MEDICAL ADJUSTMENTS

I just lost my doctor. Again.

 

For more thirty years, I had the same family doctor who saw me through regular exams and a melanoma ordeal, diagnosed when I was thirty-four. I’m supremely grateful I can’t recall any other concerns in terms of physical health—not even some debilitating flu or nasty colds. In many respects, I’m a healthy guy. 

 

But I can’t go without a doctor. Complications may arise. Ones that could jeopardize the “safe, ” manageable lifestyle I’ve carved out for the past nine years.

 

As one may surmise, my cherished, long-term doctor retired. But that was more than a year ago. We said our goodbyes which included tears and hugs and, since I’m a writer, a letter I wrote that conveyed the appreciation I needed to express without it getting muddled or muted due to worries about putting my doctor further behind schedule. He had a reputation of always running late because he never rushed his time with patients. Certainly not with me.

 

Before leaving, he’d arranged for a new doctor to take over the practice. A man half his (and my) age. I knew I would miss my familiar doctor, but I recognized a consolation, knowing in a clear, practical sense The New Guy would oversee my care until I died or moved from Vancouver. This would be a good thing.

 

I freak out before seeing a doctor. I’m a bundle of nerves during medical appointments. Basically, I can be too much. Thirty-four years ago, while living in Santa Monica, California, I went to see a new family doctor and, at the end of the session, he looked at me with disdain and said, “I never want to see you again.” (When did seeing a doctor mirror a coffee date?!) I remember thinking, Can he do that? and then: Why would I push the point? Despite the Hippocratic Oath, sometimes a doctor can indeed do harm.

 

Fourteen months after being assigned The New Guy, I got an email stating he was quitting his practice. While Canada prides itself in low- to no-pay healthcare even as it’s always struggling to deal with systemic flaws, it doesn’t mean all doctors are happy with billing procedures and the amount they are paid. (Back in 1978, my father, an Ontario medical doctor, moved our family to Texas, knowing he’d earn a larger salary under a less just American system.) According to a follow-up email after The New Guy’s announcement, the funding formula for seeing patients with HIV was changing—presumably being reduced. 

 

While I am not HIV+, I know that many of the patients seen by the medical practice which included my beloved, now retired, gay doctor are. When I first saw my doctor in 1995, virtually all his patients were gay men and, on days he wasn’t working in the office, he worked for an AIDS clinic. Lifesaving antiretroviral drugs came on the scene about a year later, but I knew it was important to feel safe, supported and unstigmatized when I went for appointments. All my gay friends felt it was essential to have a gay doctor.

 

Hmm…did my Santa Monica doctor reject me because of my frantic case of the nerves or because I was gay? Maybe it wasn’t an either-or situation.

 

HIV treatments have changed and, I suppose the provincial government decided to reduce funding, concluding rightly or wrongly that HIV patient care is closer to the norm now even though I would surmise that cases are still more complex and visits more costly because they take longer. Whatever the case may be, The New Guy isn’t having it. He’s quitting and most likely exploring a more financially robust area of medicine.

 

Alas, it turns out I will have to get a new doctor before I ever leave Vancouver. How that happens, I’m not so sure. I was directed to online to a site called Request a Doctor or something like that. A five-minute process. Easy-peasy. But the form seemed to indicate I’d be assigned a doctor OR a nurse practitioner. Hmm. Overlap, sure, but not the same. I want a doctor. I need a doctor. 

 

You really, really don't need
to see a photo of my nasty toenail.

I know, I know. I’ve said my physical health is fine. A nurse could probably advise me regarding my infected toenail which seems to be my only current concern. It seems silly to see anyone at all over a heinous looking toenail but over-the-counter treatments haven’t helped and I suspect I’m going to lose the entire nail. (Do they make press-on toenails so I can wear sandals without freaking out people who cast their eyes downward?) Maybe I’ll consult a pharmacist while waiting for a doctor/nurse practitioner.

