Living, Learning, and Surviving

A short bit of truth about a recent struggle. If you find it helpful, or think others will, please share. Thank you.

What was my life like before twitter? It’s hard to remember. It’s not just a social media platform for me any longer. It’s a place where I’ve found a new family, and a few wonderful new friends. Caring, kind, gentle people who I have come to rely on to brighten my days. I hope I do the same for them.

In mid-October, I took a very rare break from Twitter for a few days. I said I was just not feeling like myself. Everyone was kind, like always, sending hug gifs and well wishes. It was nice to see, and I appreciated it more than I could say, but I still had little interest in being on social media, or doing anything else, for that matter. I checked in every now and then to see if I could cheer myself up, but I was mostly silent for two or three days.

One of the problems with this was the lie. “I’m just not feeling like myself,” was a vast understatement of my situation. The truth about my condition at the time was something I could not even admit to myself until weeks later. The truth was, during a five-day period, I struggled to find a reason why I should live. What was the actual point of my existence? No children. No husband. Few friends. No family nearby. Nothing on the horizon for me other than work, and for what? What was the point?

It was all so irrational. 

I told myself I was useless. I had few friends, and my family didn’t call because that is what I deserved. I was not a good person, so, what did I expect? There was no future for me. No purpose. I wished I was dead. Why should I keep going like this with no future? I was not making any meaningful impact in this world, so why keep suffering?

I managed to get through my work days and get the job done by crying off and on at my desk and faking my way through phone calls. For all anyone knew, I was my usually happy and helpful self, solving problems and answering questions. Luckily, I was working from home. 

After work, I cried hysterically in bed for hours, the whole time knowing what was going through my head was wrong. It was misinformation. My mind was playing tricks on me, but I couldn’t stop it.

About four days in, I realized this had been happening for months. Although not to this degree, I had been having what I would later term, “dark thoughts,” off and on for a while. During the times when my head was clear enough, I started to put the pieces together, and realized this was happening in conjunction with my monthly cycle. 

The problem was, although I had suffered with PMS my whole life, this was not that. This was so much worse, and once I realized it was happening month after month, for at least four months, and was getting much worse, I called my doctor. I called on Friday, if I recall, and they scheduled me for the following Thursday. 

On Saturday, I woke up like a brand-new person. Like myself, actually. Happy and ready to face my weekend with writing, housework, cooking, and puppy play. At least now I knew I could make it to Thursday. And I did. I was fine. I was myself again, as if none of what had happened the past week had occurred at all. 

I was worried that I would forget some of my symptoms now that I was feeling better, so I began to make a list. I wanted to be sure I was thorough. If there was a chance they could help me, I wanted them to have all the information, and when something isn’t happening to me right at that moment, I tend to miss some of the details.

My list looked like this… dark thoughts, severe depression, feeling hopeless, hysterical crying, fatigue, feeling unfocused, and no interest in doing anything with anyone.

I had decided to do some reading, and I wondered if I had a severe form of PMS called PMDD (premenstrual dysphoric disorder), so I headed to my appointment feeling fine, but armed with my list of symptoms and the question, do I have PMDD?

I had chosen to see the Nurse Practitioner. I had seen her prior to my gall bladder surgery and she was a sweetheart. I also knew I could get in with her much more quickly than I could with my own doctor. I told her everything, stressing that I was fine at that moment, and in fact the symptoms had stopped as abruptly as they had started. As of the previous Saturday, I was fine. Like a switch being flipped on and off. 

We talked, I read my list, she took notes and asked questions. At one point she asked me flat out, “Are you having any thoughts of suicide?”

I said, “No, not really,” shrugging off the question.

I wasn’t ready to admit that. Not to her, and especially not to myself. Not even after she confirmed my suspicion that I surely had PMDD. I guess if you have a certain number of symptoms and the timing lines up with your cycle, that’s all they need to make the diagnosis.  

I am not good at asking for help. I’m the strong one. I’ve lived on my own since I was twenty, and alone since I was twenty-five. I’m forty-eight years old now, and although I have the support of my family, I have had to, and have preferred to, do things on my own. I like to figure it out and stand on my own two feet. 

I also don’t like to share my feeling and emotions. I’m not good at it. Never have been. I’m not one to call a friend or family member and say, “Hey, I feel like crap, and maybe I shouldn’t be alone right now.”

