In a continuing examination of my mental illness, I periodically try to make sense of my experience. It's my goal to share with others who might be experiencing similar things in order to support and comfort them. I am not interested in drawing attention to myself, except as just one of a million stories of mental illness.
In case you need to catch up, here's my life in brief: I have had severe depression since my teens, if not before. It manifested in rage and anger, so I seemed to many who dealt with me to be an arrogant, snotty, angry, rebellious teenager. Mostly I just hated myself. Back in the 70s, in a small midwestern town, getting mental health care was fraught with stigma, and I wouldn't have known to ask for it anyway. In the 80s, I got married and started working. I was a mess inside, but trying super hard to hold it together on the outside, not always successfully. In 1989 I had my first child.
Motherhood is hard enough, but so much harder when you have a mental illness. I had no time to focus on myself and my needs. Two more children came along. The thing that saved me during this time was breastfeeding. As odd as that may sound, the hormones released when you nurse a child are calming and create feelings of well-being. I am convinced that if I had not breastfed my kids, I would have probably gone to a mental hospital. I was not at my best during those years, but the hormones helped.
However, that didn't last forever. I reverted to my tactics of presenting a good mask to the world, while inside I was dying. Rage and anger were frequent.
Finally, I reached a breaking point. I was in a deep, dark hole that only got deeper and darker. I was never going to get out. My husband, who was one of the few people who knew the true me and who never wavered in his support, suggested I seek out help and medication. (Until this point, I had a strong bias against the medical world, and a very strong bias against meds.) I started antidepressants and therapy. It was a rocky road, but it helped.
That was about 15 years ago. Since then, I have been on meds continuously, went through years of therapy with a very kind and wonderful counselsor. I have an excellent psych nurse who has monitored me and guided me through this medical maze. If you are so inclined, you can read about those years in other posts on this blog.
So here I am now. My psych nurse last year informed me that I am her most stable patient and she only needed to see me every six months. At one appointment she brought up the idea of potentially weaning off meds to see how I would do. I immediately squelched that idea. The mere thought returning to my darkness scared the shit out of me.
Since then, I have taken a good hard look at where I am. In these 15 years, I have learned a lot about self care. I have learned where my limitations are and when I need to step off the runaway train of modern life to take a breath. I have supplemented with nutrients that help support my mental health and observed how much I need constant outdoor exposure to be well. In short, I have been able to put my own needs first. This is a hard thing.
I realized recently that I have made friends with my depression. Sounds weird, but it's true. Depression has given me a lot of personal insight and growth. It's helped me have compassion for others, to have compassion for myself. It's strengthened me like nothing else. I have had to learn to accept things about myself. It's connected me with others. And, although I'm still working on this, depression has taught me how to strip off the mask and be authentic with everyone, especially myself.
So I am ready for this step I'm now taking. With my psych nurse's blessing, I am weaning off my meds. It's scary to say. It's only been a few days. I don't know what lies ahead. It may not work for me. I have often said during these 15 years that if I have to take meds forever, I will. And I stand by that. However, in taking care of myself, I have a sense that now is the time for me to work with my mental illness in a different way, a way of not being in crisis, but in cohesion. I have no doubt that there will be ups and downs. I am stronger now and I hope I will be able to weather the downs. I have better support now, and the stigma in society is less than it was 40 years ago.
I am not suggesting that anyone else should try this. I can't speak for others. And if you want to try, make sure to do it with medical supervision. I am not going cold turkey. I am going extremely slowly, so it may take more than a year before I am off entirely. (I was on such a high dose that I can cut by tens or twenties of milligrams and still be on a super high dose, so it will take time.)
Why, you might ask, would someone do this when they are finally stable and in a really good place? My mental illness is stable, but my physical health is facing some risks that I believe might be exacerbated by my long-term, high dose of antidepressants. I feel like I am in a place now where taking care of my physical health needs to balance with my mental health. And I am ready to try to do that. I have spent nearly my whole life dealing with my mental state--either trying to hide it, live through it, or treat it--that my physical wellness has taken a back seat. That's not good for me any more than living with an untreated mental illness. So, before I get to some sort of physical crisis, I am going to see if I can find a balance to my physical and mental health so that I can live into old age with good health.
I will continue to share my story, if only to honestly portray what one person's experience is like, if it helps someone else.
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Friday, May 18, 2018
Thursday, May 5, 2016
The Dark Hole of My Depression
May is Mental Health Awareness Month. As someone with a mental illness, I feel qualified to talk about this subject. But, as I often do, let me start with a couple of disclaimers: First, everyone's mental illness or mental health is very personal and will likely be different from one person to another. When I talk about my mental illness, I don't pretend to speak for anyone but myself. Second, I prefer to use the phrase "living with depression" rather than "suffering" or "struggling with depression." While any illness is a struggle a lot of the time, I think life in general is a struggle a lot of the time. So why pretend that my struggle is somehow more than someone else's struggle. We're all trying to live as best we can, aren't we? Maybe I'm just nitpicking at semantics, but that's where I'm at.