 

It really needs to be a doctor. While my physical health is fine, my mental health is always vulnerable. That angsty episode with the Santa Monica doctor? In hindsight, I was probably experiencing an episode of anxiety, the kind that would be diagnosed as Generalized Anxiety decades later. That condition, combined with Social Anxiety, Major Depressive Disorder, Bipolar II and Anorexia Nervosa have led to two stints in the psych ward, one stay at a crisis care group home, a hospital admission to the provincial eating disorders ward and a group home sojourn for the same affliction. My file also includes references to Trypanophobia (fear of needles) which makes regular blood tests for my eating disorder something I delay since I seem to make a spectacle of myself each time I go. I’m done with labels—there’s no more room on my trophy shelf—so I’ve shot down other disorders for which I’ve literally ticked all the boxes at my psychiatrist’s office. A two-minute Google this morning had me newly diagnosing myself with Iatrophobia (“extreme, persistent fear of doctors, medical professionals or hospitals”) and Tomophobia (“fear or anxiety caused by forthcoming surgical procedures and/or medical interventions”). Maybe I should just get FEAR tattooed across my forehead.

 

Right now, with a primary doctor in limbo, my most pressing fear pertains to losing my long-term disability status which came into play nine years ago as of next month. Sure, I have a psychiatrist—who casually mentioned his own upcoming retirement(!) during our session two weeks ago—but I’m supposed to have a “medical team” overseeing my mental health care. The family doctor is generally viewed as team captain and, in my case, he’s skipped town, walked the plank or essentially left me in the same place I was after that episode in Santa Monica. 

 

Canada has a decent health care system, I keep telling myself, but I’ve been reading for years about doctor shortages and long wait lists for all-things-medical. Rural areas and smaller towns are impacted more than big cities, but I don’t want to get any personal insights as to how much Vancouver is affected by shortages. I’m learning that fear of not have a doctor can coexist with fear of doctors.  

 

NOTE: No actual moles are harmed
while playing this game!

I’m coping as best I can with my mental health, even as depression and anxiety keep popping up unexpectedly and I try to swat them away. (Think of a mental patient’s version of Whac-A-Mole.) In just the past month, I’ve had several episodes that have been vexing struggles and I’ve come close to loading up my backpack (soap, changes of underwear, books) and heading to Emergency for yet another possible psych ward admission. Even during a “good” month, I know I continue to function at a diminished state from my first psych ward stay in 2014 and even more so since the time of my return visit. If I lose my disability status—

 

Nope, I can’t even go there. I can’t start swirling over that.

 

Come on, Request a Doctor matchmakers! Do your thing. Please let this transition from doctor-less to doctor-assigned be but a blip.

HOW TO MEANINGFULLY CHECK IN WITH SOMEONE WHO HAS MENTAL HEALTH STRUGGLES

Okay, last week I bemoaned the fact that people say, “I’m here for you” when their follow-up words and actions indicate otherwise. I needed to unload. I needed to leave readers with food for thought…maybe some introspection and some tweaking of their own interactions. 

 

It’s nice to be nudged instead of nagged.

 

Still, I feel this post is a necessary complement to last week’s. Mental health still has its stigma. It’s hard to wade into unknown waters. Perhaps my perspective regarding what I’d want may provide guidance to navigating heart-to-heart conversations with your own friends and family who may experience mental health challenges.

 

Let me preface things by saying I have had a few good conversations lately in which I’ve felt heard and understood. One of my closest friends moved to Montreal six months ago and I flew there for a weeklong visit. She’d known I was struggling, partly with depression but primarily with my eating disorder, and we were talking about it in-depth within the first hours of the visit. Another person is a new friend whom I met for a second time for a glass of wine on a deck overlooking Jericho Beach and the Burrard Inlet. To be clear, both these people have been open with me about their own histories involving eating disorders. There is nothing that compares with talking with people who can knowingly nod—Been there, done that…or something like that. These people are dearer to me for letting me lean when I’ve needed to. Their understanding is implicit, but it is expressed, too. I’m not expecting a friend or family member to provide that caliber of support. That just wouldn’t be fair.

 

Still, whether it’s an eating disorder or any number of other mental health conditions—on my Insta account, I describe myself as a hoarder of MH labels—one basic tenet that I want people to know is that the condition is not a one-day thing. It’s not like someone saying they’re “depressed” because their team lost a game or you lost a key document when your laptop crashed. It’s not like when someone says they’re “anxious” about a date tomorrow night or have anxiety over an upcoming job interview. Without further information, these are presumably non-clinical cases of sadness and worry…regular emotions situationally arising in predictable contexts. In such cases, listening to the person requires being in the moment and perhaps a next-day or next-week follow-up. “Hey, did a tech guy recover your lost document?” “How’d the date go?” Done. 

