Caution : Beware Drugs

Drugs? you say, What’s wrong with drugs? Absolutely nothing in my opinion if you believe in doing them for fun. But the drugs I warn you of here are different. This is about what happens when people who don’t need anti-depressants get put on them and the results thereof.

About a year and a half ago in February of 2000, I made a conscious decision to get help. For a few years I had been cutting and contemplating Death (so typical, I know.) I had tried counselling once in seventh grade, but dislike of my counsellor left me pessimistic and with a bitter taste in my mouth. The suicide thoughts, however, were getting stronger and more frequent, so I knew I had to do something.

One morning, early around three a.m., I woke my mother and asked her to come into the bathroom where there was some light; I had something to show her. Mind you, I had just been up four hours trying to decide what to say and how to do it, that is, if I even got the guts to go through with it (I also got up several times in an attempt to get the ball rolling, to no avail.) Everything I had planned to say went out the window as soon as I rolled up my sleeve and bared my damaged arm for her to see. I struggled hard not to cry as I explained myself. She did the normal thing, asked Why? and we talked about where to go from there. All in all, it only lasted about fifteen minutes.

So it was set. We called the local youth center within the week to discuss counselling on a budget. It was the same place as before, so it was made clear that the woman from before was not to be seen. Before you even get assigned a counsellor you go through a rigorous process of testing and evaluation (medical and mental.) From speaking with the head psychiatrist, it was determined that medication would be a good option. My (much) older brother had been on Prozac with bad results (dreams of eating glass; not fun in my opinion), so my mother expressed concern over that. Keeping with my mother’s wishes, the medical doctor suggest Paxil. I admit it – I saw it as a quick fix. I thought this drug would instantly make me happy and fix my life. Bad mistake.

After the initial two week waiting period for the drug to kick in, I was a happy camper. Along with counselling, my outlook on life had changed and I was feeling better all over. I did start to notice things though. For one, my thought process was slower, more confined. After going on the medication I hardly ever thought on my own (meaning unless I was concentrating on a task or question, I was empty, or unless I forced myself to think of something), whereas before I had random thoughts flying in faster than I could grasp them and concentrate on them. I missed that, but I dismissed it with the thought of It’s better than being dead, right? God, how I regret doing that.

Only three months after starting the Paxil, in May, I one night got the sudden urge to end it all. My brain kicked into gear (which I missed, but this isn’t what I wanted) and I began to plot out my actions. I didn’t want to wait until the next day, fearing I might lose my nerve, but I gathered enough patience to do so. The next morning when my mother called from work (waking me) I got a knife from the kitchen and stood there, thinking it over. Several thoughts went through my head. The usuals – What if it doesn’t work? Mom’s gonna find me… What if I change my mind too late? etc. I merely clenched my eyes shut, gritted my teeth, and bore down against the skin of my wrist as hard as I dared, putting a little more pressure as my bravery built. After what I estimate was about twenty slashes, I opened my eyes and nearly reeled at all the blood and the severity of the cuts. It hit me as I feared it would do – No, I don’t want this.

I freaked. I found the phone and dialed the crisis number on the little business card given to me by the youth service office. I told the man on the other end what was happening and he told me he was going to dial 9-1-1. I pleaded with him not too. I don’t know how I thought I would keep that one from my mom, but I suppose I just didn’t want to cause a scene. EMS was called and came as I sat holding towels wrapped around my arms as the man had instructed me. There was a sheriff and several volunteers (I live in a rural area) – The big scene I had not wanted was here. Two EMT’s came in after the sheriff’s deputy and sat me down, unwrapping and inspecting my wounds. Then came the dreaded questions… How are you today Miss? (How do I look to you?) What’d you do to yourself? (WTF does it look like I did?) Are you having some problems in your life? (Well no shit Sherlock.) Are you getting help for you problems? (I think my help is screwing me over.) You get the picture.

I do give them credit, they were nice and the one who did all the bandaging was gentle. But as he was finishing up I heard the most horrible sound in the Universe – my mom’s strangled and tear-choked voice demanding to know what was going on. She was on the porch and I heard the sheriff’s deputy trying to calm her down and explain. Oh God… Now I’ve done it… I’m sorry Mom. Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t angry, just bewildered, scared, hurt. When I heard her walk in, I couldn’t look at her. I knew what expression her face held and I couldn’t stand it. Her voice alone was enough to fry my heart on the spot. The sheriff guy had paperwork to do, as did the EMT’s, so as they milled around the living room and porch, my mom sat in front of me on the couch. I stared blankly at the floor as she questioned me and I tried to explain. No, I didn’t have a good reason. I was sorry. Please, forgive me, I didn’t mean to. It was like someone telling me to, without warning. The urge was overwhelming. I didn’t want to. I’m sorry.

