I have been sick again. Not the kind of sickness that comes from a virus, but the kind that comes from not having the medication I swallow to make it possible for me to face life. There was some misunderstanding between my doctor’s office and my pharmacy regarding the refill of my Klonopin. I have been on this medication for over a decade. It enables me to risk daring feats such as leaving my house. My doctor’s office blamed my pharmacy and they in turn blamed the office. It was all a jumble of miscommunication through fax and phone calls that eventually led to me calling the doctor on call for my doctor and begging him to help me out by calling me in a refill. He coldly refused, stating that he didn’t “deal in controlled substances over the phone.” It was all that I could do to keep it together, to not explode and tell him off. Being treated like a junkie is something that happens to me from time to time. I know that when I pick up my prescriptions sometimes the people behind the counter glare at me and ask me for two pieces of picture ID and insist that I have a consult with the pharmacist (who happens to be busy right now but won’t you have a seat?) even though this medication and I go way back, to the 90s even.

I know that this will be the case if I switch doctors. I have finally realized that the doctors work for me and if they won’t give me the pills to help me function I will find another doctor who will, and don’t you tell me about yoga and exercising and breathing and cognitive behavioral therapy because I have tried all of those things. Exercising while having a panic attack? Good one.

My doctor was out of town for a week and now she’s back. She apologized for the confusion, refilled my Klonopin immediately and I scribbled a swirl on the signature line when I picked it up; I flashed my ID and nodded to the pharmacist when he asked me if I’d had this before because I was sick and I was tired of trying to explain it to everyone so I just grabbed the bottle and walked away to take it. I feel better now.

Once, years ago, I ended up in the ER because my refill wasn’t ready and after waiting for 11 days I checked myself into the hospital because it was the only thing I could think of to stop the panic attacks that kept coming. This time I didn’t want to do that so I tried other things, like Tylenol PM to help me sleep and alcohol to help me calm down. I tried breathing exercises and placing a rubber band around my wrist and snapping it. I tried. My Mom says that I should be proud of myself and I can’t imagine why. I can’t help but think that this wasn’t the dream my parents had for me as they whispered in bed about what I would be like when I grew up. It wasn’t the grandiose idea I had for myself either.