Here's a mall adventure for you.

So on Tuesday my friend asked me to accompany her and her children to the mall, and I thought, but I should be writing and then I thought, but if one does not experience life, how can one write about it? So I agreed to go, only to gather material. Also they have an H&M.

So off we went, and the first thing my friend Abby tells me is that she's almost completely out of gas, that in fact we would be lucky to make it to the gas station. Make it there we do, and while her car is being filled I ask, "So, how empty was it? Was the light on?" and she says, "For two days." And that right there would be the difference between me and Abby, or maybe between me and most people in the world. If the gas in the car dips below a quarter of a tank I'm twitching. If it's on empty I'm afraid to sit in it, because maybe I'll tip the gas tank a little and the gas will, I don't know, slosh over to the other side and then the car can't get to it? I'm not clear on how cars work. But there's Abby, mentally stable Abby, cheerfully toting around her children, the tank filled only with residue and memories. I'm just glad she told me this when we got to the gas station because I don't think I would have lived those few blocks.

Abby's a new friend of mine, and she's one of those people who when you meet them your insides are screaming BFF! BFF! And you're trying to act all cool and collected and blasé about when you might set up a playdate, but secretly you just want to have a date with only her and ditch the kids and run away together; is that weird? She's got a great son who is Henry's age, and the two of them are so compatible, two gentle souls who want only to build Legos and then build some more Legos. Which is such a refreshing departure from his other friends, who set fires and mug the disabled.

Tank full, we made it to the mall, with only minimal screaming on her baby's part. I tried to chat up the two-year-old, but she just glared at me, because I wasn’t there with a child, and what good was I, anyway? Abby and the girls dropped me off at H&M. I needed a fall coat, and by the way I needed MANY OTHER THINGS AS WELL. I barely heard them leave, what with the pile of clothing I had gathered on top of myself as I rolled around in the aisles. I haven't shopped without Henry in too long.

We were on a tight schedule, so I made my purchases—my delicious, delicious purchases—and a few minutes before we had to leave, I headed over to Old Navy, where Abby and children were to be found. Only I had never been to this mall and had no idea where Old Navy was. And this mall featured several tears in the fabric of space and time, so you would walk over to Section A and then suddenly you were on a fishing boat and everyone was talking in Old Norse. I began to walk faster and faster, and as I did my embarrassing walk-run-walk, walk-run-walk, my thinking went thisaway:

1. Abby's probably waiting for me, and now she's going to walk over to H&M. We'll miss each other.

2. She'll be late to pick up her son, and it will be all my fault.

3. She's going to hate me so much.

4. Good going, Alice. You just had to buy your stupid cheap clothes that will disintegrate within a month.

5. I am a terrible person. Who deserves to be abandoned in the mall.

6. I will die here.

While walk-run-walking I accosted a saleswoman to ask for directions. I attempted a casual air when I shrieked EXCUSEMEWHEREISOLDNAVY? She backed away—apparently I didn’t pull it off—and pointed down one of the many wings of the mall, the one that hadn't been visible before because it had traveled to an alternate dimension. Sure enough, there was Old Navy, and there was Abby, shopping away, oblivious to the insane little drama churning in my head. Until now, that is, because she reads my blog. Crap.

I'm in my car, and I'm coming for you!

Oh, my lovely lovely readers, thank you for your advice and your sympathy. It's heartwarming and yet at the same time chilling to learn that so many people are also terrified of being on the open road. I may still do the hypnosis, I may not, I don't know. Finding a driving instructor is an interesting idea, but I honestly don't think my panic has anything to do with not knowing what I'm doing, because although I emphasized my initial incompetence as a driver, I really think I'm pretty competent on the road. Even when I'm in the grips of an unnameable terror.

But hey, you handful of people who were all DON'T BE OFFENDED BUT YOU SHOULDN'T DRIVE and YOU SCARE ME, why do you write things like that? Do you really think that's helpful? (It's not, by the way. FYI. It just makes me give the computer the finger. While imagining that the computer is you.) And do you really think you need to be scared of me, the person in the right lane going exactly 55, her hands gripping the wheel tightly at 9 and 3, scanning her rear-view and side mirrors obsessively? I mean, okay, maybe there's a little hyperventilating, maybe there's a LOT, but sheesh, do you think I'm caroming against car after car as I hurtle down the shoulder, shrieking all the way? Give me a break. Be more scared of the people talking on their cell phones. They're out to kill us all.

Hey, also! There's a new post here at Alpha Mom.

I'm closing comments on this and the previous post, because what the hell. I can. Whee! I'm drunk with power. Also there has been some wine.

Hi, I'm panicky.

What's with me? With the not-posting? I have no excuses. Actually I have an entire rucksack full of them, but I will spare you.

First of all, I have been terribly remiss regarding informing you of my Wonderland posts. New posts here and here. Also, there's also an interview with me in the videos, under "Keyboard Confidential" (which I would link to if I could figure out how), in which I murmur and look an awful lot like my late Irish grandmother. All I need is a Manhattan and wispy blue hair, and I could scare the shit out of my father.

Now marvel as I abruptly change the subject. Aaaaand… go!

