Training Days: Surthriving an Execution, Antidepressants, then Myself — A Cop’s Tale

Overwhelmed by despair and feeling like a shell of myself, I made a decision in August of 2021 that still haunts me. I swallowed a handful of pills, hoping to escape the pain and confusion. I grabbed my handgun from my safe and planned to take my own life. I was tired of fighting. This was the only way out. Two years earlier, I’d been prescribed a litany of psychiatric drugs as treatment for a life-threatening event I experienced as a San Bernardino Deputy Sheriff. As the August heat hung heavily in the air, hopelessness churned within. I texted my husband, “You need to come home.” He did and he saved my life. That night became a turning point—a wake-up call for me and those around me.

I’d responded to a 911 call; a mom needed help from her son, who’d threatened to kill her that morning. I had handled these types of calls countless times before. But that day, September 4, 2019, everything changed. In an instant, I thought of my six-year-old daughter. I’d taken her to kindergarten that morning. We never say goodbye; it’s always “I’ll see you after school.” Who would pick her up from school now? Who would be there to get her ready for her wedding day? I was about to be executed with my own sidearm.

Not even a minute into my arrival on the scene, the suspect began assaulting me. Grabbing me by my hair, attempting to pull me to the ground, he punched me over and over and over again to the side of my face and head. Despite my years of training in de-escalation attempts, verbal commands, defensive tactics, control holds, less-lethal methods, I was losing this fight. I was starting to lose consciousness. We fell to the ground, him on top of me. I took aim at his head, attempting to save my own life. He trapped my hand above my head, and we began to fight over my firearm. A round discharged into the ground, sending gravel and dirt flying. He ripped the gun from my hand. I remember pleading with this stranger to spare my life. “Please, no, please don’t.”

Somehow, I turned to my hands and knees, looking up toward the suspect and down the barrel of my gun. I heard the trigger click. But my body wasn’t done fighting. I ran for the nearest cover I could find, a bush and a fence. I heard another gunshot go off; he shot at my back as I ran away. My partners arrived just in time to spare me from being hunted down. He went to the hospital—subdued and in custody—for his wounds, and I went to the hospital for mine.

Injuries: Visible and Invisible

In spite of my concussion, broken left thumb, and broken zygomatic arch bone—often mistaken by outsiders as “just a black eye”—I thought I was coping well in the days and weeks that followed. I was prescribed Valium immediately, along with Flexeril and Norco. The medications caused my stomach to feel like an acidic cauldron, twisting itself into knots. I could hardly tolerate food or even water. Flashbacks hit me unexpectedly, triggered by the slightest sound or smell.

Though I continued packing my daughter’s lunch, taking her to school, doing laundry, and making dinner, I avoided situations that reminded me of that day. I found myself at home during the times I used to be at work but expected I would return shortly to the job I had loved. Within a few weeks, Paxil and Ambien were added to the prescription cocktail.

The nightmares started soon after, though, relentless and vivid, replaying that moment over and over again. I still remember one recurring nightmare that I had at least once a night for months, still feeling the terror it wrought in my exhausted body: Somebody broke into our house, tied us all up, and I had to choose which of us would die. The nightmare seemed so real that it made me have a waking response to it. The false reality almost became a real tragedy. I didn’t understand why my husband was still in bed. I rushed to the closet and loaded a magazine into a rifle, terrified that the attackers were coming, that they would force me to choose who in my family would die.

In an unending state of panic and paranoia, I began to withdraw from friends and family. I became a recluse, hiding in my bathroom or bathtub most of the day, afraid of the world.

Protocol

Concerned for my well-being, my department referred me to a psychiatrist specializing in trauma. He immediately diagnosed me with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and prescribed Trazodone and Klonopin. These were added to, not replacements for, what I was already taking. The drugs were coming to me every thirty days in my mailbox. One was for anxiety, one was for sleep, one was to help my heart rhythm for panic attacks—something for everything I described and couldn’t understand was happening to my body.

At first, the medications seemed to help dull the edge of my anxiety. But as time went on, I started feeling detached from reality. The world around me seemed hazy and distant, until common stimuli jolted my senses into high alert. I could no longer engage in hobbies I’d once enjoyed. My husband and I, being cops, loved to go to the range and shoot. The first time I held a gun after the incident, I dropped to my knees and bawled my eyes out. We took my daughter to Disneyland for her sixth birthday that October, but there were so many people in line behind me that I had a panic attack. The sight of so many balloons, the thought of them popping, unraveled me. We had to leave an hour after we’d arrived.

