Pole Dancing

Nervous Circuits
Jul 27, 2017 · 7 min read

On Tuesday, July 11th, I woke up unable to breathe. It took me a few seconds to realize I was in the grips of the worst panic attack I had ever experienced — my chest felt like it was being compressed in a vice. It was a week and a day since my second sexual assault, and my mental state was only getting worse. I had begun drinking after work every day, to the point where I would only stop because I had fallen asleep. Alcohol was my therapy of choice, as it has always been. Through alcohol, I became detached, and I could view what I had been through from afar and analyze it without actually really “feeling” it. It also meant I wasn’t really “dealing” with it either.

When I was finally able to peel myself out of bed, I threw on some clothes and went directly to the walk in clinic. Something about that panic attack flicked a switch in me. I couldn’t live like this anymore. I was tired of being tired, of being so anxious and paranoid all the time that it drained all the energy and colour from my world. Just because I’ve dealt with anxiety for my whole life did not and does not mean I have to deal with it for the rest of my life too. Not like this. Things can be better. I needed help.

In record time I was in to see a doctor, and I’m not exaggerating when I say he must have been at least 85 years old. When he asked me why I was there, I started talking so fast and I couldn’t stop, and all of the sudden I was just sobbing in my chair while he handed me tissue after tissue. He was so unprepared for me, I felt just terrible. He told me he had never had an assault victim as a patient before — I told him he definitely had, they just didn’t say anything about it. When he called me that, an assault victim, it hit me harder than ever and I started crying even more. I hadn’t really allowed myself to admit that assault was what had taken place. I could say it out loud, but I never really believed it until that moment. For some reason, because I wasn’t screaming “NO STOP” and fighting harder, I was blaming myself for everything that had happened. I blamed myself for going on the date in the first place when my gut had originally told me to cancel. I blamed myself for not putting a stop to it when he kissed me in the park after knowing me for an hour. I should have left right then. I blamed myself for ending up in his apartment. I blamed myself for staying when he asked me to have a drink with him. I blamed myself and felt incredible shame for every detail of the whole event. It wasn’t until someone told me that no, you’re not crazy, something happened to you and you have every right to feel as violated as you do, that I was able to reconcile how I felt with what I had been through. Everything was starting to make sense.

The doctor pleaded with me to report what had happened to the police. It made me feel like such garbage that I had to tell him to stop. I hadn’t the strength or the energy to even think about going to the police. Besides, What would I tell them? That I had willingly gone to some strangers house and tried to not have sex with him and failed? That I met him on tinder? I had a drink with him, I can only imagine what they would have done with that information. Slightly crestfallen, he gave me the website and the telephone number for VictimLinkBC, along with a prescription for something to calm me down, and sent me on my way.

After a bit of research, I managed to find the address to the Access and Assessment Centre at Vancouver General and HUZZAH they are a 24 hour walk-in clinic. I found my way down there after work the next day, and repeated the Cliff’s Notes version of my story to a social worker there, who in turn set up an appointment for me to see a psychiatrist that very Friday. Things were happening. Even though I hadn’t really even begun to solve anything yet, I was feeling very positive that I was at least taking steps to claw my way out of this pit of despair, guilt and emptiness.

Friday at close to 9am I was sitting in a small meeting room, as the psychiatrist asked me a series of prepared questions. We started with the assault and moved backwards. Family history of mental health issues? Check. I listed the various ailments my relatives faced, uncle schizophrenic and mother bipolar, sister and grandmother clinically depressed. There’s probably more, but I don’t have a very close relationship with any of them, save my mom. And me? Well I’m just a ball of generalized anxiety with a healthy dose of body issues. Incredible drinker, ex cutter, with one teenage suicide attempt. The psychiatrist asked me more about my drinking, about the panic attacks and more crippling aspects of my anxiety. I told her I was always confused about how I dealt with the world at large. Sometimes I would want to make friends with everyone. I’d have all these lofty social plans, go on a ton of dates, go dancing and drink too much, more than usual. I’d go running every day. I’d blow hundreds of dollars at a moments notice on clothes or a new camera. I’d enroll in school or sign up for a marathon. I’d go to movie theatres(I HATE movie theatres) and the mall and just basically do all kinds of out of character things. I would feel strong and invincible. Then, one day, something would happen and all of that would come crashing down and I’d cancel every plan I made and have a hard time even getting out of bed. I would feel horrible and grotesque. This pit of doubt would open inside me and everything would fall into it. I questioned everyone’s reasoning and intentions for wanting to be around me. Nothing had any point, or mattered in any way. I drank, though I always did, whether I felt good or not. The thing is, I would be able to look at that other me. I could see her, remember those feelings of invincibility but be completely unable to channel them. It was and is the most frustrating feeling I have ever had.

There was a pause, and she said with great authority (as she should) “Well, have you ever considered it’s because you’re bipolar?”

The look on my face told her I hadn’t, and she followed up with “Come on, don’t try and tell me you’ve never thought about that. Your mother is bipolar.”

I had never actually thought for one second that I was. I thought I was just weak. I thought it was my fault I was always all over the place emotionally. I just couldn’t keep my shit together. Turns out, there’s a pretty good reason for that. My whole adult life shifted clearly into focus.

She continued, “Your anxiety(of which there are many forms), your eating disorder, these work in concert with bipolar disorder. You also might be dealing with mild OCD and you DEFINITELY have PTSD stemming from your first assault at 13. How do you think that first incident affected your life?”

I told her it was insidious, and that it had its gross tendrils reaching in and strangling so many different aspects of my life. I usually hate sex. I hate my body. I don’t trust anyone. I have an impossible time saying no, because I learned that no can have grave consequences. I wonder where all of that comes from, hmmm?

She restated: “I can’t believe you’ve never thought you may be bipolar. You’re practically a textbook case.”

Thanks. At least I’m doing something right…

Finally, she said “I’m referring you to outpatient psychiatry at Vancouver General. You’ll get a call by next Friday to make an appointment. In the mean time, I’m going to give you a script for an anti-psychotic. No it does not mean I think you are psychotic, we treat bipolar disorder a lot of times with anti-psychotics. Two things: first, you need to quit drinking. Second, stop taking lorazepam(Ativan). Your history of addiction and that drug do not go well together. Go home and do some research. Don’t read any blogs about it for god’s sake. Good luck.”

I got the call from outpatient psychiatry at the end of last week, and my appointment is in a few days. This is only the beginning of a long and probably occasionally painful experience. I’m going to attempt to document as much as possible. Writing things down always helps me process. I’m also hoping this will keep me in line, keep me honest, and keep me focused. Here goes everything.

Nervous Circuits

Written by

30 something in Vancouver writing about mental health, recovery, relationships, and life in general. Occasional poet, songwriter and photog. All pics SonyRX100.

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