I've always lacked confidence regarding my ability to move through space. There was the Bike-Learning Failure of '73-'78, the Roller Skating Catastrophe of '79, the Uneven Bars Horror of '83. And then there was driving. I never had the slightest interest in driving, except inasmuch as it could get you places, and I liked places. I had never even sat in a driver's seat, when I found myself in just such a seat, my foot on the pedal, in a driver's ed car, careening down Main Street. I don't remember much from driver's ed, but I do recall a lot of screaming, most of it not coming out of my own mouth. I may have hit a few things. Not surprisingly, I failed. I took Driver's Ed all over again. I passed, but barely. I failed the driver's test. I figured that this was a sign that I should be chaffeured everywhere, but my parents made me take it again. I passed, but just slightly.

Then I moved away, away from the Land Where Everyone Drove, and that was that for twenty years. For twenty years I haven't had to drive. I think I drove a few times in college, when my a cappella group (don't laugh) went on tour. There was a familiar screaming sound, when I did that. My fellow a cappella mates stopped asking me to drive. I moved to the city, where no one had cars. I was all set.

But then I moved here. Figuring I would get used to driving, I moved to this place. And I did, mostly. I was a little sweaty-palmed for the first couple of months, but now I can get around town without a problem. Then I tried to drive on the highway.

And I completely freaked out.

Without going into too much detail about it because reliving it makes me want to die, here was how much I was freaking out: my vision tunneled. I was fairly certain that I was going to throw up on myself. I lost all feeling in my arms. My hands were sweating so badly that they were slipping off the steering wheel. My hearing went all funny. Then I started crying, which, in addition to the tunnel vision, made it awfully hard to see. I got off at the nearest exit.

I was probably on the highway for ten or fifteen minutes. That was one year ago.

I know what you're going to say. I can hear you saying it. Highway driving is scary, you're saying. You have to keep on trying! It's a skill! You'll get better! Do you always use all those exclamation points, when you're talking?

What we have here is not a lack of confidence—well, okay, it IS a lack of confidence, but also it is a fear that grips so tightly to me that I can no longer reason. I've tried driving on the highway a couple of times since then. I've tried to work through it. I did some cognitive behavioral therapy, I learned about dealing with panic and breathing the right way and I tried talking myself through the panic, blar de blar, and I am here to tell you that I cannot. I don't want to sound defeatist, here, but all the talking to myself and breathing just makes me calm enough that I don't run off the road and run screaming from the car. I can manage it, but I still get the numbness and the tunnel vision and the nausea—and the sweating, don't forget the sweating!—and I feel absolutely dreadful.

I tried going on the Garden State Parkway last week. My panic was so intense that I was nauseated for days afterward. It was like I had been poisoned. Why would I put myself through that again? Except, you know, for all the really smart reasons, like I need to get around and do things and be independent and GOD SHUT UP WITH YOUR REASONABLE ATTITUDE.

I'm sorry, baby, I didn't mean it. It's the fear, is all. It's got ahold of me.

All of this is leading up to one question, which is: what do you think of hypnosis? Anyone? Anyone?

A long post about my brains.

As some of my faithful readers will recall, a few months ago I went off of Effexor, an effective if somewhat problematic antidepressant. Effexor, as I wrote, has a shockingly brief half-life, and because I was on a miniscule dosage (as I am a delicate flower and can only manage light sprinklings of medication) if I was even fifteen minutes late in taking it I headed into scary Effexor Withdrawal Land, a place no one wants to be. If you’re wondering what Effexor withdrawal feels like, rap on your temples with a meat tenderizer while spinning around in a swivel chair and sucking furniture polish through a straw. There you go!

Anyway, because the Effexor was meant to help me through post-traumatic stress, I decided that I would only go on it for a year because after a year apparently your brain forgets all about the bad things and goes back to humming little songs to itself and thinking about pudding. I conveniently forgot, when I chose to go med-free, that my brain is primed for things like PTSD. (There were many, many other people on the street that day, and not all of them spent the subsequent weeks cleaning their cabinets at 4 a.m. and shrieking STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT at their dogs). I also chose to ignore the years of depression and anxiety prior to the car-crash incident. I was all better, I decided. No more pills for me!

Can you see where this is going?

I remained drug-free for ten of the darkest weeks in recent memory. Here’s a tip: if you’re going to go off of medication, don’t do it in the winter, right smack dab in the holidays, when you’re financially strapped and trying to buy a house. (Actually, if you’re me, the lesson should probably be: don’t do it at all.) As I approached the lowest of the low moods I wrote this post, and told the world about my filthy pants and oversized shoes and in doing so sounded like a pervert clown, and yet was rewarded with many, many people’s boundless sympathy and support. Shortly after this I had what some might call a breakdown, if they were feeing melodramatic, or an attack of neurasthenia, if they were in a Victorian mood. Whatever it was, it felt neither colorful nor historically relevant. All I remember from the Worst Day Ever is that I called Scott and said, “If you knew how bad I felt, you’d come home right now.” And he did.