Depression is a hard disease to describe to others, because all of us feel depressed at times, right? But for me, depression isn't like that feeling all the time--sad about specific things. It's more like being unglued from the rest of the world. I've described it before as living in a deep, dark hole, knowing that everyone else is out there in the light and you have no way to get out of the hole. I spent most of my life clawing to get out of that hole, scrambling, screaming, leaping, but to no avail. You cannot simply paste on a smile, do some self talk about how good you have it, and magically rise from the hole.
I'm sure it is different for everyone, but for me, medications and counseling were the first step out of the dark. But only the first step. They allowed me to function in my daily life, but did not erase my disease or the hole. They just provided a foothold on the wall.
People who meet me for the first time are surprised when they eventually learn I live with depression, because I seem happy most of the time. And I am happy. Happy is not the opposite of the disease known as depression. I have much that makes me happy--a great family, a supportive and patient husband, kids that do me proud, talents that I enjoy and share, three silly dogs, a miraculous natural world.
Depression is that invisible. Truly. You don't see the hole where I live. When you see me, you see a person actively engaged in the world around her. The hole is my reality, but not yours. If you know me, you know about the hole because I talk about it, but you never see it or experience it. It is my own personal hell. It's not a choice. It's a part of me that is permanently attached.
It took me a long time to realize this as a permanent state. It's hard to accept. I spent so much of my life wanting it to go away--and I think that might be a reason for the high rate of suicides in mentally ill people, the wish for it to go away. There is no other way to escape it. There is only living with it.
I have found living with depression to be worth it. While painful, it's not impossible. And this is a message I try to share as often as possible.
After all these years of treating my depression with an ever-increasing arsenal of knowledge about the disease and about myself, I don't feel like I am living in the dark hole anymore. It's still there, calling for me all the time, though. It tells me that everything is useless. All my efforts don't amount to anything being better. There is no point. The darkness of the world is so immense and powerful that no matter what I do, the world is doomed. Not only that, I have personally contributed to the problems, so I am to blame--I am guilty of hatred, waste, pollution, fear, apathy, and pride. I might as well jump back into the hole, wallow there at the bottom, and waste away.
I'm nothing if not a rebel, so I resist the call. Do you know how much energy that takes? I fight it every minute of the day. Even on meds, even after years of counseling. These have given me tools, but it still requires constant effort. So I have learned to give myself plenty of rest to combat this exhaustion. I sleep a lot, more than most people anyway. Not only does it help refresh me, it is also an escape; when I am asleep, I can't hear the dark hole's call.
Another escape for me is to be outside--my back yard is fine, but even better is to be out on the trails, or even better in the mountains and trees with no other humans around. Seeing the stars light up the night is, ironically, a balm of darkness and light mixed. Listening to the roar of a river does more than just drown out the call of the dark hole; it is the voice of a better place. A hawk's screech. A campfire's crackle. Waves lapping over rocks. These are voices of a different sort that speak of peace to a troubled mind.
But there is more to living with depression that trying to escape it. I want to be part of the world outside of the dark hole, which is even more difficult to me than being in the hole. See what a battle of the mind this is? There is always a niggling sensation that I'm doing it all wrong, that I will be revealed any minute as a horrible hypocrite and fake, that life is nothing but a wobbly house of cards and it is about to crumble any minute now.
And why do I tell you all this? It's not because I want your sympathy. I don't need you to pity me, console me, or try to fix me. This is my disease and I can handle it. However, I do want your understanding. This quest for understanding is reciprocal--my wish to be understood motivates me to try to understand others, and compels me to help others, because of our shared humanity and pain. As introverted as I am, I cannot manage without this human connection. My efforts are an expression of love and peace, which, while aimed at others, also finds its way back to me. And I guess that's where this all circles back to--loving and honoring myself through this expression of my truth.
Depression is a hard disease to describe to others, because all of us feel depressed at times, right? But for me, depression isn't like that feeling all the time--sad about specific things. It's more like being unglued from the rest of the world. I've described it before as living in a deep, dark hole, knowing that everyone else is out there in the light and you have no way to get out of the hole. I spent most of my life clawing to get out of that hole, scrambling, screaming, leaping, but to no avail. You cannot simply paste on a smile, do some self talk about how good you have it, and magically rise from the hole.
I'm sure it is different for everyone, but for me, medications and counseling were the first step out of the dark. But only the first step. They allowed me to function in my daily life, but did not erase my disease or the hole. They just provided a foothold on the wall.
People who meet me for the first time are surprised when they eventually learn I live with depression, because I seem happy most of the time. And I am happy. Happy is not the opposite of the disease known as depression. I have much that makes me happy--a great family, a supportive and patient husband, kids that do me proud, talents that I enjoy and share, three silly dogs, a miraculous natural world.
Depression is that invisible. Truly. You don't see the hole where I live. When you see me, you see a person actively engaged in the world around her. The hole is my reality, but not yours. If you know me, you know about the hole because I talk about it, but you never see it or experience it. It is my own personal hell. It's not a choice. It's a part of me that is permanently attached.
