Desperately Seeking Jessica : Revelations III- The Way Home

Desperately Seeking Jessica : Revelations III- The Way Home:

Had I thought my World dark and isolated before I ripped off my patch, it was proven to me that things CAN ALWAYS get worse. Over the first 48 hours, I was thrust into a tornado of doubt, anxiety, fear and hopelessness. My suicidal ideation became more potent than ever, and I downward spiraled into the brink of madness. For two days, I made an effort to notify all my doctors of my choice to detox, but I quickly lost the ability to communicate with dissolving into tears. The patch had come off on a Tuesday, and by Thursday I was a crumpled mess. I’d left an emergency message for my rheumatologist, and he called me back just after 5pm. With everything I had, I tried to communicate my situation without crying, but the empathy and concern in his voice had me in tears within moments. Our conversation remains vague in my memory, but after blubbering about the dark emotions I was having, I remember him saying these words.

"Okay, Jessica. I understand what is going on. I want you to put down the phone, get your mom and have her take you to the ER so you can be admitted to Harding. You need to be someplace where others can take care of you
24/7; someplace you can rest and be safe."

I hung up, still sobbing, and called my mom. She was at a property over an hour away. Leaving immediately, she told me to get ready. Taking my time to prepare, I took a leisurely shower and packed a small bag. Before I was dressed, my mom called me from the driveway. It had barely been 40 minutes. Anyone who doesn't believe that moms are angels on Earth obviously hasn't met mine, because that woman FLEW home. She kept me calm as we drove to OSU and stayed with me while I waited for a bed.

Under different circumstances, I would’ve been scared to go to Harding. I had always seen it as a place for truly unstable people. People who needed help getting a mental disease under control, or people who needed constant supervision for their own safety. I never imagined being one of THOSE people, but I was. Nor did I think I was going to share this part of my journey in my blog. I felt ashamed and weak that I required that type of care. But with the help of a dear friend, I was convinced that ALL of us are one of THOSE people in some way, shape or form at some point in our lives. I'm not saying we all end up in psychiatric hospitals, but I'm saying we're all human who feel weakness and vulnerability at some time. I needed help, and I got it.

Harding wasn't able to assist with detox, as it’s not a rehab facility. They kept me on my oxycodone as the pain doctor had prescribed. I did meet with doctors every day, and they adjusted my antidepressants to try to handle my intense depression and anxiety that seemed to grow with every moment. I suffer from both conditions, but Fentanyl withdrawal, especially going off cold turkey, is known for exacerbating these symptoms, as well as causing confusion, abdominal pain, sweats, muscle aches, loss of appetite, tremors, to name just a few. I was monitored constantly, and I was surrounded by people who all needed help in different ways. The camaraderie of need was a constant comfort in a time when my spirit was plummeting. After a week, I was stable enough to go home, but I hesitate to even use the word, because it was far from what I was.

There is a scene in the Twilight movie, Breaking Dawn, Part I, where Bella, the main character, turns into a vampire. After being injected with venom, it shows her writhing in pain, her blood drying up and her head shaking violently inside itself as she screams silently. That's pretty muchwhat I felt like for the first four weeks, accompanied by emotional outbursts, constant anxiety and an inability to function. Suicide was still an option that entered my mind. I needed someone so badly, to be with me and prevent me from feeling so horribly alone. As if by fate, my mom finally had enough of driving 4-5 hours a day and working for a company that ruled their management with iron fists, and she left her job. So for some of the hardest weeks of my withdrawal, my mom was home, nurturing me. If ever there was a time I wished to return to the womb, it was then.

It took another two weeks before I felt stable enough to begin the second stage of my withdrawal. Starting on 120mg/day of oxycodone, it felt like I had a very long road ahead of me. And I did. Those first few reductions had my system in a flux. While my physical symptoms weren't as taxing, my mental state was declining. I would sit and stare and not speak, and when I WOULD speak, it would come out in violent bursts. I would sob in my mother's lap, and she would just soothe me with the bond I've known with her my whole life. Had we collected my tears, I'm sure God could have used them for a rain storm. There seemed to be no end to my sadness. Memories of all I'd been through these past 19 years played like picture films in my mind, and suddenly I felt what I can only describe as mourning for THAT girl. 

When I was going through the pancreatitis, the H1N1, the loss of my son, the sepsis, the colostomy, to state just a few, I was just surviving. I wasn't coping with the sadness, disappointment or loneliness I felt. I was just too numb. Now that I was waking back up as the chemicals left my system, I had to deal with reality and all those ghost years. It overwhelmed my senses, and I felt certain I was on a one-way path to a nervous breakdown. 

When I got to 80 mg, my pain nurse practitioner saw me and was concerned with my mental state. She advised me to slow down on the withdrawal, to reduce my dose by 10mg every ten days instead of every seven, and to set my end date for January 14th instead of Christmas, as I had originally intended. My stubbornness was overpowered by my emotional instability, and I agreed. Even at 10 days per 10mg, it still wasn't long enough for my body to truly adjust to the current dose. I was warned that the lower I got, the sicker I would feel. Now on 20mg/day, I'm finding that to be very true.

It feels like there is a revolution going on within my body. The harder I try to expel these chemicals, the harder the drugs grip onto my cells, fighting to hold onto the power they’ve had over me for so long. As I cope with the body aches, shaking, sweats, exhaustion and pain, I feel like the drugs are trying to reduce me to ash as they take over once and for all. There are days I have no strength to fight against them. But other days, I pull myself out of my agony and do SOMETHING to enjoy life and show this drug who is boss. This isn’t a war I’m willing to lose.

I'm still coping and mourning, and with therapy, I will process my past. I've gotten close enough to my end point that I’m rejoicing in the strength it took me to get here, the strength God graced me with to survive it, and the support of family and close friends that lifted me up when I was crumbling. In the ongoing absence of the narcotics, I’ve felt a surge of unconditional love, healing me as much as I've been healing myself. I envision that girl on the beach, and it's as though I'm running towards her like an old love. And that's what she is to me, an old love for myself, a girl that still has fire in her eyes who will merge with the woman I have become. 

Life is no longer black and white but in vibrant color! I no longer have to search for my words, but rather they come pouring out of me, unjumbled and clear. I've found true laughter again, and my heart and mind swell like the tide with feelings long absent. I see a future of helping others rather than death, a time of physical rehabilitation and the returning to work, hopefully lobbying against big pharma or being a patient advocate. The possibilities are endless!

January 14th, I am truly starting over.  The World has changed so much in 19 years, but I recognize that travel bug I used to know returning, making me want to go out and explore it. I'm ready to live life, not just survive it. It's been a humbling experience, this decision to take the plunge out of my pool of numbness and back into a life. Some of my pain has already re-emerged, but instead of wanting to take it away, I almost find it a reminder that I'm actually alive. I haven't felt truly alive for almost two decades. I am welcomed back by two sets of footprints merging into one, showing
me the way home.

Check out the song below by Edwina Hayes...
https://youtu.be/eumh8_ZZZo0