Waking up this morning was a new experience for me. For as long as I can remember, I roll over, realize I'm alive, and wish to be somewhere else. Maybe the place I went to for a brief second when I nearly died all those years ago. Maybe back to the dreamland I just left. Maybe to some fantasy existence in a Middle Earth realm where my soulmate waits. But usually I just wish not to be.
I struggle to come up with words for what transpires. Maybe my brain just defaults to the dread and confusion that was most of my childhood. It's not being alone. When I was in a relationship, I'd open my eyes, see my girlfriend next to and thoughts questioning how long until she asked me to leave would start flying. Then I'd launch into the nothingness wish.
This morning when I opened my eyes, I was comfortable to be alive.
I've been back in therapy since January. (Thank god for the insurance law changes! I actually get about 40% reimbursed now.) The work “T” and I have tackled has been intense. Mostly early attachment or advanced ptsd stuff. Constantly she tells me to leave the analysis out of the room. To feel. That's hard for me. I'd rather stay on the intellectual side of things. I mean, I've got all this book knowledge about how things work and process, it seems like a better use of time to have a long philosophical conversation about methodology. “T” doesn't agree.
The narrative in my head right now is very loud. Ideas are flying back and forth. Examples of work we've done. Milestones reached. Trust breakthroughs. But what I really want to tell you about is this choosing life thing.
I was first given xanax to counteract a side effect of another drug I was on....instead of switching the initial drug. The psychiatrist spent 15 minutes with me the first appointment and less than 5 minutes on each subsequent appointment. I didn't take the xanax very often.
When my girlfriend broke up with me, and I thought she was sleeping with one of the guys in our little group, I sat home one night watching fuzzed television dropping xanax into a rum and coke. I was craving to sink into that nothingness. I ended up sleeping for nearly two days but eventually woke up. Those two days of non-existence were such a relief. Waking was not. My therapist at the time didn't seem much bothered by the incident. "Glad you're still here," was the only comment when I told her. No other discussion. No questions why. Nothing.
Fast forward a couple of years. I was seeing “T” but she had made her shift to no pharmaceuticals so I went to my HMO psychiatrist to get my meds. During my first appointment I remember telling him I'd tried to kill myself with xanax. A few appointments later, I asked him for a script and he gave it to me. I felt like a child at Christmas. Actually I felt like I had stolen all the presents and was keeping them for myself. The escape was such a welcomed break. I ended up taking way too many one weekend. I told “T” about it and we agreed xanax was not a good fit for me.
Again fast forward several more years. After 9/11 I started having major panic attacks on airplanes. My PPO primary gave me a script for eight xanax tabs when I was scheduled for a cross continent flight. Again, after a year of refills, I misused them, told “T”. This time I gave my bottle to “T” and we discussed what the drug does to the nervous system. I actually don't remember the session but this is what “T” says we talked about.
Last Fall I was having issues sleeping. I asked for another script from my primary. I requested a reduced mg so the doc wrote out several refills. I guess she thought the lower dosage, and that I don't use them much, meant I was responsible. I remember telling her that my psychiatrist didn't like me taking them and I was surprised when she went ahead and gave me the script.
For five months I've been taking half a pill every few weeks. Then every few days. Then every day. Then a whole pill every day. Then....last Friday after a particularly difficult therapy session and a horrible work week, I went home and took a handful of them. I slept 17 hours. I remember looking at the only bottle of alcohol left in my house - some potato vodka my brother gave me for Christmas. I didn't open the bottle but I took the pills. I took more the next night. Yesterday I handed the bottle over to “T”.
I don't know what I expected when I gave her the nearly empty bottle that was refilled just eight days ago. There was confusion, frustration, concern, and more confusion. That's what I perceived. There was absolutely no judgment...except maybe for my primary. I felt like a babbling idiot. She asked me the whys: why had I kept this a secret? why did I think I needed the pills? why was I giving her the bottle? why? why? why? She talked about the first time I gave her my pills. She explained again how the drug suppresses the nervous system and, in the end, intensifies the very feelings I'm trying to escape. It makes perfect sense on why I need more and more to get the same effects. I think “T” also commented something about this makes sense about my progress (I'm assuming lack of) in the past several months.
The why questions stayed with me after our appointment. The answers are so multifaceted. How do I sum it up to fit in a few minutes of discussion? There's the part about not trusting her. There's not wanting her to know everything about me. There's the proving I'm really a horrible, manipulative person and that she's totally wrong about my character and potential. There's the having power over her because I was doing something she doesn't approve of. There's the having an immediate out if I ever wanted it - one that wouldn't be overly messy and dramatic. And the one that sticks closest to me is wanting to have an out. To be able to escape anytime I want in a simple, painless way.
Giving “T” the pills yesterday, letting her see the last vestige of secrecy, was me, however tentatively, choosing to choose life.