 

If you don’t have the same mental health diagnosis, your understanding of what someone is going through requires more information…from THAT person. In a nutshell, it’s about asking open-ended questions and then actually listening, even seeking further clarification.

 

“How are you doing?” is a starting point. 

 

Often, I don’t trust that the person really wants to know. Even if they listened well on a previous occasion, I tend to assume it’s a default question with a default answer: Fine. Okay. Good. Sometimes I even reflexively say, “Super!” It comes from a boss of mine who used that word to define her mood and most everything else. It’s a basic word but, when used by an adult, it comes off as surprising. We’re socialized to not be so enthused…unless our team has a big game and we’re wearing a block of cheese as a hat. At meetings, I entertained myself by tallying spoken “supers.” My punishment? The word found a prominent place in my own vernacular.

 

You don’t get a gold star for asking “How are you?” to a depressed person. Upon first ask, the answer is rarely, “Not so good” or “I’m struggling.” That only comes as a first response if they truly trust you, if the two of you have a track record of meaningful check-ins or if they just can’t even fake an “Okay.” If anything, I’m less trusting after being more open. Too many times the other person has gone out of their way to shut down the gloom. Good god, it's Debbie Downer again. Sometimes they reach too quickly for a diversionary tactic, such as an upper from the movie Up: “SQUIRREL!”

 

To let the person know you really want to know, you have to express that, maybe by even naming the context:

 

“How are you?” 

“Fine.”

“What I mean is, how are you really doing?”

“Fine.”

“Last time you were feeling depressed. What’s your current mood?”

 

I think there’s an assumption that naming a mental health condition is invasive. Tread lightly. Be the holly-jolly friend. Be the pick-me-up.

 

Yeah, that’s just grating. Obnoxious even. If I’m depressed and you’re playing the role of cheerleader, I want to flee. I want to block your number. You and your “super” this, “super” that” are not good for me. (I really must expunge that dang word.)

 

Here’s an obvious statement that nonetheless needs to be stated: If you’ve never had, say, an eating disorder, clinical depression or been diagnosed as bipolar, there’s an inherent imbalance in knowledge and experience. This is not the time to play Match Game. To talk about when you went on a diet and then—Presto—suddenly stopped, isn’t going to connect you to someone with an eating disorder. It sure isn’t helpful advice. It shows a complete dismissal of what the person with anorexia or bulimia is going through. 

 

Keep listening. Keep asking. You don’t need to come up with an anecdote about how you can relate because you can’t. A person doesn’t talk about a bout with the flu to respond to a cancer patient going through chemo. A person doesn’t mention a broken wrist to relate to someone who has had their leg amputated. A person’s appendectomy doesn’t come up when someone is scheduled for brain surgery. 

 

Relating is often part of empathy, but sometimes understanding comes from listening and letting all that’s said digest, the nods coming not from “been there,” but “I hear you.” 

 

One more key point: Don’t try to fix your friend or family member. All I want and need is to be heard. Just talking about a current struggle releases some of the inner chaos. Just be present. Be there.

 

Keep listening. Keep asking. Keep nodding from gained understanding. That’s all.

 

For my eating disorder, I’ve dealt with the following professionals, all in multiples: medical doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, psychologists, dietitians, occupational therapists, counsellors, art therapists, cardiologists, group home attendants, medical technicians, adapted exercise instructors and spiritual therapists. I’ve also been in support groups for people with eating disorders. My team.

 

I’ve had different teams for depression, anxiety and being bipolar. Smaller but still a full enough roster so we could don uniforms with garish colors and stand beside a head-scratching mascot for a team photo. None of that happens. I don’t want to start a mental health scrapbook. 

 

Think about it. If whole teams of professionals can’t fix me, there isn’t a suggestion or piece of advice you say that will suddenly make all the pieces of me fit together better. 

 

“Why don’t you try—” STOP!

