Equilibrium

Last November, I was trying to fall asleep and realized I was incredibly aware of my breathing. It wasn't too deep, it wasn't too shallow, it was just...wrong. Since 1) I used to play trumpet, and 2) I have asthma, I'm used to pacing my breathing. But this time, I just couldn't get my mind off of it. I woke up the next day and was still always consciously regulating it, and spent the next week (including a night at the airport and flight home for Thanksgiving...not fun) feeling like I had to always control my breathing. Eventually I managed to distract myself, and it went away.

This February I was studying for a midterm at a coffee shop, and the left side of my body felt numb. I figured I was just tired, and went to bed. The next morning, in the middle of my midterm, it happened again. I called the University Health Services, and the nurse on the phone freaked out and made me go to urgent care (missing another midterm). She thought I was having a stroke; of course, I was fine. For the next few weeks it would happen when I was sitting in class, walking, or laying down. Weird, but again, I managed to ignore it after a while.

About a month ago, I was trying to fall asleep, and suddenly there was a rush of adrenaline. My heart was racing, my breathing felt like gasps, and everything was spinning. Time seemed to stretch on forever, and after a few minutes it'd end, only to start again. Those panic attacks would hit me at random times, including when I was driving, studying, and even taking one of my finals. They'd also hit me when I was trying to sleep, making me almost perpetually tired. I managed to nab a 4.0 this semester, but I feel pretty confident that, had the semester been two weeks longer, I would have failed everything. I was not there, at all. I felt like a zombie, with some sort of haze between my mind and the rest of the world.

All three of those stories can be linked back to one very recent diagnosis; a panic disorder. When you say that, people get uncomfortable. They picture something mental like depression or anxiety: being afraid, being stressed, or being easily tipped over the edge. What it really is, is purely physical -- symptoms, without any mental effect or outside trigger, caused when your body randomly produces all the adrenaline of a "fight-or-flight" situation for no reason.

Since I was diagnosed two weeks ago, I've been taking Lexapro to treat it. Unfortunately, that's the same sort of drug they use to treat anxiety or depression (the doctor, kindly, didn't tell me that). Which means it has all the side effects you hear about; tiredness, nausea, and just a general feeling of being absent. It's really a lot like movies like Garden State portray it as; you feel slow, and everything around you is moving in fast-forward. It's enough to make me determined to stop taking it, and try to beat this cold turkey. But the internet tells me I have potentially massive withdrawal symptoms to look forward to, including something called a "brain zap." I don't even want to know what that is.

I don't tell you all of this just as a confessional (though it's also that.) What it's really made me think about, lately, is how broad a spectrum there is between the physical and mental aspects of human experience. There were days, like the ones in November and February, where every waking moment was concerned with base physical phenomena. Even though I knew better, it felt like pure survival half the time: trying to keep breathing, trying to slow my heartrate, etc. Other times, like the medicinal haze I've been in lately, I'm fully on the mental spectrum, partially removed from the world around me. I'm more aware now, than ever, of how much I take for granted the perfect balance we have.

In daily life, we strive to find that equilibrium. We're conscious and aware of our surroundings, but we leave the most physical of activities (breathing, heartbeat, etc.) to the body to take care of. Our brain is regulating them, but our mind is concerned with loftier things. We're able to think in the most abstract of terms, while walking around with a coordination that even the best machines still can't achieve; it's incredible. When we're tipped one way or another, we can recover. Sometimes we feel too physical (after, say, a day of strenuous exercise), and all we need is to sleep, dream, and be fully mental. Other times we feel too mental (after, say, the stress of schoolwork) and all we want is to exercise, run, and be purely physical.

Because mine isn't a mood-altering disorder, I know I can stop taking meds and kick the symptoms on my own. But I also know that some people don't have the luxury. Some, with real depression or anxiety disorders, just can't reach that equilibrium, and are stuck taking pills for life. After experiencing the absence and haziness, I've come away with a newfound respect for those who do need to rely on medication, or struggle without it. Just from the few glimpses I've had of tipping one way or another on the mental-physical spectrum, I can honestly say that the last few months contained some of the most uncomfortable, terrifying feelings I've ever experienced.

In the meantime, I might have awesome withdrawal symptoms in my future. So look forward to some sort of post on my epic "journey to freedom", complete with Garden-Statey images of standing on a car and yelling in the rain, watching the sunrise after a long night alone in the desert, or other cheesy, hackneyed metaphors. Maybe I'll even take a solitary road trip up the coast to "find myself", or go rock climbing during a thunderstorm. Hey, I'm only human.