Winning the War? I have no idea.

*More than once I have tried to write this post. Two versions of it sit in the drafts folder of my blog. It hasn't been fear that's held me back. I'm not nervous about publishing it. It's that, in spite of numerous re-visits and changes to both drafts, neither felt right. Neither felt good. I guess, I didn't know what it was that I wanted, or needed, to say. But this one, finally, feels right. It feels like me. So here is the first real blog post about my struggle with anxiety.* (I'm sorry the post is so long; there's a lot in it. If you read to the end, you get a gold star -- or a Starbucks something-or-other on me.)

Today is Saturday, September 3. Twenty-five days ago I sat in my car in the parking lot of a Safeway, holding a prescription for an anti-depressant. I sat in the car for a good ten minutes. I couldn't get out -- partly because I didn't want to and partly because I looked a hot mess. Every time I thought about getting out, I started to cry, and I didn't want to walk into Safeway looking like the joker with mascara running down my red face. I figured I would wait the crying fits out; they took longer than I had anticipated. Eventually, when I felt I could make it fifteen minutes without crying, I walked in. I was still wrong. As I walked around the mall, Starbucks in hand, waiting for my prescription to be ready, I still cried.

The next morning, the tiny pill stared at me, daring me to take it, and - a moment later - daring me not to take it. Fuck you, I thought, as I washed it down. I felt strong, and weak, and scared, and proud, all at the same time. I wished my next therapy appointment wasn't a month away.

I posted a picture of that first pill on Instagram. I said that I was scared to take it. I was scared it would make me feel sick (nausea is my anxiety trigger/phobia). I was scared it would make me feel so tired, I would have difficulty taking care of my boys, my house, and being productive at my job. I was scared I would lose all interest in sex. But, to be honest, I think I was most scared that it wouldn't work at all. As I said to my GP when I sat in her office the day before to discuss whether or not it was in fact time to call the medication in, "I'm terrified that they won't work and I will feel like this forever." That was the line. That was the moment she put her head down and wrote the prescription.

I have dealt with anxiety and strange tendencies for the entirety of my life, but, back in February when both of my kids had a stomach virus, it really spiralled out of control. I knew it had taken hold in a more severe way than it ever had in the past and that I needed help. I made an appointment with my therapist (who I have seen in the past for the exact same issue), but I couldn't get in right away. I felt nothing short of desperate for immediate relief, so I also made an appointment with my doctor, hoping that she would prescribe me something. She wouldn't. She felt that I was still "functioning" and that my anxiety wasn't negatively effecting my relationships, my job, my ability to sleep, etc. Looking back, I think she was wrong: I wasn't sleeping and I had essentially locked myself in a room downstairs. This, folks, is not functioning. But I didn't say anything and the doctor said that she wanted me to see a therapist and try Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) first. If that wasn't moving me forward, we would talk about supplementing with medication. I agreed and told her that I already had an appointment with a therapist that I liked.

The truth is that when I went in to see the therapist, I wanted her to echo my sentiment that I should be on drugs. (I know that only psychiatrists can prescribe medication, but I was hoping that she would agree with me and I wanted that confirmation from a professional.) But she agreed with my doctor. And so, I saw her once a week for the first two weeks, then once every two weeks for a month, then about once a month. I had completely put the notion of medication as a treatment option out of my mind and moved forward with the therapy.

Fast forward six months to July. I hadn't been in to see her in well over six weeks. The summer had been busy. She was on holidays. I was on holidays. As she asked me how I had been, and I said that, truthfully, I was frustrated with myself and my lack of progress. I felt that I was consistently and more frequently engaging in behaviours that feed the anxiety and irrational thoughts (in future blog posts, I will give actual examples of this) and that I felt that, in that way, I was actually getting worse. In addition, my worry about the kids getting sick would often consume my thoughts. In the past, I felt like there were "safe zones" - like in tag or hide-and-go-seek. But I was at the point now where nowhere, no situation, provided me relief or freedom. It was exhausting. During this session, and throughout the past six months, I honestly had not given medication another thought. As I told my therapist that I almost felt like I'd regressed, as opposed to progressed, I still wasn't thinking about medication; I was just venting my frustrations and being honest.

She told me that she disagreed with me and that, in spite of some of my behaviours, I had absolutely made progress since February. She said that part of the reason I might feel as though that isn't true is because I am now significantly more aware of how irrational the thoughts are, where as before, it was simply the track that repeated in my head. (I only half agree with this. I'm a pretty self-aware person and I did know -- for the most part -- how irrational some of the thoughts were and why they weren't "normal," but I do think that I have more clarity with respect to the boundaries of "normal" thought patterns and the behaviours that follow. She also said that, in spite of my desire to allow my decisions and actions to comply with the demands of my anxiety, the fact that I would still follow through with an original plan was evidence of progress. (For example, leaving the boys with my parents for a few days and going on the trip to Saskatoon, just Jeff and I, instead of cancelling it in fear that my kids would get the flu that my dad had just three days before). She said Past Amber would/might have cancelled the trip. I don't know that I agree with that either, but I might have changed plans (i.e., taken the kids with us instead of going alone, etc.). So, at the end of my appointment, I was caught completely off guard when she said, "have we talked about medication before?"