“Have you thought about—?” STOP!

“If I were you, I’d—” STOP!

 

I’ve had well-meaning people complete each one of those statements. Many times. It only simplifies what is complex, and not in a helpful way. It negates the entire conversation. It isolates the person with the mental health condition. You don’t understand. 

 

It only increases the chances of the next check-in to go as follows:

“How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“No. I really want to know. How are you really doing?”

“Fine.”

 

A pat on the back for you. Now the chat can move on to something more enjoyable. Your “crazy” cat. That new show on Netflix. Are Ben and Jennifer—oh, yeah, “Bennifer”—actually going to make it? 

 

Sure. They’re fine, too.

As a postscript, I'll say that reading and learning about eating disorders may help you understand and support your friend or family member. I'm cautious about this recommendation. We all know how Googling anything medical may lead to misinformation or may offer dire and overly broad statements that don't apply to particular individuals. I spent ten minutes searching "how to support a person with an eating disorder" and had to stop. Despite clicking on government-related posts, I still found inaccurate information and advice that made me cringe. This article is okay though it still raised issues for me. Perhaps the best thing to do is to ask the person directly, "How can I support you? What helps? What doesn't?" 

Ask. 

They may shrug you off, but it sure beats asking nothing and having the person think you are yet another person shrugging first, their struggle being something taboo.

 

 

 

POLITICIZING DEPRESSION

Leave him alone.

 

I’m writing about Senator John Fetterman (D-Pa); more specifically, his depression and going public with it. I’m not going to Google the circumstances. I’m going to be less disciplined, using Twitter bits and pieces that came up in my feed while he was trending upon admission and then upon discharge from hospital. It’s those Twitter bits I find problematic.

 

The man is a politician and, thus, everything about him is politicized. This is particularly so because he represents Pennsylvania and won his seat last November with 51.3% of the vote compared to Republican opponent Mehmet Oz’s 46.3%. A close race though perhaps not as close as predicted. The seat had previously been held by Republican Pat Toomey who chose not to seek re-election after serving two terms. As a “flip” (going from Red to Blue) in a Senate that is precariously tipped in the Democrats’ favor (51 to 49, with three of the senators in the Democrat tally officially being Independents), any vulnerability of the elected senator gets pounced on. If he were a senator from a clearly blue or red state, his depression wouldn’t garner as much attention. People would be less inclined to pounce, saying he’s unfit, speculating he was forced to run for office and forced to stay in office. In Hawaii where Democratic Senator Brian Schatz was re-elected with 71% of the vote or in South Dakota where Republican Senator John Thune was re-elected with 70% of the vote, the hospitalization of either politician wouldn’t garner much attention outside the given state. Should anything dire happen to either senator and a special election were warranted, there would be little chance of the opposing party scoring a surprise win.  

 

I’ve made a point of not scrolling or researching too deeply the reactions to Fetterman’s depression and his hospitalization. Snipes about depression are not good for my own mental health. I have dealt with crushing periods of clinical depression and I too have been treated in hospital. While Fetterman is a public figure and his detractors can say he’s fair game, any pot shots that demonize the man or the disorder, risk harm to Fetterman and others, like me, who have had to find our way up and back.

 

I saw many well-wishers, but quite a few judging the senator and his “handlers.” All of it felt partisan and, frankly, that came off as repugnant. If it were Ron Johnson, the re-elected Republican senator from Wisconsin, edging his Democratic challenger, Mandela Barnes, 50.5% to 49.5%, I suspect the same sentiments would have been expressed, just flipped. And that’s gross. That’s how divided the U.S. is. Let a senator’s mental health struggle be an opportunity to criticize him, to question his fitness, to do a little advance campaigning—does campaign season ever end?—so the electorate will think twice—five years from now when Fetterman’s seat comes up again or next year when the other Democratic senator from Pennsylvania, Bob Casey, is up for re-election.

 

I’m fed up with how mental health is manipulated in U.S. politics. I don’t see caring, deep discussions about how to support people with mental health challenges related to depression, anxiety, schizophrenia or any other condition. That’s not altogether surprising. Most countries are behind the times in dealing with mental health and the United States still hasn’t even figured out a compassionate, reasonable, accessible system to support physical health issues. There’s still a frontier mentality. Look out for yourself (and your family) (and your wallet); everyone else be damned. 