The EMT’s recommended I go to the Emergency Room or at least a doctor to have my wounds dressed and treated further. Mom and I went off to the local budget care facility where we always went and saw the doctor I hated (it’s on a budget, remember? You don’t get a say in what doctor you want; You get what’s available.) He examined my wrists and looked me dead in the eye as he spoke, “You know, you weren’t serious about this. You didn’t even do it the right way.” I swear I wanted to knock him for a loop right then and there; my mom gasped in disbelief and looked as if she wanted to as well. After it was all over with him we had to sit around for a few hours waiting on a crisis person from a nearby town to come evaluate me. It’s standard procedure in suicide attempts for the crisis center I went to to be called, whether you go there or not. I don’t remember much about the woman or what was said (beside the same idiotic questions I answered upon going to the youth center) except she hugged me when she left. It wasn’t a fake hug either, it was a true, tight, warm hug. That alone put me at ease.

This was all on a weekend, so on Monday I had the pleasure of explaining to worried friends why my wrists had bandages, and fending off attacks from classmates who already considered me weird. I hated the stares, I hated the comments, I hated the questions. People who were my friends on Friday suddenly didn’t want to talk to me and I soon discovered were talking behind my back. People who already disliked me and insulted me only threw more shit in my face and taunted me. But oh well, I weeded out my real friends with that.

School ended and summer began. I had a little fling for about a month with a guy named Jason. We soon figured out that we were both too hot-tempered and stubborn to be together. We split, but like most ex’s, he still held a spot in my heart. However, little less than a week after we had broken up, I get to meet his new girlfriend. A week after that I find out she’s pregnant. Mind you, I was already in torture because even though I honestly attempted to play nice, she had a way of pushing every button I had when it came to Jason. But, I had a new outlook on life, I would get through this.

We broke up July fourth. The last week in July I tried it again. I was sitting alone in the bathroom, just crying and letting out some pain, when there again was that thought – out of the blue. Do it, end it. Kill yourself. Stop this b.s. I saw the advantage again, and crept into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of Excedrin PM’s. I went back into the bathroom and poured a handful out into my palm. One by one and sometimes two by two, I swallowed them. Here they come in a bottle of fifty; The bottle was three-fourths full, so I estimate that I took around thirty to forty pills. From what I had heard about drug overdoses of any kind, I would either die in my sleep or wither away from my organs dieing within a month. I thought I might go get a little something to eat from town and then go to bed, so I told my mom (sleeping on the couch) that I was going to make a trip to Whataburger and get a sandwich (this was, again, about three a.m.) She said “Be careful” and off I went. But not even a couple of miles down the road my stomach began to burn. I knew it was the Excedrin. I thought maybe I could ignore it until I got home and got to sleep, but another mile down the road had me frightened once again. We live a good twelve miles from the city limits, so I knew I had a little ways to go; I was scared. I was trying to keep the car in one lane as my vision became blurred with tears and my head got a little light, all the while thinking and sometimes saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t want this.”

I finally made it to the hospital and promptly went into the emergency room. I was once again faced with that dreaded uncomfort as the secretary and a single man in the waiting room stared at me as I explained myself. How many did you take? At least thirty, maybe forty… Oh God, this way, hurry. I was led back into the main area with all the rooms and such. I was put on a table and tested, questioned, etc. The nurse that lifted up my sleeve for a drawing of blood observed my cuts (some recent), said something to me, then told the head doctor. God I was in Hell all over again, and by my own stupidity. I disliked the way they talked as if I wasn’t there. And when I attempted to ask a question they told me to “calm down.”

After the tests and things were finished I was left alone with a blanket and a bare white room, by myself, shut off by the curtain hanging from the ceiling. I heard several doctors discussing a solution; some I recognized from the testing and interrogation, some were new. They decided that I would have a bottle of charcoal, possibly two. Well, at least there won’t be any stomach pumping, I thought. It didn’t seem half bad compared to what I was about to have to do though. A short-haired nurse came in with a white bottle in a hand. She told me to sit up, all the while explaining what I was about to do. She told me this was charcoal, it was to help neutralize all the crap in my stomach. It wouldn’t taste great, but I had to drink it. No problem I thought, it’d just be like cough syrup or something similar.

