Different Hats

Seven years ago I was a different person. My life was in the imaginary hands of plastic bottles filled with little pills that were either orange, white, or blue. Once a month I would flee to the pharmacy to pickup my plethora of prescriptions after having a meeting with the Psychiatrist, and I never looked forward to any of them except for one – the one medication that stayed consistent with my excessive cocktail experimentation.

A medication so powerful that I could no longer recognize who I was when I looked into the mirror, but I didn’t care much. For such a long time it was the only thing that made me feel better in this dreadful world, it was a temporary escape from my reality. I used to feel so sedated – and what I mean by that is everything from movement to performing a simple task just felt like it took years to accomplish, and it was such an amazing feeling that I used to wish I felt like this all of the time.

But that irresistible sensation of pausing the madness inside of my skull doesn’t last forever, my thoughts and my feelings that plague my brain came back to me without hesitation. And when that would happen, I would simply take another dosage of that pill without thinking about the consequences.

All of this began when I fell ill after giving birth for the first time. It was a few months into postpartum when I began to notice symptoms such as: intrusive thoughts and images, increased anxiety, mood swings that went from feeling euphoric to anger and sadness, detaching myself from family and friends, and I felt like I was the worst mother in the world.

I ignored those red flags and I kept what I was feeling to myself, I thought maybe it would pass on eventually but it didn’t. Then one day I couldn’t take it anymore – I was consumed by my own thoughts and I just felt helpless. I let my family know that something was wrong with me – I didn’t feel like myself anymore and I felt like the world would be better off if I was dead.

Thank God they listened to what I had to say, and I wish that I would of told them earlier – they were supportive right from the start and never made me feel like I was crazy like the rest of the world did.

The first thing was a trip to the hospital – not really far from home so I thought it would be convenient, but I have to admit that I was terrified because of a few reasons: I had to explain what I was going through and why I felt disturbed to strangers, and then wait and see if they were going to lock me away – I had no idea what kind of reactions to expect, even from the receptionist because you must explain the reason for visit.

And I did just that, I told them as much as I could because I had no idea what I was even trying to explain. That’s when I learned that I was experiencing postpartum depression – they prescribed an antidepressant and I believe it was Prozac, and then they introduced to me the benzodiazepine – Klonopin. I fell in love instantly.

That was it – I went to the hospital for about two hours and was sent home with a piece of paper to pickup a drug that was about to change my life. That was about all they could offer, besides giving me advice on how to make a treatment plan, the rest of the work was up to me.

The first year of becoming a mother was spent searching for psychiatric help – I had no idea what I was doing or who I was supposed to call first, there is no step-by-step guide on how to repair your mental health. When I had the chance I would ask healthcare professionals for advice – questions such as:

• “I’m having a hard time finding a psychiatrist, when I call the office to schedule an appointment they either are not accepting new patients or don’t accept my insurance. Do I have other options?”
• “I can’t afford all of the resources that are available to me, and I’m draining my bank account just to get help, is there other things that I can do?”
• “I’m still not understanding exactly what is wrong with me, can you please explain it some other way?”
• “A lot of the professionals available are over an hour away and do not have virtual appointments, is there a chance that you may know of others that are close by?”

Most of the time the responses that I received were cold as ice with little to no sympathy – how depressing it was to hear things like:

• “You can try to call your insurance provider and have them help you.”
• “You can save your money, and when you have enough you can schedule an appointment then.”
• “You can visit WebMD and read more about the conditions and symptoms there.”
• “You can try to call your insurance provider and have them help you.”

Sometimes I used to laugh when I thought about this – how it used to be such a hassle to find a peace of mind, and even the professionals didn’t understand how to help.

It wasn’t long until I started to get worse – I started to convince myself that I was a terrible mother even know I wasn’t, I took care of my child and never caused physical harm. I let my thoughts take over and get the best of me and for some reason I believed them.

The first hospital that I went to didn’t help as much as I thought it could, so I decided it would be a better option to look elsewhere. I went to a bigger hospital that had a place for people like me, where I could stay and have more evaluations done and tests performed. When the words, “I wish I was dead” or “I feel suicidal” spew out of your mouth, it changes everything in an instant, and suddenly your put into a room with a door and a hospital bed.

I sat in that room for a few hours, I wasn’t sure at the time what was going to happen to me, but in the end they kept me for one week. I had a room upstairs that I shared with another patient. I met with a psychiatrist who diagnosed me with bipolar disorder type 1, he said I was having a manic episode. I had no clue what he was telling me or what that even meant.

For over two years I stayed with this psychiatrist as he offered to be my provider. I thought that this was going to be my ticket to getting help, but instead I was just a pawn in this twisted game. I tried several medications – antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, different antidepressants, mixed them together even to form what is called a “cocktail”. Sometimes it worked, and then it would fail, and then I felt even worse than before. I even did ten rounds of ECT (electro-convulsive therapy) because my depression was becoming untreatable.

The psychiatrist never had me on the medications for very long as they changed each month. If I complained about something that was bothering me, he would simply switch to another pill and see if that would work in about a month. Except for one.

The only medication that stayed consistent with my treatment was the benzodiazepine – something that’s supposed to be prescribed for short-term use. And if the Klonopin stopped working we went right to Ativan, and then when that stopped working, we went back to the Klonopin. It was just like playing a game of pinball and I was the small metal ball bouncing off the sides.

