Since the last time I wrote on this blog, a lot has changed. I mean, I have the same job, the same husband, the same general body shape of "too many bagels", BUT I have decided NOT to hate Ed Sheeran. That was huge.
Oh, and I have two kids. And near-crippling anxiety.
So, I just got a bill for a doctor visit in the mail. I have been super diligent about reviewing hospital bills lately, as I just pooped out my second, magnificent child. But this one has seemingly nothing to do with that. This bill was for a visit with a doctor because I had a feeling my legs might get weak.
Before I got the bill, I had spent hours trying to find a doctor who I knew was qualified and skilled, but also needed to be...nice. Because in the back of my mind, I suspected that "sometimes I don't know if I can feel my shins" maaaaaaaaay not be a legitimate medical concern.
I did it, though. I went to the doctor with a list of very vague but very upsetting symptoms. I was worried I had MS. I thought that my feeling of "maybe I can't feel my shins sometimes" was an early warning sign. I had recently read a devastating headline about Selma Blair being diagnosed with MS and imagined many similarities between the two of us.
I was also scared that my lightheadedness and feeling of disconnect was because there is a tumor somewhere in me. I cried and revealed that I was often confused and forgot things, sure that these were the symptoms of a woman on the brink of a devastating illness.
The doctor looked at me, my sad, baggy eyes, and my demanding but amazing 3-month-old child and diagnosed me with what others had said before: It's not a tumor. It's anxiety.
I paid $120 to have someone tell me what four other doctors had told me before: I have anxiety and could probs benefit from meds.
When people talk about taking meds, it seems so simple. Such an easy solution. Like taking Advil for a headache (which I actually am too scared to do on days when I think I might drink that night). For me, accepting my fate and swallowing Zoloft every night has been hard. And it was not a decision made easily.
I have been given prescriptions for drugs like Zoloft before. One time I actually picked up the lorazepam and held on to it for like 7 years. The only time I took a pill was when I was living in Rochester and depressed. I swallowed a single pill and took a bath, thinking it was poetic.
I fell asleep on my bed in my towel.
Since then, I have had at least a couple doctors be like "Girl, you gotta chill. Here's, like, a SUPER simple solution." And voila: prescription.
But I never filled them. I thought, "Hey, living in constant fear of falling into a suffocating black hole of despair and fear is totally manageable. I just can't watch ANY movies or TV shows or read the news. Taking medication is for wimps."
I have seen doctors because I thought I had gout. I have had eye exams with the hope/fear that a brain tumor will be the reason my head hurts after sleepless nights. I have spent days at a time crying over the idea that my daughters will have to write a report some day on a disease that kills me before they really know me.
Anxiety has taken a lot from me: money, hope, time with my family, a normal thought process. But I owe it to myself...and to my family...to talk about this.
Also, my therapist said I should do stand up, but I have stage fright. #letsunpackthat