It took me a long time to realize this as a permanent state. It's hard to accept. I spent so much of my life wanting it to go away--and I think that might be a reason for the high rate of suicides in mentally ill people, the wish for it to go away. There is no other way to escape it. There is only living with it.
I have found living with depression to be worth it. While painful, it's not impossible. And this is a message I try to share as often as possible.
After all these years of treating my depression with an ever-increasing arsenal of knowledge about the disease and about myself, I don't feel like I am living in the dark hole anymore. It's still there, calling for me all the time, though. It tells me that everything is useless. All my efforts don't amount to anything being better. There is no point. The darkness of the world is so immense and powerful that no matter what I do, the world is doomed. Not only that, I have personally contributed to the problems, so I am to blame--I am guilty of hatred, waste, pollution, fear, apathy, and pride. I might as well jump back into the hole, wallow there at the bottom, and waste away.
I'm nothing if not a rebel, so I resist the call. Do you know how much energy that takes? I fight it every minute of the day. Even on meds, even after years of counseling. These have given me tools, but it still requires constant effort. So I have learned to give myself plenty of rest to combat this exhaustion. I sleep a lot, more than most people anyway. Not only does it help refresh me, it is also an escape; when I am asleep, I can't hear the dark hole's call.
Another escape for me is to be outside--my back yard is fine, but even better is to be out on the trails, or even better in the mountains and trees with no other humans around. Seeing the stars light up the night is, ironically, a balm of darkness and light mixed. Listening to the roar of a river does more than just drown out the call of the dark hole; it is the voice of a better place. A hawk's screech. A campfire's crackle. Waves lapping over rocks. These are voices of a different sort that speak of peace to a troubled mind.
But there is more to living with depression that trying to escape it. I want to be part of the world outside of the dark hole, which is even more difficult to me than being in the hole. See what a battle of the mind this is? There is always a niggling sensation that I'm doing it all wrong, that I will be revealed any minute as a horrible hypocrite and fake, that life is nothing but a wobbly house of cards and it is about to crumble any minute now.
And why do I tell you all this? It's not because I want your sympathy. I don't need you to pity me, console me, or try to fix me. This is my disease and I can handle it. However, I do want your understanding. This quest for understanding is reciprocal--my wish to be understood motivates me to try to understand others, and compels me to help others, because of our shared humanity and pain. As introverted as I am, I cannot manage without this human connection. My efforts are an expression of love and peace, which, while aimed at others, also finds its way back to me. And I guess that's where this all circles back to--loving and honoring myself through this expression of my truth.
Monday, November 10, 2014
Dammit, Not Again
For about a week now, I've been plagued with the feeling of "who cares?" Otherwise known as "FTW." Or "I give up." These are not good feelings. At first I chalked it up to the truly depressing election results. But then, yesterday happened. But first, why am I telling you this anyway? Because--people need to understand that mental illness is indeed a disease. Not something I make up. Not some drama queen thing I do for attention. Not something I want. I hate it. I hate it so bad. So come and take a walk in my shoes for a day and see what it feels like.
Yesterday started out like the rest of the days this past week--not caring, going through the motions, hanging in there, hoping that things were going to improve. But the day just got worse and worse. As I've said before, nothing specific happened. Nobody said anything or did anything that made my day tumble down a dark tunnel. It just did. Depression took me there without my consent.
In the middle of doing simple, normal things, I could not fight the urge to burst into tears. I struggled all day long to keep going, but it didn't work. Eventually, I flung myself on the bed and cried. Sometimes crying is a cathartic release to people. Maybe it helped in a way, but it didn't feel cathartic. It felt scary. I have nothing to cry about.
As I lay there, all I could think was I hope I'm not going down the dark hole again. I don't want to go there. It's the most awful place ever. You can't dig yourself out of it. It's deep and lonely and fearful. Monsters lurk in tiny pockets all around. Monsters that want you to give in, give up. Monsters that bite and feed off the panic in your heart. Monsters that try to convince you that you are nothing. That it would be best for all if you just fade into the walls and become one of them.
Self talk does nothing at this point. Reminding myself that people care about me does not help. Knowing that others out there suffer too, probably more than I do, doesn't help. Thinking that maybe I'm just having an off day, like any normal person, doesn't help. Because nothing can get me to stand up and go back to what I was doing. I kept lying there, zoned in on visual details next to me--the ridges in the pile of clean clothes stacked on the bed, the pores on my hands, the tiny ripples on the end of my sleeve. They all seem so much bigger than I am. I am so small, so insignificant. Nothing.
Dammit. Why is this happening to me? Again. Why do I have to put up with this? Why does my family have to suffer along with me? The depression monsters dig in their heels, telling me I should relieve my family of this burden. Stop participating. Go away. The pain in my gut makes me want to scratch my face off with my fingernails. I worry I will have to go to a pysch hospital. I worry that I will fall down the dark hole and never emerge. I suddenly understand why cutters do it, because somehow the idea of slicing myself seems like it might be a relief, a distraction from this even worse pain in my own head. It's very real. No wonder people jump off buildings. That seems like no pain at all. I imagine the quiet relief of going for a walk that never ends. A walk into the mountains with my dogs--except I don't want my dogs to suffer either--where I just go and go and go until I have to stop. Then I can just lie down to rest. Forever. Yeah, this is what thoughts of suicide sound like. I hate that they are pestering me, because I WILL NOT give in to them. Yet they sound so enticing.