And this morning I woke up and was comfortable to be here. Not jubilant. Just comfortable. I'm okay with that. And that, as Martha says, is a good thing.
I struggle to come up with words for what transpires. Maybe my brain just defaults to the dread and confusion that was most of my childhood. It's not being alone. When I was in a relationship, I'd open my eyes, see my girlfriend next to and thoughts questioning how long until she asked me to leave would start flying. Then I'd launch into the nothingness wish.
This morning when I opened my eyes, I was comfortable to be alive.
I've been back in therapy since January. (Thank god for the insurance law changes! I actually get about 40% reimbursed now.) The work “T” and I have tackled has been intense. Mostly early attachment or advanced ptsd stuff. Constantly she tells me to leave the analysis out of the room. To feel. That's hard for me. I'd rather stay on the intellectual side of things. I mean, I've got all this book knowledge about how things work and process, it seems like a better use of time to have a long philosophical conversation about methodology. “T” doesn't agree.
The narrative in my head right now is very loud. Ideas are flying back and forth. Examples of work we've done. Milestones reached. Trust breakthroughs. But what I really want to tell you about is this choosing life thing.
I was first given xanax to counteract a side effect of another drug I was on....instead of switching the initial drug. The psychiatrist spent 15 minutes with me the first appointment and less than 5 minutes on each subsequent appointment. I didn't take the xanax very often.
When my girlfriend broke up with me, and I thought she was sleeping with one of the guys in our little group, I sat home one night watching fuzzed television dropping xanax into a rum and coke. I was craving to sink into that nothingness. I ended up sleeping for nearly two days but eventually woke up. Those two days of non-existence were such a relief. Waking was not. My therapist at the time didn't seem much bothered by the incident. "Glad you're still here," was the only comment when I told her. No other discussion. No questions why. Nothing.
Fast forward a couple of years. I was seeing “T” but she had made her shift to no pharmaceuticals so I went to my HMO psychiatrist to get my meds. During my first appointment I remember telling him I'd tried to kill myself with xanax. A few appointments later, I asked him for a script and he gave it to me. I felt like a child at Christmas. Actually I felt like I had stolen all the presents and was keeping them for myself. The escape was such a welcomed break. I ended up taking way too many one weekend. I told “T” about it and we agreed xanax was not a good fit for me.
Again fast forward several more years. After 9/11 I started having major panic attacks on airplanes. My PPO primary gave me a script for eight xanax tabs when I was scheduled for a cross continent flight. Again, after a year of refills, I misused them, told “T”. This time I gave my bottle to “T” and we discussed what the drug does to the nervous system. I actually don't remember the session but this is what “T” says we talked about.
Last Fall I was having issues sleeping. I asked for another script from my primary. I requested a reduced mg so the doc wrote out several refills. I guess she thought the lower dosage, and that I don't use them much, meant I was responsible. I remember telling her that my psychiatrist didn't like me taking them and I was surprised when she went ahead and gave me the script.
For five months I've been taking half a pill every few weeks. Then every few days. Then every day. Then a whole pill every day. Then....last Friday after a particularly difficult therapy session and a horrible work week, I went home and took a handful of them. I slept 17 hours. I remember looking at the only bottle of alcohol left in my house - some potato vodka my brother gave me for Christmas. I didn't open the bottle but I took the pills. I took more the next night. Yesterday I handed the bottle over to “T”.
I don't know what I expected when I gave her the nearly empty bottle that was refilled just eight days ago. There was confusion, frustration, concern, and more confusion. That's what I perceived. There was absolutely no judgment...except maybe for my primary. I felt like a babbling idiot. She asked me the whys: why had I kept this a secret? why did I think I needed the pills? why was I giving her the bottle? why? why? why? She talked about the first time I gave her my pills. She explained again how the drug suppresses the nervous system and, in the end, intensifies the very feelings I'm trying to escape. It makes perfect sense on why I need more and more to get the same effects. I think “T” also commented something about this makes sense about my progress (I'm assuming lack of) in the past several months.
The why questions stayed with me after our appointment. The answers are so multifaceted. How do I sum it up to fit in a few minutes of discussion? There's the part about not trusting her. There's not wanting her to know everything about me. There's the proving I'm really a horrible, manipulative person and that she's totally wrong about my character and potential. There's the having power over her because I was doing something she doesn't approve of. There's the having an immediate out if I ever wanted it - one that wouldn't be overly messy and dramatic. And the one that sticks closest to me is wanting to have an out. To be able to escape anytime I want in a simple, painless way.
Giving “T” the pills yesterday, letting her see the last vestige of secrecy, was me, however tentatively, choosing to choose life.
And this morning I woke up and was comfortable to be here. Not jubilant. Just comfortable. I'm okay with that. And that, as Martha says, is a good thing.
