Mental Illness Awareness Week

This week is Mental Illness Awareness Week, so today I will share what getting a diagnosis is like and my early experiences with medication.

In spring of 2003, while away at college, my mind slipped away from me. I went through periods of extreme energy and sudden drops into depression. It happened rapidly, and I didn't understand what was happening to me. 

Back in fall of 2002, I realized something was wrong and sought counseling at the university I was attending, but it was not a psychiatrist, and I did not recieve a diagnosis. The counseling continued through the spring semester. However, I discovered later that my counselors were incompetent.

In April 2003, I began having panic attacks. The first time it happened, it lasted seven hours, wave after wave of panic. My whole body trembled, hands shaking, and I was terrified. I went to see my counselor, and they couldn't identify what should have been obvious to them. It eventually faded away, and I was able to relax.

The second time it happened, after two hours I went to the emergency room. They told me it was a panic attack and prescribed an antidepressant. My condition worsened because with bipolar disorder, antidepressants increase mania.

My panic attacks and mood swings heightened to the point that the guy I was dating at the time broke up with me because he couldn't handle the pressure of caring for me. I spiralled out of control after that and began cutting.

Soon after, a close friend that I'd had since middle school called my mom to tell her what the situation was. My mom and stepdad drove two-and-a-half hours on a weeknight to my university to come get me. I went home with them.

The next day, I told my mom I thought I should go to the hospital, but she insisted she could care for me and help me get well again. That was a mistake.

I wound up dropping out a few weeks before finals, infuriating my father and stepmother. They refused to allow me into their house for three months.

Once home with my mom, I found a job working at a mortgage broker during the housing bubble. Soon after, I saw a psychiatrist.

He listened carefully while I described my mood swings and panic attacks. He diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. He told me I would need to take medication for the rest of my life because the condition was incurable.

It felt like a death sentence. The horror of what I'd been through would never be gone. Ever. Medication could help, but he made it clear that I would need to put in work to make the disorder easier to live with. The medication wouldn't completely solve the problem.

My initial reaction, in addition to the feeling of a death sentence, was I didn't want to put all those chemicals in my body, but I couldn't continue like I was. I agreed to take the medication.

He took me off the antidepressant I had been prescribed, and the withdrawal was horrific. I later learned that he should have tapered me off it. But, the medication he prescribed helped me begin living normally again.

It was such a relief to have my brain working better and have my moods settle down. I was able to work hard at my job, though I still had panic attacks occasionally. I would step outside until I calmed while at work, and at home, my mom would take me for a walk around the block to work off the adrenaline.

Things got much better.

Several months later, I learned how dangerous medication could be.

My doctor prescribed two medications that inhibited the gaba receptor in the brain, a neurotransmitter that controls movement. After two doses of the second medication, I began to feel very ill.

While at work, my body began to not respond the way it should have, and I knew something was very wrong. I had a friend at work drive me home and laid on the couch because I could barely walk. Within an hour, I couldn't move.

An hour after that, my mom arrived home from work, discovering my condition on the couch. She immediately called my doctor, who told her to give me more of the medication. My mom rightly refused to do so, understanding that it was the medication that caused the problem.

I began to have trouble breathing and swallowing, so my mom, stepdad, and brother loaded me into the car and rushed me to the emergency room. My brother held me upright in the backseat to allow me to breathe, and my stepdad carried me into the hospital.

They immediately took me back and administered medication to help me breathe again. I was hospitalized for several days while they treated me for my paralyzation.

The doctors told me that my reaction to the second medication was a listed side effect that only two percent of patients taking it displayed. Because of that, we were unable to sue the psychiatrist for malpractice.

Three days later, I could get out of bed again, but I couldn't walk independently. I was tired of the hospital, so I asked to go home. They discharged me later that day.

For almost three weeks, I had to walk with a cane. It would take me several minutes to walk fifteen feet, but I insisted on doing things myself so I could get well again. It took me nearly a month to completely recover.

I never heard from the psychiatrist that prescribed the medication, and I never went back to his office. My new psychiatrist told me he never should have prescribed those medications together and changed my prescriptions to medications that worked better and didn't cause horrific effects.

Over the years, I have discovered that most of the side effects I display from the medications I take are the rare ones like the paralyzation I suffered. Some reactions I have, my doctors say they've never seen a patient display, though they are listed side effects. It makes trying new medications precarious. This last summer, I tried four new medications, displaying rare side effects and even one instance of anaphylaxis, a condition that can be fatal if not treated. I am now on a medication that is going very well.

My diagnosis still at times feels like a death sentence, but at other times, I can live normally. It takes work on my part to ease symptoms when they crop up and keep a stable lifestyle to assist the medication. Self care, a regular daily schedule, coping skills to mitigate symptoms, and supportive loved ones are crucial when dealing with a serious illness like bipolar disorder.

One of my favorite coping skills is listening to nature sounds. This one is from The Silent Watcher.

Photo Credit scottchan via freedigitalphotos.net