Tuesday Teaser
A chapter from my memoir, One Headlight
Year: 2012
Age: 27
Location: Saskatoon, Saskatchewan
I NEVER thought I’d have anxiety. I am a mess. Where I once used to scoff at people’s mental health as ‘not a real thing’, I’m now one of them battling an invisible adversary.
I’m still trying to be tough, to suck it up and get through it. I don’t want anyone judging me. I am going to school. I am going to work. I am going to go crazy.
A few weeks into this new life of living with anxiety, I am getting ready for work. I look at myself in the mirror. “Get it together, girl. This isn’t real. You are okay,” I tell myself repeatedly as my rapidly increasing heart rate tries to tell me differently. I attempt to breathe through it and get to work. I’ve worked at Chili’s as a server and bartender for almost five years. Normally, I love my job. I love the people I meet, my co-workers who’ve become family, my bosses and the work itself. I know that if I can just get to work, I can distract myself enough to push my anxiety into the back corner of my mind. I walk into work twenty minutes later and see that it’s packed. I should be able to crush this shift without panic; I’m very good at my job. I can do this.
I make it four hours before it hits, a tidal wave that has been building since I left home. I crashes into me. The panic swells over me, engulfing my every thought with fear. I can’t breath. I am behind the bar, dizzy, sweating and gasping for breath. The feelings of impending doom lurk under the surface of my skin, threatening to ruin everything, my life, my relationships, my future; waiting to throw me into a tailspin of despair. Something bad is going to happen, I am sure of it. My body is telling me so.
Thankfully, the lounge is finally quiet and I don’t attract too much attention. I call the bartender who is scheduled after me and beg her to come in early so I can die in the solitude of my home.
As luck would have it (or not), the owners of the restaurant come in as this is all happening. The two men and their wives sit directly in front of the bar, watching me, awaiting my arrival to take drink orders. I am not in a space to ask for drink orders.
They simply sit with looks of confusion on their faces while I attempt to regain control to serve them. It feels like they’re judging me, contempt radiating from them. All I can think is, “Why aren’t they helping me? Can’t they see my distress?”
“Because, Kelsey, no one really, truly cares. Everyone is only ever thinking of themselves,” I think. While I feel like the centre of my world, especially when in turmoil or pain, I am, indeed, not the centre of the world. This is a hard pill to swallow. “No one can help you but you, girlfriend.”
I hate feeling like this. I get my breathing under control long enough to quickly take drink orders and scurry back behind the bar finding comfort in the solid wooden structure separating me from them. My co-worker Leah shows up early and comes behind the bar. She rubs my back soothingly telling me it will be okay. I don’t think it will be but I nod because it’s easier than trying to explain that every cell in my body is screaming ‘something is wrong’ at me. I transfer the table to her and cash out. I race home on foot. I won’t remember the walk. Clay isn’t home from work yet. Our apartment is quiet, so quiet my intrusive thoughts sound louder than normal. I fall onto the couch, my body no longer able to hold me up or hold up the pretence.
After eight weeks of this, I know I can’t live like this anymore. Something has to give. I Google anxiety. I find an article that says cannabis breaks down the body’s ability to withstand mental illness. I decide I will quit cannabis cold turkey. Making a decision feels like a step in the right direction. I put my phone down and drift off.
When Clay finally gets home he takes one look at me and knows it was a hard day. He sits down beside me on our comfy, second hand couch and rubs my back. I tell him what happened at work and what I’ve found on Google. He agrees that quitting cannabis is a good idea.
Thankfully, my desperation for peace and wellness supercedes any cravings I have for a good high. My health is my top priority right now. Getting one foot in front of the other is the only way forward. I must overcome this. I quit marijuana cold turkey on Oct 29, 2012 after a decade of almost daily use. Future me depends on this decision. I must do this.
I have another panic attack the next day. Depression hovers, waiting to sneak into the soft spots in my mind. Every panic attack feeds the growing depression like a virus in my mind, worming its way into my everyday life, paralyzing me. I text Clay that I need him to come home from work and be with me. He writes back, “I can’t baby. I have to work. But I want you to think about this. It’s all about getting a goal and working your ass off to reach it. Happiness comes from reaching your goal. Misery comes from not doing what you’ve asked of yourself. Depression comes from too long a span between times that you reach goals. Then it seems all is lost and finding enthusiasm for anything becomes hard. Set goals that aren’t so daunting. Then as you reach them it will lift your spirits and exercise the strengths you need to reach the big goals that mean the most to you and makes this life so wonderful.”
I know he’s right. Overcoming mental illnesses is a mind game but there are times where trying to put your mind into checkmate on your own just isn’t enough. Prescription pharmaceuticals aren’t an option for me (the side effects outweigh the benefits) but I’ve found 5-HTP, an over the counter compound that supposedly helps your body increase serotonin levels. 5-Hydroxytryptophan is naturally produced in the body and is used to make serotonin. Supplementing with it is believed to help overcome depression and anxiety, among other things. I’m willing to try this. I can’t do it on my own and I can’t live like this anymore. I’m sick of my own damn self, this ghost of myself trapped in a body I barely recognize, my mind a stranger.
I have an addictive personality so I plan on trying it for only fourteen days to start. It won’t help me to replace one substance for another, no matter how “natural” it may be. I buy it from Shopper’s Drug Mart and take my first pill immediately. Within a few hours, I can feel its effects. I feel a little loopy, a little giddy, like the buzz you get after the first glass of wine. The cloud of doom that hangs over my head slowly dissipates, like the sun warming fog away. I laugh. Wait, I can laugh?! I can laugh again! I feel happy, something that has become so foreign to me. One pill and this is how I feel? I am elated I have found this drug. The next day is similar but I notice I am awfully tired. I yawn repeatedly and often. It’s making me sleepy, I realize. I alternate between this buzzy euphoria and napping for the next six days. Work and school are the least of my worries. I’ve taken a leave from both for these two weeks. I need to rest and recuperate.
At the end of the week I realize 5-HTP is not a long term solution. But the depression and anxiety have lifted so I’ll continue into the second week. The second week is the same as the first. Sleeping and joy. When I’m awake, I’m me again. I feel joy. Happiness. Hope.
Hope is a big feeling, an important one. In the depths of anxiety and depression, hope is non-existent. Hope can’t thrive when anxiety and depression lead the way. Hope becomes dangerous. Hope becomes unobtainable. But with 5-HTP, hope has slowly returned, tentatively stepping back into my life, like a lover after a fight. I feel hopeful for the future. Ten days in, I begin journaling again. Going for walks. Choosing healthier foods. Reading self help books. Finding a counsellor.
After 14 days, I simply stop taking the pills. I worry what the next few days will look like: Will there be withdrawal symptoms? Will the anxiety slam back into me? Will the depression leach back in?
Nothing happens. I remain the new me … or should I say the old me? The anxiety is gone. I feel better than I have in months. I vow to stay away from cannabis and to continue taking my mental health seriously. I see how important taking care of myself is. I see how no one else will do it for me. This is an inside job, one that’s going to require a lot of work. Checkmate. Finally.