:: jaded elegance, v.3 ::

“Being sick allows you to check out of life. Getting well again means you have to check back in. It is absolutely crucial that you are ready to check back into life because you feel as though something has changed from the time before you were sick. Whatever it was that made you feel insecure, less than, or pressured in a way that was uncomfortable to you. You have to create a whole new life to check into.” — Portia Di Rossi, “Unbearable Lightness”

It has been a year since I first got sick, or almost, and the thought of braving the summer is somewhat terrifying to me. The heat, the sun, the TV shows that I watched throughout my illness—they all remind me of a time in my life when I was constantly afraid. I was afraid I was going to die. More than that, I was afraid I was going to die, alone and unloved and crazy and misunderstood and without ever doing anything positive with my life. I was afraid I would never be normal again, and because of it, nobody would ever love me, understand me, want to be my friend, find me attractive. In some ways, I felt like my life was over at an age that, by many standards, people consider the epitome of being young enough to be vibrant and enthusiastic about life, but wise enough to avoid the stupid mistakes you engaged in a decade earlier. I reached the age where it was time to be an adult, and all of the sudden, the world came tumbling down around me.

I am, of course, still not entirely well. I have a chronic condition that will be with me for the rest of my life, requiring medication and more rest than I’d prefer to need and more unwanted reactions to life than I’d prefer to have. I still have the occasional migraine with aura that may only last 15 minutes, but gives me such a sense of being out of control, that I am convinced I am going to die. I still have anxiety in places that are too bright, too loud, have too many people. I still can’t fly. I have a few really close friends in NYC that I’d love to visit and spend time with, but instinctively, I know that one of my favourite cities on Earth is too much for me, and that makes me a little sad. I still can’t seem to ditch the unwanted 20 pounds I gained when they put me on medication, something that makes me very sad. I can’t be as free-spirited and unconcerned with things as I used to be, because now there are consequences. If I forget to take my pill at the right time of day, drink too early in the day, push myself too hard or sit in the heat too long, there are consequences that are very unpleasant. If I don’t eat enough, or eat too many of the wrong things, or deny myself caffeine for days on end, my body rebels. It’s strange to suddenly be governed by rules and limitations.

My doctors have told me that over a period of 2-3 years, my condition will steadily improve. Symptoms will interfere with my life less and less, until they’re barely noticeable. Some people have issues with large, brightly-lit spaces for a lifetime; others can’t stand loud environments; still others can’t handle elevators or escalators.

Being me, and a pessimistic realist, I didn’t believe my doctors, who had been wrong so many times before in attempting to treat my illness. I am still young enough that 3 years seems like a lifetime. I imagine that, by then, I might be an entirely different person with an entirely different life, as it’s happened so many times before. It is hard for me to see three years down the road. It is hard for me to even imagine that I will be alive and well in three years. Some days, I doubt it. I have always had trouble imagining myself as a person with a future. Since my teenage years, I was convinced that I was going to die when I was 30. It seems coincidental, and yet almost too meaningful to be coincidental, that once I passed that mark, I developed a frightening illness that reminded me I wanted to live and didn’t really know how.

A year ago, I would not have believed that I could spend the day at a friend’s pool party without hiding from the sun the entire time, go to a rock concert, or travel to multiple cities on my own, places I’d never been before, to visit with friends. I would not have believed that I could handle a world full of buses, crowded stations, elevators, trains, and taxis on my own, along with almost 30 pounds of luggage added to my body weight.

I would not have imagined that in the year that’s elapsed since first getting sick, I’d have developed friendships that are among the most meaningful I’ve allowed into my life in years, simply because I took the time to talk one-on-one and invest myself in the kind of people who may never have caught my attention in a more vibrant, constantly moving social setting. I would not have imagined that not having something to do, somewhere to go, and someone to entertain almost every day would not only be acceptable to me, but would help me find a sense of peace and acceptance regarding myself.

Slowly, I’ve been checking back into life again, and the time I spent largely checked out of my old existence helped me to formulate a new one. One of the most shocking things I’m discovering about myself is that I’m not a co-dependent person. I’ve always thought I was, always been attracted to the guys who would constantly pay attention to me, take care of everything in my life, fix all my problems…and then suddenly run when it came time to make a commitment, or find myself looking for a different type of relationship. I like people, I like attention, I like being loved and cared for, but I have a self-sufficient streak that runs through my personality. I am happiest when I am allowed to engage it, when I can explore the world on my own terms from time to time. It is important to me to have friends and relationships in my life, to feel I am loved, to express affection…but my freedom and independence is just as important to me. Perhaps this means I won’t ever get married,or have kids, or my relationships will be of the non-traditional variety, or I’ll end up with a job that makes me a wandering nomad from time to time, but that’s OK. I find myself judged quite frequently for that aspect of myself, and the pressure to hide that desire for freedom, coupled with my natural distrust of other human beings until proven otherwise, has led me to seek out very clingy friendships and relationships. Yet, that very same kind of clinginess causes me stress and makes me unhappy.

Let’s be honest here, I lived with a roommate I didn’t really like or bond with for a very long time because I thought I couldn’t manage on my own, and cried and felt undue stress at the idea of being left to cope with living in a space by myself. This person was utterly toxic in my life, yet keeping that person around was less frightening than being alone. This is not the first time I’ve been through this scenario, and every time, once I deal with the shock of being left alone, I realise just how much happier I am. I’ve lived with ex-boyfriends and moved in with people I should not have because I felt like being on my own just wasn’t for me, and every time, I was shocked by the realisation that I felt freer and lighter when the person I supposedly loved and needed was gone. I didn’t want the person to be gone forever, I just wanted my own space for awhile. I never really knew that about myself. I like living in a world where there is a certain amount of personal space and freedom, and that’s balanced out by friendships and relationships that are truly important to me, not just having people around to have them around. I’m still an extrovert who gets bummed out if I don’t have enough social interaction in my world. Yet, I grew up valuing my personal space immensely, being able to hide out in my own room and “escape” from everything and everyone else. I thought that, like most people, I simply grew out of that, but I don’t think I ever did. I just told myself I *should*, because people have roommates, families, live together…especially in cities, people aren’t designed for personal space. But I like mine.

I’ve also come to accept a basic truth about me: I don’t like people. At least, I don’t like all of them, and during my time of illness, I came to see the idea of meeting and entertaining strangers as a drain on my very limited resources. It became harder to smile and appear charming in the face of people you don’t care for, or pretend to be interested in conversation that just *isn’t*. I don’t think it’s an accident that I’ve developed at least three strong friendships during the time I was ill, largely because it was the first time in my life I cared about meaningful one-on-one interaction with someone I suspect I might relate to, instead of “How many people can I get to come to my party?”. I’ve hosted a Meetup group for 5 years, and literally met thousands of people. Perhaps 20-30 of them have become friends; some of them have become my best friends in the world.

