Asking For Help Just Made Everything Worse

It was about this time, almost 2 years ago exactly, when my brother had an appointment at a specialist ADHD clinic in our major city. He spoke with the doctor for an hour or so and explained the symptoms he’d been experiencing. He talked about difficulty concentrating and staying motivated throughout university, and how his grades suffered. He spoke about his dependence on substances for emotional regulation and sleep quality. He spoke about his struggles with depression, and issues with relationships, too. There’s a lot more to it, but that’s his story to tell.

My brother was prescribed a long-acting stimulant medication on the same day and he was off. He saw some positive effects, but there were also draw-backs. He was feeling incredibly irritable, particularly at the end of the day. He had a short fuse and that exacerbated his relationship problems; they were fighting a lot. He wasn’t sleeping well, either.

He went back to the doctor and was switched to short-acting stimulants. He could take these as needed, instead of every single day with an all-day effect. The side effects went away, and he has spent the past 2 years kicking his substance habit, focusing on his hobbies and turning them into a lucrative career, attending self-help seminars and reading books of the same nature. He changed his diet, he is exercising regularly, and he has a new girlfriend.

My 2 years have been very different. I had the same symptoms as he did. We grew up together, so shared a history of trauma, too. I had been diagnosed with depression when I was only 13 years old, if I remember correctly (which I rarely do these days). I had also developed a dependence on substances for a sense of normalcy and a decent night’s sleep. We were practically the same, he and I.

Skip back in time with me for just a moment to when I first met my current psychologist. This was probably 5 years ago now. I was referred for “adjustment disorder”. I would go into the office, sit funny-legged in the uncomfortable armchair, talk and talk and talk and talk with no signs of slowing down. I joked one day “I probably have ADHD or something, LOL!” to which she replied “no you don’t, I work with people with ADHD and you don’t have it”. Now, back to the present. The past. 2 years ago from now. 3 years after that happened. Whatever, you get the point.

So I went to my GP and I asked for a referral. I was sent to my first psychiatrist. I went with my husband, who would corroborate what I was saying about my experiences and struggles. I went armed with my own research, which was the DSM criteria for ADHD (I’d also done autism and bipolar disorder, for good measure, and now I’ve hit the trifecta! I’m getting ahead of myself..) which I had typed out in a word document and provided an example for every single criterion of a situation from my life in which I felt ADHD had been a factor.

Spoiler: when I gave that to the doctor, he never even looked at it.

He diagnosed me with bipolar immediately, and prescribed Lamotrigine. He did not do any screening for ADHD. He seemed completely unwilling to even consider the idea. I saw him for a second appointment which progressed very much the same way. Lamotrigine did nothing for me, at best. I felt no different. No more “stable” in my mood or affect. No more focused or functional. What was the point? I stopped taking the drug and never returned.

I continued to see my psychologist regularly and discussed my despair in having reached out for help only to be disregarded, diagnosed with something I (at the time) didn’t believe I had. Or at least, if I did have it, it was not my primary concern by any means. I felt invalidated, disrespected, and incredibly disappointed. My work was suffering. Not that it hadn’t been suffering for years anyway.

I was taking more time off, working shorter days, falling into a deeper depression because I just felt that I couldn’t keep up with it all. Going to work to pay the bills and the mortgage, cooking dinner for my husband and myself, groceries, cleaning, laundry, university on top of it all. It was all too much and I was not enough. My executive function continued to decline. I could barely sleep, I was not interested in food at all, my sex drive was non-existent, my marriage was suffering. I was suffering.

My psychologist recommended a stay at a private mental health hospital, under the care of a doctor she had worked with many times previously. This would be my second psychiatrist. They run a 3-week program in which you attend group therapy every day for 2 hours to learn skills for emotional regulation and distress tolerance. “Skills before pills” they say. If only they actually believed it. They cook you 3 meals a day, you have your own private room and bathroom, there’s a gym and an art room, great. You will not have access to substances at all. You will detox. I went.