My symptoms worsened as time passed. I couldn’t pump my own gas or go to the grocery store to buy milk. I didn’t want to be around anyone, not even my family. My mom and dad tried gently to get me out of the house, to go to breakfast. My friends wanted to come and drop off food or a white chocolate mocha, but I told them not to.

As a female in law enforcement, I’d always had to push harder and do more. Slowing down was a sign of weakness; inactivity meant irrelevance. PTSD effects and treatment were never discussed, even as my trauma kept re-surfacing worse than before and the medications meant to help me were driving me further into darkness. In my department-sanctioned therapy, I realized I could not be honest about how deeply I was struggling, nor could I question the treatment I received because it would appear I was not being compliant. I knew these things would be reported to my supervisor, and I just wanted to return to work. If my boyfriend (now husband) and I broke up, I needed my job. I needed to provide for my daughter.

My New Identity?

In June 2021, I was deemed permanent and stationary, meaning I would never be able to return to law enforcement again. I no longer shopped in stores, talked to my friends, or enjoyed anything that once made Meagan, Meagan. Soon after, I received a letter in the mail from workman’s compensation: my therapy benefits had expired. I had used all 250 hours the department would pay for, and because I was not fit for duty any longer, they would not continue paying for therapy. Three hundred dollars an hour to pay out of pocket for a counselor? How could I ever afford this when I’d lost my income, my job, my career. We were now forced to live on my husband’s salary with expenses that were quickly adding up to more than our mortgage. But the pills never stopped coming.

Every month, a tan-colored package arrived, filled to the brim with my medications. They had become my escape. My therapy. This was now the only treatment I was receiving. I was never warned of the side effects of these medications. I had never contemplated suicide until I became dependent on the little pills that would lead me down that path. I never suspected this was medication-driven. I thought it was just me.

Not Alone

Two years after the attack, I was moments away from doing the very thing I’d fought so hard to prevent. The day my husband came home and saved me was the day my life began to change for the better. He arrived, saw me, and panicked. “What did you do??”

“I’m done fighting,” I told him. “I can’t do this anymore. Just let me go.” I told him I’d taken a handful of pills. He took me to the bathroom and made me throw up. When he went to the other room to check on our one-year-old son, I retrieved the handgun. He returned, took the gun, and locked it away. He called my parents, who immediately came over. My dad sat next to me on the couch and asked to hug me. I didn’t see the point, but he wrapped me in his arms. I knew then that if I died, I would hurt others and not just me. My dad would never be able to hug me again.

Slowly, with the support of my family, friends, and a different treatment plan, I began to reclaim my life. I sought a second opinion from a psychiatrist specializing in PTSD and trauma recovery. Together, we cut my medication as I knew I couldn’t have these small bottles in my house—I was now convinced they were going to kill me. We incorporated therapy techniques like cognitive-behavioral therapy and eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR). I began to finally heal and take my mental health seriously. My kids deserved a mom who was present, alive, and healthy. I deserved to be Meagan again.

It wasn’t easy. Recovery from PTSD and from all the drugs I was prescribed was a journey filled with ups and downs, setbacks, and breakthroughs. But gradually, I started to regain control. I returned to life with a newfound sense of purpose—to help others who might be struggling with trauma like I did. I developed gastrointestinal issues, causing more chronic issues from the overmedication, as well as hormone issues, causing me to be on weekly injections and hormone therapy to re-balance my body. During the medicated madness, I believed the assault and associated trauma had ended my career, but I now believe it was the medications and their effects. My experience taught me the importance of advocating for oneself, seeking second opinions, and finding the right balance of treatment modalities. Today, I’m grateful for every small victory and for the chance to share my story, hoping it might help others going through similar struggles.

But now, I realize that the mental health crisis in our law enforcement professions, veteran community, and our world is due in part to the lack of care from doctors who actually want to heal the person, instead of just managing symptoms. I know how it feels to consider an unthinkable act just to escape. I realize how crucial it is for healthcare professionals to understand the complexities of trauma and the risks of overmedication. This can change—and must change—through education, litigation, and legislation. Our people deserve better.