Oops I Went Off My Meds: A guest blog by Jenny McIlroy
In retrospect, I’ve struggled with depression for as long as I can remember. But I didn’t know what was wrong with me — or if anything was even wrong with me — and I certainly had no idea that I could feel any differently until I was nearly 25-years-old (I’m 32 now). That’s when I went to my doctor, spurred by my dad being diagnosed with depression. He had described to me how he felt and I recognized it as the same thing I had felt all my life — most notably, the sense of going through the motions of a life and not truly feeling much. He was prescribed Lexapro and it made a huge difference for him. My curiosity was piqued; I wanted to see if this pill could do anything for me.
It changed my life.
I remember swallowing the first pill before bed, hearing the doctor’s words echo, “It may take a month before you feel any effect.” — I had no faith and I felt hopeless that night. I woke up the next morning with something I would describe as a tiny “buzz” in my brain. It was as if a teensy switch had been flipped on as I had slept. Later that night, I went to see a Swedish metal band called In Flames play (go ahead, judge away) and had the best time of my life. I had been to countless other shows over the years and always believed I had had a great time, but that night I was able to really enjoy myself. I had a genuinely good time out in public with friends; and that was brand new territory for me.
That little pill gave me the ability to open up my brain to experiences and thoughts that were previously foreign to me. I had no idea it was even possible for me to feel like a real human being who entertains genuine emotions. I stayed on Lexapro — or some generic form of it or Celexa — for 6-ish years. I weaned off anti-depressants in May of 2013, confident I would be OK.
Then, in May of 2014, I had a full-body, straight-up nutzo anxiety attack. Although, I believed I was having a heart attack, as nothing like that had ever happened to me before and heart disease runs in my family. I thought, “Holy shit! I’m having a heart attack, even though I exercise daily and eat better than most of the bipedal beasts roaming around these parts!” I went to an urgent care, where I was checked out to make sure I wasn’t dying. My body was fine, of course. The problem was in my brain. However, the physician informed me that they do not prescribe anti-anxiety medication for anxiety attacks. As I left the examination room — simultaneously holding in vomit and nervous shits — the physician said, “I don’t know if you’re religious or not, but please know that god never gives you more than you can handle. So just breathe through these thoughts you’re having.” As odd as this sounds, her advice brought me comfort. With those simple words, she let me know I wasn’t alone in my abject lunacy.
The anxiety attack happened on a Friday afternoon, so I tried to maintain until Monday, when I could make an appointment with my doctor. However, the anxiety attack turned into what could probably best be described as a nervous breakdown of sorts. I simply could not function. I worked hard to get my mind off my mind; I even made some really sweet-ass picture frames out of old barn wood that weekend. Nothing worked however, and I ended up going to a different hospital’s ER on Sunday morning.
I was ushered into the ER’s Psychiatric ward, where I was once again told that they would not prescribe medication for an anxiety attack. But I insisted that I needed something, as I could not continue on without some relief — I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I was manic and I was scared of where my brain was going to take me next. I knew for certain I could not get out of the state I was in on my own. The ER’s psychiatric nurse somehow convinced the doctor to prescribe the lowest dose of Lorazapam. I’m very thankful for that relief, as I was able to go home and sleep for a few hours before my mind revved back up.
Before I had left he hospital, I asked the nurse if she could help connect me with a psychiatrist, as I had never visited one before. She ended up printing out 17 pages of psychiatrists in the Kansas City metro; each page had 15 doctors listed on it. It felt impossible to wade through. In fact, it was impossible. There was just no way I could dig into it and figure out which ones would take my insurance, then research them and make an appointment with one…Yeesh! It was an overwhelming task at the time. I was fortunate that my youngest sister (who is also a huge fan of Mental Illness Happy Hour, by the way) sees a psychiatrist and was able to refer me to hers. I was able to get in to see that doctor a few days later. She didn’t take my insurance, but I was desperate for relief and happy to pay the price. She diagnosed me with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder (as well as an anxiety attack). She put me back on Celexa and added in Gabapentin. I’ve been on both of those medications since the first week of June. She also gave me some Xanax to help get me through the continuous anxiety attack I experienced for over a week after it began.
This whole ordeal cost me thousands of dollars; which is very funny to me now, as anxiety about finances was a major factor in my depressive spiral that led to all of this. I had such a slow and steady mental decline from May 2013 to May 2014 that I didn’t even realize it was happening. I started a business in 2013 (although, looking back, I have no idea how I was able to do that in my depressive state) and I used the tininess of my income — which I rationally understood was normal for a new business — to beat the shit out of myself on a daily basis. That eventually made way for me to turn anything remotely negative about myself (i.e. EVERYTHING) into a nice, girthy beatin’ stick. My broken brain was unable to see the potential of my business and, more importantly, my potential as a person.
I’m happy to report that in the last couple of months (really, more like the last few weeks), I’ve been able to plug in and make plans for the future. I’m so thankful for mental health professionals and medication that have allowed me to gain this new, clearer perspective on my life. My heart breaks for people who have a mental illness, but do not have a support system or the means to get help. To be honest, although I thought I did, I do not think I ever truly appreciated what mental illness is before I experienced this event that rubbed the very serious nature and reality of it in my face.
Spending time in an ER’s psych ward will do that to you, I suppose.
Although I knew I had some form of mental illness all along, I never used to consider it significant or “real” in comparison to others’ problems. I think listening to Mental Illness Happy Hour has helped me to understand that just about everyone has their own struggle with their own dumb, broken brains and it’s pointless to compare our issues with someone else’s. Talking about mental illness and discussing our struggles — no matter their severity — is vital for public awareness and acceptance. Plus, as Mental Illness Happy Hour proves on a weekly basis, sharing on this topic usually leads to some pretty incredible voyeuristic delights; and that’s certainly something we can all get behind.
For more of Jenny follow her on Twitter at https://twitter.com/friskylisp and/or her posts on FunnyMoms.com: http://www.funnymoms.com/jenny-mcilroy/ (
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