I am the Lizard Queen!
Give her this, and this, and then these. Thank you, doctor. Oh, I'm not a doctor.
Something something disclaimer about knowing absolutely NOTHING about SSRI/Mental Health medication. Talk to a professional. Don’t listen to me.
“Oh, I’m not a doctor”
The anti-depressants were only meant to be prescribed for a year or less. To ‘get me back on track’, to gently reset my outlook, kind of like a ‘circuit breaker’ for my mental health. It was my honours year of uni (my second degree, one I was hoping might actually get me gainfully employed) and my anxiety had gotten so bad I could scarcely make the simplest of decisions. Real basic shit. Like what to wear when getting dressed in the morning. Or what to do when my winged eyeliner didn’t match perfectly on both eyes. That basic shit was a heavy top layer on my brain-cake. The fondant atop the heavier substantial feelings of the Not-At-All-Basic-Shit… you know, like the current political situation (Trump’s recent election), climate change, the separate but recent suicide of three close friends, my partner’s business failing. But then every day, all day, there was the inevitable sprinkling of Basic-Shit anxieties just absolutely ruining my days. Silly little things upsetting me way more than what would be considered reasonable. That was 5+ years ago.
“I made a special cake for you to ruin, it’s over there”
Thinking back to pre-SSRIs I remember one day in the office very distinctly. I was working on something that required me to place some very simple text on an image. I’m a graphic designer, and I think that day I was making some kind of super basic web banner. A piece of piss really. In that moment, moving that text around the screen, I remember nearly having a full blown anxiety attack over the decision of where the it should go. Objectively it should not have been a difficult task. Yet there I was, my heart pounding, brow sweating, and mind racing. It felt so intense. I was about to cry. For context I was mid-internship at a design agency I deeply respected, as part of a year long honours graduate placement at uni. This was a creative company I had adored for years. I got the gig myself. Somehow, a few months prior I’d talked my way into getting a position, even though they didn’t need an intern, much less an under-grad. In my mind, a lot was riding on my doing well there. I needed to impress these people. I was much older than the other students in my year (all amazing honours-students doing placements at agencies all over Melbourne). In my mind I had much more to lose if I didn’t get a good gig (a course requirement). To a certain extent my anxieties about the job overall were valid. But on a smaller scale, the day-to-day feelings of being so terrified of making a wrong move over something as simple as a piece of text on an ad (something the higher-ups hand-balled to the intern)… well, look, I’m shit-house at maths but even I know a ratio of stress to real-life consequences of failure like that absolutely did not add up.
It wasn’t just work that made me anxious. I would freak the absolute fuck out at stupid stuff like misplacing my keys. I’d literally spiral into an emotional wreck and burst into tears or (this is embarrassing to admit) throw things like a toddler because I believed in that moment that a) losing my keys was SUCH a huge disaster, and b) that I was the world’s biggest fool for allowing it to happen. My brain would then leap to some really scathing moral judgements about myself like - I didn’t deserve to live in a house that needed keys. Proper, existential good vs bad shit. I mean, how could someone so privileged, who had worked so hard their entire life, and been given so much, fuck up so badly as to lose their keys! What a failure! What a piece of shit.
Upon reflection, now that I’m doing better, one of the strangest parts (and biggest takeaways) of those thought spirals/anxiety attacks/delusions or whatever you want to call them, is that they felt so intensely real and heavy, despite the fact that I’d been through FAR worse in my life. There were countless experiences I’d lived through, that by comparison were far more worthy of stress and anxiety. How did losing keys feel like the time I nearly died in a car accident I caused? Why did working on some pretty average design feel like the literal life or death decision I once made to kill a snake that was about to attack me.
Cooked, right?
Something had to give. So I spoke to my GP and I went on SSRIs. To quiet my mind. To numb myself of the constant overthinking and fear and stress and worry. It worked too. It worked so well. I often tell people that Pristiq changed my life. It absolutely did. I finally had relief. Perspective! What a gift. I had the distance to examine my emotions objectively rather than simply being held hostage by them randomly whenever something slightly inconvenient occurred. In those first two years I used that space, perspective and level-headedness to work on my shit and get some proper therapy.
