Personal Narrative-Psychopharmacological Interventions In My Life

I have struggled with OCD, panic attacks, depression and addictive tendencies most of my life. I know from extensive personal experience that my ability to function is due in part to psychopharmacological interventions, the efforts of an exceptional psychiatrist, and abject stubbornness. Through trial and error, the majority of my immediate family members have also found this to be true in their lives. Along with dark brown eyes, undefined cheekbones, and weak ankles, mental health issues and addictive patterns of behavior are simply part of our genetic package.
My first impression of drugs and the people who prescribed them was made at age five when my grandmother was diagnosed with stomach cancer. In the early 80’s oncology was still one of the cruder branches of medicine and the hospice movement had not yet successfully merged its goal of quality end-of-life care with effective pain management. As a result of these conditions, I witnessed an extraordinary woman
and one of the people I loved most in the world die suffer needlessly in the bedroom next to mine. Three years after this loss, my mother and best friend were diagnosed with stage four breast cancer. Over the next seventeen years, she would undergo multiple courses of radiation and chemotherapy, have numerous surgeries, and participate in various experimental drug trials (which were given in conjunction with her daily “cocktail” of prescriptions). While her spirit remained untarnished, the effects of these drugs created pronounced neurological changes commonly referred to as chemo fog. In the midst of the pain and uncertainty caused by both her disease and its treatment, my mother also battled with severe clinical depression and anxiety, conditions that we shared.
I am grateful not only for my mother’s courage and compassion in light of her personal struggle but her enlightened view of mental health issues.
Had she not communicated these beliefs in both thought and action, I sincerely doubt that anyone in my family would have sought help for depression or anxiety, especially myself. When it came to the need for medication in my life, one episode brought greater clarity than any other. Shortly after my mother’s death, I began to question the medical field as a whole, dislike doctors generally, and in doing so made the decision to discontinue any and all prescribed drug use. As a result of this philosophical shift, in under a year, I weighed less than eighty pounds and had stopped leaving the house. I would like to say that whatever evidence for taking my medication had presented itself in a clear and concise manner, but then again, I did say I was stubborn. It would take me over nine years to return to a point of physical and emotional well-being. Lesson
learned.
I grew up with a mother who never drank because she had an alcoholic uncle. My father who was never witnessed having more than three drinks in any given year, even though he had been raised five miles from the Yuengling brewery and regularly received cases as gifts from family members in Pennsylvania who mistakenly believed he missed it. My two older siblings drank socially or not at all, and either of them would have been an ideal role model regarding their patterns of use. Unfortunately, I figured out in my early twenties that I was nothing like them. Moderation was not in my vocabulary and enjoyment was not part of the equation while imbibing. At the time, I was working at the West Haven VA as a research assistant and had access to alcohol research literature. I recognized that my drinking patterns rivaled those of many test subjects and also seemed to possess that loss of control that characterizes alcoholism. By my early thirties, I realized that I would never be in control of my drinking and stopped altogether.
Even with my family history of cancer I began smoking cigarettes when I was eighteen. I attribute it to being a brooding music major, and it gave me something to do with my hands when a guitar wasn’t in them. I recall the behavior serving a social function and little else. For over a year and a half, I smoked on a daily basis and eventually decided to give it up for both health and financial reasons. What surprised me was the fact that it would take an additional nine and a half to quit successfully. I found myself completely unprepared for the cravings and irritability that accompanied withdrawal. Even today I find myself glaring at smokers with pure unadulterated envy. I miss my cigarettes very, very much. When I was six, I developed a pathological fear of contamination as part of my OCD. This involved washing my hands until they bled, inspecting every container that was brought into our home for tampering, and refusing to come in direct contact with anything even mildly toxic (this list included Windex, harsh shampoos, and the dog’s eye drops). I am convinced the residual effects of this childhood fear is why I have never had any desire to experiment with illicit drugs. If my pharmacist cannot tell me whether or not a drug interacts with grapefruit (regardless of the fact that I do not eat grapefruit), ingesting it is the equivalent of playing Russian roulette in my mind. Thankfully some irrational fears can, in fact, serve a functional purpose. I believe a basic understanding of the human condition allows us to relate to people who have made different choices than we have regarding drug use. I know I have experienced extended periods of overwhelming depression during which any hope of relief seemed an impossibility, and I will not judge anyone’s coping strategies for dealing with that kind of pain. Self-loathing tends to accompany it, and to survive those feelings in any way we can is often the most courageous thing we can do. For these reasons, I would not “confront” a friend or family member about their drug-using behavior but I would actively express my concern about their well-being. Listening tends to be the most effective method of extending ourselves and is the one I would have the most confidence in employing.