When I was told by my psychiatrist that i had DP, I was finally, after one horrible year, content. At last, closure had dawned on me. I suffered for a year, which i know to most people doesn’t seem that long. But, my symptoms were severe and dibilitating, and a feel like the year my condition went undiagnosed is year taken off of my life. Not that things are much different now. The symptoms still remain, but I am beginning to cope and to feel more human. Let me tell you my story. I didn’t do much drugs in high school. I didn’t befriend people who did and therefore was never really exposed to them. That was, untill one sunny weekend towards the end of my junior year, my friend and i decided that we were gonna get stoned. We had nothing better to do. At first I thought it didn’t work. Then, it did. I had smoked too much. I suffered a severe panic attack, where I forgot where I was or who I was. After that, I decided not to smoke pot again. Ever. Well, i did. Several times that summer. No panic attacks. In my senior year of high school I was randomly drug tested throughout the year as part of a program I was in and didn’t smoke for 9 months straight. Finally, on graduation night, I could smoke again. I really wanted to. But when the party started, something else intrigued me. Something else was going around, and you didn’t have to go through the whole smoking process (which I HATED) to get high off of it, and instead of making you tired, it gave you energy. That something was cocaine. It took only two times experimenting with the drug before I was hooked. I loved the energy and confidence it gave me. After a while, I was using everyday. I had to work two jobs to support the habit. My drug use became severe in my first semester at college. I decided to major in biochemistry, and it didn’t take too long before the mounds of work started to get to me, and I used more and more just to get through the day. I was getting in trouble, too. Parking tickets. Failing classes. Upset parents. I was spiraling out of control. One night, I nearly overdosed at a friend’s party a block away from campus. The next day i woke up at two in the afternoon on my friend’s bathroom floor, covered in my own vomit. I had missed class. I began to walk the block to my dorm when I saw a police car behind me. I panicked. I felt compelled to chuck the huge boulder lying near my feet at the car. It hit it with a thud. It came to a screeching halt, and I bolted. I knew I was screwed. An officer came out of the car and ran after me. I was faster. I beat him to my dorm and quickly snorted all the coke I could find in my room. It was too much. Immediately I didn’t feel right. I could barely see. I was confused and more paranoid than ever. I could barely walk or talk or think. I was shaking and sweating and had never been so hot in my life. I was scared. I can’t even describe the fear I felt at that moment. In no time at all, there was a pounding on my door. I answered it, and the blurred vision of two officers, one with gun drawn, swam in my eyes before all went black. I awoke a week later in the hospital. I was told that the cops decided to forget about the incident and call the paramedics, who took me to the hospital where I had a heart attack and was pronounced dead. Obviously, I’m not. My doctor told me it was a miracle that my heart started beating again. And he told me, quite redundantly, that the cause was a severly large consumption of cocaine. An overdose. I spent three days in detox before my family and friends demanded that I went to rehab. That was when i started to realize things weren’t right. I just plain didn’t feel right. I was merely a spectator of my body’s funtions. My life felt like a movie. I felt like I had no control over what I was doing, like I was detached form my own life. I was scared. Sometimes, I even questioned whether or not I existed. It continued. After I completed rehab. After I went back to school. After I had given up on drugs forever. I suffered. That year I attempted suicide twice and failed, thankfully, both times. The second time, where I wanted to kill myself simply out of curiousity, when I nearly drowned myself in a bath tub, I knew I needed help. I was referred to a psychiatrist who listened to my symptoms and ran a series of tests and knew almost right away what was wrong with me. She said I had DP. I deal with it everyday, unlike some people I know of who only have occasional episodes. I am getting used to it and I almost feel normal sometimes. Of course I wish I had never done drugs, and I strongly advise those who think they may have DP, or anyone for that matter, not to. It’s too late for me, so the least I can do is warn others.
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