Free Get Me Out of Here by Rachel Reiland Page A

profanity as vehement as any I'd displayed in the hospital. It would prove to be a contentious issue for the next several months. I thought my vehemence was justified; Dr. Padgett saw it as a sign that there was, indeed, something disturbing enough to elicit such reactions. It was an interpretation we argued over nearly every single session—or, more aptly, over which I argued. It was difficult to arouse much passion in Dr. Padgett, yet another phenomenon of therapy that gave me fits.
    Another contentious issue was the severity of my illness and the extent of my need for therapy. At $120 per hour, I felt at times that therapy was an indulgence. The fact that financial support from my parents—who simply pretended my problems weren't happening—made such a luxury possible simply increased my guilt over being there at all. Yet I couldn't bring myself to stop going, which at times made me feel both like an addict and an emotional hypochondriac.
    Dr. Padgett, however, saw it differently. To him, it was a grave situation. I was a time bomb of sorts, he thought, and as such, intensive therapy was not a matter of luxury, but life or death. I couldn't decide whether his assessment was correct or just his attempt to soothe my guilt over the time and expense and keep collecting his fees. I was reluctant to bring this up, but when I did, Dr. Padgett would calmly say that I needed to sort out this skepticism myself and reach my own conclusions. The proverbial ball, as always, was back on my side of the court.

    Life at home was unpredictable. Occasionally I felt periods of numbed calm, as if everything was back to normal and I didn't need therapy. But more frequently, particularly after intense sessions marked by one-sided combat, I could lose control completely. Screaming. Swearing. Crying. Impulsively bursting out of the house for midnight runs. I had never experienced such acute anxiety. For the first time, I began to have hyperventilating panic attacks and episodes of agoraphobia, a paralyzing fear of being in public places.
    One day I'd broken into hysterical tears and hyperventilated as the four of us drove to McDonald's. I pled with Tim to take me home and go by himself with the kids. I then called Dr. Padgett, asking him if I could take a stronger anti-anxiety medication. As it was late Friday afternoon, he prescribed one over the phone. I remember him telling me that Mellaril had a 1-in-100,000 chance of causing seizurelike convulsions. But I didn't think much of it. Besides, with as many illegal drugs as I'd used in my day, I wasn't too concerned about one that was actually legal, pharmaceutical, and prescribed.

    “Come on, Rachel. Count! Ten, nine, eight, seven … Please, please, do this. Please! Ten, nine, eight …”
    I was lying on the bed, Tim's face just inches above mine. He was frantic. I wished he'd quit bothering me and just let me sleep. I closed my eyes. “No. No.” Tim was now shaking me vigorously. “Don't sleep! Come on, let's count. Ten, nine, eight …”
    “Okay, okay,” I relented, anything to appease him so he'd leave me alone. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. I did it, all right? Now will you let me sleep?”
    “Rachel,” he said, noticeably relieved I had responded. “You have to stay awake. You had a seizure. Dr. Padgett told me to keep you awake for at least an hour or two.”
    That woke me up in a hurry. A seizure? The last thing I remembered was watching TV with Tim. But how did I get from there into the bedroom? A blackout. Scary. But it wasn't nearly as scary as it must have been to Tim who'd witnessed the entire incident.
    I listened in amazement as he told me what had happened. I'd been lying on the couch. We'd talked a bit during the commercials. Then I'd begun to stare at the ceiling, a faraway look in my eyes. Then suddenly I'd started shaking uncontrollably, rocking back and forth, eyeballs rolling. Drooling. Tim had stayed by my side, scared beyond