I Took a Pill

I’d like to forget about the day I texted a friend to say that I was being held hostage in an Urgent Care. 

I’d like to forget about it because I missed most of my good friend’s wedding, an event I can never get back. I’d like to forget about it because I probably traumatized half of my family, something I can never undo. I’d like to forget about it because I disappointed myself immensely. All because I took a pill. A pill that I can never unswallow. 

I buried this memory as soon as it formed. So unless you were there, I probably haven’t discussed it with you. After I survived the ordeal I acted like it never happened. Everything was the same, everything was fine. Except it wasn't, we were all changed, me, my family, our relationship. 

You see, I struggle with Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS), severely. I get an unbearable sensation in my legs when I am still too long, seated the way most people are supposed to find relaxing. I find ways around it, I’ve become very good at this, but some events are hard for me to attend. This is why I always pay extra to take a plane instead of a train, if it will spare me some sitting time. I can deal with discomfort during the day, but at night I won’t be able to sleep if I don't get enough movement in beforehand.

One fateful evening, after a bus ride from Boston to CT, I couldn’t sleep. Nothing extraordinary, except I had a wedding to attend the following day.  Time ticked by, and as it did, I got more and more anxious. It would be the second night in a row I had gotten little to no sleep. 1 am passed. Then 2 am. Then 3. I hadn’t thought to pack any Tylenol PM, and I didn’t want to wake anyone up to ask, so I wracked my brain for other solutions. I was desperate, and sleep deprived. This was not the state I wanted to greet so many of my college friends in. I knew I had an Ambien someone had given me to try. I’d tucked it away in my bag to save for an emergency.

Well, this was an emergency, right? Not actually, it was a far cry from being a big deal. I mean, I wasn’t even a bridesmaid. It wouldn’t have been the end of the world to not sleep. In retrospect, if I had been thinking rationally, I would have just laid there and tried to sleep naturally. Or done some exercises and gone back to bed. I would probably, eventually, have gotten maybe 2 or 3 hours, and that would have been enough. No one would have been able to tell, the day wasn’t supposed to be about me. Maybe some part of me wanted an excuse to try it. I had never had Ambien before. I’d heard a lot about it as a sleep aid. I was curious if it would help my restlessness. I was born overstimulated. 

As a kid and teen I had limitless physical energy, which was great for soccer but not ideal for days where the schedule simply wouldn’t allow me  to get all my energy out. This has been my life, always searching for new ways to expend energy and relieve restlessness. It’s a need for me akin to eating. It’s not always a choice. I try to conform to social norms best I can, but all too often I can’t. It’s a horrible feeling. Being the “odd one” or the one who is “making it all up,” exaggerating her needs. It’s not fun to be seen that way. And the thing is I’m not, I’m really not. But that’s what happens with an invisible condition — people are skeptical (or tend to not believe you). It makes a person feel desperate at times, desperate to find a way to conform.

Still, it haunts me to think about how little I thought through such a dangerous decision, given all the red flags. I had received this pill from a stranger. A man who had tried to take advantage of me. A man I rejected. But I couldn’t make him leave, because he was a friend of a friend. I thought it was my consolation prize for dodging his aggressive advances all night. A free Ambien I could try. 

Turns out it wasn’t a prize at all. It wasn’t even Ambien. It was poison. And I was Snow White. Tricked. The only kind of sleep it could have offered me was the kind I wouldn’t wake up from.

The pre-wedding plan was to meet some of my college friends in our Air Bnb first, then carpool to the wedding together. The ceremony was taking place in a town that neighbored my hometown so I had been staying with my parents beforehand. My mom drove me to the Air BnB. I had spent hours trying to perfect my hair in an intricate style— one of my few beauty-related talents — but then it was time to go.

I felt odd that morning, as I ate breakfast, did my hair, but I decided to keep it to myself. I’d be fine. I was just over-tired. I hadn’t slept at all the night before. The pill hadn't worked. The thing was I didn't actually feel tired. I was full of energy. I told myself it was some weird effect of the sleep deprivation, but I think I knew deep down something was wrong. I felt weird, in a way I’d never felt before in my life. I chose to ignore it.

