Tuesday, November 15, 2016

If You Can't Make Your Own Neurochemicals Store Bought Is Fine: A #HoldOntoTheLight post

Dear reader, I want us to get well. I want us to shut out all the voices in our culture that treat mental illness as a mark of shame, that equate taking medication with being weak. I am not weak. I’ve defended a PhD to a hostile committee, looked down a mugger’s gun barrel, and walked two miles with a blood clot lodged in my heart. I know what “tough it out” means. I have depression and anxiety, but I am not weak and neither are you. Even the strongest people need medicine.

My brain has always been a problem. From time to time, the light switch gets stuck in the OFF position. In my late twenties – when I couldn’t sleep until 3am or get out of bed before 3pm or pay the electric bill without shaking -- I finally went to see a doctor. Diagnosis: Moderate Depression. They gave me a mild anti-depressant. Lovely, I thought. My brain is a bit mis-wired, but now it’s fine. And it was fine, or at least okay-ish, kind of, until this year. For various reasons – stress, biology, wrong medication - my neurochemical switches shorted out so badly that I had to be hospitalized.

Now it was Major Depressive Disorder with Anxiety and PTSD. (Someday I’ll write more about that last part.) I left the hospital with a handful of new prescriptions and a binder full of new coping mechanisms. Sure, I was still waist deep in a sucking peat bog, but now I had a life jacket and a rope. I’d be fine. 

But it wasn’t long before I was armpit deep and sinking fast. The first set of meds did nothing but keep me awake. The second set of meds gave me an eight hour panic attack. The third set dulled the despair, but they muted all my other feelings too, feelings I needed like love and hope, even my ability to taste food. 

Every four weeks, I waited for forty-five minutes so I could have my five minutes with the psychiatrist. He frowned at his notes, frowned at me, and scribbled a new script before rushing off to the next patient. My life became one long chemistry experiment.

Through it all I went to therapy, did my journaling, and remembered to take deep, calming breaths. I joined a gym. I prayed. I practiced self-care. These things kept me treading water, but the bog was slowly pulling me back in.

My psychologist saved my life. She listened. She insisted I make a safety plan and either stick to it or go back to the hospital. She taught me what real self-care looked like. (No FB, it’s not just a mani-pedi now and then.) She pushed me to tell her how I was really doing when I said, “I’m okay. I’m managing.” Eventually, she leaned forward and said, “You’re doing everything you’re supposed to. This has to be neuro-chemical. Nothing in therapy is going to work if we can’t get your basic chemistry right.” 

She gave me a referral to a different psychiatrist and insisted that I make the call from her office – a smart move since ten to one I wouldn’t have bothered on my own. What was the point? Nothing worked. “Tell them I referred you,” she said. “Tell them it’s urgent.” It’s probably a scam to get me to see her buddy, I thought, but I dialed anyway.

The new psychiatrist canceled her own day off to fit me into her schedule. She listened for an hour and made eye contact. “Why are you on these old fashioned medicines?” she said. “There are much better meds now. And we have to get you off generics.” She explained that not all generics are made to the same standards, so a switch from one supplier to another can change your dosage without you ever knowing. She gave me the first two weeks of the new medicine for free and said to call immediately if I got worse. “You should see results in a week,” she said. I left her office torn between throwing the new drugs in the trash and hugging them like a life preserver. 

It’s been over a month since I started taking the new medication. Somewhere around day five, I looked at my work email and didn’t have a panic attack. A few days later, I remembered what it was like to laugh, just a little, without bitterness. Three days in a row after that I woke up happy – not high, not euphoric, just happy. Able to get out of bed without a struggle. Today I woke up grumpy and that’s good too. Being stuck in PollyAnna land isn’t any healthier than being stuck in depression, but having a regular old grouch because the cat pissed on the floor is. The meds aren’t forcing me to feel a specific way; they’re allowing me to feel what I really feel in response to the world around me. 

Listen to me – I know good writing is vivid because it’s specific, but I’ve avoided telling you which meds I’m on, which meds worked and which ones didn’t. I did this because my brain isn’t your brain. Don’t walk away from this thinking “Drug X is bad, but drug Y will cure me.” That’s not how it works. The drug that made my hands shake might be the one that flips your switches back to the healthy setting. Or vice versa. You need a qualified psychiatrist who listens carefully and knows the science. 

If you can’t remember what it’s like to laugh, if anxiety is your daily companion, if you can’t shut out the thoughts about dying, if sharp objects fascinate and terrify you because you know exactly where you’d hurt yourself with them, if everything is a dull and empty blur – see a doctor. See two or three if you have to. Go to the ER. Tell someone just how bad it is. Plug your ears against the negative labels – depression lies and so do people who think you don’t need help. If you’re worn to the very last frazzled end of your rope, start screaming for help until someone listens and gives you what you need. There is a way out of the swamp. There are medications that will turn the lights back on.

I almost didn’t publish this. Even as I hit “publish” I’m worrying that people I work with will see this, that it will hurt my career. But I’m publishing anyway because in the last two weeks I’ve heard of five more suicides. Please don’t die, dear reader. Stay alive long enough to make one more phone call.

About the campaign:
#HoldOnToTheLight is a blog campaign encompassing blog posts by fantasy and science fiction authors around the world in an effort to raise awareness around treatment for depression, suicide prevention, domestic violence intervention, PTSD initiatives, bullying prevention and other mental health-related issues. We believe fandom should be supportive, welcoming and inclusive, in the long tradition of fandom taking care of its own. We encourage readers and fans to seek the help they or their loved ones need without shame or embarrassment. 

Please consider donating to or volunteering for organizations dedicated to treatment and prevention such as: American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, Hope for the Warriors (PTSD), National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), Canadian Mental Health Association, MIND (UK), SANE (UK), BeyondBlue (Australia), To Write Love On Her Arms (TWLOHA) and the National Suicide Prevention Hotline.

To find out more about #HoldOnToTheLight, find a list of participating authors and blog posts, or reach a media contact, go to http://www.HoldOnToTheLight.com and join us on Facebookhttps://www.facebook.com/WeHoldOnToTheLight


  1. THANK YOU for stepping up and posting this. I can't even imagine how hard it was.

    Generic drugs are generally okay, BUT if you need to have a critical blood level of your drug at all times, generic may not work for you. Melanie had some major issues when Carefirst made her go on generic anti-seizure medication.

    1. You're so welcome. And lots and lots of hugs.

  2. Thank you! I have had several severe depressive episodes. Oddly, it was my 'modern living through better chemistry' that may have saved the use of my foot. Now I'm on 3 X the dosage I was on for depression, but I'll tell you, I'm not usually very depressed.

    1. Hi Mud! I'm so glad you were able to get a med that helped and that it helped your foot too. I know that's been a huge problem for a long time now.