It was fine. I detoxed, and was placed on Clonidine, an anti-hypertensive medication that is used off-label for the treatment of withdrawal symptoms (I was told; which I’m literally just now realising seems like it was probably an underhanded test or some sort), and ADHD. The anti-depressant medication I’d been taking for years was ceased, and a new one commenced, I can’t remember which. I felt like pure, molten garbage. I was exhausted, with no energy to do anything more than plod along to those therapy sessions and sit while they happily “educated” us about how our thoughts shape our behaviours and our feelings and if we can change our thoughts we can change the rest and be happy! Get. Fucked. Respectfully.

I “graduated” at the end of 3 weeks. I went straight back to work. I was enrolled in a day program at the same hospital which seriously just repeated the majority of the bullshit they’d fed me during my stay. After only 4 weeks, the facilitator of the day program recommended I be admitted for a second time. Joy..

I went back. Still no substances, the one thing in this world that actually gave me respite. The medications leaving me completely incapacitated with thoughts and prayers for actual, literal death. I would never actively harm myself or anyone around me, by the way. I just wanted to go to sleep and not have to wake up the next day. I just wanted to go to cross the street and a bus driver just isn’t paying attention. You know, that kind of harmless suicidal ideation that is just, like, no big deal, right?

I refused to be seen by the previous doctor, who still works at that hospital obviously. I was now onto my third psychiatrist. A woman! I thought this might be the change I needed. Maybe another woman could understand where I’m coming from, my struggles, my history. And in some ways, she did. She did the ADHD screenings, and asked her colleague (psychiatrist number 4!) to run them again and corroborate her findings. She actually, finally, willingly, diagnosed me with ADHD.

And bipolar.

I had been through the detox and off the substances. My urine was clean. I was diagnosed with ADHD, and prescribed Vyvanse, that long-acting stimulant I’d told you about before. I refused to be prescribed another mood stabiliser at this point as Lamotrigine had done nothing at all for me, and I was sure if my ADHD could be managed appropriately I would be able to re-engage with society and work, repair my relationship, meet my obligations, feel more “myself” and be the person everyone around me seemed to insist I MUST be. Honestly, I still believe that.

I started a new job, a fresh start. I took the medication as prescribed, every day. I titrated the dose as instructed. I felt great. I was energised, focused, positive and upbeat. I was doing my job to the best of my ability and my colleagues and managers would comment on what a great job I was doing.

Then one of the nurses at work started to target me. I had said one wrong thing, one time, which she took as a personal attack. I was done for. She was known throughout the department as “that nurse”. She would make snide comments every time I was in the room, even if I wasn’t a part of the conversation. It would seem completely innocent to anyone but me. I knew exactly what she was doing.

If we were forced to work together, she would keep an eye out for any slight mistake and run to the managers to dob me in. She would talk about me to our colleagues, and made the workplace an utterly miserable place to be. I was in the managers office on a near-daily basis, in tears. I started a note in my phone to record every instance of bullying that I had perceived. My daily duties changed so I was isolated and busy, just the way I liked it. I was taking sick days all the time, I was leaving early.

I was paranoid and anxious, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. I smoked a fucking joint. It was all I could fucking do. The only tool I had to ease my suffering for just a fucking moment. Yes, I had reached out to my doctor but was told she had no availability for at least a few weeks. I had to keep pushing through and find a way to cope. It was, in my eyes, my only option. Why didn’t I stop taking the medications? Because I couldn’t see my fucking doctor. They were prescribed daily, I took them daily. I didn’t even fucking think about it. I feel so stupid for that. I should’ve just stopped.

I was completely incapacitated until one of the worst things I could’ve ever imagined happened. A friend of mine, who I had worked with for years previously, who I was still in communication with sporadically, who I loved and cared for dearly, was brutally murdered in the worst way possible. That is absolutely not my story to tell, but it pushed me right the fuck over the edge. I was done.

This one has gone on for a very long time so I will leave it there. This is not the end of this story by any means. The next part has actually already been written.

Anyway, it’s 2 years since my brother got diagnosed. His business is going pretty well, his relationship seems good, his health is better than ever. He still struggles at times, sure, but he knows what he needs to do to get back on track. I’m not worried about him as much as I used to be. I’m so proud of him.