Week Eleven

Panicked

Mental illness runs through my family like the Nile through Egypt. And as I made my way through my 20s, I was thankful that I'd somehow avoided the curse. I'd seen it first hand, I knew of the seriousness of it all, the ways it can destroy people and families, and how despite it's very real dangers, no one talked about it. No one. It was swept under the rug. Sure, in closed circles someone might mention something out of earshot of others. They might blame an action or mistake on the illness. But when it came to a real and frank discussion, mental illness was never spoken about.

But as I sat on the floor of my bedroom in my apartment on the Upper East Side, rocking back and forth with my arms wrapped around my legs telling myself, "you're better than this," over and over again, I knew something was wrong. But, I assumed it was physical rather than mental. The reason I couldn't leave my apartment was because something was physically wrong with me. I'd had too much caffeine. I hadn't exercised in awhile. I'd eaten some bad food. 

My girlfriend at the time would grow angry with me because my fear of large crowds was growing steadily. So going to bars and clubs was out. Visiting her in Brooklyn took an incredible amount of energy, because it meant crowding myself into a subway train for 45 minutes. But I never had the strength to tell her why. Only that I couldn't. 

And it continued to grow. I couldn't be anywhere without an easy exit. I needed a bathroom within a minute's reach. When I managed to will myself out of my apartment and into a social interaction, I'd obsessively think about every single thing I'd said throughout the night, wondering if I'd hurt anyone's feelings, or inadvertently caused them to hate me. I detested hugs, and physical interaction made my skin crawl.

As this spiral downward continued, it started affecting my health. I dropped 30lbs in a year, and the crushing anxiety caused daily bouts of diarrhea. It also helped destroy one relationship, and didn't help much in my next one. I'd leave restaurants in the middle of the meal because I was having an anxiety attack. I couldn't concentrate at work, and my job performance was suffering tremendously. 

And still, I insisted it was somehow related to something physically wrong with me. I convinced myself I was lactose intolerant. I was sure I had celiac disease. Never once did I admit to myself that this was something entirely different. 

I was 25 years old when all of this started. Seven years later, I decided to finally get to the root of the problem. I was about to be married in a year and I was determined to fix all of this before the wedding. It wasn't fair to my soon-to-be-wife (who, I will admit, was incredibly patient through all of these eccentricities and anxiety attacks.)

I went to my primary care physician and told him I'd had diarrhea almost constantly for the past seven years. He immediately scheduled me to see a proctologist who then signed me up for a colonoscopy. When those tests came back negative and there was nothing wrong with my GI tract, the proctologist pulled me into his office and had the exact conversation I should have had with myself seven years earlier. 

This wasn't physical. This was mental. So, he put me on a low dosage of Lexapro - an antidepressant (note: I'm not now nor was I then depressed, but it helps with OCD and anxiety as well).

My world fucking changed. 

On the day of my colonoscopy, I weighed 125lbs. Nine months later at my wedding, I was 160lbs. I became more physically active, joined a rowing program, and saw an increase in my social life. I was outgoing again. With less to worry about, I was free to think creatively again. And the only negative thought that remained was that I'd wasted seven whole years fighting this disease when it could have been rectified simply if I'd only have been honest with myself.

One year after my colonoscopy, my proctologist scheduled me for a follow-up visit. He was late coming into the room, and there was a somber mood throughout the office. When he did finally come in and ask me how things were going, I teared up. I thanked him for saving my life. I thanked him for giving me my life back. And I thanked him for taking the time to really figure out what was wrong, rather than just send me to another doctor. He teared up too. He told me it'd been a hard day, and that one of his patents had just died from colon cancer, but that this sort of success was what made his work worthwhile. And for the first time in my whole life, I hugged a doctor. 

It's been five years since everything was "fixed." While I do have the occasional anxiety attack, they can be measured seasonally rather than daily. I'm never afraid to leave my house, and I look forward to social situations. I also only get diarrhea when I decide it's smart to eat three full bags of Sour Patch Kids. I'm still on Lexapro, and I meditate regularly to help keep me calm.  

So, why tell you all this? I'm telling you this to tell you about this. To create a dialogue. To share my experience and provide proof that getting help works. These diseases thrive in the darkness, and no one should waste 7 days let alone 7 years in silence fighting them.