But, when I was sitting on the lawn talking about my childhood with my friend in Durham, or at a quirky coffee shop creating imaginary art in my head with a friend in Charlotte, or at a small dinner with 6 or so of my close friends in Atlanta, I realised how much happier and more content I was than at any of the bars or clubs or parties I’d been to recently. The difference was, I was really able to communicate and bond with people I truly care about, people who accept me and allow me to be myself. I didn’t have to flirt or accept and give insincere compliments, hug strangers, make small talk about “Where are you from?” and “What do you do?”.

I was telling a friend recently that I’d never been like that before. In fact, I’d had people end relationships and friendships with me over what was perceived by others as a disinterestedness in truly getting to know someone, and what I saw as “Whenever we turn everything into a group outing, more people means more fun!”. In some ways, my illness was stronger than my desire to be the centre of attention, to be the person that everyone looked at in a large group of people. I didn’t want to be looked at anymore, I didn’t want to have to meet expectations or offer meaningless social frivolities. I just wanted to be around people who understood, and really cared. My illness allowed me to see what life is like for people more introverted, more focused, less willing to engage in pretense and the attempt to “be seen and appreciated” than I have always been. At first, I was bored and depressed and hated it. I just wanted my old life back. As I started to get better, I started to see it’s one of the greatest gifts life could have given me. I value others so much more now, and learned it’s OK not to like everyone, and not to give a crap if other people don’t like you. I was reminded how authenticity was one of the most important aspects of my personality, and how often I’ve had to sacrifice that to please others or to be liked. I feel like it is a permanent change, that I no longer have the energy or the desire to do that. I don’t go to bars or clubs on Saturday nights anymore; I play trivia with my friends at a pizza place that doesn’t serve alcohol and closes at 11, so we sit on the bench in front of the building, talking and looking at stupid YouTube videos. And, strangely, I love it. When I am out of town, it is the thing I miss the most. It used to be something to do when there wasn’t a party to go to or an event to plan. Now, it’s something I look forward to doing.

I have changed and grown in many ways as a result of one of the most difficult periods of my life. I learned to let the self-destructive, attention-seeking side of myself go when it occurred to me that I wasn’t ready to die. I learned to appreciate people by admitting how much about my life I didn’t really enjoy, how much of my interactions with others felt forced and artificial. I’ve learned to balance the conviction that you have to appreciate today because there is no future with the idea that, in case I’m still around, I might want to make plans for my life 6 months from now. I’ve learned that living alone doesn’t mean being alone, and it’s far preferable to the stress of being around someone you don’t even like that much, and the negative energy they bring into your life. I’ve learned that substance counts, and I have a great deal of it, even though I spend a lot of time downplaying that aspect of myself. I’ve learned that feeling loved sometimes means someone understanding you enough to give you the freedom you need, and that showing you care about others means understanding the freedom that person needs. I’ve learned that it’s OK to say “No”, even if it makes you feel badly, because attempting to please others at the expense of your own happiness isn’t worth having panic attacks over. I’ve learned that while I don’t have all the answers to life, sometimes my intuition tells me everything I need to know about the world around me and the people in it. I’ve learned that I value my family for who they are, but it’s the friends who are like family that truly make me feel at home…and it sucks that those friends live in five or six different states, but it doesn’t matter much.

I’ve learned I’m stronger than I think I am. And, maybe, three years from now, I’m going to wonder what all the fuss and panic was about when I see a Wal-Mart, Target, or Kroger. I’m going to make changes between now and then, and I don’t even know what they are or why I’ll make them or if they’ll be the best choices…but I know I’m going to be around to make them. That means I’ve come so much farther from where I was this time a year ago, and although I feel frightened about the approaching summer, potentially going to Dragon*Con, or traveling, or just locking myself up in my room and focusing on work and making money, I somehow intuitively know I’m going to be OK. It used to be one day at a time in my world, and now it’s one week at a time. That is progress.

Today honestly couldn’t get any worse if I actively tried to have a bad day. I hate to say that, because I’m well aware that it can always get worse…and for me, it usually will…but today was a pretty rough day. The weight of the world crushed me, and turning to people for help only to have them respond in a way that was more frustrated and freaked out than I was feeling…well, it only made it feel as if there were two worlds on my shoulders instead of one. I came the closest to having a full-on breakdown that I’ve had in quite some time, sobbing for about two hours and drawing random X patterns with the sharp end of scissors on my chest in hopes that some of the unbearable weight of the world would just go away.

As I’ve blogged about recently, I’ve had recent relapses with my health that have scared me. I’ve started to think the doctors were simply not right in the diagnosis they came up with, and I simply ran out of money and energy to keep subjecting myself to doctors who told me nothing was wrong, and I just needed therapy and anxiety pills. Yet, I know something is wrong. I find myself still having rushes of dizziness that travel at lightning speed from my stomach to just under my ear, and feel like I’m having a heart attack. I still have spasms under that same ear that are uncontrollable, and feel like something connecting my head to my chest is about to explode. I still gain weight by looking at food, and this hasn’t been something I’ve struggled with throughout my life. Yesterday, a walk in the sun followed by a short exercise video sent my pulse rate up to the level at which I should start to get concerned, and my BP remained in the “slightly unhealthy” range all night. Worse yet, getting up to make dinner, I felt like my legs were going to buckle under me. There is something inside me that’s not right, and I know all too well they haven’t done most of the tests necessary to rule out cardiac or digestive tract issues, because my co-pay is so high and my doctors know I can’t afford the tests. If I had money, I’m fairly certain my lifespan would be double what I expect it to be.

On top of it, I mailed a check to pay my insurance premium that was never received, and because my roommate left me with more than a few financial difficulties when he abruptly left, I didn’t exactly hurry to correct the problem. When I spoke to a representative from Aetna at the beginning of May, she said as long as I paid the back balance owed plus a $70 fee, I could re-activate my insurance. I found out today, when I finally had the cash to do so, that what she told me was false. If your policy is cancelled, just as if you should decide to change your plan, you have to go through the application process all over again. I now have no insurance, my doctor won’t refill my prescription without an office visit (it’s apparently against the law to do such things with certain medications.), and I have less that a week’s worth of pills left. So I have to pay for cab fare to the doctor, the cost of the office visit, cab fare home, and the cost of the pills I need. I’m guessing the $16 I have currently won’t cover things.

