This first-person article is the experience of Adam Dykaar who lives in Toronto. For more information on CBC’s First Person Stories, please see the frequently asked questions.
It was late at night and I should have slept, but instead I felt like I mightn’t breathe. Every second of the ticking clock felt like an eternity. I was shivering and sweating, alternating between cold spells and hot flashes. The bright lights of a normal June night in Toronto shone outside my window, indifferent to my pain.
I got out of bed to vomit hoping it would do me some good. I thought I was dying. But I was actually having a panic attack.
It might have been any number of things that triggered me: the economy, my bank balance, the news of a family member’s recent diagnosis of poor health. I’ve struggled with mental illness since I was a kid, and somehow what was scary as a kid is terrifying as an adult. As a child, anxiety and depression seemed to interrupt my life, but as an adult they threaten to destroy it.
This time, I felt like my life was spiraling out of control even though I had only had these panic attack symptoms for six hours.
I considered going to the hospital that night, but remembered that I had faced these attacks before. It’s not real, I’m not going to die. Still, I knew I needed help, so I decided to toughen up and get an appointment with a doctor in the morning.
I’ve been down this road before, so I know how it goes. The excitement of finally “doing something” regarding the problem. Crushing defeat when the medicine you have been prescribed does not work or has debilitating side effects. I was hoping this time would be different, but the reality is that our healthcare system is broken and navigating this broken healthcare system can sometimes feel overwhelming.
As the sun rose, I called my agent to cancel my acting job that day, knowing that I probably wouldn’t get any more work from that agency. They don’t tend to contact you once more if you fail a meeting, no matter how valid the reason. But I didn’t know what else to do.
I made an appointment with my family doctor that week and got a referral to be placed on the waiting list for repetitive transcranial magnetic stimulation — a new type of treatment to combat the depression I have had since I was a child. But I was told there would be long wait times, so my doctor prescribed me a new medication as well.
It was not a good solution, but I felt that the medicine would help me until I might get the treatment I wanted. And I figured if my anxiety or depression got too bad, I might always go to the ER as a last resort.
Four days later, I found myself standing right there in the emergency room of the Center for Addiction and Mental Health in Toronto, among a line of people waiting to be checked. Another waiting list, but at least this time I might physically see and count how many people were ahead of me. I’d had
waves of panic attacks for days – longer periods than ever before – and the drugs weren’t helping.
When I finally got to the front line, the psychiatrist diagnosed my symptoms as a side effect of the medication that should have helped me.
I was told that I might stop taking the drugs. That same psychiatrist also referred me to another service—panic disorder therapy, which meant, you guessed it, yet another waiting list.
By this point I had been to a family doctor, in the ER, and I had been put on two waiting lists and felt worse than when I started.
I felt extremely depressed, worried that I would never feel close to “normal” once more. I was on the waiting lists, but the waiting times lasted several months; treatments, like drugs, were not guaranteed to be successful. I felt lost.
A week later, I moved back in with my parents to also be closer to my family doctor in my hometown of Waterloo, Ontario. I started on another medication and today I continue to experience the side effects while waiting my turn with our overstretched mental health infrastructure.
I had panic attacks for a week straight as my brain tries to even out the effects of the new drug, with all the basic symptoms: sweating, racing heartbeat, feeling like I was going to die.
All of the doctors and healthcare professionals I have dealt with during this time have been incredibly supportive and kind, but there are many people out there who are suffering like me and there are no just not enough places to go. My doctor told me I might want to see a psychiatrist, but a referral to a psychiatrist meant yet another waiting list – this time two to three years, which I didn’t. feel better. So I declined this offer.
Fortunately, I have friends and family who followed me. I’ve never really been more afraid of the stigma of mental illness than mental illness itself. It really relieved me to see people sending me their best wishes, even if it didn’t shorten waiting lists or improve medication efficiency. I felt less alone and depressed when I knew people were keeping me in their thoughts and prayers.
They give me the strength not to give up – either on the system trying in its beleaguered way to help me, or on myself.
But when you’re dealing with feelings that gnaw at you, every outward difficulty feels like a mountain. It was like that for me: the waiting lists are daunting, but they are mountains that I have to overcome. I don’t really have a choice in the matter, and my life won’t resume until I do. I will never do anything on my own, whether it’s finding a career, building and maintaining stable relationships, or achieving ordinary levels of happiness if I don’t proactively try to help myself, and I have to. . I can’t give up.
I must have hope, because without it I really would have nothing.
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