 

I was pleased that mental health received more attention during COVID lockdowns. As people struggled in isolation, anxiety and depression got discussed more but, alas, masks are off and everyone’s moved on. It’s the price of eggs, Gwyneth’s skiing skills and train derailments that are at the forefront now. Depression is a downer to talk about anyway.

 

Mental health only trends now when there’s another mass shooting. Okay, so that means it shows up a lot. But, again, the topic is distorted; it’s villainized. The takeaway: People with mental health struggles shoot up schools and malls and churches and movie theaters and concerts. 

 

Damn! They shoot up a lot. 

 

Who says it’s about guns? “Squirrel!” It’s about crazies. Loose cannons. Pariahs. Don’t even think about letting the welfare of schoolchildren and grocery shoppers impede citizens’ right to AR-15s, ammo buildup and all the gadgets that make killing more efficient. Righteous Second Amendment advocates double down. It’s mental health that’s weaponized. 

 

When news first broke that Senator Fetterman was struggling with depression, I naively—and hopefully—saw it as a different kind of opportunity, not one to doubt his competence and vilify his family, but a chance to chip away at the stigma that continues to exist pertaining to mental health. Depression, anxiety and any number of other conditions are not signs of weakness. They don’t mean the person is flawed. Do we say a person with prostate cancer or shingles is weak and/or flawed? It would be rare for someone with either physical condition to deny their symptoms and refuse to see the doctor. Overall, men take longer to seek treatment for an ache, blood in bowel movements or a circumstance that is slowing them down. Testosterone and a persistent tough guy persona can be a detrimental combo. It’s the same—worse, I suspect—when it comes to mental health. I’m a testosterone-lite dude and it took me decades to seek help for depression, anxiety, a bipolar condition and, sigh, I’ve basically told my psychiatrist to nix other diagnoses. I’m enough of a label queen already. 

 

It's of huge significance that Fetterman checked himself into hospital for treatment and did so publicly. F*#k shame. Never mind work and personal commitments. This was an oxygen-mask-on-oneself-first moment. He couldn’t help his constituents, his family or friends, until he got whatever help he needed, be it therapy, rest, a reset in terms of diet and/or medication. Sickness happens. One of the supposed takeaways from COVID was supposed to be to stay away from work when you’re not well. Rest, see a doctor, get better. 

 

Kudos, Mr. Fetterman. He’s been discharged, presumably stabilized, hopefully on the mend. Those who aren’t in the know will continue to shame and judge him. They’ll question his competence. They’ll scrutinize his actions and inactions. They’ll seek to peddle doubt and to cast depression as a character flaw and a liability. I’m hoping though that other people will respect him for being open about depression, at least on a general level. (He has a right to keep personal aspects private.) Let someone see Fetterman as taking action and being responsible in seeking medical help. Depression can be hellish. That notion that it’s a personal flaw deters people from opening up about it. There’s a damaging perception—I know it well—that a person should be able to turn things around themselves. 

 

I’m hoping Senator Fetterman continues to improve and that he reaches out to the appropriate supports when he experiences setbacks and/or when another devastating round of depression settles in. Let Fetterman’s lead serve as a positive example. Let others get help if and when they need it.

  

 

 

 

988 is a suicide hotline in the United States. In Canada, it’s 1-833-456-4566. Wikipedia lists many international hotlines here.  

RIDING THROUGH A MENTAL HEALTH CRISIS

We live curated lives on social media. A tastefully garnished brunch at a trendy restaurant. A smiling couple with a sunset in the background. A buff shot doing dumbbell curls at the gym. Instagram. Facebook. Twitter. Living the best life! But what about all those unfiltered shots that got deleted? (Jeez, Frank, could you at least try to smile?) And what happens between pictures? 

 

I’ll admit that my life, as portrayed through posted pics, looks pretty good, too. Why would I post a shot of me scowling? Why would I even think of that moment as time for another selfie? Same goes for my Saturday nights on my sofa doing crosswords and my cottage cheese lunches, spooned straight out of the container. Real life has a whole lot more colors; they just happen to be all the muted tones and lots of grays and browns. (Is brown anyone’s favorite color?) 