This afternoon, I got an e-mail from someone saying “Aetna needs more info from you about your medical history”, and I had to spend an HOUR on the phone with this lady explaining why I saw 13 doctors and was diagnosed with 8 different conditions and put on 10 different medications in the span of a year.

Of course, it was all “Yes” or “No”, so I couldn’t just say “I have one problem and take 2 medicines for it. Everyone else was just wrong.” It was all extraordinarily tedious, and I still don’t know if I’m getting insurance. She said I should hear from Aetna in 5 days.

At least she was nice about it, but still…I feel like when I was sitting in the street with next to nothing to cling to in terms of hope and a better future, and the ability to enjoy my present should the future not be something too extensive for me, someone randomly came around and hit me with a baseball bat.

Ironically, last night, I wrote these thoughts in my private journal, after having an episode of dizziness and rush of blood to my heart that made me almost grab the ground for balance. Whenever I realise that despite treatment, and being seen by numerous doctors, my health is not improving, I start contemplating the inevitability of mortality…the “when” and “how” my death will occur, and most frighteningly, whether or not I will be alone and scared and wishing for just one more day of being around.

I was going to post that entry, about love and death and the battle between appreciating each moment and completely self-destructing because, for some of us, life without freedom, life with restrictions, isn’t so easy to appreciate…no matter how much love happens to be around you. I realised that over the past year, the more my body seems to fall apart and limit and betray me, the more I have the kind of love and friendship and support and appreciation and admiration I’ve wanted my whole life, yet could never seem to hold on to when I seemingly had so much more going for me, so much more life to which I could look forward. It’s a cruel irony, or a lesson, and I’m not so sure which.

On second thought, perhaps I won’t post it. I’ve already sent some letters to people in my life that matter to me. I’ve already written some letters so that, if something happens to me, those who are left behind will remember how much they were cared about.

I’ll just let everyone watch the last episode of House instead. It deals with fear and mortality and self-destruction and regret far better than I ever could.

But it doesn’t make this particular day any better for me.

“Women are born with enough patience to stay and enough strength to move on. Don’t take her for granted, because you will regret it.” —Anonymous

I saw that quote on someone’s FB page today and liked it. Sometimes, the simplest things in life are the most important lessons to keep in mind.

Anyhow, back to Germs And Apathy. Wouldn’t that be a really cool name for a band?

If there’s anything that tops the list of “Stuff That I Hate”, it’s being sick. I’m not talking about the dramatic kind of illness that took over my life this past year, or some of the really serious ailments that some people suffer through on a daily basis. I’m talking about the kind of being sick where you feel like you want to curl up in a ball and die, but everyone says “You’re not really that sick”, so you’re supposed to suck it up and go about your day in a fairly normal fashion.

The interesting thing about being sick is that it enhances the level of apathy hormone in my body. If you know me at all, you know I’m not a laid-back person at all. I stress out over everything from work deadlines to how I’m getting along with friends to worrying about things I don’t want to do that are going to happen two months from now. If there’s a feeling that I can stress out about or blow out of proportion or make the most important thing in my universe that day, I will do it. It’s not even a conscious choice. It’s just happens. Any kind of bad news or tension in my life completely throws me for such a loop that I find it impossible to just “chill”. I am not, despite my collection of Jack Johnson, Jason Mraz, Bob Marley, and John Mayer, a “Zen” kind of girl.

I’ve tried a lot of things in my life to stop caring about everything in the world to the level that it becomes a national emergency, and to put some sort of screen over the intensity of my feelings so that everything is a little duller, a little less dramatic. Drinking is fun, but actually typically makes me more high-energy than normal, and amplifies whatever mood I’m in that day. Giving up caffeine had little effect. I got kicked out of yoga class for laughing at the obviously Freudian connotations of the teacher’s instructions. Tea is only good when it’s winter. The anti-anxiety medication I’m on isn’t a high enough dose to accomplish mellow (although I do have to say that taking doctor-prescribed Klonopin was the closest I’ve ever come to feeling like a totally chilled out, mellow person. It was kind of like having an out-of-body experience. Of course, they took me off of that right away because the “mellow” was achieved through being stoned off my ass.)

I’ve kind of had to accept that, by nature, I am not laid-back. Even on vacation, part of me can’t sit still for too long before I start thinking “Where am I going next?”

Yet, being sick turns apathy into overdrive. I am hugely behind on work (I let my boss know that this was because I was sick), and if I tried a little harder to get stuff done, I could improve that. But I’m really tired, so I haven’t done that yet. I started thinking about a situation earlier in the week that caused me emotional distress, and it seemed I no longer have any emotional distress response to something that affected me greatly. I think about my plans for the weekend, and am largely like, “Yeah, whatever. I just want to stay in bed.” I’m not really too concerned about anyone or anything today, and really just want to lay on the bed and watch Law & Order re-runs.

It occurs to me that some people are like this all the time, that it doesn’t take being overrun by bacteria to not take life too seriously, to just know that stuff will work itself out, the people who like you will be in your life no matter what, and if you really don’t want to do things, you don’t have to make yourself miserable out of obligation. Part of me is kind of jealous. I’d like to be that kind of person, maybe just for a week or two, see how much easier life is.

Of course, I would not like to have to be sick to accomplish it.

I don’t actually know what’s wrong with me, other than I have a fever, am very tired, apathetic about most everything, and have a head and chest full of ick. Last time I remember feeling this “mellow”, it turned out my roommate and I had both gotten bronchitis, and I went to the Northeast and partied anyway. (martinis apparently do not kill bronchitis.) I might have bronchitis. I might have a really nasty cold. I might have just gotten sick because my body objected to me planning a trip home to see my family and launched a pre-emptive strike against that idea.

I’m not too worried about it, mostly because I’m not too worried about anything. If I’m still sick tomorrow, I’ll fit in awesomely on 4/20.

I’m happy to report I’m feeling much better in general (although it’s raining, and that seems to activate the dizzy button in my head), and the anxiety and depression I was feeling was simply the fallout from me messing with my medication. Even though I returned to taking it as prescribed, the up-and-down rollercoaster effect the entire week had on my body, mind, and spirit was just a bit too much for me to handle without having something of a nervous breakdown when my roommate was kind of an ass and my toilet broke. (these things have since been fixed.)

Fortunately, I’d had an appointment to go and see my doctor on Tuesday, which was how I began my Valentine’s celebration. The Guy I Am Currently Dating came to pick me up and drove me to the doctor’s office. As always, she spent a long time with me talking about my issues, and agreed that a majority of my issues were related to the vestibular disorder I’d been diagnosed as having, and the health-related anxiety and predisposition to panic attacks. She gave me instructions not to mess with my medications until the next time I saw her, and she assured me that my heart, lungs, and other vital organs were perfectly fine.

