One Night in NYC

Let's normalize talking about mental health, part one.

It’s no secret that I’ve been having some mental health challenges over the past few months. But it occurred to me that for as often as people talk about depression or anxiety, I don’t see a lot of specifics. What does depression mean? What does anxiety look like?

Anxiety, depression, and other mental health concerns can manifest in different ways in different people. One person’s story may not look like someone else’s. What’s more, my own story has looked different at different time periods. Sometimes, even I am tricked by my own brain into not knowing what’s happening.

So I thought it could be beneficial to talk a bit about this in a little more detail and share what’s happened to me over the years.

Somewhere in this city, I once had a terrible evening.

Scene: Manhattan, Summer 1998

My now-husband and I ventured into New York City (or “the city” if you’re from the area) for a concert. I don’t remember exactly where we were going or who we were seeing.

I was 22, and this was the sort of thing I’d been doing for years. It wasn’t a new experience, and there was nothing for me to be afraid of or anxious about. However, it was a tumultuous time in general, which, in retrospect, probably had me on edge.

I’d just graduated from college with a degree a degree in social work, a field I no longer wished to pursue. I had a job I thought was temporary, and I didn’t know what was next. Things with my mom were very bad. We were fighting constantly, and I hated being home. I desperately wanted to find an apartment, but I didn’t have enough money for that. All my friendships seemed like they were changing. I felt more trapped and uncertain than I ever had in my life.

So, I was out for the evening to listen to music, spend time with my boyfriend, and just enjoy myself. We got some dinner first (no, I don’t remember what we ate) and then headed over to the club. As got there, my stomach was a little upset, so I hit the restroom.

Things went from “a little upset” to “oh this is really really bad” in about 30 seconds. I was the kind of sick you never want to be, but if it has to happen, you really want to be in your own bathroom. I will spare you these details because I’m sure you know what I mean.

This was a two-person bathroom. So while I was in there, seemingly forever, there was always at least one other person in the other stall bearing witness to this gastrointestinal atrocity. Every time I thought I could leave, I could not. I was starting to think I was going die in this bathroom.

This was before cell phones were really a thing, so my boyfriend was out in the hall wondering what was going on. I assumed he was getting mad because I’d just disappeared. I had no way to tell him, and at some point, I heard the first band go on. Then I felt even more guilty for ruining our night.

(It’s important to note that as a young adult with an unstable home life growing up, I had a lot of emotional issues I had yet to address. My boyfriend was not mad, only worried, and he would not have been mad at me for getting uncontrollably sick. That was a whole thing I had made up in my head.)

The horror eventually stopped.

Things calmed down enough that I could leave the bathroom. By this point though, my heart was racing, I was shaking, my head hurt, and my whole body ached from the violence of what my digestive system had just put me through. I’d never been so sick, so I kind of just thought I was dying.

I explained what happened to my boyfriend, and he suggested we go home. I said I thought I was having a heart attack because my chest was pounding so hard and I couldn’t breathe. So then he suggested we go to a hospital.

That sounded terrifying. And embarrassing. And expensive. I figured the best place to heave a heart attack and die would be at home. I was obviously not thinking straight.

Summer in the city is hot and humid and comes with lots of smells, all of which were not helping me feel better. So, as much as I wanted to go home and die in my own bed, I was afraid to go anywhere in case I got sick again. The only thing that would have been worse than what happened in that bathroom would be having it happen on the street.

We had taken mass transit into the city, and I didn’t want to wait for the next train or bus home. Plus, standing in a subway station when you’re nauseous is a recipe for disaster. We ended up calling my future in-laws, and they drove in to pick us up.

I felt so terrible for ruining their night too. And I was worried I’d ruin their car’s interior. This whole situation was so mortifying. I also assumed they’d hate me after this.

We finally got to my house. I went inside and went to bed. All was right with world.

Except it wasn’t.

Let’s look at what happened here.

In retrospect, it is obvious that I just got sick in a very unfortunate and public way. It happens. However, because of the weird headspace I was in those days, I turned it into something very different:

• There was something very wrong with me (not my digestive system, but like me as a person).

• I ruin everything.

• Everyone probably hates me.

• I should never go out again.

If you’ve ever been that sick, you know it takes a little time for the stomach to recover. Except I didn’t know that because I’d never been that sick before, so I tried to eat like a regular person, which naturally upset my stomach. This led to the belief that I’d get sick every time I ate.

So for the next few weeks, I was terrified to leave my house or eat. I consumed mostly saltines, egg whites, gatorade, and chamomile tea. I felt weak most of the time, which confirmed in my mind that I was unwell.

I took days off work and stopped going out socially. The few times I tried to leave the house, I’d get this weird feeling in my stomach, which triggered all sorts of fear, and then I’d go right back home to bed.

Thank goodness for therapy.

Long story short, getting sick in public led to my first panic attack. A common symptom of anxiety is nausea. So, what was essentially an unfortunate experience created this spiral of anxiety I could not get out of. And the more I worried that I’d never leave the house again, the worse I felt, which kept me sitting at home.

Thankfully, I had already started therapy. When I finally got back to her office after The Incident and explained what happened, I began learning about anxiety and how to control it. I also saw a psychiatrist who prescribed medication. If I didn’t have that professional support, I can only imagine how much worse things would have gotten.

I don’t know if I had anxiety before that night at the concert. I don’t recall feeling anxious per se, but after everything I grew up with - a violet alcoholic father and the constant fear my mother was going to die - it’s really no surprise this developed.

How I managed to get back to some semblance of normal is a whole other post for another day. But it took months, if not years, for me to really feel better.

That’s not the end of the story though.

I never thought I’d be the kind of person who couldn’t leave the house, until one day when I became that person. If you’ve never been afraid to leave the house, maybe that’s even hard to imagine. Maybe you can’t picture me being that person either.

But it’s easier than you think to slip into some unhealthy thinking and end up somewhere you never thought you’d be. It’s also easy to not realize what others are dealing with.

I truly believe the more we talk about our experiencees, put names to them, and share what helps us cope, we can all help each other. So that’s what I tried to do today.

Another time, I’ll tell you about the other major bouts of anxiety. Maybe next week. Maybe not. We’ll see.

And here’s an update.

I really am doing better. I’m now taking a combo of Zoloft, Wellbutrin, and Buspar, and I’m fuctioning better than I have in months. I could have been feeling better sooner if I’d spoken up sooner about how I was feeling, but it’s hard to talk about and even harder to tell people outright, “Hey, I’m really not OK over here.”

I’m glad I finally spoke up. Even though I know no one should have to suffer in silence, I still didn’t feel like I could say anything. Our brains can lie to us and keep us quiet. So this is my reminder to you that if you’re not OK, please find someone you can trust and tell them. Or, if you don’t have that, my messages are always open.

Thank you.

As always, thank you to my readers, subscribers, and financial supporters. I appreciate you all so much.