 

I try to make this blog about real life. I strive to be honest. I share my struggles. I’d like to think people can connect more to these moments, to feel reassured when they or someone they love struggles as well.

 

Yesterday was a whopper in terms of struggling. I got up before my alarm, but felt tired and peculiarly famished. (I have an eating disorder and don’t allow myself to eat until noon. (Hello, cottage cheese!) Sometimes I’ll cave and have a banana, but not until 10:15 at the earliest. Those are the rules. People with eating disorders have lots of rules.) I knew that the combination of fatigue and hunger wouldn’t bode well to start my normal writing routine so I chose to do my ninety-minute daily walk first. Wake up those endorphins (which I swear are mythical beasts), feel refreshed. Then get to it.

 

Half hour into my walk, I felt my mood was off. This happens. Don’t panic; keep walking. It’ll pass. But it didn’t. Things didn’t worsen; there was just this pesky little cloud lurking. At that point, I couldn’t even give it a label. I decided to stop in a café and treat myself to an oat milk latte. That’d do it. My go-to drink order, a nice walk—the rain that had been forecast was even holding off. I’d get back on-course.

 

Except I didn’t. When I returned home, I still wasn’t feeling I could write. This never happens. I firmly believe in a quote ascribed to both W. Somerset Maugham and William Faulkner: “I only write when inspiration strikes; fortunately, it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.” It’s the writers’ version of “Just do it.” (Writers can be so wordy.) 

 

For the next forty-five minutes, I gave it a try. I tried some writerly tasks that weren’t actual writing. Alas, it failed to fool me. (Damn, it had worked SO many times before.) I headed out on a writerly errand, printing copies of some documents on my flash drive. Sometimes I need to see my work on paper instead of on a screen. The copy shop is only a block away so it wasn’t even much of a diversion. Less time than falling into a black hole extremely tangential “research” on the internet. Still, during all this time since my morning walk, my feeling of being off gathered momentum. By the time I was back home again, it had gained a label:

 

Anxiety.

 

This isn’t working, I told myself. I’ll try writing after lunch. Cutting myself some slack is rare. Kudos to self for allowing it. I wouldn’t get my allotted amount of writing in, but it would be okay. Quality over quantity. Or something instead of nothing.

 

My anxiety continued to rise. Why? What was happening? This wasn’t about writing. This was something bigger, something I couldn’t control. I’m an extraordinarily logical person. If I could identify a reason, I could come up with a sensible response. Or I could at least understand it. Okay. Yes. Now I get it. 

 

Nope. That bugger was like a party crasher at the wrong address: Well, I’m here anyway so let me just have my fun.

 

Wouldn’t leave. Rudest guest ever.

 

My anxiety spiked to a new high. I was frightened. I didn’t know how to handle it. I tried to rest, but that was hopeless. It’s hard to rest when your house is on fire. I thought about calling my psychiatrist. He’s a new guy, doesn’t really know me. I couldn’t do it. I thought of friends. A few names popped up, but I dismissed them all. My reflex of childhood came to mind: Mom? Nope. She wouldn’t understand at all. I’d only worry her (even though she claims to be the picture of perfect mental health) or she’d say trite things that would trigger me. 

 

I don’t think you’re getting enough Vitamin C. Try some orange juice. 

 

Why don’t you stand in front of the mirror and smile? 

 

This is what happens when you live in a big city. Cities are dangerous.

 

Seriously.

 

I suddenly remembered that a previous psychiatrist (who retired early—did I cause that?) had prescribed me a medication for anxiety emergencies. In four years, I’d only taken one pill. I searched the pill bottles in the bathroom vanity for twenty minutes. (Man, I’ve been on a lot of different psychiatric meds.) Found it. Took one. I figured it’d be like Ativan which I’d been given in hospitals before. Twenty minutes and I’d be calm and sleepy. 

 

Nope. Somehow, my anxiety found another level. It only took ten seconds to Google a crisis line for my province. I made sure it wasn’t for people contemplating suicide. I couldn’t have my call get in the way of a suicidal person having someone to talk to. I punched in the numbers, let it ring twice, panicked and hung up. No particular reason. This is what anxiety does. 