Fighting this much just to make those thoughts go away is exhausting. Sitting at the bottom of the hole is easier than fighting to climb out. I don't want to be there. I want to get out. But I can't fight anymore. That's why someone would do it--kill themselves. Because they are just so tired of fighting between the desire to get out of the hole and the need to rest.
So by now the damn monsters are making me think that I'm in really deep now, deeper than ever before. I am sincerely scared. I wonder if we will have to change meds again. Or maybe there are not meds strong enough. I am already taking the maximum dose. I imagine being hospitalized. Infantilized.
Here in the dark hole, I am capable of nothing. I am as useless as an infant. I can do nothing but stay here, letting the monsters eat away at me. I hate it. Bloody hate it. Could someone just make the pain end?
All of these thoughts run through my brain like a locomotive in a loop, repeating and repeating. Even a religious person who knows that there is a god and a spirit--in that moment, nothing can reach you.
And then, in walked my one true love, my husband, who said, "Are you okay?"
"No."
He stayed with me while I got up the will to speak, listened to me while I shared my fear, knew what to say and do in the moment. I had worried he might have me admitted right then. But instead he offered me dinner, cajoled me into getting on my feet, hugged me, and didn't push. Didn't prod. Just offered me a hand to hold so that I might climb upward, yet again. Those marriage vows, the part about in sickness and health--this is what that looks like. He reminded me that we can handle it. We have doctors. We have help. We don't have do it alone.
So I got up and ate dinner and finished the evening. But I felt physically sick. Oh, I'm not depressed, I'm just coming down with something. No. I have something. I have an illness. Don't minimize it. Don't wave it off. Pay attention. That commercial that says depression hurts--it's true. That feeling that I've just been kicked in the kidneys, that's where it hurts right then. When I first started facing my depression, I read somewhere that ancient cultures believed the kidneys were the center of our being, kind of the way we talk about our hearts now. So it's no surprise that my kidneys scream at me. They are my center, telling me to take notice.
Okay, mind/body/spirit, you got my attention. I'm here. Paying attention. I will fight.
Is this too honest for you? Would you rather not see what it's like for people like me? Or are you serious when you say, after yet another celebrity suicide, that we need to do something to improve our mental health system? Are you willing to hold someone's hand while they attempt to climb out of the dark hole? I don't want to burden you with my illness. But I absolutely cannot fight it by myself.
I am still here today. Writing this down in the hope that someone will hear. I'll see how tomorrow goes. It's probable that I will give my psych nurse a call this week. I don't want to. Because I might have to deal with changing or adding meds. Or worse. Or worse. But I will.
For now, it is sunny outside, a slightly blustery fall day. I think I will take the dogs for a walk. But not a forever walk. A healing walk. One I come back from.
Yesterday started out like the rest of the days this past week--not caring, going through the motions, hanging in there, hoping that things were going to improve. But the day just got worse and worse. As I've said before, nothing specific happened. Nobody said anything or did anything that made my day tumble down a dark tunnel. It just did. Depression took me there without my consent.
In the middle of doing simple, normal things, I could not fight the urge to burst into tears. I struggled all day long to keep going, but it didn't work. Eventually, I flung myself on the bed and cried. Sometimes crying is a cathartic release to people. Maybe it helped in a way, but it didn't feel cathartic. It felt scary. I have nothing to cry about.
As I lay there, all I could think was I hope I'm not going down the dark hole again. I don't want to go there. It's the most awful place ever. You can't dig yourself out of it. It's deep and lonely and fearful. Monsters lurk in tiny pockets all around. Monsters that want you to give in, give up. Monsters that bite and feed off the panic in your heart. Monsters that try to convince you that you are nothing. That it would be best for all if you just fade into the walls and become one of them.
Self talk does nothing at this point. Reminding myself that people care about me does not help. Knowing that others out there suffer too, probably more than I do, doesn't help. Thinking that maybe I'm just having an off day, like any normal person, doesn't help. Because nothing can get me to stand up and go back to what I was doing. I kept lying there, zoned in on visual details next to me--the ridges in the pile of clean clothes stacked on the bed, the pores on my hands, the tiny ripples on the end of my sleeve. They all seem so much bigger than I am. I am so small, so insignificant. Nothing.
