Bead-counting, for the uninitiated, goes something like this. You get a pile of pills (Effexor), a cutting mat, and a knife. Carefully, gingerly, you twist each capsule open, spilling the beads onto the cutting mat (Sergio is gentler than I am, evidently -- I crushed two capsules in the process with my big meaty hands). The beads are tiny white things, spherical and smaller than cupcake sprinkles. Depending on the capsule, you can find half- and quarter-beads, added to get the correct dosing.
Once you have a pile of these white beads, you have to tap the capsules to make sure there are no hangers-on, and then you have to count enough beads to put back into the capsule. In this case, we were making five days worth of six, five, four, three, two, and one beads -- a month's worth of pills. Close the capsule, set it in its respective pile, and once you have ten, pop them into a labeled plastic baggie and -- voila! Tapering commences.
I was afraid to get off Effexor because my last attempt -- a poor last attempt, I'll admit -- was so painful. This time, I grabbed my little notebook again to track symptoms and used my over-planning tendencies to my advantage. Every time I feel the rebound anxiety I tell myself, this is okay. This is supposed to happen! Whenever the headache starts I think, Go, body, go! You can do it!
It's a little frightening to stop the meds and to think that, at least for a time, my newfound stability might crumble beneath my feet. I am stronger than I was, though, and I know that I am ready.
That is the biggest problem -- with the knowledge I have now, I can't forget about anxiety. Not yet. February marks the one-year anniversary of therapy for the anxiety (though until April it was just "a health problem" until the diagnosis came through) and I was reflecting on how that experience, combined with everything else, has helped me to make progress.
Anxiety is like that. It was always there, or, if not always, for a long time. But with nothing to compare it to I made the assumption that the world was that fuzzy for everyone, that squinting to make out letters was just what it took to read.
Once you can see, your greatest fear is going blind.
I heard a story on NPR some time ago about a man who lost his sight, regained it, lost it, regained it, and then, finally, lost it for good. He talked about his journey through sight and blindness and what he appreciated about both. I was mesmerized by his story -- not only was he courageous, but he was able to recognize the benefits of sight and of sightlessness. He didn't believe that seeing was better -- yes, it afforded him certain privileges, but he recognized the freedom -- the freedom! -- of relying on his other senses.
But for me, this is the new reality and it's a one-way ticket with no chance of a return.
What I've learned through the process of therapy is that going back -- to the numbness, to the not-knowingness -- isn't an option for me. I can't unlearn what I know and I can't go back to a time when I pushed self-care aside for ambition. I won't let myself make so many decisions based on fear or worry about what others think of me before I consider what I think of me. It has taken me a year to give myself permission to choose something self-indulgent without feeling bad or to accept that doing my best right now is all that I can ask of myself. I'm slowly dealing with the feeling that being myself -- authentic yet different, weird yet lovable -- is okay.
Lest you think it has been easy -- it hasn't.
I'm still learning to set better boundaries for both myself and others. If I can let go of the guilt of what I am supposed to do, I can decide what I want to do. I know it's a big adjustment for friends and loved ones to see someone who was so much more outgoing and connected and excited to withdraw into herself. I can imagine that it feels like some part of me has died or that it's best to just wait until I get better.
I want to get "better," but better doesn't mean going back to the way that I was. It means continuing to live a happy, balanced life with health and self-care at the center -- and spending time with friends and family who love and support me for who I am, not who they want me to be.
From this vantage point, it's obvious that the change has happened within me because of my own growth and learning. But I have to remind myself on a near-constant basis that it might feel differently to everyone else. I feel like a broken record, but I will say it again --not only for myself, but for everyone else who is struggling with mental illness: It's about me. It's not about you. Let me figure out what wellness looks like for me -- and that means that things might be in flux or I might seem different.
If you want another perspective, I highly recommend this article. Their first main paragraph says it all - it's just not about you. Sorry. You're not that cool.
And so it goes, and so it goes -- or that's how the song goes, at least. The next few months are going to prove a tough anxiety test for me -- two work trips, two fun trips (including two weeks in Mexico, which is both incredibly exciting and, because it is an overwhelming environment with new sounds, smells, sights, etc., etc. I am already concerned about the sensory overload) and, of course, moving.
And so it goes, and so it goes... and you're the only one who knows...
xo,
Sarah
P.S. Still chugging through My Age of Anxiety, though I had to take a short break because -- get this -- it was making me anxious. Now that we are through much of the house hubbub I can pick it up and feel like it's not making me more stressed out.
P.P.S. Home inspection went well yesterday! I can't wait to share more details about the house in an upcoming post. We're so excited!
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