Lexaprofessional
Two weeks ago I went to a psychiatrist who prescribed me Lexapro. Last week, I started taking it and last night I started reading Prozac Nation to better fulfill the Tibby trope.
When both my psychiatrist and new therapist told me that my anxiety levels were off the charts, I was shocked. I have always written off anxiety at large with social anxiety. I went to a liberal arts school so most of the people I know have a diagnostic code and most of them claim introversion on the scale. I am a social concierge—bold, outgoing, direct, confrontational, and gregarious. Of course there have been times when I haven’t gotten the invite, when I’ve felt desperate and anxious—glancing around the cafeteria for an empty space before yielding to a bathroom stall, but in general, I am fine in social situations.
Apparently my sympathetic nervous system is always running. I am constantly on the precipice of fight or flight—hence my disinterest in uppers at large according to the doc. So, add generalized anxiety disorder to the (now) laundry list of problems.
Already on the list is major depression. I have always been open about my depression, especially online. During my first semester of college I felt incredibly alone and small. I invested in an UV light but should have invested in a therapist. At least that would have ensured I left my room once a week. My depression, like my shadow, has followed me from upstate New York to the Inland Empire and now back home to the suburban Silicon Valley. During the move I ditched the lamp and found a bougie Beverly Hills shrink. She helped. I actively talk about my mental health with my friends and did not try to hide the monthly depressive episodes that would hit from my roommate. Standing in front of our fridge eating pasta salad in a stale T-shirt and Calvin Klein boyshorts, how could I?
I think the depths of my depression (and anxiety) plunger further than most assume. Because I talk about the problems that plague me so openly, people write me off as fine, even well. I make jokes about my mental health and humor is read as progress instead of as a coping mechanism, a cry for help.
Though most of my current chaos is because of my family, I am lucky to have parents that will at least pay for the problems they’re providing—even if it takes some strong-arming from my end. I am lucky that I have a partner and friends that don’t scare easily, most of whom who understand the dark place themselves.
I am (currently) getting well. I practice self-care six ways until Sunday and am currently chalking it up to daily yoga, SSRIs and biweekly therapy sessions. I am moving to L.A. soon and I think a lot of my depression/anxiety is situational (but, as I question ‘adjustment disorders,’ what isn’t situational or adjusting… aren’t we always?) and will be alleviated when I have independence and routine. Mental health ‘disorders’ can be omnipresent, slinking in the shadows, whispering self doubts that paralyze, or they come in great swells, subsiding until you least expect it and hitting once again with a staggering force.
There is no shame in waving the white flag—whether it be seeking professional help or claiming a mental health day beneath your duvet to a full-fledged Chopped marathon. Some people think that writers, artists, summon the dark and twisty for the sake of creative endeavors. But really, I think I wrote some of my best pieces as tools to claw out of the dark pits of break ups, divorce, and sexual assault. In spite of.
I’m not at my all time low (that would be early October 2016) but I’m still in the dark. And that’s okay.