She also reassured me that feelings of anger and depression and low self-esteem were natural, and almost everyone who’s been told that they’re facing a long recovery process and need to learn to live with something that there is no cure goes through that, whether the illness is life threatening or not. She pointed out to me that, in certain ways, my extensive medical knowledge, gained from a lifetime of reading and exposure to the field, and friendships with people with actual medical knowledge, was actually enhancing my symptoms. Apparently, highly intelligent and highly intuitive people are more likely to suffer from anxiety issues, simply from thinking too much, and believing whatever they’ve read about applies to them. For instance, medical residents routinely come down with a number of illnesses, all induced by hypochondria. Studying a brain tumour leads you to imagine every little thing in your head is a symptom of a brain tumour, since you are aware of many things that are symptoms. Certain personality types are prone to suffering symptoms after reading about them; oddly, the same personality type that excels at method acting, and can bring on not only the feelings of but physical signs of certain ailments. In the end, she told me to take my pills, eat right, exercise, stop stressing about weight loss because it would happen slowly on this medication, and to realise my problems were a simple vestibular disorder that happens to cause some weird things to happen, much like the struggles of chronic migraine suffers. She told me to talk to a psychologist specialising in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, stay off any other drugs anyone might wish to prescribe me, and go to the vestibular rehab sessions. Mostly, she told me the only “cure” for my problem was time and a willingness to keep on moving past the obstacles, and eventually, things like depression would pass as I retrieved my self-confidence. All that was very good to hear, and I left feeling pretty awesome about things, actually.

Tuesday evening was a low-key Valentine’s Day…it was Tuesday, and both The Guy I Am Currently Dating and I had a ton of work. So, we exchanged cards and gifts, and went to play trivia! It was one of our best trivia nights ever…we were in 1st all the way down to the tie-breaker. We tied the tie-breaker, but the other team handed it in first, so we still came in 2nd. ARRRRGH. We’re trying our best for that 5th place spot, and the tournament is in two weeks. Of course, plenty of other teams are trying to get in the top 5 as well. There’s really no incentive, other than we’ve been in the top 5 for the past 4 tournaments, and we get a plaque. I like getting plaques. It reminds me of being 12 years old and getting an award for something that’s really awesome when you’re 12.

The Guy I Am Currently Dating bought me a stuffed blue M&M. I love it. No flowers or balloons or chocolates, but I love my M&M. Everytime I go to NYC, I bring back an M&M for him from the M&M Store. Last time, I got him the pillow shaped red one for the bed…and he got me the blue. The colours of the M&Ms correlate to different emotions. Blue is happy and energetic.

I got some other lovely Valentine’s gifts from friends and family in my life, including a beautiful book called “The Art Of The Moment”, DVDs of “Phantom”, “Chess”, and “Les Mis” from Royal Albert Hall, a few copies of a book written by an aspiring author friend (one of which was immediately passed along to The Guy I Am Currently Dating), and a poem. Not to mention, there were of course some Facebook greetings, which always spread the love. Naturally, I bought myself a Valentine’s gift, too, long before the holiday. I’d pre-ordered the latest DVD in the Twilight series, and it arrived on the 15th, so…that’s what we’ll be watching this Friday.

The Day After Valentine’s Day was pretty good, too. It marked my debut with Atlanta’s Write Club Atlanta, a group of writers, actors, directors, and other artistically inclined folks who put on a show that features three pairs of performers reading 7-minute stories/poems/monologues composed on opposing subjects. As it was February, ours all had to do with things that could (but did not have to be) Valentine’s Day related. My round, “Stay Vs. Go” had me representing “Go”.

I had a million reasons not to do this sort of thing; getting on stage with bright lights, a sound system, a huge crowd, and just having been diagnosed with a vestibular disorder makes something that most people dislike by nature (public speaking) even more challenging. Add to that that I’m a self-conscious person these days, having gained 25 pounds and learning it’s a long road to losing weight on a beta-blocker, and it would seem that signing up to get up on stage in front of strangers…and then invite all my friends…would be a remarkably bad idea.

It wasn’t. In fact, my friends were very supportive and the Write Club people very kind, diverse, and funny. They’re the kind of people who not only embrace quirkiness but demand it, something I’ve missed since living in Atlanta. I’d definitely participate in their projects in the future, and will certainly return to hear other people read their works. It’s just a good, creativity-affirming time.

Also, I actually ended up winning my round (audience applause is king in these situations) although the guy who wrote about “Stay” was really funny. I actually clapped for him, until I remembered audience applause counted, so I was effectively voting against myself. Oooops. The best part was hearing praise and encouragement from other people on my way out. I met a group of people who asked if the story I’d written about was true (absolutely, 100%, and then some…I had to omit quite a bit in the name of time and because not everything is funny.) I also met a girl who told me she knew exactly who I was talking about in my story ( a humorous anecdote based on a guy I went out with a few times), because her friend met said guy at a party and almost went out with him. It’s a small, small world.

I’d post my composition here, but, it will eventually be released in podcast form…so, all in due time.

Most importantly, I conquered a potential fear. I wondered if this inner ear/dizziness problem was something that would keep me from ever getting on a stage again. While I’m not quite up for doing a musical yet, I proved to myself that the answer is “No”. I may be afraid of having a panic attack, but I can get up on stage for 10 minutes. I can go to parties and concerts and even shop at Kroger. I can start working off the extra pounds with exercise, and learning to cook for myself. Maybe I can even travel.

After the show, I went out to a nearby pub for a few drinks and conversation with a group of close friends here in Atlanta. One of them told me about a time in his life he went through a similar situation that I’ve been dealing with, albeit for different reasons, and likely around the same point in his life that I am at right now. (my friend is a bit older and wiser than myself, though just by a few years.) It made me feel, for the first time in months, I was talking to someone who understood.

Few things make you feel stronger than talking to someone who understands, who has been where you are, and survived.

All in all, I had a pretty good week, although work has been intense, I started a new project, things kept breaking, and I feel the internal need to slow down and rest, but have too much to do. Also, it has occurred to me that I may have offended a friend/acquaintance of mine, as I sent a “here’s some random “thinking of you” stuff in the mail” package to him, as I’ve been known to do. Yet, I’ve not heard from him in quite some time..so, I don’t know. I tend to offend others unintentionally and when I’m not looking. I’d say I’m paranoid, but the fact that I’ve actually lost friends I cared about without explanation, have been kicked out of social groups, and still avoid certain places in multiple cities for fear of running into those who are openly not Alayna fans…well, I’d say I’m just a realist.

