Plop
When I tell people that my anxiety started acting up in early 2020 a typical response is, “oh, well, that makes sense. Everyone was more anxious in 2020.” They assume that my anxiety was responding to the news of the coronavirus and the impending pandemic.
No, dude. Fun fact number 1: anxiety does not require a legitimate reason to start acting up. You needn’t try to rationalize it; it often doesn’t make any sense.
I was not anxious about the coronavirus. In January of 2020 I was paying almost no attention to the news so the coronavirus was not even a blip on my radar. Yet one evening that month I was driving home from work and I realized that I was having trouble taking a deep breath. Well, I wasn’t actually having trouble breathing, but I thought I was having trouble breathing. Once that thought occurred, my brain grabbed hold and refused to let go of it like a dog with a chew toy. From that moment forward all of my anxiety symptoms came boiling to the surface and I was in for it.
Throughout my life I’ve had multiple periods of high anxiety. Sometimes they last for a couple days, maybe a few weeks. At the longest and worst they have lasted a few months, but in the past the feelings had always gone away over time. Just as randomly as the symptoms started they would disappear. Which is why in January of 2020 I did exactly nothing to combat my anxiety. Other than using the coping mechanisms that had always worked for me before, I took no action. Called no doctors. Made no effort to talk to anyone or seek help of any kind. I figured it would go away eventually and I just had to get through it.
Spoiler alert: that’s not what happened.
Within a couple of weeks I was surviving by the skin of my teeth. I have trouble eating when I’m anxious, so I was living off of protein shakes and cups of Easy Mac, which I choked down while binge watching Schitt’s Creek and The Office to try to keep my mind occupied. Every day I had to drag myself out of bed and force myself to go to work, where I would barely be able to focus or get anything productive done. All I wanted to do was go home and go to bed, but then when the time came to actually go home I dreaded that too. I was scared to drive, worried that I would stop breathing on the Parkway and get into a massive accident, so I took back roads home. Once I finally got home and could go to bed, I was scared to actually go to sleep so I would stay up as late as I could. I knew that if I went to sleep the morning would come quickly and I’d have to do it all over again.
This, as horrible as it was, was actually still manageable. At this point I did call a doctor and schedule a physical, planning to talk to them about going on some medicine for my anxiety, but bless our healthcare system, I had to wait weeks to be seen. Still, I had done all this before, all the feelings were familiar, and I was confident that I would get through it. I carried on in much the same manner for several weeks, until I had my first panic attack.
It was a Saturday afternoon. I had spent the whole day binge watching some show and playing mindless games on my phone, just trying to get through. Around 4:00 I started to get really concerned about my breathing. It didn’t seem right, like I could feel that I wasn’t getting enough air (because I was having a panic attack, and for me a panic attack typically involves not breathing normally). I decided enough was enough and I got in the car to go to the hospital - I had to get some help. I drove about 10 minutes to the nearest ER, but by the time I got there I was more scared of going in than I was of my weird breathing. I drove around the parking lot for a few minutes and then decided to go home. When I got home and walked back in the apartment, I had myself so worked up that I was about to throw up. Literally I was over the sink and I could feel the process beginning but then for a brief moment the feeling backed off. I quickly chewed a Dramamine tablet and the nausea abated. Armed with another couple Dramamine, I got back in the car and drove around for the rest of the evening until I was tired enough to go home and fall asleep.
That was Saturday. Monday I had another panic attack, though smaller this time. Tuesday I went to the doctor. After explaining my symptoms and the medicines that had worked for me in the past, I was prescribed the lowest dosage of Sertraline (generic Zoloft). This drug takes about four to six weeks to fully build up in your bloodstream and take affect, but I was desperate so was happy that at least relief was coming, even if it would take weeks. I picked up the prescription, then called my dad and asked if I could stay with him until the meds kicked in. I didn’t like the idea of being alone anymore, so I moved up to his house despite the fact that doing so added about 45 minutes to my commute.
On Thursday I was completely unsettled at work. I could not focus on anything. I just sat in my office and worried about my breathing. I became convinced that I was having a pulmonary embolism, so I left work and drove to Morristown Medical Center. This time I actually walked into the ER and checked in. I called my dad to tell him what was going on and he drove down to meet me at the hospital.
They were very kind in the ER. They did a blood test to check for a clot and found nothing. Just to be sure they did a chest x-ray. They gave me a bag of fluid because I was so dehydrated from not eating or drinking properly. Everything looked good and they discharged me. At that time I asked if they could give me a Xanax prescription, but Fun Fact number 2: ERs will not prescribe such drugs. You have to go through your regular doctor or a psychiatrist. Daddy drove me home, leaving my car at the hospital because I didn’t feel like I should drive. Before we left the parking lot I had called my doctor’s office and made an appointment for the next day to get said Xanax. I tried to relax, knowing I had a plan for the next day.
Plans are great, but anxiety waits for no plans. Before we got to Daddy’s house I was already having another panic attack. Popping more Dramamine so I wouldn’t barf in Dad’s truck, I asked him to turn around and take me back to the hospital. He did so and I went right back to the ER. This time they took me back and put me in a little private room with a tv screen showing calming pastoral scenes of sheep and ducklings and playing gentle, tinkly music. Fun Fact number 3: turns out they will give you Xanax in the ER, but you have to take it there and they watch you. I took my first dose of Xanax and waited for relief. Nothing really happened with the first pill, so after about thirty minutes they gave me a second pill. That one really did the trick. I felt my body relax and I could breathe again. They called in an emergency prescription of five pills to a pharmacy in West Caldwell that was still open and dispensing at 10 pm. We drove over there to pick up the medicine and for those moments I felt like myself again. Daddy took me back to his house and I was able to go to bed feeling okay for the first time in a long time.
