I feel like a prisoner in my own mind. What's worse is the feelings of guilt when I feel like I've let someone down as a result of this.
I sometimes avoid going into social settings with my husband (or friends) because I am overcome with feelings of fear and anxiety or physical symptoms probably due to my anxieties. Usually, I urge him to go and enjoy whatever activity without me. I spend my time consumed with guilt that I can't overcome these feelings and just go do whatever activity was considered and also because I feel have disappointed my husband. I then start to get consumed with fears about his frustration with me and imagine that he doesn't understand why I can't just get over it. I start to get more upset because I, too, don't understand why I can't just get over it, which is when I start to feel like a prisoner.
At times, I also feel fear and anxiety before going to work (or, in the past, to school). Which would cause me to be absent. I would spend the whole day feeling guilty about how it has affected everyone else, or what my employees or teachers may be thinking, and that they won't believe me that I was sick.
The problem is, I AM sick. I just don't have a virus, a bacteria, a parasite, or a cancer. I'm sick, and I've been sick most of my life. The difference is, those things are typically short term. You get sick, you miss work, you go back to work once you're better. Or, maybe you have a long term illness, you tell people you have whatever illness you have, and people work with you while you are battling it. Long term illnesses are awful, and I'm not saying I would rather have a serious disease than what I am dealing with, by any means. It's just more straightforward, is the point I am trying to make. With my illness, you spend most of your time pretending you are fine to yourself. Then you start realizing people are wondering why certain things about you are changing. Maybe you're out sick more, maybe you're more irritable, maybe you just behave differently in general, whatever. Now, you're trying to tell yourself you are fine AND you're trying to show everyone else you are fine, also. This goes on and on and continues to be an uphill battle until, I don't know when. You crack, or someone around you says enough is enough, or you lose everything, or you hit rock bottom.
I was diagnosed with PTSD, depression, and social anxiety as a teenager. The problem with this is, you tell someone you have anxiety, the typical reaction is, "So what? Everyone has anxiety. Get over it." At least that's how it feels. You tell someone you have depression, it's kind of the same thing, maybe a little more empathy, because everyone gets stressed, but not everyone is gut wrenchingly sad. You tell someone you have PTSD, and they're instantly wondering what happened to you. Which is why you almost never tell anyone you have PTSD, as part of having anxiety is worrying about what people think of you. Even though telling someone you have all three is kind of the key to getting people to really "understand" that something is wrong with you, you just can't.
Also, the people closest to you probably know these things about you, but it affects them in a deeper manner. They have to deal with your moods, with your seclusion, and your absence. So, no matter what is wrong with you, they are having a hard time with it, too, naturally. Sensing their frustration only makes it harder to get past it, and causes you to dwell on your illness even more.
I started on meds after being diagnosed, and was on them for a couple of years. I honestly don't really recall what kind of difference they may have made for me. I do know, that I met a boy after a few years of being on the meds. We started hanging out a lot, and we both enjoyed alcohol. We drank quite often, and when we did drink, we drank to excess. I fell hard for him, and decided I didn't need the meds any longer. I continued to drink fairly regularly, and very heavily, even after the demise of our relationship. I began working full time, so my drinking tapered down to only two nights a week, but the amount I drank was very excessive during those two nights. I lived alone, and didn't really have anyone to answer to if I didn't feel like going out, which wasn't often, because alcohol took all anxiety and fear away from me.
Then I met my future husband. We drank pretty heavily in the beginning of our relationship, and we were very much social butterflies. I started to get embarrassed by my actions around him when I got too drunk and blacked out (which was almost every time I drank), so I made the decision to switch from hard liquor to beer. This kind of helped, but not much, as I still blacked out fairly frequently, and started getting much worse hangovers, which left me completely incapacitated the entire next day. I always had bad hangovers, but I never really had to do anything on those days (because they were my days off) and I lived alone. When I drank hard alcohol, I was usually still a little drunk in the morning, and my husband and I would go out for brunch and bloody mary's, which allowed me to continue my day without feeling too awful. Once I switched to beer, that all changed. I felt entirely too nauseated to consume anything, and I also began to feel really guilty that I was so hungover and consequently, I was disappointing my husband because I couldn't get out of bed. So, I cut back on drinking.