Immediately I wanted to cry because my first thought was, "she doesn't think I've made any progress." Knowing exactly how I think, the next words out of her mouth were (again) reassurance that I've made really great progress, but (the inevitable, always annoying but) she thinks I am in the "red zone" of anxiety a lot. She said that the intensity of the "red zone" makes it challenging for me to utilize and practice the tools I've been given over the course of my therapy sessions. I know what to do to manage the anxiety, but when I'm in full-on panic mode, and my thoughts run rampant, my heart rate nearly doubles, and I start shaking, my body reverts to fight or flight, and trying to use the strategies she's given me to calm myself down is exceptionally difficult when I'm already swimming upstream... and I can't swim.

She said she would write a letter to my regular doctor advising her of how our sessions were going, but suggesting that medication was, in her opinion, necessary.

The days leading up to the doctor appointment were very difficult.

For some reason, I really struggled with the idea of taking the meds -- a reaction that came as a surprise to me. In the two weeks I had to wait to get into my doctor, nearly every time I thought about it, I cried. I couldn't figure out why. It really wasn't feeling like I failed. I have/had no problem with "needing" medication. The stigma associated with mental health didn't bother me. I didn't feel the need to hide it from people in my life. I'm a very naturally open person. So what was my problem? Normally, I would over-analyze my own feelings and reactions to figure out where the knot was, and then work to untie it, but I didn't want to think about it this time. It felt too messy and every time I tried, I came up empty-handed.

By the day of the doctor appointment, things were starting to become more clear. I felt an overwhelming feeling of disappointment that the therapy wasn't working as well as everyone thought it would. I also felt indescribable frustration that, after six months of therapy, (in some ways) I felt that, not only had I not progressed, I had actually regressed, now to the point of needed to be medicated. I also felt terrified that, even with medication, I would feel this way for the rest of my life: trapped in my own irrational thoughts and fighting physical urges to behave in ways dictated by the anxiety. I think finally, and maybe most importantly, I felt that I really wasn't in control of this situation at all and that in spite of my best efforts, I was in a situation that had gotten beyond me. Anyone with anxiety knows that, at the core, control is the issue, so coming to the realization that the anxiety had a hold on me, rather than me on it, was very difficult for me.

I went into the doctor's office and she said, "so, what can I do for you today?" I told her what the therapist said. She said that she had read the letter and asked how I felt about it. I told her that I was very frustrated that after half a year of therapy I still felt like my thoughts were still so unrelenting, etc. She said that she has patients that come in and, regardless of what they want, she insists that they need to be on medication. She said I wasn't one of those patients and seemed concerned that frustration was at the root of why I wanted to be on medication. She said that six months of therapy wasn't really that long, in the grand scheme of things, and (though she didn't say this) I suspect that her concern was that I wasn't being patient enough -- that the therapy was working, but not as quickly as I wanted or anticipated it would and that it was unreasonable of me to expect myself to be "perfect" after only six months.) I wasn't sure I wanted to be on medication, so I didn't push for or against. I just continued talking to her about how I was feeling, and that was the point at which I said I was "terrified" that I would feel this way forever. And, as I said, that's when the switch flipped for her. She said, "Okay, I think you do need to be on something. The fact that you used the word 'terrified'..."

And so off I went to Safeway with my prescription. The last reason I think it was so hard that day -- sitting in that parking lot -- was that I had never really been 100% certain that I did indeed have any kind of an anxiety disorder/mental health struggle. This felt like the first time in my life that I had professionals saying, "you need help. You need therapy and you need medication." So I think this was the first time in my life it felt really real. This wasn't something I was making up. I wasn't just being dramatic. This was a real thing. And it was a real thing that I couldn't control. And that was scary. And that was hard.

But, I took the pill, and I have continued taking the pills. And it's been okay. The side effects have been nearly non-existent, although now, nearly a month in, I will say I am fighting fatigue.

I have been so fortunate to have so many people checking in on me. I've got a great deal of love and support and the ears of many so, although it's a battle, in no way do I feel that I'm fighting it alone.

This post is too long, so in a separate post, I will talk about how things have been since starting the medication and I will also talk about the history of anxiety's presence in my life.

So, you made it this far -- text me your Starbucks order and let's pick a date <3