I promise I will get back to posting light-hearted pictures of dogs after this.

Monday, May 7, 2012

I think I, like... truly need therapy. My panic attacks are occurring more frequently than ever. I had a massive breakdown on Saturday. It was one of the biggest panic attacks I remember having ever. And it wasn't about anything. I was post-stomach-flu starving, and I'm generally useless in a kitchen unless it involves creaming butter and sugar together, but otherwise everything was fine. I had the weekend to rest, and that's what I did. Until my inexplicable panic set in.

I remember laying on my bed for four hours before I could peel myself off my sheets to drive the 1 mile to Walmart to get some cereal. FOUR HOURS. And that entire four hours, my mind and heart were racing for no reason. No reason at all.

I swallowed the Highly Coveted Last Xanax that I've been saving for months (that is actually Darien's because homegirl can't bring herself to ask her bosses, who are both doctors, for her own prescription), and it didn't kick in for another two hours. It's the longest I've ever had to wait for something like that to react in me. But once it did, I felt really fuzzy and delicious.

I haven't had therapy before or since college. To be honest, I didn't like it. At all. I think the issue is that... there is no issue. I have some underlying anxiety that pops up now and again, and no, I didn't have a traumatic childhood, and no, I've never been physically or emotionally or verbally abused, and no, I don't have daddy issues. One therapist truly tried convincing me (almost successfully) that I grew up in an "unaffectionate home" where there was "love" but not "real love." Seven years later, I've come to realize that this was total psychobabble because he couldn't find a reason for my depression, either.

I was a general psychology major for two and a half years of college, which taught me a lot about the processes of psychiatric evaluation, which is simple: everything exists for a reason. And I just can't find mine.

And sure, sounds simple enough to me, and in most cases it's true. So how does a woman like me, who grew up in a stable, happy home, had tons of friends throughout life, has lots of hobbies, a boyfriend, a good job, and some extra cash in the bank go about telling a therapist that things are just too hard sometimes?

Not to mention, all my therapists (yes, multiple) did was put me on a cocktail of antidepressants after my former friend began dating my ex boyfriend when I was 18, which is what caused the debilitating anxiety to begin with (the drugs, not the bitch). (EDIT: I should note that I was also diagnosed afterwards as agoraphobic. I'm basically afraid to leave my house due to some strange social anxiety disorder that I developed because of that time in my life.)

Have any of you gone to therapy? Good or bad experiences? Shoot me an email (put something like "THERAPY" in the subject line for me) and let me know what you think.