It definitely feels good not having hangovers, not being embarrassed about the actions of the night before, not spending a ton of money on alcohol, on top of many other reasons why I have enjoyed being a minimalist when it comes to consuming alcohol. (I rarely have more than one drink at a time. I also rarely have that one drink. Perhaps once or twice a month) However, there is one major downfall. I'm pretty sure the reason I thought I was "over" my past mental health issues is because of the alcohol. Once I lost that crutch, it all came back. It was hard to realize that at first, because I bought a house, which made me assume I was stressed out due to that. Three months after moving in, we held our wedding at our house. I attributed my stress to that, also. I got so bad, I even developed shingles. But, everyone just said it was normal because of how stressful my year had been. I only once considered my old enemies, depression, anxiety, and PTSD were rearing their ugly heads again. Honestly, I thought it was something different this time. I tried an antidepressant (one that I had tried as a teenager) again, at the urging of my family practitioner when she started prescribing me Xanax to get through the home buying and wedding processes. But, I took it for a couple days and it made me incredibly nauseated. (Not only do I have the other disorders, but I am also severely emetophobic - afraid of vomiting) So, I had to stop taking the drug. My physical symptoms had multiplied to the point where I was wondering if I had a severe disease, instead. I even had lab tests done. Not until months had passed, all of the hoopla surrounding getting married and buying a house were long over, and I was getting WORSE, did I really come to realize that all of those things were really coming back, and making my life miserable to an extent I have never experienced before. They were not childhood diseases that I "grew out of". I had just masked them with alcohol for so many years.
I am so sensitive to the side effects of all medications, but I am now acutely aware that I can't avoid this any longer. So, I am in the process of trying to get an appointment with a psychiatrist that my therapist (whom I rarely see anymore, which is stupid, I know) recommended. She thinks she may be able to talk with her even though her office is no longer accepting new patients. So, I'm crossing my fingers. I'm pretty adamant about going to a recommended doctor, because I feel that all too often doctors just hand out prescriptions without really figuring out which one is best for the patient. It's all too generalized, and then I end up getting on meds that make me sick and I stop trusting the doctor. Which is what happened with my family practitioner, because she just prescribed me whatever I asked for instead of figuring out in her experience which one was best for me. When I got sick from the meds, she just told me to tough it out, and it would go away eventually. She didn't even recognize my phobia of vomiting and address that issue however she could. So, that's that.
People often talk negatively about medications and say we are an overly medicated society. Often times it's for social reasons, sometimes it's people who only believe in holistic treatments. I truly don't believe these people have ever felt anything like I feel almost every single day. On the social aspect: medication does not CAUSE mental illness. Mental illness has always existed, it's just more commonly diagnosed now, instead of ignored or misunderstood, like it was in the past. On the holistic health side: These people have no idea that there is no way drinking apple cider vinegar is going to help change my life. They have no idea that, while exercise may indeed somewhat help my condition, I can't mentally or physically bring myself to do that exercising because I am always fatigued, and on top of that, I am always having an ongoing battle in my head regarding why I should and shouldn't go exercise, and the things I would need to do to prepare, and why that is too much work, and I don't have time, and what if I feel sick, I'm kind of hungry, should I eat first, etc. etc. My point is, everything is happening in my head. I can't shut it off. Trying to suppress it only makes me think about it more and causes panic attacks and stomach ailments. I can't change my mind think of something more pleasant. It literally just does not go away. It is simply how my brain works, it always has been. That particular part of my brain just doesn't work properly.
In order to do the things that will help me overcome these issues in the long run, I need to just shut everything off for a while, until I can get to a place where I might be able to do things like work out, or continue cognitive therapy, or hypnotherapy, or meditation, or mindful thinking, or whatever. And I need to do it soon. I feel like I'm suffocating with the intense pressure of not letting anyone down, or myself down, as I don't want to miss out on life when I have so many great people, things, and opportunities surrounding me, and so many upcoming things to look forward to. I don't have time to try holistic medications that don't seem to work. Or opening chakras that I don't believe in. Or whatever Eastern medicine does in these situations.
I would liken my situation to being in a room, crowded with people (the people are my fears, my anxieties, my stress, my depression). You need to sit down, but there is no space with all of the people, elbow to elbow, everyone is talking loudly, bumping into others, and no one is moving far. Everyone is stuck, and you can't move. You could sit down, right then and there, but it's dangerous. You could be enveloped by people and you could be walked on. You don't have time to sit and try to nudge your way through, because you're feeling faint (feeling faint is representative of the physical symptoms I get that are caused by the "people"). Your only option is to get out of there, but you can't, because everyone is everywhere and it's loud and it's distracting, and you don't want to run in to anyone. So, you have to quiet them all and pretend they're not there. You have to close your eyes and try not to hear them and just start walking. You have to keep walking until you get somewhere else. Somewhere that you can move again. Then you can sit. There is nothing I want more desperately then to get to that place where I can sit.
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