A Box of Sharp Objects

I shouldn't be here.

I shouldn't be here, looking at this blank screen, my only thoughts about the next words to write down. I shouldn't be here, in the state of mind this blog topic will cover.

There's this thing called college, and these semi-regular things called midterms, and this endless war raging against my chemistry course, and that is where I should be. On the front lines of that battle ground, fighting for a grade that will win the war.

 But here is where I am.

A scared soldier, fleeing from battle. Abandoning the war.

I'm having a hard time caring about my grades this term. I'm having a hard time engaging in my courses. I'm having a hard time engaging myself in work, in relationships, in conversation.

I have been fighting another battle (and loosing) over the past few months,with anxiety. We all know by now that this doesn't qualify as news- it's the same old story, going round and round and round year after year. Sleepless nights, a mind plagued by unhealthy patterns, nervous breakdowns, upset adrenal glands, severe relational withdrawal, unintentional self-starvation, the repetitive click-click-click of laptop keys as I put the process into words here in this space.

This time around, things have been different. The supplements that normally restore my adrenal glands haven't been working. The lavender pills that I take daily to teach my brain to ignore negative thoughts and let them pass without question, and to ease my body into a calm state of bliss have failed miserably at keeping anxiety attacks at bay.

For the first time in my life, my foolproof combination of early bedtimes, healthy eating habits,stress-relieving supplements, and daily Bible reading has failed to keep my head above the water.

My anxiety is out of control: I'm afraid to drive my car anywhere besides work and school. I never want to leave my house. Social gatherings are an anxiety attack in the bathroom waiting to happen. Loud noises, unexpected questions, prolonged eye contact, spontaneous decisions, elevated voices, anything outside of the carefully constructed routine I've planned for myself causes an overwhelming wave of panic to crash over me. It's flat-out impossible to navigate, and the weight of simple decisions and balancing routines has been crushing the delicate lungs inside my rib cage until I can no longer breathe.

On a Monday morning at work, eyes blurred with tears, I typed out an email to my supplement-slinging naturopath, hoping she had another combination of vegetable pills, or essential oil drops, or some sort of soothing herbal balm to smear on my forehead. Anything that would take this anxiety away. Within minutes she responded, and as I scanned her email, one sentence jumped out immediately.

I'm sorry you're still going through this. I'm writing you a prescription for Xanax, and I strongly recommend taking a neurotransmitter test so we can better understand your brain chemistry, if you're open to that.

Eyes closed. Hand over heart. Heart beat thudding loudly into my ear drums. You're broken. A dark whisper crept into my mind as I locked myself in one of the soundproof rooms in our back hallway and called my mom, crying.

It was a reaction that I didn't understand, and I still don't to be honest. All of my adult life, I have strongly advocated the use of prescription medication for mental illness. I have had closest friends experience overwhelming trauma that led them to require medication which helped them get through the pain. Re-training your brain requires heavy duty artillery sometimes, and that has never been a conviction that I struggled with. Members of my own family have needed prescription drugs to fight their own battles with anxiety and depression, and I have never understood the so-called "Christian" mindset that some people have which says that taking prescription meds is a sin, or that mental illness isn't real. Please, sit down and stop talking.

And yet- when it came to my own name being typed across that little green Costco pharmacy bottle, I lost it.

In some ways, I felt relief. I felt validated. Like I could finally accept the fact that I'm not crazy- I'm not inflicting any of this on myself, I have an actual problem that I physiologically cannot control. I am not being punished by God.

In other ways, I felt a little shocked. Is my anxiety that bad? I don't really have that large of a problem, do I? Can this really be happening?  I thought I was stronger than this.
Pride is like a jagged little pill. (Borrowing this coined phrase from none other than Alanis Morissette. hashtag:keepingitreal.)

It burns the entire way down, and as soon as its in your system, it turns into a warm little gas that spreads through your entire body, and soon it becomes a part of you that you don't even realize is there.

It's been about a week now, and I'm still adjusting to the new pills. I haven't been taking them constantly- I'm trying to take them only when I can feel the anxiety coming on. Right now, they're really good at making me extremely drowsy. Today, I took a 3 hour nap instead of studying for my midterm, and then I came here to write it all down.

I don't know what this next stage of life looks like, but what I do know is that this is a new phase of normal for me: adjusting to life with benzos and trying to find healing through the process.

It's a collection of jagged, broken pieces all stock-piled together to form a nice, whole little collection.

A box of sharp objects that I can't hide anymore.

No matter how strongly I feel as though I'm not supposed to be here, here is where I am.