Wrong! To this day I shudder and nearly puke when I remember that putrid drink I had to swallow. She put a straw in the bottle and handed it to me. I looked into the bottle and was a little startled; It was black and didn’t move… It was that thick. The smell wasn’t too great either. I cautiously took a sip, pulling hard to get the thick mess up the length of the straw – I nearly gagged at the taste. Nothing can describe it. Think of very thick (thicker than a malt), over-chalky black Maalox. It’s horrible, just trust me. I went at it for a while, struggling more and more to push the nasty stuff down my throat without losing it all. Eventually I became extremely woozy and disoriented (the Excedrins.) I could barely sit up and all I could think was Do I have to finish this whole bottle? I even asked the nurse a few times if I had drank enough. The black mess was staining my lips and hands, and I was thankful and hateful for the nurse wiping my chin for me like I was some kind of invalid. But as I started to slip away into unconsciousness I heard a slurping noise and knew in what was left of my mind that I had finished the bottle.

During the next nine hours things happened, a few of them I remember. I remember my mother’s cries again, her questions to the doctors. I was dying all over again. I had even caused a scene without meaning to; I had left the dial-up internet connection on when I left, therefore no one could get through and the police had to go to the house to get her. She tried to talk to me, but we were both incoherent and I couldn’t form a valid thought at that point to save my own ass. Another social worker from the youth center came in, but I’m sure it was the same routine as before, although I don’t even remember. Finally, around noon, my mother woke me up and told me the doctors said it was alright to go home; my stomach and liver checked out ok – I was safe. I wanted to cry. I wanted to jump for joy… I had to puke. It was sudden and I warned my mom who thankfully grabbed a trash can. It sounds sick, I know, but it has to be said for anyone with ideas out there – it was black, ugly, smelly, and it had the same taste as the charcoal. This was my cleansing. And as I found out later that week, it wasn’t just the puke that came out black.

As I stepped out of the bed I felt like a cripple; I didn’t think I could stand on my own and everything felt weird. I felt as if I were literally floating. Kind of like the sensation you get after roller-skating for hours and then taking them off. I attempted to adjust and as I did so a few nurses came in. I tried putting on my clothes, trying to keep my balance. Then, as I was almost ready to leave, the nurse came over to take the IV plug from the top of my hand. She was an older woman with short hair and a sweet smile; I don’t know her name, but I’ll never forget her. She held my hand delicately as she took the small needle out then I looked up as she seemed to be hesitating to let my hand go. “You have such beautiful hands and fingers,” she looked up, “Are you a musician?” Music was and is my pride, so I smiled, nodded, and spoke, “Yes ma’am.””What do you play?””Piano and violin.””How wonderful. You’ve been blessed. I wish my fingers were as long and graceful as yours. You take care of yourself, alright? There are people around who care about you.”Then she hugged me so tight and hard – I wanted to burst into tears, I wanted to hug her back just as tight, but I was too weak, I wanted to say so many things to her, but I was so unaccustomed to signs of affection that I merely whispered “Thanks, ok,” and left it at that.

Things were weird for a while, but my concern and my mother’s was expressed over the suddenness of my two attempts to my doctors. My personal counsellor suggested that along with positive confidence, the Paxil had also given me the confidence to finally act out my thoughts on suicide. I told my mom I wanted off it, but the doctors talked us into working down to smaller doses and maybe trying something else. I didn’t like it, but I thought (like before) it was worth a shot.

At the beginning of November I made a conscious decision to get off Paxil. I didn’t like what had happened and who I had become. My mother and I had also come across several stories about people with no previous suicide attempts who killed themselves or hurt themselves severely while on Paxil and other antidepressants. My case was more than just a coincidence. It is now almost May, and personally, I think I am doing better than ever. I discovered that my depression was a problem that could and had to be solved by me and me alone. I have since met a wonderful man who accepts me in every aspect, including my past, and has proven countlessly that he is willing to deal with any problem that myself, or we may have.

I have also discovered that you should always trust your instincts. Your gut will not lie to you – If something doesn’t feel right, stop it immediately, get out of that situation! And don’t let anyone talk you out of it either. You know what’s best for you; Listen to that instinct, ok?

However, I don’t want people to avoid antidepressants. The previous was just my personal experience. I think there truly are people with chemical imbalances in their brains; These people are not able to fix their depression on their own, nor with the help of other people. It is a disease that only medication can fix. Then there are people like me who can overcome it with willpower and different thought processes and ways of doing things. The only problem is that there is no way to differentiate between these two types of people. The only method currently widely available is a Q&A with a psychiatrist or such about your feelings and habits. We need a test to study and measure the chemicals in our brains and determine the people who really do have abnormalities. Otherwise, this medication is a ticking timebomb for those misdiagnosed.