Friday, July 08, 2005
Closer To Fine
Don't tell Tom Cruise, but today I started on my first course of Zoloft. Not able to find the magic vitamin pills he speaks of and sick and tired of feeling like I was headed for a padded room, I summoned the courage to talk to my doctor and take a proactive step in my mental health. For several months now, I have been plagued by anxiety attacks caused by a panic disorder I was too afraid to talk about. Not wanting to be labeled, I suffered rather publically without disclosing what I feared may truely be causing my troubles. I blamed it on stress, on the heart condition, on overdosing on caffine, but I never dreamed of coming out and telling people the truth.
Until today, that is. Last night, and not for the first time, a good friend implied that I could control my illness if I truely wanted to. Little did he know this is not true, not without some help at least. This morning, I cried my way through a doctor's visit and tearily confessed that, despite my best efforts to prove otherwise, I am not well. She made the diagnosis I feared and prescribed the course of treatment I desperately need. For the first time since this all began, I feel like the doctor really heard what I was saying. Maybe that's because for the first time I was really honest about what I am dealing with.
I've gone back and forth as to whether I wanted to come out and talk this publically about my struggle. I still fear the "crazy" label but I think it's important to talk about things like this. People who have spoken out about their own struggles with their own illnesses were the ones who inspired me to seek help. If I could be that for someone else, it would make anything worthwhile. Without them, I may have continued on without treatment for a very long time and who knows where that secretive path might have taken me.
For now, though, I'm trying to be optimistic. For now, until the shaking starts and the heart pounds right out of my chest, I'm trying to think positively about the fact that this could put an end to my panic attacks, to my misery and my own personal hell.
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Until today, that is. Last night, and not for the first time, a good friend implied that I could control my illness if I truely wanted to. Little did he know this is not true, not without some help at least. This morning, I cried my way through a doctor's visit and tearily confessed that, despite my best efforts to prove otherwise, I am not well. She made the diagnosis I feared and prescribed the course of treatment I desperately need. For the first time since this all began, I feel like the doctor really heard what I was saying. Maybe that's because for the first time I was really honest about what I am dealing with.
I've gone back and forth as to whether I wanted to come out and talk this publically about my struggle. I still fear the "crazy" label but I think it's important to talk about things like this. People who have spoken out about their own struggles with their own illnesses were the ones who inspired me to seek help. If I could be that for someone else, it would make anything worthwhile. Without them, I may have continued on without treatment for a very long time and who knows where that secretive path might have taken me.
For now, though, I'm trying to be optimistic. For now, until the shaking starts and the heart pounds right out of my chest, I'm trying to think positively about the fact that this could put an end to my panic attacks, to my misery and my own personal hell.
#
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