It happened after an ordinary, unremarkable experience much like many I’d had in my life. Yet another instance where I had given too much to a person and not established sensible boundaries.
An acquaintance—I can’t even call her a friend—had been going through a hard time and needed help clearing way-overgrown weeds out of the backyard of her condo. She asked me if I’d help her. With two worsening arthritic hands and 12-hour work days, I couldn’t. But I could pay the guy who did our landscaping to go over and help her.
So I called him, and he agreed. After I ended the call, I stood at my office door, looking at my own yard, and feeling the resentment building.
Why did I just do that? What is this going to cost? I barely know her. She’s a friend of a friend I don’t even see anymore. She’s a hoarder who has trouble holding a job. Why did I just make one of her many problems my problem? Why can’t I say no? Why do I always do this? Why do I let people take advantage of me? Why do I feel like I need to “fix” everything?
That’s when I started to feel like I couldn’t breathe. I tried to draw in two big lungs full of air and couldn’t. Try as I may, I couldn’t breathe deeply. I felt like I couldn’t breathe at all.
Then I started to feel pain in the middle of my chest. Me. Chest pain. Me. The woman who works with a personal trainer twice a week and does steep inclines on the treadmill in between. Me. Chest pain.
I sat down at my desk and closed my eyes. The pain eventually subsided. I knew I wasn’t having a heart attack. My heart was fine. (Disclaimer: No, I didn’t really know that. Don’t do what I did. A person in this situation should go to the emergency room.)
But the pain was real. The resentment, anger and feelings of foolishness had boiled up so quickly that they took over, and for the first time in my life, I couldn’t get them under control.
I had just had a panic attack. I wasn’t 100% sure, but I was sure enough to get online and make an appointment with my PCP that week. I took the first time slot he had available.
Three days later, I was in an exam room with him. As I explained what happened, I started to cry. An ugly cry born of a years-long need to talk about the anxiety I was struggling with and failing to hide.
I was scared and embarrassed. I was also grateful that this man was listening to me in the 6.5 minutes the system had allotted to me. He started talking about saber-tooth tigers and serotonin and drawing on the white paper that covered the exam table. He was taking his time and trying to help me.
But I knew where this was going. Medication. Me. Medication.
He prescribed Celexa and Ativan and told me he wanted to see me in three weeks.
This was not what I wanted. But I didn’t want any more chest pain. So I got the prescriptions filled.
I started taking the Celexa that night. In the morning, when I stood up out of bed, I fell into the nightstand. When I bent down to tie my sneakers, I fell forward again. When I closed my eyes, things were moving. I described it as having earthworms on the backs of my eyelids.
I went through that first day in a low-grade fog, struggling to keep my balance. I happened to have my first-ever acupuncture appointment that day to see if it would help me with my stress level. As I lay on the table with needles in my wrists and ankles, I cried quietly. It was the first and last day I took Celexa.
Two nights later, I took my first Ativan. I slept like I had never slept in my adult life. Blissful, peaceful, easy. Too easy. It was my first experience with a benzodiazepine. Within a year, I would slide toward dependency. And the chest pain would return.
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