And when those two medications both decided to stop working, we moved on to Xanax, a fast-acting benzo.

That was all I needed.

Within the hour – melted like sliced cheese on a piece of toast.

I never realized that I had a problem – I was too far gone, lost to this drug without recognizing the signs, all of my own destruction that I alone created. I lost friends – especially ones considered family at one time, but in reality, they were not my family as they never said a word to me about my problem. I was pushed to the side and only spoken to when someone needed something, never invited anymore to social gatherings or events, they just cut ties slowly but surely.

When you care about someone, you open your mouth and let them know – if someone is falling apart in front of your eyes, maybe there is a chance that person might not see it’s happening. Friendship is about being there for someone no matter what, through the good and the bad, and they couldn’t be there for the bad.

It’s something that I’ve learned in life – and I’ve accepted that sometimes good things come to an end, when a door closes another opens elsewhere.

I could of lost my family as well. They had the privilege of watching me kill myself slowly by abusing prescription drugs. What’s even worse is that I used to drink alcohol with the medication so it would enhance the effects.

It was a hot summer night, early July of 2020 – I had just finished one jug handle of Carlo Rossi Sangria and I took two Xanax pills, each pill 1MG. I was 98 pounds, hair falling out, teeth breaking, I’m not even sure how I was a functioning adult at this point.

I lost my mind and everything went black from there – I’ll be honest here I’m not exactly sure what happened during that time, but I do know that I called the police department and reported myself as a disturbance. I had five different townships in my face but would only speak with someone who was familiar with a mental health crisis.

Only one had knowledge and he had the courage to sit down with me and have a conversation.

He asked if I was taking medication and I said yes, actually a few of them. I told him one of them was Xanax, and he said to me “well there’s the problem, that’s a very addicting prescription drug”.

A police officer had to be the one to let me know the side effects of benzodiazepines – my own psychiatrist who I have been with for two years couldn’t even do this for me. This officer changed my life that night, I wasn’t arrested or charged with anything, I was simply told to get off the meds and recover.

And I did just that – I went inside my home and I went down the stairs to my bedroom, I pulled out a black safe box and opened it to see my collection of benzodiazepines stashed inside. I took all of them and I flushed them down the toilet (not a great idea, but I had no choice), and that was the last time I ever took another benzodiazepine.

I am about to celebrate five years of freeing myself from the bonds of benzos. I’m so proud of myself because it wasn’t easy going through the withdrawal process – the first month was vomiting, convulsions, diarrhea, headaches, insomnia, hallucinating, delusional thinking, muscle spasms, you name it.

My body was going into shock essentially – I took away something that it was used to for years within seconds, something that’s considered very dumb. The correct way to come off of prescription drugs is the taper method – slowly reducing the dose until ready to stop completely.

Those months turned into years, and I never called that psychiatrist back.

Instead I focused on myself – I started to read more about mental health conditions along with the symptoms, I practiced meditation and journaled daily. I learned how to think positive thoughts instead of negative, I did breathing exercises during panic attacks and walked away when I had too. I gave up on all types of medications because I felt it was the right choice for me, instead I started using more natural remedies like essential oils or crystals – I don’t think it does much but it does put a smile on my face for some reason.

Small steps turn into big moves – it takes time to heal from things, making ourselves happy is vital to the process.

I live my life in peace now, I spend all of my time with family and I don’t really have close friends. I stopped posting on social media and sharing with the world what I was doing. I’m basically a stay-at-home Mother for now because we have two kids.

When I found out I was pregnant again in 2022, I knew there was a possibility of going through postpartum depression again and that scared me. After the fear resided, I let my gynecologist know about my history and luckily enough there was an option for me. There was a center for treatment that had virtual appointments online, and that’s where I was provided with a therapist and a psychiatrist.

For one year I had weekly sessions with the therapist where I was free to let myself go, and once a month I met with a psychiatrist who took the time to explain things I did not understand. I took an antidepressant the entire duration of my pregnancy under doctor’s orders. I learned that I did not have bipolar disorder because I didn’t show the correct signs of mania. I spent much time with these two professionals and in return they gave me relief.

I’m not on medication anymore and I’ve been cleared from the doctor. I went through postpartum twice and survived. I’m no longer afraid of the things I once feared.

I like to tell my story of what happened to me because I think it’s important for people to know that prescription drug abuse can happen to anyone. It’s okay to change doctors if you feel the need to do so, second or third opinions can be life-changing.

One thing I would change if I could is how to get help. It’s a pain in the ass anymore to find a therapist or psychiatrist, and it’s very expensive without insurance. When you add up the sessions, appointments, medication pickups, gas money, and whatever else, it puts a hole in your pocket. Left with the option of choosing between salvaging what’s left of your mental health, or go broke.

We all deserve some help because we all have problems, whether there small or big.

Medication can be a life-saver and I don’t disagree with all of them, but I will never support benzodiazepines. I will never understand how a doctor could be allowed to let this continue for so long and provide me with a drug that could have killed me or any person for that matter.

There is a part of me that feels thankful for having gone through all of this. I used to believe that this was going to be forever until I started to take care of myself, I’ve realized that is part of the healing process. I understand what it’s like to feel like a burden and maybe sometimes I am too much – it was nice when I met different people with the same issues as me because then I didn’t have to feel so alone.