Dammit. Why is this happening to me? Again. Why do I have to put up with this? Why does my family have to suffer along with me? The depression monsters dig in their heels, telling me I should relieve my family of this burden. Stop participating. Go away. The pain in my gut makes me want to scratch my face off with my fingernails. I worry I will have to go to a pysch hospital. I worry that I will fall down the dark hole and never emerge. I suddenly understand why cutters do it, because somehow the idea of slicing myself seems like it might be a relief, a distraction from this even worse pain in my own head. It's very real. No wonder people jump off buildings. That seems like no pain at all. I imagine the quiet relief of going for a walk that never ends. A walk into the mountains with my dogs--except I don't want my dogs to suffer either--where I just go and go and go until I have to stop. Then I can just lie down to rest. Forever. Yeah, this is what thoughts of suicide sound like. I hate that they are pestering me, because I WILL NOT give in to them. Yet they sound so enticing.
Fighting this much just to make those thoughts go away is exhausting. Sitting at the bottom of the hole is easier than fighting to climb out. I don't want to be there. I want to get out. But I can't fight anymore. That's why someone would do it--kill themselves. Because they are just so tired of fighting between the desire to get out of the hole and the need to rest.
So by now the damn monsters are making me think that I'm in really deep now, deeper than ever before. I am sincerely scared. I wonder if we will have to change meds again. Or maybe there are not meds strong enough. I am already taking the maximum dose. I imagine being hospitalized. Infantilized.
Here in the dark hole, I am capable of nothing. I am as useless as an infant. I can do nothing but stay here, letting the monsters eat away at me. I hate it. Bloody hate it. Could someone just make the pain end?
All of these thoughts run through my brain like a locomotive in a loop, repeating and repeating. Even a religious person who knows that there is a god and a spirit--in that moment, nothing can reach you.
And then, in walked my one true love, my husband, who said, "Are you okay?"
"No."
He stayed with me while I got up the will to speak, listened to me while I shared my fear, knew what to say and do in the moment. I had worried he might have me admitted right then. But instead he offered me dinner, cajoled me into getting on my feet, hugged me, and didn't push. Didn't prod. Just offered me a hand to hold so that I might climb upward, yet again. Those marriage vows, the part about in sickness and health--this is what that looks like. He reminded me that we can handle it. We have doctors. We have help. We don't have do it alone.
So I got up and ate dinner and finished the evening. But I felt physically sick. Oh, I'm not depressed, I'm just coming down with something. No. I have something. I have an illness. Don't minimize it. Don't wave it off. Pay attention. That commercial that says depression hurts--it's true. That feeling that I've just been kicked in the kidneys, that's where it hurts right then. When I first started facing my depression, I read somewhere that ancient cultures believed the kidneys were the center of our being, kind of the way we talk about our hearts now. So it's no surprise that my kidneys scream at me. They are my center, telling me to take notice.
Okay, mind/body/spirit, you got my attention. I'm here. Paying attention. I will fight.
Is this too honest for you? Would you rather not see what it's like for people like me? Or are you serious when you say, after yet another celebrity suicide, that we need to do something to improve our mental health system? Are you willing to hold someone's hand while they attempt to climb out of the dark hole? I don't want to burden you with my illness. But I absolutely cannot fight it by myself.
I am still here today. Writing this down in the hope that someone will hear. I'll see how tomorrow goes. It's probable that I will give my psych nurse a call this week. I don't want to. Because I might have to deal with changing or adding meds. Or worse. Or worse. But I will.
For now, it is sunny outside, a slightly blustery fall day. I think I will take the dogs for a walk. But not a forever walk. A healing walk. One I come back from.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Insights into Depression
So I went to church today. Not an unusual event for a Sunday morning; I'm a fairly regular church attender. But the fact that I went today is kind of big. Because I am in the middle of a "flare up" in my depression. That sounds weird, I know. Flare ups are what people with MS or fibromyalgia have, right? Autoimmune disorder type of a thing. But people with chronic illness of any kind, including depression and other mental illnesses, can have them too. Or maybe I should call them flare downs. Or low energy.
I've dedicated myself to being open to talking about my depression, not because I feel so special or anything, but because I want others out there to know they are not alone, that what they are feeling is part of a disease. Sometimes knowing that makes a lot of difference. I don't pretend to speak for a people with mental illness or even all people with depression. I think it's a bit different for everyone.
I've written on this blog several times about depression, so if you want to know more, feel free to read those posts. But what compels me to write today is the realization--for the umpteenth time--that clinical depression, for me anyway, never goes away. It is here 24 hours a day, every day. Even though I take meds, try to eat healthy, try to exercise moderately, get lots of sleep, and try to keep the stress to a minimum, I will never be free of this disease. Sure, the meds keep me functional and temper the depression so it doesn't overwhelm me. And all those other things help. Talking helps. Crying sometimes helps. What helps most is for me to allow it to be what it is and not wish for it to be something different. And to be in nature.
What I want the world to know is this: I am happy, despite my depression. I'm not depressed because I'm not happy. It's not that life has given me a raw deal and it makes me depressed. Nothing bad--seriously bad--is happening to me that is causing my depression. It's just as much a part of me as my green eyes or which toes are longer. During my flare downs, I want to withdraw from the world. Maybe it's a self-protection thing, like if I don't interact with others, you won't be able to notice that I'm not quite myself. Or maybe it's just a desire to be within my own self and not have to explain stuff to others. For sure, there is a hefty dose of feelings of unworthiness and self-deprecation. Even self-loathing. When I am in a downturn, I tend to be grouchy with everyone, and I know it, and I hate that. I don't really want to be that person around others.
