…do I feel like shit for using a medication in the way it was intended?

So, I’m an anxious mess, on top of being depressed. I’ve talked about that before. And it gets bad. Curled up on the floor, not even the most empathetic cat in the world can help me bad. Shaking is low-level for me. Full on? We’re looking at dry heaves and fainting, which, according to a lot of things I’ve read about panic attacks, shouldn’t even be possible.

So, yeah, it shouldn’t be a surprise that, most times, even on not-so-down days, I avoid leaving the house, because having a full-on panic attack out there is terrible. Humiliating. Just plain bad.

Back before my old doctor retired, I finally felt brave enough to approach her with questions like, “I’ve heard there are medications for these things, assuming they are actually panic and anxiety related — and assuming that panic and anxiety can even co-exist with depression. Could we maybe, I dunno, look into trying something in an anti-anxiety drug? Find one that fits?”

And we did. First, I was given both Xanax and Propranolol. The Propranolol just made me dizzy, which made me more anxious, even if certain parts of my various systems couldn’t respond properly. So, I didn’t take that again.

The Xanax? Yeah, okay, acted kinda fast, but…it also went away really fast. And that left me with either taking another one, or pretty much meant ‘Take this and escape now, because that’s how long it will last. It’ll just get you home.’

I didn’t want something to get me home. I wanted something to get me through the situation. I thought that, maybe, if I could use something to keep me calm through the situation a few times, I could go in without it and not need it.

Instead, it was just…postponing the full effect, and that made things worse somehow.

Then we tried Lorazepam. Ativan, I think, is another name for it. Tiny little pill. Tastes suspiciously like sugar if I don’t swallow it quickly enough, but I must not think about that at all.

This worked. This worked amazingly well.

But…it was kinda anxious-making all on its own. The entire concept of these drugs is anxious-making. Because they’re addictive, and the withdrawals can be bad. So I’m afraid of getting hooked.

Obviously, I went a while without them. I was really careful with my last three refills. The final thirty lasted me six months…which is unfortunate, because I really could’ve used one for that trip to see my new doctor the first time.

I knew I had to ask her right off, no mater how uncomfortable the idea made me.

I did. And I got sixty of the magical little .5mg pills. And, again, I was allowed two a day.

And I swore right then that I would only take half of one at once. Because half worked pretty well on me.

Saturday, I took half. Sunday, I took two halves. Monday? I took four halves. My full daily-allowed dose.

Tuesday? Nothing.

Today? I took half at noon, and then another half at seven, because I was starting to get really anxious about introducing one friend to other friends, and doing it all over dinner. Plus, we’d just been in WalMart.

I also spent a good part of Sunday and Monday away from Gremlin, and a good part of today, too.

But, thinking about all this, I feel like absolute shit for using it. I feel like I’m somehow abusing it by noticing, ‘Oh, shit, here’s the first signs that shit’s about to get bad. That funny feeling in my throat, the shaking, the slight almost-numb feeling creeping into my face. The chill at the back of my head. Yeah. These are the warning signs that it’s gone from ‘push through’ to ‘it’s gonna get bad’.

Part of me knows that this is completely stupid. The fact that I still have enough left from a bottle I got in April means I’m not abusing them, but I really did intend to use them to teach myself that I can get through things.

I guess I’m just afraid that all I’m teaching myself is that I can get through things on meds.

Or maybe I’m expecting that part of me to learn too quickly. This past week might seem like nothing to normal people, but it was pretty major for me.

I think I should count my pills, and see how much self-loathing I really deserve right now. No matter how many I have left, it’s probably going to be disproportionate and bullshit.