A little over three years ago, I was diagnosed with PTSD. I only told a few people, though if it came up naturally in conversation, or if someone was questioning the use of medication to treat anxiety, I didnt hesitate to talk about my experience. I was prescribed Lexapro and the effects were so immediate, I swore, to the few friends who knew what was going on, that I wanted to be on it for the rest of my life. But earlier this summer, I stopped taking my meds. It wasnt a big decision. Because mental health care is near impossible to acquire in New Orleans, and because I didnt have health insurance, I was treated by a series of interns at the LSU Behaviorial Health Center, and had to switch to other versions of Lexapro simply because I couldnt afford the real thing. Getting an extension on my script meant making another appointment and going in to see the latest intern, who usually had a student observing. Once, when I realized I was going to be late for an appointment, I called ahead, was placed on permanent hold and then, when I arrived, the intern told me she didnt want to charge me for a short appointment so she had them refund the fee that Id already paid when I arrived. A few weeks later I received a stern letter from the head of the center, telling me that I was an awful and disrespectful patient, that there were so many others who would have liked to have my appointment, that it was my obligation to contact them if I was going to be late, and if it ever happened again they would refuse to continue treating me. Good thing I was still on my medication at the time. So all this led to me sort of accidentally not bothering to extend my prescription, and then, after a few weeks without it, I decided not to go back. I felt fine, I was busy, and if anything went wrong, I could always change my mind. But I also thought I should probably let someone know that I was making this decision. But who could I tell, since I hadnt really shared much of any of this with anyone. And not sharing it, not processing things, was part of what got me into trouble to begin with. Last night, it occurred to me that probably six weeks have passed, or longer, and I still feel fine. In fact, I may feel better than I did on medication, which seemed to, over time, drain a sense of urgency from anything I was attempting in life. But I wanted to post this, just in case, and also to let anyone who cares to know know, and for anyone who might be going through some of the same things.
Posted on: Tue, 09 Sep 2014 13:41:46 +0000
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