The Anxiety Snake, Part 3
Fast forward to present day.
It had been about a month since I stopped taking Zoloft and the world is spinning out of control. It feels like my life is being controlled by someone else and I’m chasing them to get her back.
For the first few weeks after quitting the drug I had horrible nausea and upset stomach. I was downing Pepto like water. I couldn’t eat anything without feeling sick. This week has been the first where the nausea is non-existent, but another part of my body is being attacked. My head.
It is beyond frustrating trying to explain how you feel on the inside to someone, like a doctor, who only wants to see the outside. My body shows all the vitals of being 100% normal, but I want to scream that something is so very wrong.
Anxiety is a giant black snake slowly wrapping itself around your body. Slowly it slithers around your ankles and you start to feel like someone has attached cinderblocks to your feet. You start getting tired and lazy. Then the snake works it’s way up to your lower body, squeezing more and more as it goes. You start to hate standing up because you always feel like you’re going to faint. Your stomach is never settled and you can hardly eat anything. Farther and farther it goes until it’s encased your chest. Sharp, stabbing pains radiate across your chest and you can’t take a deep breath. Finally, the snake works its way up the base of your neck, through your ears, and into your brain. Your neck forms a giant crick in it that no amount of Icy Hot could ever fix. You start to lose your balance and everything seems off. Vertigo sets in and erases the equal from your equalibrium. Your head starts to throb without a headache. It feels like a giant cement block was placed on your neck. As the snake settles in to sleep atop your brain you convince yourself life will never return to a bearable state. You feel like you are looking in on your life as a bystander. A bystander watching this snake squeeze the life out of you and settle in with a smile on it’s face. No one can see the snake but you and everyone thinks you’re insane.
While the snake sleeps you Google all these symptoms into the search bar and gather a multitude of explanations hoping they could all fit, all but anxiety. How could it be him again? It doesn’t feel like before.
But he knows me so well.