My mom and I chatted breezily on the car ride over. During the drive I felt emotions stir up that I don’t usually feel going into happy occasions. I felt deep fear. I felt like I didn’t want to leave my mom’s side. I might have said something of the sort. 

I was wearing sunglasses but I took them off at some point because my vision started to get blurry. Dizzying. And I began to feel really cold. My lips were quivering. When my mom looked at me, she gasped. 

“Melinda, why are your eyes moving like that?” Apparently, they were zooming around in various directions, rapid-fire.

I didn’t want to admit I had taken Ambien to fall asleep, and was possibly having an adverse reaction. Unlabeled Ambien, given to me by someone I didn’t know well or trust. What had I been thinking?! Part of me knew I needed medical care, but images of past visits flashed through my head, willing me not to go. I didn’t think my mom would understand that my scariest medical moments, up to that point, had occurred due to the actions of doctors. Doctors I thought I could trust, who were supposed to help me, make me better. Doctors who told me I was lucky with my restlessness because at least I would always be motivated to exercise. Who put me on medications that caused sleeplessness because they misdiagnosed me as needing strong Antidepressants. Uppers. 

Apparently an “upper” was also what I had taken that night. That was why I also didn’t get any hours of sleep, even though that had been the whole point of taking it. Had I done my research, I could have checked what an Ambien actually looked like and seen that it was not the pill I had been given. But I didn’t. I’m ashamed to admit I hadn’t even considered the pill could not be what I was told it was. I was trusting, far too trusting. This possibility didn’t occur to me until after I was still buzzing with energy, for hours, when I should have been sleeping. But by then it was too late, and I didn’t want to know how stupid I had been. I just wanted to get through whatever this was. I’d pretend to be okay. I’d hide it all. I thought I could.

My mom is observant with small things, so of course she noticed when my eyeballs started darting back and forth, and my teeth chattered uncontrollably, shaking my lips. But she had been keeping her eyes on the road the whole drive. So by the time she noticed, we were already at the Air BnB. She wanted to immediately take me to Urgent Care. As any good mother would. I was scared of doctors. And medical bills. And missing important events. I tried to convince her this would pass, no big deal. 

No dice. 

But, since we were already at the Air BnB, my mom agreed to walk me in to say hi briefly to my friends. She also called my father to tell him I was unwell and asked him to come immediately and help decide what to do. We waited for him outside, before going in, because I needed to rest on a patch of grass. I asked to. I never, never,  ask to stop and rest - so that alone must have been weird for my parents to hear. 

           When I was ready to head inside the Air BnB, my friend’s girlfriend (now wife), a nurse, immediately noticed my strange stare. By the time my mom mentioned aloud “I think something weird is happening with Melinda,” she was already halfway towards me, concern shining in her eyes. I know that because she confirmed it later. I also know because I could see it then. 

I was still present inside this “Strange” Melinda, looking out through her darting eyes. I could see other people’s reaction towards her. The fear. But I couldn’t stop doing the things that were making them scared.

She agreed with my mom’s assessment that Urgent Care was a good idea. And that the behaviors I was exhibiting were scary. To this day, she still has my mother’s gratitude. But at the time, I was appalled. I couldn’t shake how horrific it would be to remain cooped inside a medical facility on a day that I was supposed to celebrate a joyous matrimony, in a beautiful rose garden with my college friends. This is the irrational mindset I was in. Thank god for my parents, my friend’s wife, and their good sense.

           Urgent Care was exactly as I predicted. Unbearable. A stocky woman with dirt orange curls and a clipboard was the first to approach. She spoke with confidence, like she was the one who called the shots. Clearly she was the head doctor. My mother, scared out of her mind, relayed the facts as I had admitted them to her on the drive there. “She said she took something to fall asleep. I looked over at her and her eyes started going crazy.” 

She listened to my mother’s reiteration of how I came to be in this state like a distrustful principal sizing up a troublemaker (me). It was a look I was familiar with, having been pigeonholed into that category a lot at school — as a female with ADHD and a smart mouth. “I’ll run a few tests,” the doctor said. 

A young brunette nurse spoke to me kindly as I laid on a bed, stricken. I don’t remember much but I remember her presence put me at ease. I trusted her. I didn’t trust the other woman. The one in charge. 