Which is why going to church today was a big deal. I wanted to be curled up in my bed, away from the world, separate in myself. One of the scriptures today said that God sees each of us as her masterpiece. That's a feel good thing. I believe it. I feel it. But does it make the depression go away? No. Therefore, the only conclusion I can come to is that I am a masterpiece, and part of that masterpiece is my depression. My dear, long-suffering, patient husband affirms that he loves me, all of me, depression and all. That is certainly comforting. I know love is unconditional. And I'm even pretty good at loving myself unconditionally--most of the time.
Believe me, if it were possible to intellectualize oneself out of this disease, I would have done that by now. I can perform all manner of self-talk and other methods to lift myself up. But it doesn't make the depression go away. I know most of those who spend time around me see a smiling, laughing person who loves being with my friends and family. Which is true. That doesn't mean the depression has left. It just means I'm having a good day. And, thankfully, I often have more good days than down days.
On down days, it takes every ounce of strength, courage, and sheer stubbornness to do something as routine as get dressed and go to church. Even though I know I will be lifted up. Even though I know love will surround me. Even though the music and words soothe my soul.
Is there a point here? I don't know. I don't want pity. I don't want sympathy, even. I want acceptance and understanding. I want people to see mental illness as a disease that is managed to greater or lesser degrees, but a disease nonetheless. A disease that cannot be fought and overcome, but must be accepted and lived with each and every day. And I want people with this disease to know that it can be part of a happy and productive life, that the struggle is worth it, that even a down day, our existence is still a masterpiece.
I've dedicated myself to being open to talking about my depression, not because I feel so special or anything, but because I want others out there to know they are not alone, that what they are feeling is part of a disease. Sometimes knowing that makes a lot of difference. I don't pretend to speak for a people with mental illness or even all people with depression. I think it's a bit different for everyone.
I've written on this blog several times about depression, so if you want to know more, feel free to read those posts. But what compels me to write today is the realization--for the umpteenth time--that clinical depression, for me anyway, never goes away. It is here 24 hours a day, every day. Even though I take meds, try to eat healthy, try to exercise moderately, get lots of sleep, and try to keep the stress to a minimum, I will never be free of this disease. Sure, the meds keep me functional and temper the depression so it doesn't overwhelm me. And all those other things help. Talking helps. Crying sometimes helps. What helps most is for me to allow it to be what it is and not wish for it to be something different. And to be in nature.
What I want the world to know is this: I am happy, despite my depression. I'm not depressed because I'm not happy. It's not that life has given me a raw deal and it makes me depressed. Nothing bad--seriously bad--is happening to me that is causing my depression. It's just as much a part of me as my green eyes or which toes are longer. During my flare downs, I want to withdraw from the world. Maybe it's a self-protection thing, like if I don't interact with others, you won't be able to notice that I'm not quite myself. Or maybe it's just a desire to be within my own self and not have to explain stuff to others. For sure, there is a hefty dose of feelings of unworthiness and self-deprecation. Even self-loathing. When I am in a downturn, I tend to be grouchy with everyone, and I know it, and I hate that. I don't really want to be that person around others.
Which is why going to church today was a big deal. I wanted to be curled up in my bed, away from the world, separate in myself. One of the scriptures today said that God sees each of us as her masterpiece. That's a feel good thing. I believe it. I feel it. But does it make the depression go away? No. Therefore, the only conclusion I can come to is that I am a masterpiece, and part of that masterpiece is my depression. My dear, long-suffering, patient husband affirms that he loves me, all of me, depression and all. That is certainly comforting. I know love is unconditional. And I'm even pretty good at loving myself unconditionally--most of the time.
Believe me, if it were possible to intellectualize oneself out of this disease, I would have done that by now. I can perform all manner of self-talk and other methods to lift myself up. But it doesn't make the depression go away. I know most of those who spend time around me see a smiling, laughing person who loves being with my friends and family. Which is true. That doesn't mean the depression has left. It just means I'm having a good day. And, thankfully, I often have more good days than down days.
On down days, it takes every ounce of strength, courage, and sheer stubbornness to do something as routine as get dressed and go to church. Even though I know I will be lifted up. Even though I know love will surround me. Even though the music and words soothe my soul.
Is there a point here? I don't know. I don't want pity. I don't want sympathy, even. I want acceptance and understanding. I want people to see mental illness as a disease that is managed to greater or lesser degrees, but a disease nonetheless. A disease that cannot be fought and overcome, but must be accepted and lived with each and every day. And I want people with this disease to know that it can be part of a happy and productive life, that the struggle is worth it, that even a down day, our existence is still a masterpiece.