I felt that I was strong enough to go without drugs, but after a few days of complete misery I cried uncle and ran to my psychiatrist. I didn’t want to see this psychiatrist again. The biggest reason was that she doesn’t take insurance. When I had first seen her this wasn’t so big an issue; I was making money at the time, her rate wasn’t all that astronomical, and anyway I only saw her twice a year. But then as the years passed, and my insanity showed no signs of abating, I thought twice about seeing her. First of all she always called me Linda. I think the psychiatrist’s credo should be Know Thy Patient’s Name. Also she took notes about me into her voice recorder while I was in the room. “Linda has a long history of depression, marked with secondary anxiety. Also, Linda is wearing clown shoes. And should really have showered before leaving the house. What was Linda thinking?”

Despite my misgivings about this doctor and her new THREE-HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLAR charge for each session, I went back to her. “Why on earth!” I can hear you shrieking. I think you’re also wringing your apron with both hands, and you just dropped the freshly baked pie all over the linoleum.

I went back because I knew her, and I didn’t have the energy to find someone new and go over the whole story all over again. I went back because it was easy, and as much as I’m poor and cheap, I was also lazy and sick.

It was a mistake, though. She decided, during our (expensive) session, that in fact I was bipolar. She had been hinting at my potential bipolarity for a while. ( “My Potential Bipolarity” will be the name of my rock band. Mine mine mine. Don’t you steal it from me.) The bipolar diagnosis is a difficult one to make because the sufferer is more likely to seek help when depressed than they are when in a manic swing, so they’re diagnosed with depression. But she was smarter than that! Oh, she was so proud of herself!

Here’s why she thought I was bipolar. Are you ready? One, my grandfather might have been (according to her), and two, my heart raced at night. I don’t see anything in any of the literature on being bipolar that talks about nightly heart-racing as a symptom; I had rather thought that if I were bipolar I’d be out all night gambling or having sex with shop clerks in dressing rooms. I know I’m generalizing, but sheesh! If you’re going to call me manic-depressive, can’t I have some fun first?

And sure, my grandfather had more of the colorful madness that the rest of us boring crazy people only aspire to: all-night carousing! Writing his own biblical texts! Conversing directly with God! But I’m not my grandfather, and thank goodness for that because I don’t think Scott would want to be married to a 100-plus-year-old Italian guy who also happens to be dead.

So I disagreed, but she was insistent, and put me on a medication called Lamictal. And then I was off to Amsterdam, and didn’t think much about what this would mean, this traveling while on a brand-new drug.

Here’s another tip: don’t go on a new medication before traveling. The best I can say about the Lamictal is that it didn’t work. The worst I can say about it is it made me intensely, miserably ill. For the entire trip. Every morning I had to get up early to drink gallons of water just so that the nausea would abate enough so I could leave the room. I felt awful all day. I wanted to go out and carouse, as our sponsors were (I guess) expecting us to tell of our adventure-filled days and liquor-soaked nights, but I could barely manage one museum before a nap, and then at dinner I could manage maybe one beer. And Melissa would pat me on the head and say, “It’s okay if you're not a partier,” and I would try to say, “I'm not, it's true, but this is a little weird,” only I couldn’t get the words out because I was falling asleep. My dad wondered why I needed to nap every afternoon as much as he did. I mean, a 70-year-old getting over heart surgery, sure! Nap all you want! But a 37-year-old? That’s just sad.

Then I got home and told my psychiatrist what happened. Her response: “Oh, you can’t drink with Lamictal. I didn’t tell you that? It causes extreme alcohol intolerance. Oh, no no no no. That would make you quite sick.” She then posited that maybe, hmm, I wasn’t bipolar after all, maybe I had one of those, what do you call them, anxiety disorders. Yet somehow, instead of kicking her in the teeth, I handed her another three hundred and fifty-dollar check and got out of there.

I didn’t want to write about this on the blog for a few reasons. Sometimes I wish I had never opened up this particular can of brain-worms. The more I’ve divulged, the more I’ve felt pressured to continue this level of intimacy, and that sometimes makes me want to hide under my bed. Also, writing about mood disorders tends to bring out, well, the mood-disordered, and then they write to me and ask for advice. And I don’t give advice to people I don’t know. I don’t believe it’s helpful. I don’t want that responsibility. And I can barely manage to email my friends, much less strangers in crisis.

On the other hand, not writing about it has brought on some kind of weird blog-malaise. It’s hard to push past all the stuff I don’t want to talk about to get to anything else that’s fun or interesting. And even if I haven’t written about this directly, I’ve read my past few months of posts and I think it’s evident that I have not been at my sunniest. So I needed to get this out there.

I kept waiting to write about all this when I was on the other side, when I could look back and laugh about what a mess those few months had been. It’s still pretty messy, though. It’s not as bad as I was, but I’m not 100 percent. And I know I could go back on medication, but I don’t want to. I’ve had enough of side effects. I don’t have prescription drug coverage. And I just don’t want to.

I’m fiddling around with nutritional therapy, and I would say more about that but I’d bore you to tears. (Don't believe me? Amino acids! No more sugar! STOP CRYING!) Although nothing’s offered a dramatic, Effexor-style cure, I do feel better. And I know this is an unsatisfying post that could really use a triumphant finish. I do wish I could give you one of those.