I had taken the pill because I convinced myself it was an emergency, but ironically the emergency wasn’t until the next day. Because of the pill. My parents were waiting in the Urgent care, worrying about my results. I was laying on a bed, worrying about the wedding I was missing. And the damage I was now causing to both of my parents. 

When the head doctor saw the results she wasn’t shy about making her feelings known, especially to my parents. She wanted to speak with them privately, to tell them I was probably an addict no doubt, because the results didn’t match my words. It was a stimulant, not a sleep medication, she told them, a stimulant I had taken. And now I was in grave danger; my blood pressure levels were life threatening. She recommended an ambulance straight to the hospital. I could die otherwise. Die as an addict. 

Well, I also wanted to speak alone with my parents. I had been texting a friend of mine who was a chef, during the start of a very busy shift at work. On a Saturday. He stepped out of a dinner rush because I texted him 

           I’m being held hostage in an Urgent Care. 

           All I want is fresh air and grounding.

           Can you talk to my mom and tell her fresh air is good for me and hospital isn’t help?

        Again, I wasn’t thinking rationally. I was desperate. I needed an ally. I had visited him once in the hospital when he had been held against his will, so I thought he’d understand and be able to explain better than I could to my parents. It was selfish of me to do that, to drag someone in that didn’t need to be part of it. But I was loopy. And in despair. When I was outside the Air BnB I had been drawn to various trees and glowy patches of grass to connect with. I had felt my anxiety lessen as the earth grounded me, despite neighboring homeowners looking at me funny and exchanging a few words with my parents. 

          But-at this Urgent Care with an accusatory doctor who treated me like I was feral, this place with its white windowless walls, this place with all its machines, it couldn’t possibly heal me. And neither could a hospital. A crowded scary place. Sterile. Antiseptic. Disconnected from the outside world. No, no, no! I could not bear it. I needed familiar. I needed calm. I needed home. Home would fix me. This was me fighting for my survival. At least, that’s what it felt like.

In the end it was me who got through to my parents. This was uncharted territory for them, being told their daughter had ingested something that might require an ambulance to survive. But I begged them to not force me into a situation that would only exacerbate my anxiety. I told them I know my body, and to please trust me. That if my blood pressure was dangerously high, as the woman had said, the best thing for it would be to be in nature, around people I know. In most cases the hospital is the safest option for a medical scare. I was asking for an exception to be made. I was asking for what I knew, deep in my core, would be best for my body in this moment, however unconventional it sounded. I was asking...for a say.

I could tell my mom was terrified of making the wrong choice. She’d had no time to do any research yet on the matter. Time was something we didn’t have. But trust was something we apparently did. I had to convince my parents I was not an addict, something I never thought I’d have to do. A nightmare situation. But I explained to them, calmly as I could, that I had made a very bad decision, believing the word of someone I shouldn’t have. That was my mistake. They knew me well enough to know I hate uppers and that I struggle with sleep. I don’t even drink coffee! I know it looked bad. I know the doctor was making a reasonable conclusion, when she thought I was intentionally trying to get high. I don’t know what I did, to deserve being listened to, but miraculously, I was. My parents chose to give my request for “fresh air” a try. 

There were stipulations. My mom only felt comfortable doing so provided that they monitor me in their yard. And that if I got worse I’d go to the hospital. I was so relieved, and so sure this plan would work that I agreed to call and let her speak to a guy that I had gone on a few dates with, who was in residency for medical school. What were the odds he’d pick up?

  He picked up on the second ring.

He was actually a godsend in that situation. He validated my dad’s idea to get a blood pressure monitor to track if I was actually improving, and then he stayed on the phone with my mother for another half hour to answer all her medical questions. It wasn’t an ideal scenario but I was grateful he was up for it. I knew him, so I was comfortable that he wasn’t someone who was just trying to make money off of me or write me off as an addict. When the phone was passed back to me he then endured my overstimulated self, apologizing for all the ways I had acted rudely to him in the past.  I remember feeling oh so open then, as I felt the beautiful June breeze tickling my skin, surrounded by the good company of my sister and parents, sunshine pouring all around, and adrenaline coursing through my veins. 