Friday, May 11, 2012
The Story of My Depression
I was going to write some sappy piece about Mother's Day, but you know what? I want to write about depression. Now, hold on, don't get me wrong. I don't associate Mother's Day with depression. Motherhood does not equal depression. But I have been feeling this tug lately to share what depression has been like for me, mostly because I think a lot of people don't really understand it as a disease and don't really accept it as a disease. The only connection it has with being a mother, for me, is that I wish I had gotten help sooner, because I would have been a better mother in my children's early years. I think I did pretty well anyway, mostly because I gave every single ounce of myself to the job, and because I am a supremely strong human being who was able, miraculously, to do what I needed to do for my children despite my disease.
Let me start by saying that I have had depression for about as long as I can remember. It wasn't too severe until I became an adult. I guess everyone assumes teenagers are going to be full of angst anyway, so maybe it wasn't really apparent then. I don't know. Even so, I was able to function okay. I suffered severe migraines for many years, and sometimes I wonder if they weren't partly from hanging on so tightly and trying to be so strong. Who knows? As a young adult, I knew I felt horrible, and I wanted to seek counseling, but it seemed like an expense we couldn't afford. So I just kept hanging in there.
When my children were very young, I honestly believe breastfeeding kept me going. You may not realize this, but breastfeeding releases hormones, the same feel good hormones that are released during orgasm. Not to get too graphic here, but these hormones are relaxing and very helpful when you have depression. So it was probably a good thing I made the choice to breastfeed. Even so, the depression was there all the time. It manifested mostly as anger. And I was angry a lot. I threw things. I yelled and screamed. It was as if I knew I couldn't just collapse and fall into the dark abyss of my soul, so I got mad about it instead. At least I functioned, that was my thinking. A lot of people I love had to bear witness to this anger. My husband and children, my parents. I know I did things that hurt them all. I hope they all see that it was the disease and not me. Or that they at least forgive me.
I LOVED being a mom. Still love being a mom. But as we all know, it's incredibly difficult in the best of times. It's really hard when you suffer from a debilitating disease. I'm sure I messed up a lot with my children, but I also feel really fortunate that they are pretty okay. Not perfect, but better than I was at their ages. And I think my depression helped me understand things that helped me be a better mother. I think it helped me see what my children needed in a very deep way.
I am a really, really strong person. That also helped keep me going. I knew how strong I was, particularly after delivering the very large baby that is Peter. He was 10 lb., 10 oz at birth, and I felt incredibly empowered to have delivered him at home with no drugs. I think that kept me going for a while, too.
Eventually, though, I used up all my energy, all my stores of strength, all my resources by being so strong. And then I wasn't strong at all. I fell apart. I sensed myself drowning, madly trying to tread water but barely staying afloat.I got physically very sick, unable to really get well. I felt like I was at the bottom of the darkest hole, alone, unable to climb out. I couldn't, wouldn't, think about suicide, because I couldn't do that to my children. But I didn't know how much longer I could hang on.
That's when my husband saved me. He reached in, pulled me out of the hole, and sent me to counseling. My counselor helped me decide to try anti-depressants, and I turned to my doctor, who prescribed something. It seemed to help a little, but not too much. She upped the dosage, which made me really sick.
My counselor helped me find a psychiatrist who specializes in depression and anti-depressant meds. They helped me find the right meds and dose for me. It took a while, but I started to feel like a human being.
The only problem was that once I got the depression under control I discovered that I had pretty much depleted my physical body of all its strength in order to fight through each day. I had depleted my thyroid, my adrenals, my iron stores. I am still working on repairing those aspects of my health. But the depression is under control.
I cannot emphasize enough how important it was for me to find a medication that helped me without harming me, and I did.
Here's the thing. I don't think most people really understand depression. Especially since our culture seems to prescribe anti-depressants for all kinds of things. Some people don't need meds for a long while. Some just need them to "get over a hump." How I wish I was one of those people. I don't like taking drugs, which is probably why it took me so long to get to the point where I had no choice. In fact, with my psychiatrist's help, I have attempted to barely even lower my dose several times. It doesn't work. Even a tiny reduction sends me falling down the black hole again.
So I had to accept that this is my life. I have depression. I always will. It is not a personal failing. It is not because I'm weak that I have to take these meds. I KNOW I am stronger than most people. I made it through 20 years of depression without help. How I did that, I still have no real idea, but I know it was because I was strong.
I don't talk about my depression very often, because I feel a bit ostracized. I think our society views it as weak. It's also immensely personal. It's hard to bare that to other people. But I am doing so now because I want people to understand it better. To know how it feels to live in this skin.
I think what prompted this whole opening up was a friend's question about why I have to see the psychiatrist every four months. I told her that they want to make sure I'm still doing okay with this med at this dose. And that some people struggle for years to find the right med. And that some people have bad experiences with meds, like feeling they want to commit suicide. She's a nurse, and this was news to her. So if she didn't know, then probably most people don't know.
You see those ads on TV that say "depression hurts" and all those things. Yes it does. It does hurt physically. It also hurts deep down in your innermost being. I am not a sad person. Depression isn't about being sad. It's not an emotional thing. It a brain chemical thing. It's physical. I am a happy, generous, active person, but depression made me feel like a wreck, a failure, a monster. That wasn't me. The meds simply (actually it's quite complicated) override that brain chemistry and allow me to be the true me.