I hope you all had a wonderful Valentine’s Day week, as well…single or couple, married or not, children or not, long-distance or in the same house. I like Valentine’s Day because it’s a reminder that there’s so much love in the Universe, and it’s the kind we could be putting out there every day, without all the inhibitions and insecurities and judgments and limitations. I’m not just talking about romantic love and sexual attraction (though it applies to that, too), but to friendships and familial relationships and saying hi to that barista at Starbucks you have the secret crush on. I’m talking about remembering to put love and support and compassion out there as much as possible, and to have more true friends, and fewer acquaintances (my personal focus for this year, along with getting back to myself, physically and emotionally.)

I’m also incredibly happy my toilet is fixed, although the Y on my computer is not.

That being said, I kind of wanted a balloon. I love balloons. But I’m learning to be a little less high-maintenance.

For those who don’t follow me on Facebook, it’s been a particularly tough two days for me. I’m trying to be as strong as I can, to tough things out, but honestly, I realise I’m not a strong or tough person in a lot of ways. I’ve been fortunate in that I’ve survived some dark times, but I always had a sense that ultimately, my survival and how I navigated through the world following those dark times was up to me.

When it comes to illness, it’s not up to me. It’s up to science, up to medicine, up to God, up to the sheer luck of getting the right doctor who might prescribe the right thing, make the right diagnosis, order the right test. I do not always feel confident that I am going to be able to pull through this particular time in my life, I do not always feel confident that I received the correct diagnosis from the correct doctor. I waver back and forth from agreeing that it’s all a simple psychological problem, it’s all “in my head”, to feeling that the unexplained symptoms that doctors try to hide with pills or dismiss as unimportant because they don’t fit with any logical, simple diagnosis are important, and that I am in fact a very ill person that isn’t being heard.

Over the weekend, I made the resolution that on Monday, I was going to start dropping the amount of beta-blocker, a particularly side-effect-laden pill called Atenolol, I’ve been taking for about 6 months. A quick search on the Internet turned up countless message boards from people on this drug, wondering how to deal with the side effects. I made it through the initial phase of feeling to exhausted to move and actually became functional on Atenolol. However, I gained 25 pounds in 6 months, and when doing a Google search on this, found numerous medical studies that suggest a link between beta-blockers, obesity, and type 2 diabetes. I learned one in 5 adults today is currently on a beta-blocker; they slow down your heart rate and your BP, they treat anxiety, and are essential to people suffering from certain heart conditions.

The problem is, they are overprescribed, and once you’re on them, it’s very tough to get off of them. The withdrawal symptoms are so unpleasant that it hardly seems worth it to get off a drug whose major side effect is making you fat and sleepy, when the alternatives include heart palpitations, insomnia, depression, high blood pressure, and a host of other “rebound effects”.

I was prescribed a beta-blocker because I had a pulse of 120 for an extended period of time, and my body was releasing adrenaline constantly, causing me to have sometimes as many as 8 panic attacks a day. I do not know if this was a result of the infection I had that doctors claimed led to the development of my vestibular disorder, or due to an anxiety-related condition. My blood pressure was only slightly elevated, and since being on the beta-blocker, my panic attacks have ceased, but my blood pressure has become exceptionally low. Meanwhile, weight gain and being tired all the time are making it more likely I’ll develop heart problems.

A while back, two different doctors had given me the OK to cut my Atenolol dose in half, to see if this decreased the side effects. I’d never done this, because I was scared to mess with what was working. I’d been able to function like a normal person much of the time lately, stopped feeling convinced I was going to die, but hated myself for feeling fat, lifeless, and dependent on pills. Yet, I was afraid to make a change because I didn’t want a huge setback. I never found out why I mysteriously had heart problems when I’d always been active, energetic, and at the time of my illness, walked miles every day. I was at a relatively healthy weight, didn’t have the best dietary habits, but also didn’t have any significant health issues—mental or physical.

There was no explanation for why my heart should suddenly go out of control, not even the vestibular and panic issues the last doctor diagnosed me with, and it causes me a lot of anxiety to think that it might happen again…or, worse yet, suddenly stop.

Yet, reading about other people going through stories like mine, how a drug that helped them feel better was actually destroying their health and quality of life and ability to live life fully…it was enough for me to decide that I had options. One was to cut down on this pill to see if I really needed it, and if I do, why? What’s wrong with me that I need a heart-related medication to feel well and function properly? A visit to the cardiologist yielded no answers back at the beginning; he didn’t examine me, and ran a test to see if there were any physical abnormalities within the structure of my heart, and dismissed me with “You have anxiety. Go to a psychiatrist.”

I am still anxious, still scared. I’ve made it through two days on half a dose of this drug, and nothing about it has been easy. Every hour feels like three. Just moving makes me feel exhausted. I wonder if I’m going to wake up in the morning when I go to sleep, or my heart is just going to get tired and stop. I am afraid I won’t have enough time left to do everything in life I want and need to do.

I am afraid I am dying, and unlike those who suffer from something that is sometimes actually fatal, I have nothing to base that on except an internal feeling, and the fact some scary medical problems happened to me that countless tests and doctors couldn’t adequately explain.

I feel like there are too many things left for me to do in this world to die now. There are too many loose ends, things (good and bad) I never said to people that I’d want them to know, things I never took the chance on because I believed in myself too little, mistakes I never recovered from and others won’t let go.

I want a second chance. I want to be healthy, mentally and physically. I want to do more and be more and share more and touch the lives of others more. I want to make a difference, to be here for a reason, to be loved.

People my age, and far younger, die every day. Nobody is immune. But there are phases where I become convinced I need to get my affairs in order, that I won’t be here for as long as I need to…and maybe I won’t be healthy enough to make the most of those days during the time I’m here.

I worry that one day I won’t wake up, and all these people will never know how much I loved them, or respected them, or thought the world of them, but never said so, because people just don’t say things like that…and when they do, it is so often misinterpreted. I worry that people will say things like “She was a girl who had so much potential”, meaning I never actually accomplished anything of note with my life. I wasn’t all the things our society values; a rich, hot girl busy climbing the corporate ladder, or a loving wife and mother who took care of everything and everyone.

Instead, I lived my life like it was a never-ending 1920′s salon, full of art and witty people and intelligent conversation and food and cocktails and music and sex and life. Someone once told me my best quality was my joie de vivre, the ability to enjoy life when the world around me is going to pieces. In retrospect, that seems a little shallow to be one’s best quality. I don’t think I ever had it in me to be the kindest, the smartest, the prettiest, the most talented and accomplished girl in the room, but I think I have something rare I should have made better use of, but didn’t. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t know what to do, or was afraid of rejection,of being ridiculed and used and gossiped about, or because I just didn’t believe I was special.

