to
read this obscenely long post, and to consider how we can, as a society, keep
an open and honest conversation about mental health and mental health coverage.
Please take the time to be patient with those around you having a tough time.
Sometimes all it takes is someone willing to listen to save a life.
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