I went through a few therapists in that time. Some helped, others were legit fucking nut jobs, and then some objectively terrible ones who made me question how they were even permitted to become therapists in the first place. I digress. The therapy I went through is a whole OTHER story completely. I’ll save my CBT, psychotherapy, hypnotism, NLP and spiritual healer stories for another time.
What I really wanted to get into here was the Before and After of being on an anti-depressants.
So, folks, let’s fast forward to 2 weeks ago when I was in Bali and ran out of Pristiq. Oh yeah, this dick head went on an overseas trip without enough brain medication. That’s some dumb shit. I mean, while I was packing I thought ‘I’ve got my repeat prescription from the doctor, so how hard could it be to find the exact same chemical compound and dosage in a completely different nation with a completely different language and healthcare system?’ Spoiler alert: It was hard. So hard, it didn’t happen.
As I’m typing this (and anyone reading this who has come off SSRIs will feel me here), I’m experiencing what can best be described as ‘brain zaps’. Little pings of what feels like electricity in the front of my brain, usually when I move my eyes/gaze quickly. I’ve also been experiencing a lot of nausea and proper vertigo since 2 days after I had my last pill. These are the physical side effects of SSRI withdrawal. I know them well because I’d come off a different brand of anti-depressant in my early 20s with a similar reaction. I knew these symptoms were coming and there was nothing I could do about them in Bali but hop on reddit and ask what local drugs would help. Thanks Reddit, you kinda helped.
Overall the withdrawal hasn’t been too bad physically, and I’m feeling pretty good.
What’s really shook me is how I feel emotionally. Like in my soul kinda shit. I wouldn’t call it ‘manic’, but every day for the past week or so I’ve gone from a couple hours of being so sad that I’m literally weeping over things like a sad meme, the war, and even seeing a fairly average cover band play my favourite song (even though I hate cover bands). THEN within half an hour experiencing absolutely overwhelming joy at everyday nice things, like how cute a baby is or how much I love my latest tattoo. Maybe that is manic. Y’know that sounds manic. Ultimately it feels like the unexpected side effect of the withdrawal, but Idk, I’m not a doctor (obviously, or I would have done more to make sure I didn’t go cold turkey off my meds like an idiot).
Seriously though, I feel inspired. I feel joy. I feel love. Hell, I think I’m actually IN love. For a numbed-out cynic like me who lived through covid in the most locked down city IN THE WORLD, and tried to numb myself at every turn with booze and drugs, it’s like someone turned up the brightness level on my emotions all of a sudden, even though I didn’t realise I’d been sitting in a dimly lit room for fuck…. over 5 years now.
Look at all these words I’ve written!?! I haven’t felt compelled to write anything this long in AGES.
To wrap up, I guess I’m honestly quite nervous about the debilitating anxiety coming back, and how maybe I might get TOO sad to cope (especially after the 3 suicide attempts last year* due to drug/alcohol misuse). BUT after a rough few years of drinking heavily to numb some pretty intense pain (the act of which, maybe upon reflection, was just me not wanting to feel ANYTHING); the overwhelming joy that’s returned to me has completely obliterated that fear. Somehow knowing I can feel THIS happy or creative again quite suddenly makes me NOT wanna drink.
As I type this I’m acutely aware that brain chemistry is a SCIENCE that must be respected and kept in-check, and that I absolutely need to speak to a doctor. I am NOT self-diagnosing, please know that, dear friend, Internet Void. Just self reflecting.
That being said I also feel like feeling this happy can’t be a bad thing. I have a counsellor. I talk openly and honestly to my friends all the time. They know where I’m at. I feel stable. And hell, after so long of being washed over by waves of numbing sadness, I know what to look for when things might start to look dark.
I guess what I’m trying to communicate to anyone reading this, is that if anxiety is fucking with you so hard that you literally can’t do basic tasks, get some help right now. Talk to a doctor.
I’m also saying, conversely, please don’t be complacent while on SSRIs. Stay in touch with your doctor about how they’re working for you. Remind your doctor how long you’ve been on them. Work on your shit in conjunction with using them. I’m not a doctor, but I’ve found that from personal experience, after a while, like me, you might forget why you were getting medicated in the first place. Or something.
Love,
The Lizard Queen
PS. TRY love yourself even if you feel like you’re a piece of shit, because our minds can absolutely say dumb things and thoughts and feelings ARE NOT facts.
*I’m no longer suicidal. I’m fine. But yep, those attempts are another story for another time.