by Tianna G. Hansen
I was always told to not go ‘cold turkey’ by each psychiatrist, each therapist. By my sister, studying to be a nurse. My mother, vigilant and worried as ever. My husband, cautioning me to do it right.
Before I get too far, let me make one thing clear: I do not recommend anyone go cold turkey off medication, but this is my story and experience doing so. Going against the grain, yet again – always a rebel at heart. A rebel of society, rebel against the government. Enamored with an insane wish to be different. Fighting the power – hippie blood protesting deep in my veins,burning deep the way they did my ancestors on the stake.
It was all I could do in the end. I didn’t want to spend time weaning myself off – I wanted it gone. No longer holding me accountable like shackles or prison bars. That’s what it felt like – being imprisoned by a bottle of pills.
I avoided my psychiatrist for a few years and when I finally scheduled an appointment to tell her I wanted to get off my medication, she made a face and prescribed me something stronger, on top of what I was already taking.
I took the new prescription for a few weeks, diligent like a child wishing to please. It made me feel worse – irritable, suicidal, hopeless. I picked fights with my fiancé, who had just moved countries to be with me after two and a half years long distance. I picked fights with everyone, yelled at my mother, insulted my sister. I was a miserable person to be around.
I spent 10 years on medication for my severe depression and high anxiety. Years of changing medications, each one creating a deeper fog over my brain. I can tally the different pills on my fingers – names like gatekeepers, correctional officers circling me – Zoloft, Citalopram, Zoloft again; Ativan and Prozac. The newest contender: Diazepam. None of them made me feel better; if anything, I felt worse.
But I felt like I needed to take it; I couldn’t remember ever “not needing it,” since I was fifteen and at my first therapy appointment, after I threatened to kill myself, when I wanted to die (but not really).
I was driving with my new husband on the way home from our honeymoon when he turned to me and said, “You’re a different person without your medicine. I’m so proud of you.”
Those words warmed my heart more than anything. I never believed I would be capable of living and surviving un-medicated. It scared me, the thought of it. It’s been about two months since I last took my medication and I still have down days where the familiar darkness slips around me. But I no longer feel like I’m wandering through a daily fog. I feel brighter, bubblier, and I’ve regained confidence in myself that I forgot what it was like to feel. I felt a lot of things I had forgotten.
Almost everyone I know who is prescribed to depression or anxiety medication feels ashamed. We’re led to believe we couldn’t function “normally” if we aren’t doped on various pills. Like clockwork, slipping down our throats with a glass of water at the beginning or the end of every day.
Depression is a serious mental illness, as is anxiety. I’m prepared to live with them for the rest of my life. I’d like to think that one day, I’ll feel like it is no longer hanging over me every day, a looming presence as I described it, but until then, I practice gratefulness every day. I do my best to overcome my trauma, which has sent me spiraling into depression in ways I could never imagine.
I was diagnosed with PTSD dating back to my childhood and worsened through my teenage and younger adult years. Interestingly, just as elephants are presumed to never forget either a friend or foe, elephants are known to have experienced PTSD symptoms after traumatic situations. The elephant has always been my father’s favorite animal, and I don’t blame him because they are amazing creatures.
I’ve always felt betrayed by men in my life like I am unloved, deserving to be forgotten or abandoned or abused. Parts of this will always stick with me. Like an elephant, it is nearly impossible to forget, and PTSD will carry on even after finding safety in sanctuary. I don’t think I will ever agree to take medicine again. I’ve resorted to B6 and B12, other natural vitamins, essential oils, meditation and mindfulness, EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing), positive thinking and energy. I also have a wonderful, supportive and loving husband who nourishes my soul. I believe all these things help me more than a pill could ever dream.
I’d like to share a poem I wrote shortly after stopping my medication against the suggestions of everyone:
Cold Turkey
they always told me not to go
cold turkey
but look at me now, 10 years since
the first diagnosis, the first prescription
Rx seemed a part of my life, part of
my identity but
no longer.
like a boulder lifted from my shoulders
Atlas threw off the weight – told the world
no longer.
I am just myself, now, minus the fog
constant struggle to lift my head up
take a deep breath and know
it is unassisted
un-medicated used to sound scary,
unstable
but here I am,
cold turkey sandwich
extra mayo, delicious the way I am.
I didn’t intentionally stop taking my medicine – I didn’t wake up one day and say, “I’m done,” although this is how I felt, and it may have been a very subconscious act. It slipped out of my life. It was never a priority for me. There were always days I would go when I wouldn’t take it, wouldn’t think of it. And many times, the withdrawal sent me spinning into suicidal ideation. Which wasn’t me. I didn’t want to die. I had so much to live for. Yet sometimes my depression dragged me so low, I couldn’t see a point in continuing.
That’s one reason I created Rhythm & Bones Lit Press, to share a safe place for people struggling with mental health and illness, attempting to defeat their traumas and turn them into art. Writing is consistently my savior, though I slip in and out of it most of the time the way I would often do with my medication. Writing, however, has never felt like a burden. It is a release – my catharsis. I hope to inspire this in others who are struggling. It is never easy, and I don’t intend or wish for this to appear as though it’s simple.
What should be simple (but never is): self-care. This is a learned practice, one I have only begun partaking in. Realizing and listening to what your body and your mind is telling you – that’s most important. I’ve taken on a lot in the past few months. Not only a literary magazine and small press, but a new marriage, new discoveries. Jumping into the world of publishing, beginning in the world as a wife – it is all new for me and all good, exciting. But I can’t allow myself to lose sight of what my body and mind internally tell me they need. Learning the art of listening to yourself and caring for yourself is difficult, especially when you have spent years and years in deep depression and anxiety. There are days I refuse to listen to myself, but the days when I open my ears to the internal rhythm of my bones are the best. These are moments when I feel heard, seen, appreciated. When I begin to feel whole again – something I once wondered if I could ever feel again.
Tianna G. Hansen, Founder and Editor-in-Chief of Rhythm & Bones Lit Press, has been writing her whole life and received her MFA at Arcadia University in 2017. She works as Assistant Editor at Times Publishing Newspapers, publishing 10 community papers a month. Tianna is working on a debut novel about women who survive trauma as well as a memoir. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Ellipsis Zine, Crack the Spine, Burning House Press, Who Writes Short Shorts, New Pop Lit, Blanket Sea Magazine, Echo Lit Mag and Nabu Review (both lit mags of Paragon Press), among others. In her free time she gardens on her family farm and dreams up dark fiction. Follow her on Twitter @tianng92 or check out her writing on CreativeTianna.com.
The Sunday Solace series focuses on mental health and medication. We hope to provide a judgment-free space to explore and discuss our issues in a creative manner.