This is not the post I’d intended to write this week. I’d originally planned on talking about KonMari and mental health (a post I still plan on sharing with you sometime soon). As I mentioned last year, one of the things I learned after doing Spooktober was that planning ahead for the content of this blog was necessary. I created a calendar to keep all my blog ideas scheduled and organized, and thus far have stuck to it pretty well. But unfortunately things don’t always go according to plan. Instead, today we’re going to talk about one of the most frustrating things about dealing with mental health: sometimes in your efforts to get better, you make things worse.

In my first mental-health-related post of 2020, I shared that I’ve been coming to terms with my own mental health, and attempting to work on that as best I can, which includes discussing my situation with my doctor, and trying out different forms of medication. I said then that I knew going into it that it would be a difficult process. I’d done a lot of research, and read several testimonials on the trials of enduring the various side effects while tapering on and off. But it’s one thing to read about these things, and another to experience it.

I am currently on my third attempt to try out new medication. But in order to do that, I first need to ease myself off of what I was previously taking. My doctor outlined a simple plan: drop to half doses for a couple of days, and then simply stop. Feeling pretty confident (my previous transition had been smooth and painless, so I was a little biased in thinking this would be just as easy), I did just that. On the days I took half doses, I felt fine. Saturday, the day I took none, was a whole other story.

I’ll spare you the goriest of details, but suffice to say I felt a little like death for most of the day- with headaches, nausea, chills, and all sorts of other delights. And when I went to the Internet to ask for more information from others that had been through a similar experience, they told me that some of the negative side effects of withdrawal could last for weeks. They expressed their condolences. They said I was in for a rough ride.

Not the most comforting response.

But on the bright side, at least they understood. I had agreed to meet with some friends that Saturday, and I was unwilling to miss out just because of my reactions to the medication withdrawal, so I made myself some tea, dressed in the comfiest clothing I could find, and marched off to join them. Just the drive alone was an experience, as my queasy stomach protested every pothole and sudden brake of the car. When I arrived, I immediately marched over to the couch and huddled under blankets. My friends all asked me what was wrong, and when I told them I wasn’t feeling well, they naturally assumed I meant I was sick- “It’s really going around!” or “Just don’t pass it on to me!”, etc. I then had to explain that no, I wasn’t sick, I was just having some negative side effects from transitioning to different medication. Anti-anxiety medication, to be specific.

Over the course of the day, the only thing I was really able to keep down was a small cup of rice (though I did eventually tempt fate by tossing in a few chicken nuggets and fries). On the one hand every bite of food risked pushing my nausea past the tipping point. On the other, I felt like I was starving. I hardly ate all day. And honestly, things could have been much worse. I’m lucky to have very supportive, understanding friends that made me feel like I was still part of the group (one of them even cooked up the aforementioned rice for me in tasty chicken broth, just so that I could have something safe to eat). But on the drive home I couldn’t help thinking: This isn’t over yet.

Just the other day W and I went out to do our weekly groceries. I’ve been on a bit of a health kick, so I was excited to fill our fridge with all sorts of fresh produce- enough to meal prep healthy meals and snacks for the week. But as my nausea ebbs and flows, I’m forced to wonder if I’ll be able to keep any of it down. And if I can’t eat it, all that fresh food will spoil. I’m living on an extremely limited budget, so purchasing all that food to begin with was an expensive investment… and now it might all be wasted.

And what about work? Today is Sunday. I feel better than I did yesterday, but still not great. My head still hurts. I’m still dizzy. And I live in fear that any food that goes past my lips will once again be rejected by my body and forced back out, so I’ve been nibbling on the leftover plain chicken nuggets one tiny corner of breading at a time for the past hour. What if things aren’t better by tomorrow? Then I have to make a new, difficult choice- do I force myself to drive over, keeping in mind that at any moment I might have to make a mad dash for the nearest trash can? Or do I stay home, and spend another of my sick days trying to weather this out?

How long is this going to take? What if the new medication I’m trying also doesn’t work, and I have to go through this all over again? How long can I afford to sit around at home, waiting for the side effects to end? Will people get frustrated with me in the process? Is it even worth it?

The answer to the latter is, of course, yes. 100% yes. After all, there’s a reason why I decided to go down this path. I know that ultimately going through this is in my best interest. The alternative wasn’t working, and I don’t doubt the decisions that brought me here for one second. But that doesn’t make it any less frustrating. You go through all the trouble of recognizing that something is wrong. You build up the courage to face your fears and acknowledge this out loud. You seek help. You try to make things better. And then you feel worse.

Sometimes it really feels like every time you take one step forward, you somehow end up taking two steps back.

All of this just to say that if you have someone struggling with mental illness in your life and they’re afraid of seeking help, don’t judge them too harshly. They have a long, long journey ahead.