The treatment for PMDD, it turns out, is to take an anti-depressant, and my NP wanted me to start right away in an effort to head this off before my November cycle. As my luck would have it, finding the right drug was not straightforward due to my heart disease and the medications I take related to that. Specifically, many drugs can interact poorly with my blood thinner or blood pressure medications to the point where I could have another heart attack. After a brief consultation with my doctor and my cardiologist, the NP prescribed Fluoxetine (Prozac) the following day, Friday. I drove the forty-five minutes to my pharmacy that afternoon so I could start the drug right away.

I was a little worried about the side effects, but I knew they couldn’t possibly be any worse than the PMDD symptoms. I took the first dose Friday evening, and sure enough, I was fast asleep thirty minutes later. If only I could have stayed asleep. I was up a few hours later, and it took a few more hours to fall back to sleep. For the remainder of the weekend, I was in a fog. I was also exhausted and so hungry. Considering I am on a diet, this was super annoying. 

Monday, I decided to drive in to work in my office, an hour away, rather than working from home. BIG MISTAKE. I didn’t realize how poorly my brain was working until I was on the highway. I felt like I was floating over the car, and the girl they call “Lead-Foot-Lucy” wound up driving the speed limit all the way in. At one point, I considered turning around, but I am not one for wasting time. The next exit was miles away, so I figured I would just be careful and stay the course. Some of my friends were not pleased. Sorry, guys.

I made it through the work day, although I didn’t spend a whole lot of time at my desk. I was equal parts restless and fatigued, and I was having leg cramps. Luckily, my boss/friend, knew what was going on. With a background in human medicine, she’s a great person to keep in the loop about health issues. 

I drove home, carefully, and didn’t climb behind the wheel again until Friday, when I drove to the supermarket early in the morning. I felt better about driving, but I did manage to run over a curb. Hey, that could happen to anyone. 

That same night that I had worked in the office, I was exhausted to the point that my eyes ached, and I was dizzy, but I still could not fall asleep. I lay awake for hours, night after night until a smart friend, knowing I love tea, suggested chamomile, which I actually had on hand. It did the trick. I fell asleep within minutes of laying down, and tea was added to my evening routine. The new problem was, I would wake up in the wee hours of the morning, and lay awake for hours. That is actually still happening today, five weeks in to the new medication regimen.

The side effects, other than the sleep issues, slowly subsided and in mid-November, I started my cycle, much to my surprise, three days early. I was surprised because the PMS a couple days ahead of starting was usually my heads-up. So, not only did I not have PMDD symptoms, but I didn’t even have PMS. Could this be right? 

Over the next two days I had what I would term, very minor PMS. Basically, I just didn’t feel like doing anything. I just wanted to sit on the couch and watch TV. I think this may be how many women feel during their cycle, but I still kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never did.

This week, now on the Prozac for over a month, I had my follow-up visit with the NP. She was happy to hear how well the month had gone with respect to the PMDD. The early side effects were typical and expected, but she was concerned about the sleep issues. In the end, she left it up to me to either stay on this drug or try something different. I opted to stay the course for at least another month in hopes that the sleep issue would work its way out. If I were to start a new drug now, I would likely have all the same side effects again, and maybe more. Also, what if a new drug didn’t work as well on the PMDD? I didn’t want to take that chance.  

Finally, she asked me flat out, “So, no suicidal thoughts this month?” She knew. 

She knew when I said, “not really,” the month before that it was a lie.

I told her, “No, nothing even close.” I told her about the two days of what I called mild PMS, and that it was as much trouble as I had. 

So, I’m surviving this crazy hormonal issue that most people have never heard of. I almost didn’t realize what was happening, which was one of the scariest parts. Luckily, I realized something was very wrong, and what was going on inside me was not normal, and it was not me. I’m grateful for a few friends who reached out to me privately on social media because they could tell something was wrong. They checked on me at least once daily, and it turns out I needed that very much. It was only in the last two weeks I told my parents what was going on, and the rest of my friends still do not know.

It’s hard for me to admit that I had wished I was dead. I know it’s not my fault. Hormones of all types can do a real number on a person’s body and mind, but still… I don’t want people to look at me differently or treat me differently because I’m the “suicidal one.” I’m not her. I’m just a girl who lived through hell in October, and for a few months prior, and survived. If the medication continues to do its job, I will continue to thrive.

-KD