This Happened to Me

I Broke Up With My Pill-Pushing Doctor After Paxil Broke My Love Gun

There is more than one way to treat anxiety

I never liked doctors or had any interest in taking medication, but after my first panic attack at age 21, I didn’t know where else to turn.

It happened when I was on my way to spend the weekend with my girlfriend.

While driving on the highway, for no reason at all, my heart started racing, my breath became shallow, I was dizzy, sweating, and felt an uncomfortable tightness in my chest.

I didn’t know what was happening; I thought I was having a fucking heart attack!

I feared it would cause me to crash, so I immediately pulled the car over in search of safety.

But there was no need for safety: I wasn’t in danger; no tiger was chasing me.

I pulled over, took a few deep breaths, and was able to calm down. Although it passed, it left me in a perpetual state of worry, wondering and fearing when it would happen again.

I had no clue what had happened, but I knew it wasn’t normal.

I told my girlfriend the story when I arrived at her apartment. She said I should see a doctor. It was the last thing I wanted to hear, but she was right.

I hated doctors and avoided them as much as possible my whole life.

Everything about the doctor’s office made me uncomfortable. Same with taking medication — neither was for me.

I’d literally suffer through a headache without taking Advil or Tylenol, and I would only acquiesce when the pain became unbearable.

I hadn’t seen my doctor in seven years, but I needed to figure out how to prevent that from happening again, so I heeded my girlfriend’s advice and made an appointment.

I told him about the driving incident. He said I had suffered a panic attack, asked me only two questions, and then immediately prescribed me Paxil.

I told him I didn’t want to take medication and asked if there was another option.

He didn’t listen. He didn’t care. He didn’t offer any other treatment options.

His only solution was to load me up with Paxil samples, write me a prescription, and send me on my way.

Other than the five minutes I spent with him in the exam room, it had been so long since I last saw him that he really didn’t know a fucking thing about me.

I couldn’t understand how adamant he was on shoving these pills down my throat, and he couldn’t write the prescription fast enough; he made it seem like taking Paxil was the only way to cure me of panic attacks, and it was non-negotiable.

He was so pushy about it, it made me wonder what was in it for him. Clearly, after dedicating five total minutes of his time, it wasn’t because he gave a shit about me.

He was solely focused on speed. The faster he could get me out of the exam room, the faster he could bring another patient in, issue them a prescription, and sit back as the cash register rang cha-ching.

Oh, and side effects; He never mentioned any potential side effects to me before he sent me packing.

Once I picked up my prescription, it took me several days to muster up the courage to start taking it.

I had experienced anxiety my entire life, but it never bubbled up to the point where I had a full-blown panic attack until the day in the car.

I was terrified of what this pill would do to my body. I never liked to take medication, and I was always focused on trying to control everything in and around me.

I never went anywhere without an escape route. I never let others drive me places; I always took my own car. I avoided planes. I avoided elevators.

Control was the name of my game, and it was all I had. I had a massive internal battle to decide whether or not I was willing to give it up to this pill.

Would it make me feel weird? What would it do to my brain?

I’m not anti-medication or against anyone who chooses to use medication. In fact, my wife takes a lot of different medications, and they help her tremendously.

I understand how life-saving and necessary medications can be for her and others, and I am glad they exist to help those who need them.

What I am, though, is pro-patient choice and doctor transparency. I don’t think it’s too much to expect my doctor to provide me with all potential treatment options, not just those that fattened his bank account.

But in my experience, I have not seen that to be the case; every doctor that I’ve been to has been so quick to prescribe a pill without exploring all treatment options. That’s a problem.

How many doctors choose fucking greed at their patient’s expense over doing the right thing if another, more suitable patient option is available?

All you’d have to do is watch episode after episode of American Greed to discover countless examples of how doctors abuse their power to cash in.

I took my first dose of Paxil after several days of contemplation. I didn’t feel any different for the first few weeks of taking it, but that all changed during a visit to my girlfriend’s apartment.

As a young, healthy 21-year-old man in a four-year relationship, I was sexually active — okay, very active.

I never had an issue getting ready for the big show.

It was like a scene out of an adult film. She answered the door and surprised me, wearing purple lingerie. Oh boy, here we go!

It was every straight man’s fantasy: being unexpectedly greeted at the door by a gorgeous, half-naked female ready for some afternoon delight.

There was one massive problem: my love gun didn't work.

Umm, hello down there. Anyone home? It’s your turn, big guy.

It was the first time ever that it failed me. What the hell was going on? I was humiliated, and for the first time, I felt like I wasn’t a man.

I also didn’t want her to feel like she wasn’t beautiful or I wasn’t attracted to her.

It was the fucking Paxil!

That was the nail in the coffin for my Paxil treatment; it was time for me to break up with my doctor.

I didn’t even tell him, not that he would’ve cared anyway, and I stopped taking the medicine cold turkey only a month after I had started and have never cared to try a different one.

Thankfully, once it was out of my body, I was able to get my mojo back, much to my relief.

I continued to struggle with anxiety and the occasional panic attack, but it was still better than living with the negative symptoms of Paxil.

I never saw that doctor again and didn’t see another doctor until I developed weird heart issues from COVID-19 twenty years later. I’ve continued struggling to trust them.

I was eventually introduced to mindfulness meditation, where, for the first time in my life, I was able to understand what was happening when I was experiencing anxiety.

Meditation equipped me with the tools to manage it and taught me how to observe my thoughts and feelings while consciously accepting them. Leaning into impermanence when I experience anxiety has been better than any drug that any pill-pushing doctor could have prescribed me.

While this was my situation, and medication may be a better solution for others, I’m happy that meditation was the treatment I needed.

I practice mindfulness meditation every day, and it’s been life-changing for me.

Now, only if that doctor had suggested meditation as a potential treatment option, I would have had a much better day when my girlfriend opened the door in her purple nighty.

Author’s note/disclaimer:

I’m not a medical professional. This is not intended to be medical advice. This story was strictly my experience with one doctor and my decision on how I chose to manage my anxiety disorder due to the way Paxil negatively affected me.

While meditation has helped me tremendously, please contact a health professional to decide what is best for you if you need help. Thanks for reading, and be well!