 

I paced. I picked up my phone, put it down again. My breathing got shallower. Tears were running down my face even though I didn’t feel like I’d been crying. I called again and forced myself not to hang up. 

 

I got a voice recording. “If this is an Emergency, call 911. Otherwise, leave your name and number at the beep and we’ll get back to you.” 

 

Well, okay then. This is how to respond to a crisis. I managed to leave my message, explicitly stating that I wasn’t suicidal, my voice shaking the entire time. I tried four or five times before I could articulate my phone number. (Since I hadn’t spoken out loud at all during my crisis, it was jarring hearing how fragile I sounded.) 

 

I found an unfinished crossword and lay on the sofa, reading clues, filling in nothing at all, crying, entire body shaking, waiting. The hospital is four blocks away. They would admit me as they’d done before. On those occasions, what I’d needed twenty-four hours of care. One full day of observation and recovery. But I knew if I went there, they wouldn’t let me out, as they hadn’t before. Nine days in the psych ward; fifteen days in the psych ward. I continue to contend that I didn’t experience clinical anxiety until during that first hospitalization. Going to Emergency this time was NOT an option.

 

Twenty minutes later, the crisis line called back. We talked for about ten minutes, my voice quivering the entire time while a nice lady stuck to her script, restating whatever I said. “So I’m hearing that…” Yes, yes. You’re listening to me. Got it. No advice. No probing. I’ve never been good with scripted psychology. I’ve had counselors and psychiatrists hand me worksheets, even a PowerPoint presentation once. Nope. Next, please.It’s why I chose to end the call. I could see it wasn’t going anywhere and I worried about other callers who’d had to leave messages and were waiting. Maybe this kind of thing would actually help them. I thanked the nice lady profusely. She was a volunteer. Good for her. Truly.

 

I have to admit it did help a little. Saying things out loud—to another person—had some benefit. And, more importantly, my anxiety pill seemed to kick in. I climbed into bed and slept for an hour and a half. Unheard of. I haven’t been able to nap in the day since I started taking various meds several years ago. 

 

I woke up, still anxious. At least I’d had a ninety-minute reprieve. I thought about writing. Impossible. I went outside and ran in a light rain for an hour and a half, choosing a route I knew wouldn’t have many people on it while also allowing me to run by the water which usually calms me. By the time I was home and showered, I was anxious all over again. I couldn’t shake the sucker. I’d never before experienced such heightened anxiety for such a prolonged period. 

 

That’s when I surrendered. I couldn’t read anything substantial, couldn’t watch TV, couldn’t listen to music. I’d scrolled through all the apps on my phone umpteen times. I went on Twitter and asked followers for photos or memes of anything to help distract me. That was as much as I could process. People came through, sending puppy pics, silly selfies and telling me about a jazz festival in New Orleans. Bless them. I was embarrassed to reach out to strangers but, as vile as Twitter can get, I’ve seen people offer support to others many times. I’ve tried to do my part, too. It was enough to help me ride out the evening and turn in early, my heart pounding forcefully as I lay on the mattress. I knew I’d never fall asleep. But I did. Exhaustion will do that.

 

New day. Anxiety gone. I don’t generally write on Saturdays so I showered and headed out for a couple hours of walking. All good. My chest still feels tight, a reminder that that mess of a day yesterday really happened. Wounds take time to heal. This applies as much to mental health as physical health.

 

I am okay.

 

I knew this. I knew I just had to get through yesterday, as scary and unpleasant as it was. I can’t possibly count the number of times I’ve heard other people with mood disorders repeat the phrase “This too shall pass” during group sessions, but it’s true. In the moment when things are so intense, it’s hard to believe that. Anxiety and depression can feel utterly unbearable. It’s about waiting for the next day. Or the next. Or the one after that. I’ve waited for months at a time when it’s been depression. Still, it does pass. I’m proof of that. I hope others who need a reminder will remember this post.

 

I’m glad I called a crisis line. I’m glad I reached out for distraction on Twitter. I’m glad I’m choosing to blog this. Tonight, I might just order takeout. (We’re still in lockdown.) Something tasty, something that looks amazing to update my Instagram. I’m back in the “real” world.