Looking back, that seems silly to me. Once upon a time, I had health and energy and youth and vitality, and could have taken a world full of chances I didn’t. Now, I don’t know if I have enough energy to get out of bed, or I can make it to dinner without falling to pieces.

Sometimes, I’m really scared. That’s how I’ve been feeling lately…just scared, and alone, and like nobody understands. Yet, I don’t want to be alone. That’s my greatest fear in the world, dying alone when there’s still so much more I want from the world. When you’re ill, everyone seems to disappear, save those few close friends and family that will always be there, and most friendships seem remarkably shallow.

I wish I’d been the kind of person in my life that bothered to connect more; not just to know people or to be recognised or admired at parties, but to get to know people on a level that really matters. It took me three decades to figure out that being the most popular girl in the world didn’t mean being the most well-liked, and it doesn’t mean feeling the most loved and supported. It just means you’ve met a lot of people. I wish more people had known me, the real, authentic person who always felt too much and loved too much and cared too much about everything.

I wish I hadn’t made so many mistakes and acted as if life is a party destined to go on forever. Inevitably, it won’t.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, or how to fix myself, or how to find peace when every day is a struggle. All I know is that if life is a party, it’s still early, and I’m not ready to go home yet.

“We must overcome the notion that we must be regular. It robs you of the chance to be extraordinary, and leads you to the mediocre.”—Uta Hagen

Life has been a fairly stressful endeavour for me lately, but I feel as if I’ve been pushing myself, and I think that’s a good thing. Unfortunately, largely due to the types of drugs I am on, I don’t really have much stamina and endurance anymore. I used to be able to sit and work all night long if I needed to, or stay out until the sun came up, partying with my friends. These days, at some point, I inevitably start to feel tired and shaky and as if the only place I want to spend time is my bed.

The main stressor in my life is the work situation; courtesy of some recent changes, I’m working twice as hard (or at least 1.5 times as hard), but the net result is a paycheck that’s 50% smaller. I know this has probably caused some people to either decide to leave the company, or to buckle down and try to become a veritable factory of quality work, but I need stable income in order to pay my bills, never mind get the medical care I need. The logical alternative is to work harder and try to complete more articles per day, or look for additional projects to supplement my income, but my lack of stamina doesn’t just affect me physically. After 4-5 hours of solid, undisturbed work, I feel both physically and emotionally exhausted. It is the time in my life I can least afford to be ill, and yet I have little to say about the whole deal. On top of it, the company has now instituted a 24-hour turnaround on all assignments, and have made it clear they don’t intend to be too forgiving towards those who don’t meet deadlines. I suppose they look at it as if everyone’s replaceable, and nobody indispensable, which is largely true.

Yet, I’ve been doing my best to restructure my life to make myself stronger and keep up. I don’t really have the extra time and energy to seek out new assignments, or try to find a new job, so it’s mostly taking it one day at a time. It’s just a sad realisation that I won’t be able to make it working on a freelance basis with this pay cut. For over a year, I’ve made a nice income for a single person…more than I’d make working in an office, waiting tables, or giving people coffee at Starbucks. It’s even more than I’d make becoming a teacher or whatever else people with degrees in liberal arts subjects end up doing. But, that’s the income I need to make in order to improve my life…and it would have, significantly, had I not gotten seriously ill in 2011…and not half that sum. I don’t feel like I have a lot of options, and I feel a bit depressed about everything sometimes, which is far from productive. I just wonder why someone with as many talents, varied life experience, and unusual personality as I possess can’t figure out how to use any of those assets to get a stable career that I enjoy off the ground. Sometimes, I wonder if work just isn’t my thing; other aspects of life have always come easily to me. I was always smart enough to do well in school, personable enough to succeed in the social aspects of life, interesting enough to not have trouble meeting people to date or starting relationships, clever enough to formulate a nice place to live even when I had very little. When it comes to money, though, I have always struggled.

Herein lies the problem. I like money. I like shopping and martinis and nice restaurants and jewelry. And I am not lazy; if I knew what I needed to do to make the sort of money I need to comfortably engage in the type of lifestyle I’d like to have, I’d do it. I don’t want to be a millionaire, or part of the 1%, or even well-to-do. I just want to never have to worry about the practicalities of life, and still engage in the little frivolities that make my world a better place.

All the things that interest and intrigue me aren’t skills that translate to making money; the blogging habit I’ve had for 10 years, the book I’m working on (that nobody will ever read), the poetry I write, the parties I throw, the events I plan, even if I were to take up acting again. Nobody pays you just to be unique and creative and different and fabulous in that weird way that makes you stand out. It wins you friends and admirers, it makes you enemies, it throws adventures in your path, it makes life interesting…but it does not pay your bills, or your medical expenses.

For those who don’t know, in addition to recently being diagnosed with a vestibular disorder called vestibular neuronitis, I’ve also been diagnosed with panic disorder. Panic disorder sucks, and I don’t know why I’ve suffered with it for the past six months, but after reading the Wikipedia entry on it, it’s clear that I have it. I believe I developed it when I developed the vestibular neuronitis, following a severe sunburn and subsequent infection and dehydration from not taking care of myself wisely on the beach. I had a number of panic attacks over a period of two or three weeks before visiting the ER for help, and the ER, as well as a number of doctors who misdiagnosed my symptoms, put me on drugs with some terrible side effects. The result is that any time anything feels wrong with my body, I have a type of panic attack. It can range from mild enough that it’s gone within 30 seconds of changing my surroundings to needing to take an extra 2 milligrams of Valium to simply needing to leave and go home. (the last kind, the most severe kind, typically triggers a migraine. Within an hour or two of rest, Coca-Cola, and someone comforting me, I am typically better, although left very drained.).

The doctors have recommended that I see both a specialist for vestibular rehab and a psychiatrist who specialises in panic and anxiety disorders. I’ve been a little hesitant about doing these things, although I know I need to, because I know they may make me feel worse for awhile before things improve…and I simply don’t have the time to feel worse. I can’t afford to get fired because I was too busy freaking out to work.

I also would like to get off my current medications, the ones that cause me to resemble the Goodyear blimp and gain weight if I eat more than 800 calories a day. Psychiatrists, on the other hand, just want to switch you to whatever drug of choice they believe is most helpful. I have at least four types of commonly prescribed anti-anxiety medicines in my cabinet. They all made me feel like I’d rather discontinue existing than take that pill, which seems kind of contrary to the point.

They also told me about something called “cognitive behavioural therapy”, where I teach my brain to react in more positive ways. (obviously, nobody gets that my mind and body falling apart are reasons for my brain to feel less than positive, and for me to every day remind myself “What the hell happened to the charming and attractive person I used to be?”.) It’s basically “face the fear and do it anyway, unless you have a panic attack”.