He alerted my college friends of the situation, having been a prior housemate to one of them. I thought I would sound like a terrible person, but apparently it was painted as a rather dreadful, unlucky situation, one in which I was being babysat and medically monitored until my condition was no longer critical.

I wanted to die of shame. But the strange pill I had taken left me too manic to do so. I took field trips around the house, seeing things I had never noticed before, in all my childhood years there. It dawned on me how strangely beautiful the situation was. I hadn’t been home in half a year despite only living a 2 hour drive away. My oldest sister and I are both keep-busy people so even when we were both home at the same time, we rarely spent any time catching up with each other. My parents and I, up until that point, had done almost all our talking that year over the phone. But now I was walking beside my parents and oldest sister in our sunlit yard, doing nothing but connecting.

My blood pressure continued to go down to the point where my parents agreed to let me catch the tail end of the wedding, as long as I was chaperoned by friends, kept my phone on me, and didn’t drink. It was weird, entering a building that was filled with cheering and excitement when I’d just endured one of the scariest days of my life. Though I was in my late 20s, I felt scared to leave my parents and enter this scene. I felt vulnerable, and ashamed. I asked them to hang around until I texted that everything was good. 

I heard my friends before I saw them. In the bathroom, where I’d raced to hide as soon as I got inside, feeling out of place and shaken up by the bright lights and loud music. Luckily, the familiar voices of my friends coaxed me out. One of them sensed my hypersensitivity and explained humorously that the wedding hadn’t started out like this. It had worked its way up to this level of energy. First there had been a beautiful ceremony, cocktail hour, photo shoot, and dinner. All incredible moments, that I had missed. 

I was sad to be so late, but glad my parents brought me for the end of it. I was amazed that they not only let me go home, instead of to a hospital, but also trusted me to attend part of the wedding. Then I was touched that all my friends, including the bride herself, welcomed me, without animosity. Though I was only there for a few hours, I cherished every moment, every person I got to see. I’d come so close to missing it all. To losing it all. And I understood only then how precious every second was. The sweaty dancing, the bubbles we blew as the bride and groom exited, the goofy props we tried on, the tasty Taco Bell I got with some friends afterwards. These simple rare moments of shared camaraderie were lit up for me, torched by my contrition.

It both pains me and delights me to see the strips of photo booth pictures from that wedding that I’ve hung around my room as mementos. My hair that I had worked so hard on looked like it had lost a fight to a wild animal. My makeup was ruined. My personality was freshly scarred. But I was surrounded by love. And according to my sister, I was more beautiful. Because I was softened by human experience. And reminded of what is truly important. 

I believe shadows don’t go away until we shine light on them. Indeed, this experience rematerialized in my dreams as a creepy, near-fatal experience set in a clinic. My subconscious must have been trying to get me to confront it. But the dream played so perfectly into my first novel that I didn't analyze it other than to determine how to adapt it for my book.

         It wasn't until I was in a safe space, doing yoga in the apartment of a friend who had been at the wedding, that it hit me what that strange, sci-fi-esque dream I’d had was based on. It had been about this day. This terrifying beautiful day when my head was in a fog and my blood pressure was critical. I froze on the mat like I'd become catatonic, letting this information sink in. A day in my life had inspired an epic nightmare. 

But now that nightmare is the first big hook in my book. And I am making the choice to keep it there, to turn some of my most terrible experiences into art. Truth on the page. As is the theme of my books, our shadows won’t go away on their own. So here I am facing this one. And what I’ve realized is that due to my family, and friends, I had the best worst day. And I don’t want to forget it. I just want to learn and grow, and remember.

I took a pill in my hometown. When I finally got sober I realized it was actually the best place for me to be, in a medically dangerous state. My parents didn’t lock me up, didn't put me in rehab. They listened. I’ve been accused of a lot of things in my life that I didn’t do. But when I actually did something awful, something so dumb I’m ashamed to admit the truth even to myself, I was met with trust and compassion. I’m not used to people in charge doing that for me, and it meant everything. It was a true blessing for me.

A big thank you to all the people present on this day who helped to heal me, inside and out. 

       And a big NO to anyone who offers me medication again that is not medically authorized to do so.

One bad decision can be the end. I'm not taking that chance again.