Friday I took a sick day so that Daddy could take me to my regular doctor to get a full prescription for Xanax. I almost panicked on the way to the doctor, so I popped another of my emergency pills. I didn’t feel as calm as I had the night before, but it was still better than nothing. The doctor gave me my prescription which we picked up and then returned home. I had been told to wait two hours between pills and not to take more than five in a day. That afternoon while my dad went to work, I sat on the couch and tried to convince myself that I was feeling better, that the Xanax was going to be what I needed to get through.
I made it until about 10 pm on Friday night. By that time I was so worked up there was no way I could keep going the way I was going. So I went upstairs to my dad’s room and told him, “I can’t do this anymore. We have to go back to the hospital. I’m sorry.” My dear sweet father, who does not sleep well sometimes and had just laid down to go to bed, very calmly said, “Okay, let’s go, don’t be sorry.” He got up and within minutes was taking his 33 year old adult daughter back to the hospital because she simply could not stop panicking, constantly worried that she was going to die.
Fun fact number 4: the third time is the charm, at least for me at Morristown Medical Center. This time in the ER it was decided that the best thing was to admit me to the psychiatric floor. Leading up to that moment I had been scared to be admitted, worried that it meant I was officially crazy, that there was no turning back and I would never be “normal” again. But when the doctor suggested it I saw my dad nod in agreement and I knew it was the right thing to do. And I wasn’t scared of being admitted anymore, I was more scared of being discharged again, released into the world to deal with all the overwhelming emotions and anxiety on my own.
It took all night and well into the next day, Saturday, for the various consults to happen with the psychologist and the head psychiatrist from the secure floor I was headed to. Daddy and I spent that time in the ER thankfully in a private room. When they first put us in there my dad disappeared for a moment. When he came back he was pushing this kind of chair/bed combo piece of furniture which he rolled up next to my hospital bed. As he settled in and reclined I asked, “Were you allowed to take that?” Daddy said, “Nobody told me I couldn’t.” Fun fact number 5: clergy spend lots of time in hospitals and have no qualms about rearranging the furniture to suit the needs of the situation.
Daddy slept, thankfully. I was feeling guilty for putting him through all of this so I was glad he could rest. I don’t think I slept at all. I may have dozed, but not much. A psychologist came in the middle of the night and asked me to tell him what was going on. I spilled every last detail accordingly, hopeful that telling him everything would lead them in the right direction to help me. Somewhere around six or seven am the psychiatrist came down and told me the medicines they were putting me on: Klonopin, for the anxiety and panic, they were upping my Zoloft dose by 100 mg, and Risperdal, for the obsessive and repetitive thinking. At that point I wouldn’t have cared if they prescribed me a hair shirt and a fistful of worms to chew on, I just needed to feel better.
Daddy had to leave in the late morning to attend to some church stuff, promising to come back for visiting hours later that evening. Shortly after he left, they gave me my first handful of pills which pretty much knocked me out. I was awake, but dopey and definitely not worrying. I have vague memories of being wheeled up to the secure floor, getting checked in, putting what little stuff I had in my room.
Dinner was around five pm and as I sat in the main group room, I found that I was hungry and that I could actually eat. For the first time in almost a month I was able to eat regular food without any trouble. I drank water without worrying that my throat felt funny. And best of all, I wasn’t thinking about my breathing. I was able to simply exist, surrounded by nurses and staff, all of whom literally spent most of their time making sure that all of us on the floor remained alive. Paradise compared to the previous month of hell.
A few months ago I took a training at work where I learned about the fear of plopping. Plopping is when you make a statement (an opinion, a belief, an idea) to a group of people and it falls flat. No one responds either positively or negatively. Your statement just plops and lays there like a turd in a punch bowl. Sometimes in difficult conversations people do not speak up because they are afraid of plopping; so this training taught us.
This past year around Christmastime I was having dinner with the Iowa contingent of my family. Somehow the topic came around to being in the hospital and I think we made mention of someone wanting to leave the hospital before they probably should have simply because they were so uncomfortable.
I spoke up. “I do not understand that. I cannot think of any better place to be than a hospital where everyone there is literally working to keep you alive 24/7. That sounds amazing to me.”
PLOP. No response. Everyone around the table just fell silent.
I understand that my experience of hospitalization was different than most. Many people are very ill and uncomfortable when they are hospitalized. They are worried about the cost, their prognosis, their recovery, the lack of privacy, you name it. But for me it was the opposite. The hospital was the only place I wasn’t worried. (Well, I wasn’t as worried. No sorcery or pharmaceuticals can completely take away all worries.) I finally felt safe from all the shit that had been scaring me into utter disfunction and depression. I could finally let go of everything I had been so anxious over and knew that the nurses and staff and doctors and social workers and my dad were taking care of the details. All I had to do was keep on living and focus on getting better.
The time I spent in the hospital on the mental health floor was a very positive experience for me. I needed to be there and it was a saving grace in what felt like a hopeless situation. As good as that time was, I am not looking to repeat the process. I hope to never feel that bad ever again to require hospitalization. BUT…and this is a big but…I rest easy in the knowledge that should I ever find myself in such dire straits again, the hospital is always an option. Before all this, hospitalization seemed like the worst thing that could ever happen to me, but now it is a safety net that I am so grateful to have in my arsenal.
I told you all of that so that I could tell you this: inpatient treatment for mental health is not the end of the world. It is not a terrible thing that one will never recover from; for many it is the first step on the road to recovery. People needn’t fear the option of inpatient care. We should all be grateful that those services and staff exist…a beautiful safety net for when it all becomes too much.
