(Note: This is the second post in a short series in which I recount my first experiences with Paxil. The first post can be found here.)

I was a junior in college, panic was making a daily appearance, and I was relying on Xanax for each attack.  So, when my doctor prescribed Paxil, I accepted it with open arms.  But in the long run, all I got was a big hug from Big Pharma.

It started off innocently enough. My general practitioner had given me four sample packets of Paxil CR, 12.5 milligrams, that would last me a total of 28 days.  Excellent news, of course, for a college girl on a very limited budget.  I figured things would go like this: I’d see if the Paxil worked first, and then I’d worry about the money later.

I swallowed my first yellow pill at my dad’s house during Christmas break — blindly.  The sample packets didn’t come with an informational leaflet, so I had no idea what to expect.  I didn’t know what I was getting into. I didn’t know anything about the side effects or, even worse, the withdrawal symptoms that I’d eventually be forced to endure.

Without any kind of informational leaflet — the kind I would have received if I had filled the script at the pharmacy instead of taking the samples first — I had no way of knowing.

Ignorance was bliss, I suppose, at the time.  Yellow pill, glass of water, done.  On to the next activity.

I got a strange buzz from the first few doses — not a high, exactly, but a very physical buzz.  I felt closer to the world than I’d ever felt.  My skin even tingled a bit, even, as if there were a low-level electrical current zapping through my epidermis.

Always the little archivist, I jotted down some notes about how I felt.  (My entire life, it seems, is neatly archived between various blogs and old-fashioned paper journals.)  In December of 2004, I had a rosy view of my Paxil-coated future:

I hope to have this whole “panic attack” thing under control soon. My doctor put me on Paxil, which is so far doing an incredible job at keeping me chill and relaxed and non-anxious. They said I had all of the textbook symptoms of panic attacks, & a fairly large number of symptoms of general anxiety. And so, this is rather goddamn beneficial.

I think I’ve only had two or three panic attacks since I’ve started taking Paxil, and they’ve all been minor. Well, all but one. I had a panic attack on I-81 while driving…but I think that one was justified considering the POURING RAIN and how I basically couldn’t see anything outside of my windows.

Two or three (minor) panic attacks.  Not bad.  Maybe I could get used to this, I thought.  After all, it was such a simple solution, right?  A single pill, taken only once per day, to vanquish my ills?

I mean, my general practitioner and I went waaay back.  He cured me of strep throat in third grade with antibiotics, a nasty cough in middle school with promethazine syrup, and ongoing nasal allergies with Claritin-D.  He’s good.

I was twenty.  I had no reason to question a doctor’s judgment.  Or, put less harshly, I had no reason to even ask questions to a doctor.  At all.

I didn’t see the point — after all, doctor knows best, right?  Isn’t that how the saying goes?

(Stay tuned for part three.)

photo credit: ChiBart

Comments

This post currently has 6 comments/trackbacks.
You can read the comments or leave your own thoughts.

Trackbacks

From Psych Central's website:
The Month(s) After My General Practitioner Prescribed Paxil | Panic About Anxiety (August 18, 2011)

    Last reviewed: 17 Aug 2011