So, I’ve been trying. I went out to dinner with a number of friends on Friday, and when I got there, immediately felt lightheaded and dizzy because we were seated on the highest possible level (seriously, in another room, we could stand on a chair and touch the roof. If it were a house, it would be really cute and I’d love it. ) There were also flickering lights, both of which seem to trigger vertigo and feelings of panic. I managed to ignore it, and even stood up for about 15 minutes to converse with people at the other end of the table. (standing up for too long often makes me want to fall down.) In the end, it ended up being a very good night, but it took a lot of discussion with my brain to get me to that point.

Today, I decided I was tired of being fat, when the scale hit the highest number I’ve ever seen in my life. My metabolism is slowing down to the point where I could not eat for days and not lose a pound (yet, I can’t do that, because the drugs I’m on make me light-headed and mess with my blood sugar if I don’t eat enough.), and I know/have heard of people on the drugs I’m on gaining 50-75 pounds. There is no way I’m letting that happen to my body. So, I decided to fight back and go for a 10 minute walk. It was exhausting, since one of my anxiety triggers is wide, open, overwhelming spaces. (I can’t set foot into Target without hyperventilating, which is apparently not uncommon for people with this inner ear disorder.)

I felt panic setting in twice, but I focused on telling my brain “NO, I’m going to walk for 10 minutes, period.”. Every other day, I’m going to add a minute to my walk, and slowly try to increase my endurance. This will, of course, not burn any calories, but at least it will get me outside again.

My well-intentioned roommate cooked tonight, making a chicken pot pie recipe he found on the low-glycemic recipe site I sent him. Little did I know, he “adapted” it, adding a ton of fat and calories and carbs. He really is a very good cook, and I applaud him learning to cook…but since he has, not only has he gained a noticeable amount of weight, his best friend is also starting to sport a bit of a belly. It could be that we’re all going through middle age, but I think it’s more of a “Don’t cook like Paula Deen” issue.

I may have to learn to cook healthy recipes, although I hate cooking, so I know I have control over what’s in what I’m eating. The problem: I really hate cooking.

I never knew that feeling and being healthy could be so difficult. I always took health so much for granted. I’d give absolutely anything to be able to rewind my life a year, and feel the way I did then. I would never take the ability to feel and look good, to seem “normal”, for granted again.

The only blessing that I have in my life is the supportive network of friends who seem to care and stick beside me, no matter what. I know they miss the person I used to be, too, but I’ve gotten an immense amount of support through things. The prideful, egoistic part of me simply wants to hide away from everyone until I’m better, rather than have people ridicule me for being fat or talk about how difficult I was the last time they saw me. I don’t want the world to see me when I’m unattractive, fragile, or just a downright unpleasant person.

But, another part of me is reminded that’s what friends are for, and nobody judges me as harshly as I do myself…except,of course, the people who hate me. They don’t cut me one bit of slack.

I just get sad sometimes because I know, deep inside, there’s this person who is so much better—on so many levels–than who I am now. And it confounds me that the person I am now, who is damaged in so many ways, could be loved, or liked, or even tolerated, by anyone else.

It seems like there’s a lot I’d like to sit down and write about, mostly stressful personal situations going on in my life. I’d like to update the world on the ongoing struggles with my health, and also an amazingly upsetting incident a few weeks ago that involved The Mother Of The Guy I Am Currently Dating leaving voicemails on my machine designed to tear me down, and ended with threats to do me harm if I didn’t leave Atlanta (for good measure); confusion about the future of my relationship (and specifically, if there is one there), and my ability to be independent and start all over again, should that need to happen; and the audacity of a girl in my Meetup that was not only incredibly rude to me when I interacted with her, but wrote to The Guy I Am Currently Dating to ask him out to dinner without running it by me first. I’d like to vent about the isolation that’s come with two months of illness, and the disappointment in friendships and infatuations that aren’t what you put into them, specifically when some people simply are the type you can’t get too close to, or they’ll pull a disappearing act.

Perhaps I could talk about Dragon*Con, and the anxiety I’m feeling over going, because my recent struggles with anxiety and medication have left me fighting with odd symptoms of social anxiety disorder, and because the medication I am on caused me to gain 8 pounds and feel less loving toward myself than ever before. (especially given some of the commentary delivered by The Mother Of The Guy I Am Currently Dating.) I could talk about how I’ve gotten to a point where I don’t believe anyone could find me attractive on any level; physically, emotionally, mentally, or just by virtue of being a “nice” person, and how I’m not sure how to interact with a world that doesn’t naturally emphasise my attractive qualities lately.

However, all those things seem stressful, so when I sit down to write, a blank screen stares at me, and I leave to do something else. Instead, I’ll share some of the things I’m infatuated with lately.

*Spotify. A new service that’s part ITunes, part Rhapsody, and one of the best ways I’ve found lately to discover new music, as well as share what I love with others. In theory, it can also help keep your music collection organised, but I’m afraid it takes a lot more to organise me.

*Christina Perri. A tattooed, long-haired native Philadelphian who channels a strange mix of Alanis Morrisette, Tori Amos, and Norah Jones, this girl is one of the more talented and unique voices to show up in the pop world in a long time. Her “Jar Of Hearts” caught my attention, as well as that of the radio stations, a few months ago, and immediately charted impressively on Billboard before Christina even signed with a label, or released a CD. Her first album is out in the UK right now, calledLovestrong, and is available on her website. Oh, and she’s a great supporter of To Write Love On Her Arms, one of my own favourite causes.

*Marie Antoinette One of the women in history that fascinates me to no end, I’m planning my own spin on a modern-day Marie Antoinette costume for Dragon*Con this year. And, just in time, I’m preparing to read Juliet Gray’s “Becoming Marie Antoinette”, the first book in the trilogy about this controversial coquette.

*Big Brother 13 Despite the fact I haven’t put any serious effort into campaigning to get myself on the show since making it to the final auditions way back in 2000, I still love the show just the same. And this year, I have Showtime, which means I can watch 3 hours a day (fortunately, while multitasking life.) It’s trashy, stupid, predictable, and I love it. Still cheering on the women America loves to hate, and waiting to see Rachel Reilly try to win the whole thing for her (and her cheating, controlling man.)

