The Strange Things About Stress
Our brains and bodies protect us from the worst things in life
On Friday of last week, I had one of the most embarrassing, painful and condescending experiences with a doctor. After my PCP refused to continue prescribing medications that I could not stop cold-turkey without the risk of seizures or death (including a benzo I’ve been on since 2008) I turned to the psychiatrist who originally prescribed these medications for me. In the past 11 years, he retired and then came back to the his clinic (I say “his” because it appears he has a strong ownership stake in the company) as a grumpy old man insistent that his patients were “ill” and — as the status quo goes — incompetent.
It didn’t help Medicaid was now sending him letters about other providers who had prescribed these meds in the last 6 months. Earlier this year I was placed on a “restricted” or “managed” Medicaid plan, since I had visited the ER too many times due to depression and suicidal ideation…. but rarely ever sent to a psych hospital, instead told by hospitals that I was “wasting resources.” (Yes, they actually told me this, to may face, while I said I wanted to seriously harm myself.)
In the months between being placed on that program and now, I moved across the state to a town that is inherently healthy; we’re all about walks on the beach (literally), yoga, and generally being kind of crunchy. But when my new PCP suddenly turned 180 against me, I drove 300 miles that fateful day last week when that psychiatrist said he was “onto me” and to “get the fuck out of (my) office or I’m calling the police.”
Being challenged with depression and anxiety is hard. Everyday I question if others are looking at me, judging me, whispering about me. I don’t want to get out of bed, terrified to go to the grocery store and hesitant to try dating again (so….I just email my ex-husband several times a day for some decent conversation. Healthy. Right?) Whenever I try to find friendship I find myself ghosted, or in some inane discussion that makes my brain hurt — or rather, crave something more. Same goes for my heart.
When I trust a doctor, I have to really trust them. I need to know they get it; they understand what they’re prescribing, how crucial each mg is, and what happens if things suddenly shift.
For a doctor to accuse me of improperly using or selling a drug destroys all confidence and trust in just about anyone. This falls strongly on Medicaid, which I will no longer be using…. yes, I’m option to go without insurance, because having the state watch every prescription I fill, every office visit, every trip to the ER during a panic attack, only makes things worse. (Clearly.) Part of this is leveraging my new legal name, a lucky change I almost undid a few weeks ago but has been significantly beneficial to getting good healthcare. Insurance associates people by name and birthday; suddenly, with a new name, Medicaid can’t follow me. There’s a lot more to say about that (the how, the why, the way medications are tracked and controlled, etc) but quite simply, being a cash-only patient allows me to get healthcare with a clean slate. That means no long, long record of prescriptions, of ER visits, of psych admits. I am just a woman who struggled with depression, and doctors are caring and eager to make sure I have the right team around me to feel better.
At the height of my anger and sadness from that visit on Friday, I realized I was stressed. I was terrified I would run out of medication, that I would get sick, and I might die. For all those times wishing I wasn’t living this life, I was now panicking that my hopes and dreams (I say that sarcastically) would come true. I spent several hours on Saturday in the ER, finally getting a 14-day emergency supply of my Klonopin.
(The fact I’m even on Klonopin was a stupid decision back in 2011, at the peak of my career and the fallout of turning to a naturopath to help with my depression and anxiety….I was off my meds, now at my parents house, and having significant physical repercussions. So I met this new psychiatrist, who changed my ativan to klonopin…and the story evolved from there, seemingly aligned with the start of my struggle with writing.)
I spent hours over the weekend making spreadsheets of psychiatrists and PCPs I could call. The stars aligned, and I found a new PCP yesterday afternoon, who had a strong grasp on how to taper down a benzo dose and also actively referred me to psychiatrists. (I’ve never been referred to one by a clinical physician in my life.)
When I came home, my brain and body melted into a relaxed puddle. Except, the stress was taking a physical toll, and when I left the PCP’s office I felt one of the worst neck/shoulder strains I’ve experienced.
I had been so stressed I was straining all of my muscles, from my head down to my knees.
It’s amazing how resilient the body is in times of duress; we protect ourselves from attack, and when that comes at us emotionally, we strain in the event something comes at us — quite literally. A strained body is on defense, ready to shield our delicate bodies from force.
Of course, this meant I did hot showers, followed by ice, on repeat for about 4 hours. I had to sit and do nothing, which felt bizarre, but also was rejuvenating — I had NOTHING to do! (Aside from a few small tasks this week, therapy, and other small, idling projects.) At one point I realized the tension was gone; and I went for a walk.
Yes, I went for a walk. One of the first since being injured 3 years ago.
My knees didn’t mind. The air — a bit crisp, but still humid — was a surprsingly good feeling in my lungs. By the end of the day, I trekked nearly 6,000 steps, or around 3 miles.
Those walks will be needed as I shed the other side effect of stress; weight gain. I ate my feelings for months, as fear crept up I opened another bag of Oreos. While still in Seattle, my living situations led me to order too much Thai and just sit at home, terrified of using Starbucks’ wifi or driving my car in certain neighborhoods.
The past is past, and to be brutally honest, its hard to see what fears were real and based in evidence and what was just a continuation of, well, stress. Stress begets stress, so it took a lot of lifestyle changes to come to this point; of getting sleep, of walking in the late evening, of throwing out all the shitty food and choosing veggies and turkey instead.
When we release all those stressful hormones, suddenly making healthier choices is a breeze, and we no longer doubt every step we take. Going to the beach becomes a ritual, the long walks on the boardwalk part of everyday life (which I still can’t believe is mine.) My home is a small beach town, a little like SoCal mixed with the beauty of the PNW. I don’t take it for granted, but stress makes it easy to see that beach, that store, that coffee shop, that street — as a threat. Who will see me, I wonder? What will they say if I order yet another mocha AND cookie?
Self doubt melts with the stress, but sometimes it takes a strange universal force to make the changes we need to eradicate this horrible feeling in our bodies and minds. I can’t exactly thank that psychiatrist for his unethical (and illegal) behavior, but it brought me to a better place — one where I finally safe, and, finally, at home.
