My Medicine
I’ve struggled with insomnia for the majority of my life. It used to be so bad that I would take sleep aid. That was when I was 10, until we learned how addictive it can be, and switched to melatonin. I ran on 5 hours of sleep consistently through my high school years, sometimes even less. Maybe it was the effects of the trauma in my life, or from my severe concussion freshman year. Whatever the reason, the sleep struggles stuck with me.
As I’ve aged, the insomnia and nightmares have eased up. It’s true what they say about getting a full night of sleep. I am much less menacing when I have at least 7 hours. That’s about the sweet spot for me. If I get 8 or more hours I have been blessed by the Gods.
I’m writing this at 5:45 in the morning, having been up since 3. Awoken by my bladder, kept awake by my anxiety. In today’s world, I feel that most people I know have experienced some level of anxiety at one point or another. Or maybe it’s chronic. Mine used to be. Before starting antidepressants that is. When I was 19 in a psychiatrist’s office I spilled my guts about what I had realized was OCD. I cried, and I remember she laughed at me as she handed me tissues. As the memory grows more distant I can’t recall what triggered her to laugh. I just know I felt pathetic. At least she apologized?
The psychiatrist recommended I start medication. Admittedly I was scared. Would it work? Would it make me suicidal? Would I lose or gain weight? The reality is, you don’t know until you try it. So try it I did. When you are suffering as much as I was, you’re pretty desperate to try anything. At this point of my life I found myself having heart palpitations and drove myself to the walk in clinic just to start crying when the doctor left the room. He came back in and was alarmed by my tears, but said he couldn’t find anything wrong with me. Through sobs I told him I think I’m just having an anxiety attack. He prescribed nothing to me and sent me on my way. In the parking lot I fell to the ground fully consumed by my despair and called my ex boyfriend, like any 19 year old would do. When you get so low you call the source of your pain to fix you, you know you’ve hit a new level of low.
Those pills didn’t fix me, but for a while it felt like they did. If you’ve ever tried antidepressants, you are probably familiar with getting used to your dosage and it no longer having the same effect on you. Or maybe they would’ve worked better if I didn’t drink heavily during my time on them. Isn’t it comical that as my drinking gave way so did my need for antidepressants as a whole?
I played around with my doses by upping my current med, and then adding another, and then upping that. This was all under my doctor’s approval of course. I was and still am very paranoid about medication cocktails prescribed to me in fear of them making the issue worse. This is ripe coming from a girl who took a mystery pill her manager gave her in the middle of a lunch shift. I’ve adopted a heavier level of discernment since 19 I’m happy to report. I was spiraling after all, my choices were questionable.
The meds, while I was on them, did help. They also hindered other things for me. Like my sex drive. Pair that with weening off teenage hormones and you’ll wonder if you’re entirely broken or just going through something.
The meds didn’t fully cure my anxiety, but they made life feel more doable. That’s really the best way to put it. I could think a little clearer, and I started making better decisions for myself little by little. It felt like it took an eternity to actually see the improvements in my life. As I look around at my life now, I realize that I am fortunate to have come so far in such a short period of time. It’s been almost 10 years now since I even began my mental health journey. How lucky was I to have so many melt downs at 18 that led to me further exploring my psyche.
It hasn’t been smooth sailing. In fact, it’s been anything but. Through the years I’ve found clarity, and shed versions of me without turning back. I have left who I was like a snakeskin found in the forest. Never to fit back into that mold again.
I think many of us calculate age with wisdom, and I do feel in ways that there is truth to that. I have gained wisdom as I have aged, and I will continue to. But not everyone becomes all the wiser, it is a choice you make. It is a choice to look at your pain, and question how you ended up there. It is a choice to make that doctor’s appointment you know might change your life. It is a choice to keep seeking therapists until you find one that you feel can really help you. It is a choice to be brave and have the hard conversations. It is a choice to leave relationships that leave you feeling stuck as a version of yourself that no longer exists. It is a choice to stop drinking when you realize how foolish you become when inebriated. It is a choice to change, and a choice to grow.
I have chosen these things for myself, and I have sat for too long without making a choice. All of those moments are valid, and have gotten me to where I am. It’s okay to sit and ponder. To try to think yourself out of it. But it’s far braver to admit when you can’t do it alone, and to seek the care your mind and body need from you.
As I have chosen things in my life that will help me grow into the person I want to become, my anxiety eases, and my insomnia decreases. I am not completely cured of my insomnia, and at times it does become debilitating. While on antidepressants, I was able to learn more tools to help myself in times of anxiety that keep me awake at night. Or wake me too early in the morning. One of the greatest tools I have learned, is self compassion. I used to be angry that I couldn’t sleep. I’d cry and cry until I couldn’t breathe. I’d scroll social media as if that could put me to sleep. I’d calculate how much I had on my plate the next day, and if this much sleep was enough to handle everything, or if I’d crash out by 3pm. No matter how I slice it, when the anxiety is raging on, my insomnia wins. I’ve started to romanticize this when it happens as a means to getting to know myself better. Who is this beast, and why is she so riddled with unease? I get up, I go to the couch, and I sit with this version. She is sounding the alarm that I have feelings to address.
Like many teens and young adults, I used to shove my feelings aside. Tell myself I’m reading into things, or they didn’t mean it like that. And maybe they didn’t, or maybe they did… Either way, I need to process how things make me feel. I can’t control others, but if I don’t control myself, my emotions will get the best of me. Every time that happens, I feel embarrassed, which further fuels my anxiety, so I try to avoid that outcome as much as possible.
Often times I journal. Things I wouldn’t want anyone to read. And more often than not I cry. I have a playlist I have made called be easy on you. I listen to it at times I need reassurance. Because I can’t source my self worth entirely on who others think that I am. And I can’t rely on people that are asleep to pacify me. I need to be my own hero.
Whether it’s with antidepressants coursing through my veins, or a pen in my hand, I will save myself. I have and will continue to create a world that fills me with me peace. I desire to be healed by the sun, the flowers, the birds and the bees. I will feed myself with the medicine that I need when I need it. As I’ve needed less pills, my medicine has shifted, and I embrace the shift. Just because this version of me has become friends with my anxiety, doesn’t mean that a later version might not be overpowered by it. If that day comes, I will continue to listen to my mind and body, and feed it with the medicine it needs. Whether it be a trip to Bali, a prescription of an antidepressant not yet tried, or an iced latte, I will nourish me.