Hands off my SSRIS

I have a brain injury and PTSD. They’re umbrella terms that cover a wealth of interconnected issues. Depression, anxiety, panic attacks, intolerance to overstimulation, TMJ, chronic nerve pain, executive dysfunction, hyper vigilance. The whole kit and kaboodle.

I’ve had a lot of concussions. Mostly from being a lacrosse goalie and from being incredibly accident prone. During September of my senior year of college, I was forced to quit the sport I loved and put aside any dreams of singing I had previously embraced; the sound of my own voice had begun to sound like pennies scratching against each other in my ear drums, and no matter the pitch or volume, my own resonance caused physical pain in my head.

The year that followed was one of the roughest I’ve experienced; during a formative time in my life, I was left helpless, directionless, and more than a little hopeless about the prospects of my own future. It would take a long time for me to effectively mourn the person I had been becoming, in order to embrace the resilient person I was yet to be.

Spring that year I began struggling to feed and take care of myself. For a variety of reasons: forgetfulness, general depression, an unwillingness to go into the dining hall when it might be crowded and loud. While friends landed dream jobs, I was often confined to my room. I began to feel left behind, an echoing fear that has at times felt debilitating.

I almost went on SSRIs spring of my senior year. But by the time the college psychologist had an appointment available for me, I was in the midst of an upswing, feeling a bit better and maybe not so hopeless.

The truth was that I’d been experiencing depression for longer than the head injuries. Thanks to a particularly brutal series of Ovarian cysts during my sophomore year, I went on hormonal birth control. Within a month, I’d felt beaten down by not just the daily excruciating pain, but also by the medical systems caustic and beaurocratic reaction to my asking, with increasing desperation, for help.

One particularly bad doctors appointment had lead to me feeling on the brink of running away. Of steeling the car my friend had lent me and driving away until the gas ran out. My two best friends listened, assured me things would be okay, went with me to get boxed hair dye, and helped me work out that the birth control may be messing with my mind.

Later they would tell me how scared they were, to see me without light behind my eyes.

After a year of experimenting with various other forms of birth control (including having an allergic reaction to the nuvaring), I decided the pain was better than the depression, so stopped trying to find a solution and quit the pils.

So when the head injuries came on, and I quit the sport that kept me active and sane, as well as the pursuit of music that always lightened my being, the depression came back with gusto.

It would take another four or five years to get proper medication, during which time I relied heavily on self medication through booze and weed. It was only when I bumped along rock bottom for a bit one summer, experiencing severe panic attacks, and getting caught with a dime bag of weed in my car, that I decided it would be appropriate to get my shit together.

My PCP started me on lexapro, and after an initial adjustment period of nausea and fatigue, I experienced a miracle that changed a bit of my life. 4-5 weeks after starting the SSRI, I bumped my head on a door. Slight confusion rushed over me as I braced for the oncoming panic attack and none came. In that moment I realized 1) the meds were working and 2) I hadn’t realized I had been having panic attacks so frequently.

There was a small amount of anger that I’d been suffering for years without realizing a little pill could have so much impact. But more than that there was hope: a chance to move forward without so much fear.

Every once in a while someone will condescendingly ask me if I want to be on medicine for the rest of my life. I look them dead in the eye, and with my full chest say “Yes.”. If it means I’m not as easily controlled by my panic and depression, how could the answer be anything else?

But now, a man with a worm in his brain has a crusade against the medicine that daily saves my life.

I am vehemently self aware of what I need to stay well: I know the root cause of my depression, I have spent much time in therapy, and I am excessively educated on both my condition and the tools I have at my disposal to alleviate my symptoms. Not only is there chemical imbalance in my brain, but there is damage, the extend of which will not be known until after I have shuffled off this mortal coil, which I hope is not for a very long time. I know what hurts my prospects and what helps them. I am not ‘well’ by many (if any) definition, but I am here and I am alive, and sometimes that is all you can expect of yourself.

My existence is resistance. A celebration of survival. A testament to finding the best in the worst. And it wouldn’t be possible without all of my tool kit: Keep your hands off my SSRIs