The last couple of weeks, I shared a glimpse into my crazy little world of anxiety. It’s the type of anxiety that spirals down into a depression, which then becomes my fear, or depressional anxiety as I like to call it. Now that you know the foundations of my anxiety process, I’ll dive deeper into today’s topic: That Bloody Damn Rabbit Hole.
About 9 months ago, I went into a full blown anxiety frenzy. You know, THE ATTACK. It wasn’t just your normal, run of the mill panic attack episode that wears off in 30 minutes or less. Nope. It was the type that fucks you up. The kind of anxiety attack that has you wishing for sweet death, though ironically that’s one of the many fears tumbling up in there set on repeat, and so anxiety latched onto me. Oh, it got me good. Real good. I couldn’t shake it. I felt trapped; I was unable to speak, breath, paralyzed by the fear of fear. My anxious thoughts were running laps inside my mind like some baby chick watching an elder chicken vigorously flap about with its head cut off in fear that it was about to suffer the same fate… So, down the rabbit hole I went.
The next few months I was in turmoil. Determined to “beat it” I researched the crap out of panic anxiety, anxiety disorder, and alternative therapy. I became obsessed. If it was a proven anxiety remedy, the shit was going down. I focused on breathing techniques, attempted yoga, became one with nature, hiked, camped, went on extreme diets, meditated, listened to youtube tutorials out the wazoo, lifted weights, ran and then ran some more. And some of it helped. Sort of. Well it got me through that particular hour of the day. But no matter how much I tried to fix it, my obsession would bring the anxiety back tenfold. Every week, hell everyday, it felt like I was starting back at ground zero with no anxiety relief. Eventually, my mind caught up and it couldn’t take it anymore. Whatever it was trying to tell me, I wasn’t helping and so depression soon followed suit.
I eventually went to a psychiatrist. *Note: I hate doctors and absolutely loath even the whisper of medication, but I felt like I was out of options.* 3 months in Hell with no end in sight, no improvements, and a depression that was kicking in full throttle would make the most level headed person desperate, and I am far from level. 🙂 After about 15 minutes of talking, the shrink prescribed me with Prozac and sent me on my merry way.
Looking back, Prozac may have been enough to get me back to “normalness”. The thing was, by then, my anxiety and depression had reached that insanity stage level of thinking. I latched my focus on the Prozac itself, obsessing over the symptoms I read online to the point of no return. As each day passed, I was now fearing the medication more and more until my depression dug in too deep. I felt like I was stuck.
“If I discontinue the medication, will I make it worse?”
“If I continue to take it, are my symptoms going to be even harder to bear?”
“If this continues any longer, I know how I’m going to kill myself.”
SNAP! What!? Suicide! No.That mindset scared the shit out of me. Something had to be done. Visit me next Monday to find out my eventual climb out of the Rabbit Hole and back into Alice’s Reality.