*Swap-Bot.ComI have always loved mail, and confess to an online shopping habit and missing the days when letters came in envelopes with stickers and handwritten love was usually involved. Today’s love letters to the world—and one another—are usually digital, and just not quite the same. (though, every once in a while, I’ll find myself getting excited when I see an e-mail from an old friend.) I also enjoy being crafty, unique, and sending little care packages to my friends…but the problem is, I don’t know many people like me. The last card I received from The Guy I Am Currently Dating basically signed his name, and the last present anyone gave me was tossed in a bag rather than gift-wrapped. Needless to say, I’m delighted to find a new hobby in Swap-Bot, where you can find like-minded pen pals and artsy folks, and even some writers and artists looking to get to know others. I highly recommend signing up and playing along!

I guess that’s all for me…ending on a positive note, so I can save my energy to recount some (if not all) of life’s dramas at a later date. See you over on Facebook! (do follow me if you’re a reader who’s not already a friend.I like to know who’s out there, but not enough to enable comments! ;P )

tags: anxiety, big brother, christina perri, friends, illness, infatuations, Inspirational, recovery, spotify

Usually, I get in the bad habit of not posting here because there’s simply little of interest going on in my life. Lately, however, it’s been the opposite. Life has resembled a rollercoaster ride I’d love to get off of, but somehow, seems to start over again before I can run for my life.

I’ve been mysteriously ill for 6 weeks now, ever since my fateful trip to the beach, and the frustrating part is that absolutely nobody has been able to say “Aha! Here’s what’s wrong with you!”. I’ve made 4 emergency room visits, a trip to the cardiologist, the neurologist, and the ear, nose, and throat specialist. I’ve been on no fewer than 8 prescriptions, largely for drugs I didn’t need. And, while the symptoms have improved a bit over the past week or so, I’m certainly not back to my former self. I’ve been diagnosed with everything from anxiety and depression to heart issues to ear infections to vertigo to migraines, but little seems to make a difference.

The scariest moment, by far, happened at 6 AM once morning, when I was forced to call 911. I woke up with half of my face feeling numb, a numbness in the top of my head, and peripheral vision in my right eye gone and replaced with a black shadow. Since they’d diagnosed me earlier in the month with anxiety, due to recurring panic attacks about my health, I quickly took my Wellbutrin for the day and waited to calm down.

Within minutes, I felt a feeling as if something exploded in my head, and my heart was physically beating so fast that the rest of the world disappeared. I couldn’t walk, or get to my phone, and when I did retrieve it, couldn’t remember my name or how to call 911. I started to have a feeling like convulsions were grabbing hold of the back of my spine, and if the ambulance didn’t get there, I was going to die. When they did arrive, my pulse was 188, putting me in the “danger” category for having a stroke.

If I’d gone to a skilled psychiatrist or family doctor and not the ER, this might have been avoided. Reading about Wellbutrin mentioned that patients with a history of being on benzodiazapenes (such as Xanax, Ativan, Valium, Zoloft) should not be on the drug, as well anyone with a history of seizure disorders. Not only is there epilepsy in my family, although I don’t suffer from it, I had a seizure on a sinus medication over a decade ago, and have been treated with both Xanax and Valium in the past for anxiety, insomnia, and PTSD. The ER doctor, to whom I gave this information, put me on Wellbutrin in addition to a beta blocker for my rapid pulse rate and slightly elevated blood pressure.

I was on the drug for two weeks. The first day, I felt wonderful. By the second day, I was sitting in the dark for three hours a day, crying because nobody would help me, and threatening to kill myself. By the end of the 5th day, I’d begun getting intolerable migraines. Around day 10, my vision was blurred, and I hadn’t slept for nearly two weeks without waking up once per hour.

I’m no stranger to anxiety and panic attacks, which is the problem I originally needed help managing, amongst other things. However, I’ve never been on a long-term anti-depressant (although many have suggested perhaps I should have), and never in my life have I experienced some of the strange things that went on with my body and mind while taking Wellbutrin. I literally felt as if I were losing my mind, and seriously considered checking myself in to a psychiatric hospital for my own safety..

After the stroke-like symptoms, doctors went into overdrive trying to find out what had caused my initial symptoms 6 weeks ago, and why things were getting so much worse. I had many EKGs, an MRI, a CT scan, and what seems like every possible test they can do on your blood to rule out diseases, metabolic disorders, and tumors that might be hiding. I was screened closely for MS, for thyroid dysfunction, for hereditary heart problems. Everything was negative, and other than my uncontrollable anxiety level and unexplained high blood pressure/heart rate, nothing could explain what was going on with me.

The doctor immediately removed me from Wellbutrin, and put me on Valium for anxiety. The first few days were rough. I’ve never had to “detox” from drugs or alcohol before, but I can only imagine it’s a bit of the same hell addicts go through. I couldn’t stand light, to be touched, and constantly felt lightheaded and as if my head would explode. At night, I’d sleep for 10 minutes before being jolted awake by a feeling of electricity zapping my brain, leaving the room spinning and my vision blurred. It was simply awful, and on top of it, being scared you’re going crazy or going to die because nobody knows what’s wrong with you, just turns your life upside down.

However, each day, I seemed to improve. By day 4 or 5 without the Wellbutrin, I was sleeping like someone who’d not been allowed to sleep for weeks. I stopped being afraid I’d die everytime I closed my eyes. I stopped crying for no reason and writing goodbye notes to my loved ones.

As for the original symptoms, a visit to the ENT was the most helpful. I’ve always had chronic sinus problems, which I’d manage with the use of pills like Benadryl and over-the-counter nasal spray (Afrin.) The doctor explained these things were basically like being on speed for the long-term, and could cause elevated blood pressure and heart rate. I’d been on two courses of antibiotics for an ear infection, but the ENT seemed to think I’d never even had one to begin with. He did something magical where he pressed above my ears and told me to yawn at the same time. There was an uncomfortable “pop”, and since then, I’ve gone from being dizzy 24 hours a day to having two dizzy spells in a week. I’ve been able to work without my sunglasses, and go out with my friends.

What I learned from this is the truth behind all of those who go on and on about how drugs for depression, anxiety, ADD, and other mood disorders are over-prescribed. Whatever your problems are, it’s far cheaper to hand out Prozac or Ritalin than to perform tests to find a physical cause. For those with both physical ailments and emotional issues—no matter how many times you tell them you’re only anxious because of the scary stuff that goes on with your body, doctors don’t care to listen once they believe you’re in the “Depression And Anxiety” category—it’s almost like playing Russian Roulette with drugs until something seems to work.

I have my good days and my bad, like most people. I’m highly-strung, emotional, and more sensitive than most. I probably could use a Valium or Xanax to deal with stress and anxiety now and then. But, what I’ve learned from all this is that I’ll live with myself, just as I am. I’ll cope in a way that doesn’t involve messing with my seratonin, dopamine, or adrenaline…and the next time anyone suggests I should be on long-term medication for depression or anxiety, I’ll certainly not forget this experience…and run the other way.