About six months ago, I had a panic attack and ended up in the ER. They put all kinds of shit on my chest, hooked me up to all these wires, monitored the situation closely for a couple of hours. Then told me my heart was fine. I asked them to recheck -- cause, you know, I smoke two packs a day. They sent me home with Ativan.
So I actually followed up with the doctor -- first time I've seen a doctor in ten years. She prescribed Paxil, something called Attarax, something called Buspurine and blood pressure medicine. The Paxil was the worst. When I stopped shaking a lot but still wasn't feeling right, the doc insisted that I double the Paxil dosage. It sucked like hell. I finally decided to get off of it on my own. That was a huge mistake. I took half a pill for two days, and then descended into a withdrawal that would have made a heroin junkie proud. Couldn't keep anything down for days, including any pills. Too sick to go to the doctor if I wanted to. I was climbing the walls, having strange dreams, sweating profusely. I was so dehydrated I didn't pee for two days. I couldn't afford tears. But I eventually recovered and was clean.
Yet I was still crazy. So then I went to the therapist for the first time in my life. The first thing this shrink asks me is CNN or FOX? I, of course, said CNN. Her reply, and I quote, was "Well at least you're fucking treatable." Mind you, this is a little old lady with MS who has tennis balls on the bottom of her walker.
So the shrink gets me a new doc, who takes me off everything but the blood pressure medicine, and adds Klonopin. That's where I'm at now.
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