Meds and Emotional Abuse Don’t Mix

A few years ago, I broke up with my third psychiatrist. You know when a romantic relationship has finally run its course and it’s time to move on? This was kind of like that. 

I spent over 10 years with my first psychiatrist. She thought my biggest issue was depression, and medicated me for it. Then, I spent almost 10 years with my second. He felt depression was still present, but there was anxiety as well, which meant more meds. And now I was with my third. We’d only been together about a year. She agreed with all prior diagnoses and prescriptions, but felt there were mood issues too. She added even more meds. 

If the reason I switched doctors was that I felt like my diagnosis was wrong and the medication was wrong, why did they just keep adding a new diagnosis and more pills? Isn’t that wrong? In my high school years, I was a science nerd, so I’m familiar with the scientific method. Mrs. Martone would have certainly failed us if we designed an experiment like that! As a doctor, how can you ever know whether you’ve fixed the original problem with the first pill, if you just keep adding more pills?

By the time the third psychiatrist wrote another prescription, I was fed up with the bad science. I finally said to her, “You can’t possibly know what’s wrong with me. What are we even treating anymore? I’m on like six different pills! My side effects have side effects.” 

And here’s what she replied, “But you need the pills to be happy.”

I laughed. Snarfed. Probably scoffed. And then, the hysterics. Once I could take a breath, I offered this, “I adamantly believe that I don’t need your pills. They make me miserable. I need to understand who I am and what my issues are without taking any meds.” 

“But Denise, you can’t just stop taking your meds.” 

And she was right. I had already done my research and designed a week-by-week plan to step down off everything safely. And I wasn’t going to go it alone. I was going to step down with my psychologist by my side. The one who I actually trusted. The one who actually knew how to listen. The one who eventually diagnosed me correctly: I had PTSD.

Because in all those years of seeing psychiatrists and getting medicated for things like depression, anxiety, and mood issues what they all missed was the problem wasn’t me, but my marriage. No one gets PTSD—particularly not chronic PTSD—from a happy marriage.

As my brain started to heal from all the over-medicated madness and my mind was becoming my own again, I noticed strange things about my marital memories. 

First, after the PTSD diagnosis—as I was doing intensive work with my psychologist—I’d bring up newly surfacing memories. She’d respond: “You never told me that.” It was as though certain marital memories had gotten lost in my brain somewhere. As though the memory storage got messed up–and now they were all coming back.

Now, I hear what you’re thinking. Perhaps I have a wild imagination. Maybe I’m lying. But my experience matches what the research says: some patients report memory issues after long-term use of antidepressants. We are also starting to see more memoirs about reclaiming ourselves and our memories after long-term psychiatric drug use. Obviously, I’m not alone. 

Also notable about my newly remembered memories—they were the kind you really don’t want to remember. Blocking out bad memories is just a run-of-the-mill psychological defense mechanism. Those symptoms of depression, anxiety, and mood issues that I’d presented to psychiatrists over the years are all common signs of emotional abuse. I was grateful to have my psychologist to help me handle my difficult past that I hadn’t even realized was derailing my present.

Sadly, when memory storage and processing are messed up by medication, we can’t even react properly to the events we’re experiencing. Recently, I’ve been recounting some tough memories with my mom ranging from: 

• Small things like I was never allowed to buy a new bike even though I’ve been an avid cyclist my whole life
• To larger things like I did not spend my daughter’s first birthday with her because “someone” and his mother took my daughter away on an unnecessary trip
• To completely life-altering stuff–like I wasn’t allowed to move anywhere in pursuit of my academic career.

Now that my mom and I can be truly honest about my marriage, she says, “I never understood why you just let those things happen, and didn’t consider leaving him.” 

Honestly, I blame the meds.

Thanks to those meds, I spent my marriage blissfully unaware of what I was enduring. On the day my psychologist diagnosed me with PTSD from just one marital memory, I thought I was in a loving marriage to a loving man and that I had a beautiful life. But my newly resurfaced memories reveal that I was with someone who did not know how to listen, support my career, or acknowledge and address my emotional needs. I’m sorry, but that’s not true love.

My psychologist even believes I was dissociated most of my marriage. According to Mental Health America, dissociation is when a person loses connection to their thoughts, their memories, and their sense of identity. It’s a coping mechanism for chronic stress. That would explain how I developed chronic posttraumatic stress disorder while thinking I was in a loving marriage. 

In terms of healing from my symptoms of C-PTSD, I’ve taken a non-prescription approach. My supplements include:

• ashwagandha to reduce stress
• magnesium to aid sleep and ease anxiety
• Omega 3 to increase blood flow to my brain and expedite healing
• and L-Theanine to calm my mind at night and promote sleep.

Sure, some days are hard and I feel “down.” But as my close friends now know, I have my own way of powering through. Maybe I’ll write an angry poem. Maybe I stomp around my kitchen to an angry song. But I’ll never again take a med that numbs me to my own emotions, memories, or reactions. That’s dangerous. I’d rather use my own resilience. That’s my superpower.

My chronic PTSD diagnosis forced me to wake up from my manufactured reality like Neo in The Matrix. The “reality” of my marriage was a medicated illusion. And when I woke up from my Matrix—it wasn’t pretty. 

At the time of my diagnosis, I was blissfully unaware of many things about my life. So just like Neo, I took an arduous journey of personal transformation. Now, I’m blissfully aware and ready for whatever the future may hold—provided it’s prescription-free. 

 

Photo Credit: Unsplash

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