I Went to a Neurologist for my Anxiety
“So, tell me why you’re here.”
My voice started to tremble and before I knew it I was crying. “It’s been a really funky couple of weeks.” My mom handed me a tissue—she was in the room with me, and I suddenly felt like I was 16 again. I was 25.
Those few weeks prior to visiting a neurologist consisted of two stroke-like episodes, hours of migraine symptoms, and a general sense of uneasiness. I got blood tests at my GP, thinking my Hashimoto’s was the cause of dizziness and tiredness. I left work early after an intensive out-of-body experience; my manager would drive me home and my boyfriend would also leave work to be with me. I thought my face serum was poisoning me, an allergic reaction on my arm was Shingles and consequently Encephalitis, and that numbness in the back of my head was a brain tumor. The GP referred me to a neuro given the nature of my symptoms, as they couldn’t rule out something more serious without a specialist. The blood tests came back normal aside from slightly low iron and vitamin D. An MRI after my neurologist appointment only showed early signs of cervical spine deterioration, likely due to my height.
“Do you have anxiety?” the neurologist asked me. “Certainly,” I’d say back. I’d then learn that a great deal of my symptoms weren’t neurological in nature, but psychological. He would prescribe me Celexa to trial and the MRIs to ease my anxiety related to brain function, knowing well the intensity of my anxiety would likely dwindle with a tumor off the table. For the rest of the day, I played the past few months of my life over and over in my head. I was undergoing biological stress from my cervix. I had a falling out with a close friend from work. I had been promoted 6 months prior to a more intense role. I started refinancing my car and took out a loan for the first time. I had undergone essentially every major relationship hurdle (a job hunt, helping with a move, planning a trip to meet extended family, saying I love you) within the first eight months of dating. And that first stroke-like episode? It occurred on one of my most stressful days at work thus far. In the midst of a panic attack, you aren’t making those connections.
I was in denial about my anxiety at age 25 after suffering from clinical depression and an eating disorder as a teen. I had undergone cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) twice weekly, then less frequent, from age 16 to 18. I returned to a therapist after a breakup at 22 and resumed what I believed to have been healthy coping mechanisms that kept me on track: yoga, the arts, remembering to relax. This time around, my anxiety was a runaway train. It took hitting rock bottom to realize I needed help. But on the outside, I looked like I was cruising along. Little did I know, suppressing my stress was taking a physical (and deeper mental) toll than I was even realizing.
Anxiety affects over 40 million people in the US ages 18 and older every year and only 37% of those suffering get treatment. Nearly half of people with anxiety also have depression (or vice versa). From experience, it can turn into a vicious cycle of both shame/denial that you’re “weak,” (that’s my depression talking), and then the rapid, reoccurring thoughts about this keep me up at night (anxiety).
I am a firm believer of harnessing anxiety and stress, or my inherent control issues, and channeling these parts of my personality into productivity. I believed my control and self-discipline made me good at my job and effective at planning out my future. Or, in my worst moments, planning out my Saturdays by the half-hour. By the time my symptoms got as bad as they did, I was having full-blown breakdowns when my boyfriend didn’t get me TSA pre-check on a flight, worrying about the lack of time buffer if I somehow overslept, was too slow taking my cosmetics (obviously) out of my carry-on, and therefore missing my flight. A teammate requesting paid time off, a perfectly acceptable move that I was to approve as their manager, spawned team-wide emails reminding of vacation policies. It took seeing the neurologist to recognize my control issues as my perceived solution to the deeper issue of an anxiety disorder. In the past I had used food restriction to cope, but this time around, I wasn’t coping at all.
It’s been 5 months since my journey to help my anxiety began. I’ve been on anti-anxiety medication since the day it was prescribed, and leverage online therapy through my work perks. Within these months, I’ve also switched into a long distance relationship, survived very intense work decisions, took on a new (less stressful) role that I absolutely love and is better suited for me and my lifestyle. I’ve traveled, a lot, and found ways to ease that anxiety. Cancelling my yoga membership (due to the anxiety of not using it enough to outweigh the cost) felt like a blow to a good routine, but I’ve started practicing yoga at my own apartment instead— on my schedule.
Once I opened up to a few friends on how my mental health was somehow reverting back to the state they knew in high school, I was shocked with how many people were either treating anxiety as well, or wanted to know the steps to take as they felt similarly. As women performing—and performing well—in high stress job environments, it’s incredibly important to be open about your current state and where you can leverage support systems. I’m thankful for that first appointment every day, knowing I took the right course of action for getting myself to a better place. It’s work, but it’s necessary.
To help in my journey, I read On Edge: A Journey Through Anxiety by Andrea Petersen. Andrea is a successful reporter suffering from anxiety herself, who took the plunge into researching anxiety in a clinical way. She also makes it easy to understand to anyone who hasn’t felt it. Both my sister and mom read the book, and started to understand in a way they hadn’t before. I suggest this book to anyone looking for an easy to digest resource.