I Am an Addict Part One

I’ve tried to ignore the truth for far too long. But now, in the midst of a wildly spectacular spiral of fear and shame of withdrawal, I accept that I am an addict. My drug of choice, however, is nothing so scandalous as alcohol, heroin, cocaine or meth (I do not intend to offend or minimize those who fight the battle with these substances - addiction is universal); the monkey on my back is a drug prescribed to me by a medical professional over 15 years ago as a way to help me live a normal, happy life. This week, Effexor ruined my life.

Allow me to indulge in a little literary device known as back-story:  My regular physician retired a few months ago and a young whippersnapper, who had only recently gotten a white coat, bought the practice. Our first meeting was pleasant enough and he refilled all the usual suspect pharmaceuticals that were part of my daily regimen for years. But only for one month. He lulled me into a false sense of security, thinking I could just blissfully carry on taking government approved poisons for the rest of my days. But he fooled me!

At my next appointment, he explained to me, in soothing tones, how he didn’t feel that I should be taking as many medications as I was at the time, especially the anxiety/depression medication known in user circles as Effxor, and widely known as Venlafaxine. He created a plan to step me down from the medication that would have me pharmaceutical free in three months.  “How lovely,” I thought. No concern of whether or not food or water would be available to take a pill. No adhering to a strict time table of when to ingest certain medicines. Sounded a lot like Heaven. What I got was a whole lot of Hell!

My first prescription for Effexor came in 1999 during a somewhat stressful time. I worked for a highly respected local private school, in the fine arts department and was elbow deep in planning a HUGE arts festival that drew over 3,000 to our campus.  I love artists (I AM one!), but I do not love trying to get them to be organized or meet deadlines. My sweet and long-suffering boss at the time was very understanding and often threw himself on my grenade of a temper when dealing with those free-spirited Bohemians! Several days in a row, I came home and cried. And cried and cried and cried. My roommate lost her patience with me regularly and once, when she, asked, “What the hell are you crying about NOW?” upon seeing my reaction a Hallmark commercial, I knew something was very wrong with me.

It wasn’t until a day about two weeks after that incident that I found myself wanting to hurt something or someone. Rage consumed me so that I was unfit to be in the company of humans – even managed to threaten a coworker at one point! I had gone to grab lunch, and on the way back didn’t quite make the green light. My next memory is of horns honking at me as I banged my hands and head against the steering wheel of my vehicle. I drove to my doctor’s office and waited until he had time to see me. He gave me a quiz (EXACTLY how I wanted to spend my time inside a murderous rage) and determined that I had issues with anxiety and depression. (DUH!)  He patted my head and sent me on my way to the pharmacy with a prescription for Effexor in my tightly clenched hand.

Within a week, I felt better – better about my life, my job, and my relationships – about everything! I no longer felt encumbered by fear, constantly worrying about how something would go wrong and I would break down. Things were good. Until they weren’t.

Over the ensuing decade and a half, my dosage would increase every couple of years until as of late 2015, I was taking more than 6 times my original dosage. I didn’t really see any problem. I managed to coast through the last five years pretty well, only occasionally really feeling the crunch. I mentioned to the new doctor that the Effexor was what I attributed to keeping me sane during the five years caring for my father, the last days of his life and, ultimately, his passing.  When he asked me to name the feelings I experienced, I discovered that while I could produce the words from my lexicon – sadness, grief, loss, anger, joy, love -  I wasn’t actually feeling those emotions. I felt…nothing.

My every reaction was flat. While on the outside, I appeared to react appropriately to a situation, on the inside, nothing really registered. I discussed with Dr. Whippersnapper what to expect with the change in the medication, but he kept repeating, “It will all be worth it in the end.”

What do you think he meant by that?

 

 

 

Stay tuned for Part Two of I Am an Addict.