I still hear negative remarks in my mind roughly half the times I take my meds. The comments I heard while growing up were often, “She’s a pill popper,” and, “She takes too many meds.” These were from my relatives, often made about other disabled or chronically ill relatives. I avoided taking meds for headaches or allergies or anything as often as possible because I didn’t want these negative phrases to be thrown at me. When I did need medication, I rarely told anyone I had taken them; I did that in secret.
Perhaps that’s why my abuse of muscle relaxants started so easily (and so early). They had been prescribed to me, and I took them as such. I took them more often, too. It was easy to hide (as an eighth-grader onward) that I took extras, usually with a couple over-the-counter pain pills, because I hid when I took pills responsibly, too. I didn’t want anyone to talk shit about my actions in a way that meant they were talking shit about me. About my worth, my value, my personhood.
I abused those pills when I had them. As I entered adulthood, I abused others when I didn’t. The majority of people in my life, even those I partied with, did not know. I was often the one that folks would say, “Here, hold this,” as they plopped pills into the palm of my hand. Once they walked away, I would toss them back with whatever I was drinking. Upon return, I would say, “What pills?” with a confused look. I perfected it over time.
When I quit all of that on May 3, 2019, I quickly turned back to who I was as a child. I wouldn’t even take ibuprofen to manage a migraine. It took time to process the relationship I once had with medication. It affected how often I avoided doctor’s visits and how long it took to have my tonsillectomy. For that, I waited until my airway was roughly 80 percent blocked. It affected how I responded to treatment options when I received my diagnosis of bipolar disorder. Even then, I fought to not take meds. The first one prescribed to me… I never picked it up.
Now, almost four years later, I take 19 pills a day. I am grateful for each one as they treat and help me manage my multiple diagnoses. Yet, I still occasionally hear the voices from my childhood whispering, “she’s a pill popper,” which inherently makes me feel like a bad person. I don’t agree with it — at all — yet it still hurts. That’s trauma.
When I take my medications, split up over five times a day, I appreciate modern medicine. When I mark that my dose(s) has been administered in an app on my phone, I look forward to receiving the weekly insight of how consistent I was. When I pick up my meds at the pharmacy, I laugh with the team about what’s happened since I last went in or sigh when they give me another update regarding that one physician who chronically messes up the prior authorization forms.
What I mean to say is this: I need my medications, and I take them.
A few years ago I overheard a woman in a smoothie shop telling the owner that her friend with metastasized breast cancer beat it with nothing but prayer and juice cleanses. Since then, I’ve heard strangers speaking of battling chronic lung failure only with deep breathing exercises. I’ve heard friends tell me that I can cure my autonomic nervous system dysfunction if I just get back to my previous workout regimens, like CrossFit or kickboxing or powerlifting.
Do I wish it was all that easy? That it was all that, “We can do anything if we just say that we will!!”? Of course. I wish I could return-to-sender my bipolar disorder symptoms just by petting my doggo more. I wish my PTSD would stop inflicting pain on daily activities just because I once said, “Hey that’s enough. I would like to stop this now.” I wish my anxiety would not make me think things like, “What would I do if that ceiling fan fell on a child’s head and I was the only one here and my phone wouldn’t work to call for help,” as if the odds for any and all of that are higher than almost zero. I wish my autonomic dysfunction would not make me pee my pants at 27 years old just because the signals from my bladder full-on stop when I go from freezing to hot to freezing to hot too quickly (yes, this happened like last week. in a store. check your judgment).
But y’all, modern medicine is here to help.
I take 19 pills a day, which is 133 pills a week or 589 pills in a 31-day month. And I am grateful. These medications are part of my care regimen that is expertly organized by my care team which includes myself. The goal is to let me live my life in the ways that I desire, as often as possible. It’s to let me live my life with folks like you, strangers who have become friends, and friends who have become family. It’s to let me continue to be me. It’s for all of us. After all…
we are who we have.