The Summer From Hell (Part Two)

This is a continuation of my "meltdown" story; please read "Depression Doesn't Discriminate" first for context.

I call it a meltdown or breakdown because that's exactly what it felt like. Everything came crashing down for no apparent reason. I remember that summer being full of friends' weddings, and how I couldn't attend any of them because I was a wreck. Literally, I sat on the couch with a wool blanket draped over me, the cats cuddling me, shaky and weak and pale. My heart was constantly pounding and my stomach was in knots. Whenever the anxiety would subside, I'd take notice and it would surge again. I got used to watching my family walk out the door to experience things without me.

That summer we had a vacation planned to attend a family wedding, followed thereafter by a visit to friends and family in the United States. It was going to be a day-long drive, with an intermission during which the wedding would take place.

I had newly "broken down" and had not yet received an official diagnosis or medication. Neither me nor my family understood the gravity of what was happening with my mental state, so none of us wanted to cancel the vacation. Also, my dad had to visit his ailing mother in Colorado, and his plane took off from where we would be staying in the States visiting friends and family. And, of course, there was my cousin's wedding that we all wanted to witness. So it seemed like a no-brainer - of course we were still going!

As it turns out, I wish I'd stayed home.

 I remember forcing myself to go for a walk in the beautiful summer weather before we loaded up into the car and started our journey. Mom and Dad said the fresh air would make me feel better. My goal was to get a grip on myself. I had debated with my parents if I could do this, and I expressed my fears, and they said the vacation could ultimately be good for me. I wanted to believe it - the trip would be a distraction; enough so that it might cure me.

It was early morning and I felt weak as I walked. Remember, I was barely eating or sleeping. I was gulping in deep breaths of air and letting them out slowly. The morning air was refreshing, and the sky was a clear blue. I had a moment of elation inside me where I believed I would be okay, I would be healed; I could do this.

That sensation didn't last long. The anxiety clung to me as soon as we drove away from our house. I'm the sort of person who has always enjoyed long car rides. I fully relax, and I daydream. I let my mind wander as I watch the world fly by. We listen to music and sing along. I always experienced this peaceful feeling of utter contentment during a road trip - and I took note during this one that something had changed.

I was tense, I was uncomfortable; my stomach was twisted up and I was scared I'd throw up; I was sweaty despite the windows being open; my mind couldn't settle. I realized I didn't know how to feel peaceful or content anymore. The fear that I had lost myself took hold of my heart.

What didn't help was my brother getting motion sick and puking in the car when we were nearing our first stop (the wedding). It heightened my anxiety even more because I was worried I might puke too, either by being nauseated because of his sickness, or by the anxiety that continued to consume me.

When we got to the church, I was drenched in sweat. I was so shaky; hungry but couldn't eat. My brain felt like it was swimming. We changed into our nice clothes next to the parked car, and I felt like I was soiling my dress with my body odor. My poor brother was still shaky and pale. Everyone looked exhausted.

We rushed last minute into the church pews, witnessed a very brief wedding, gave our love to our family members, then hurried to our final destination - Michigan. All four of us just wanted the car ride to be over.

After that I just remember moments of misery during our stay. I was embarrassed to be seen in the state I was in. I was ashamed at the lack of control I had over myself. I felt like I was a burden to everyone; I was ruining the party. I couldn't force myself to be happy. I tried to be involved but the waves of anxiety would threaten to drown me. I remember going to the beach with our friends, and not being able to play in the water with the other kids. I sat on a towel with the parents and watched everyone else play. The energy to play and laugh just didn't exist.

I was with my most favourite people in the world, experiencing a trip we had been looking forward to for a year. Why couldn't I just be happy? Why couldn't I just get it together? I took a day pill and a night pill almost every day (the ones the nurse at CHEO gave me), and I wasn't sure if they were helping or not.

Our friends and family were very kind and thoughtful, though they also didn't know what was going on with me. Neither did we, so we couldn't explain it to them. I remember throwing up a couple times - well, basically heaving without much result. The anxiety would build throughout the day to where my stomach couldn't handle it anymore. I remember crying in front of our friends and feeling embarrassed.

The shame and humiliation is what I remember most from that trip. I'm thankful we got to attend my cousin's wedding, and that my dad could see his mom. I just wish I'd stayed behind and rested at home. I would've been miserable there too, but at least I wouldn't have had the extra distress of my favourite people witnessing me at my worst.

When we came back I finally had a doctor's appointment. As I said in Part One, our doctor didn't understand mental health. He was reluctant to give me any medication. In fact, our first appointment he didn't give me anything. I think he thought I was making shit up. He seemed to think that there were better ways to heal me - like talk therapy. My mom finally convinced him that the best cure for depression/anxiety is medication AND therapy working together.

He put me on Cipralex, an anti-depressant. Through his confusing and slightly manipulative questioning, he got the answer he wanted which was that the depression came first before the anxiety, so if we treated the depression, the anxiety would also be treated. In actuality, once I was able to look far back in the past and come to terms with the things I didn't understand back then, I realized that I'd had anxiety issues since I was a toddler. The depression started when I was 15, and the meltdown happened when I was 16.

Somehow, the Cipralex did help - but only after a long journey of changing the dosage. I've always been one of those people who needs extra of any medicine for it to work (except when it comes to alcohol; then I'm a lightweight), so for months I didn't see much improvement with the meds, so I'd request we go up by another five milligrams. Now I'm on the maximum dose - the highest you can go while still being safe. I'm 24 and still taking it every day. It gives me enough control that I don't have meltdowns anymore.

An unfortunate side effect of most anti-depressants, including Cipralex, is weight gain. I was always skinny - all arms and legs. I look at old pictures of myself and wonder why more people didn't worry about me. Of course, I was healthy as a horse and ate A LOT; I guess I just had a high metabolism. It's hard to believe that was me once, because the medication changed all that. Of course, I didn't help by turning to sweets and salty snacks whenever I was in the depths of depression; it was the only thing that triggered by endorphins and made life bearable. I'm thankful I never turned to drugs or alcohol or sex instead - just snacks.

In the next chapter of this story (which I will write now, but under another post so that you don't feel obligated to keep reading) I want to cover my experience with health professionals in regards to my mental health.