Reality TV, Prozac, and Problems

The Night I Left My Sanity in a Hotel Room Drawer

I became a pill person the way most people become a pill person: slowly, accidentally, and with the enthusiastic assistance of the medical profession!

It started with EMS. Shift work. You haven't known exhaustion until you've run calls all night, watched the sun come up over a hospital parking lot, and then lain in bed at 9 a.m. while your neighbors mow their lawns and your circadian rhythm files a formal complaint with the universe. Sleep wouldn't come. So I went to the doctor.

He gave me Ambien. And it worked!  Which is the thing nobody warns you about when a drug works too well. It's not a blessing, it's a seduction. After that, the floodgates opened. Headache? Pill. Stress? Pill. A twinge in my knee that was probably just the consequence of having knees for fifty years? Pill. Every single one came with a little speech about how safe it was, how well-tolerated, how I just needed to give it time.

What they didn't mention was what happened when you tried to stop.

Then came the Ativan. "Just for sleep," the doctor said. Because you know why? The Ambien was no longer working as well. That's what happens when you take it over a long period. It was meant to be temporary. My doctor didn't tell me, "Your body will eventually file a formal complaint if you try to stop." He did not say, "This is a loan from a bank that charges interest on your central nervous system." He wrote the prescription and with optimism, I thanked him and skipped over to the pharmacy. 

A few years later, came vacation. Nashville!  I packed vitamins, books I wouldn't read, and a bathing suit that had lied to me in the dressing room. Of course, I packed my Ativan. 

I was a wonderful vacation. I love Nashville. The people, the music, the food!

Returned home, but darn, I left my Ativan behind! No worries, only a week left anyway before I can pick up a refill. 3 days after trying to sleep without Ativan, and I felt like I was dying of a flu so aggressive it ought to have its own Netflix documentary. My skin crawled. My brain felt like someone had replaced it with static electricity and old television snow. I was sure there were bugs crawling on my skin. What kind of horrible flu was this? 

I Googled my symptoms.

Readers, it was NOT the flue. It was far worse. Benzodiazepine withdrawal. A thing I didn't know existed. Oh, I knew about withdrawl from booze and drugs...but...a prescribed medication? Does this mean I am an addict? 

I cried for about an hour. Then I got angry. Then I got practical, because that's what women do when the alternative is lying on the floor and the floor needs vacuuming.

It took a year to taper off. A year. I cut those pills into slivers so tiny they looked like dandruff. And then, slowly, it passed. It was difficult. One of the most difficult things I've ever had to overcome in my life. The frustrating part was, I wish I had been told about this being a possibility. But, I DID overcome it. It's amazing how life becomes clear when not depending on a bottle in the nightstand. 

I've been watching these reality stars lately — hair freshly blown out, teeth so white they could signal aircraft — leaning into a microphone to announce, "I've been on Prozac for two years and it's changed my life!" (Amanda Batula energetically announced this on Watch What Happens Live) The audience applauds the courage. Someone in the comments writes thank you for normalizing this!

And I watch their lives unravel in high definition and think: Honey.

Nobody asks the obvious question. If the medication is working, why does your life look like a controlled demolition in slow motion? Because these pills don't just blunt the anxiety. They blunt the instinct that says this person is bad for me. They blunt the gut feeling that says something needs to change. You stop being able to tell which problems are real and which ones you've chemically agreed to tolerate. The numbness starts to feel like wellness. You've confused the absence of sharp pain with the presence of actual health.

I did it too. For years.

The pill wasn't the problem — it was a solution to a problem I wasn't fixing. These medications are meant to be bridges, not permanent addresses. You're supposed to cross them, not build a house in the middle and hang curtains.

I keep my Altoids close now. Ginger candy in the purse. It took a year of tapering and a lifetime of learning to get here, but I can feel again — all of it. The sharp parts and the soft parts and the parts that still wake me up at 3 a.m.

Turns out that's not a medical problem. That's just being alive!

Treating Dog Allergies Can Feel Impossible!

 My Dog Has Allergies and My Bank Account Is Developing Trust Issues

I used to think having a dog would involve scenic walks, tasteful bandanas, and the occasional muddy paw print. I did not anticipate becoming the CEO of an international allergy task force headquartered in my kitchen. My dog isn't even two years old, and somehow he has more specialists than a retired rock star, football player, and retired movie stunt double, combined. I have now reached the stage where he has her own filing system. Not an actual filing cabinet because those are ugly and depressing, but a floral accordion folder bulging with lab reports, prescriptions, ingredient lists, and notes that say things like "Ask about duck?" and "Maybe lamb?" and "Who decided chicken should be in absolutely everything?" I carry it into appointments like a woman presenting classified government documents.

The truly astonishing part is that every veterinarian seems to begin with a dramatic retelling of why the previous veterinarian was wrong. One says it's environmental. Another says it's food. A third gently suggests it's probably both while looking at me in a way that implies I should somehow have solved immunology by now. Meanwhile, my poor Finn is just scratching away, blissfully unaware that he has become the center of a very expensive committee meeting. My bank account, I should mention, has stopped making eye contact with me. Won’t return my calls. And my texts get left on “delivered.”  There are special shampoos, prescription wipes, supplements, tiny treats that cost more per ounce than jewelry, and foods with ingredient panels so mysterious they sound like they were developed for astronauts. Every time I think, "This has to be the answer," another invoice arrives and another patch of itchy skin pops up to remind me that certainty is a luxury item.

But the money isn't the part that breaks me. It's watching someone you love be uncomfortable when they can't explain what's wrong. He looks at me with complete trust, wagging his tail after yet another bath he didn't ask for, another pill hidden in cheese, another trip to another clinic where strangers inspect his ears and paws. He never complains. He just keeps believing that wherever we're going, I'm taking him somewhere fun. Sometimes I catch myself apologizing to him. "I'm trying, sweetheart," I'll whisper while rubbing his ears. "We're going to figure this out." Then he’ll lick my hand as if to reassure me that he's already forgiven every failed food trial and every bottle of shampoo that promised miracles but delivered disappointment with a faint oatmeal scent.

People say money can't buy happiness, but it can certainly buy an impressive collection of unopened allergy remedies that looked promising at 11:30 on a Tuesday night. I make another appointment. I read another article before bed. I compare ingredient labels like they're ancient treasure maps. I celebrate tiny victories with embarrassing enthusiasm. "Look!" I'll announce to the empty kitchen. "He only scratched three times during breakfast!" Somewhere out there I hope there's one missing puzzle piece, whether it's the right food, the right medication, the right specialist, or the right season.

Until then, I'll keep showing up with my floral folder and my increasingly frazzled optimism because he’s worth every frustrating phone call and every penny I don't really have. After all, he's not asking for designer toys or gourmet biscuits or a luxury dog spa. He's asking for the simple privilege of feeling comfortable in his own skin. And if love could cure allergies, he'd have been healed a very long time ago!