So I guess the whole point of my writing this is to tell everyone who feels those things that there is help for you. You are not weak to need help. Do we tell a person with diabetes that they are weak for needing insulin? Of course not. You can live a great life if you want to. Depression does not have to drown you. Find someone in your life who will reach in and pull you out and help you find the treatment you need. It's hard, I know. It's embarrassing to admit that you are no longer strong enough to manage. That you have used up yourself. Like being eaten alive from the inside. Hang on. Ask for help. It is out there. And if you don't get the right meds on the first try, don't give up. Go to an expert. Not a family doctor. (Nothing against family doctors, mind you.)
If anything, depression has made me stronger than I was before. It has made me a better mother, because it gives me insight to see things in my children that might not appear on the surface. It gives me a heart of compassion for all beings who suffer. It makes me full of gratitude for my husband who loved me enough to hang in there with me. It makes me see more truly what is important. So that's the sappy part.
And Happy Mother's Day.
Let me start by saying that I have had depression for about as long as I can remember. It wasn't too severe until I became an adult. I guess everyone assumes teenagers are going to be full of angst anyway, so maybe it wasn't really apparent then. I don't know. Even so, I was able to function okay. I suffered severe migraines for many years, and sometimes I wonder if they weren't partly from hanging on so tightly and trying to be so strong. Who knows? As a young adult, I knew I felt horrible, and I wanted to seek counseling, but it seemed like an expense we couldn't afford. So I just kept hanging in there.
When my children were very young, I honestly believe breastfeeding kept me going. You may not realize this, but breastfeeding releases hormones, the same feel good hormones that are released during orgasm. Not to get too graphic here, but these hormones are relaxing and very helpful when you have depression. So it was probably a good thing I made the choice to breastfeed. Even so, the depression was there all the time. It manifested mostly as anger. And I was angry a lot. I threw things. I yelled and screamed. It was as if I knew I couldn't just collapse and fall into the dark abyss of my soul, so I got mad about it instead. At least I functioned, that was my thinking. A lot of people I love had to bear witness to this anger. My husband and children, my parents. I know I did things that hurt them all. I hope they all see that it was the disease and not me. Or that they at least forgive me.
I LOVED being a mom. Still love being a mom. But as we all know, it's incredibly difficult in the best of times. It's really hard when you suffer from a debilitating disease. I'm sure I messed up a lot with my children, but I also feel really fortunate that they are pretty okay. Not perfect, but better than I was at their ages. And I think my depression helped me understand things that helped me be a better mother. I think it helped me see what my children needed in a very deep way.
I am a really, really strong person. That also helped keep me going. I knew how strong I was, particularly after delivering the very large baby that is Peter. He was 10 lb., 10 oz at birth, and I felt incredibly empowered to have delivered him at home with no drugs. I think that kept me going for a while, too.
Eventually, though, I used up all my energy, all my stores of strength, all my resources by being so strong. And then I wasn't strong at all. I fell apart. I sensed myself drowning, madly trying to tread water but barely staying afloat.I got physically very sick, unable to really get well. I felt like I was at the bottom of the darkest hole, alone, unable to climb out. I couldn't, wouldn't, think about suicide, because I couldn't do that to my children. But I didn't know how much longer I could hang on.
That's when my husband saved me. He reached in, pulled me out of the hole, and sent me to counseling. My counselor helped me decide to try anti-depressants, and I turned to my doctor, who prescribed something. It seemed to help a little, but not too much. She upped the dosage, which made me really sick.
My counselor helped me find a psychiatrist who specializes in depression and anti-depressant meds. They helped me find the right meds and dose for me. It took a while, but I started to feel like a human being.
The only problem was that once I got the depression under control I discovered that I had pretty much depleted my physical body of all its strength in order to fight through each day. I had depleted my thyroid, my adrenals, my iron stores. I am still working on repairing those aspects of my health. But the depression is under control.
I cannot emphasize enough how important it was for me to find a medication that helped me without harming me, and I did.
Here's the thing. I don't think most people really understand depression. Especially since our culture seems to prescribe anti-depressants for all kinds of things. Some people don't need meds for a long while. Some just need them to "get over a hump." How I wish I was one of those people. I don't like taking drugs, which is probably why it took me so long to get to the point where I had no choice. In fact, with my psychiatrist's help, I have attempted to barely even lower my dose several times. It doesn't work. Even a tiny reduction sends me falling down the black hole again.
So I had to accept that this is my life. I have depression. I always will. It is not a personal failing. It is not because I'm weak that I have to take these meds. I KNOW I am stronger than most people. I made it through 20 years of depression without help. How I did that, I still have no real idea, but I know it was because I was strong.
I don't talk about my depression very often, because I feel a bit ostracized. I think our society views it as weak. It's also immensely personal. It's hard to bare that to other people. But I am doing so now because I want people to understand it better. To know how it feels to live in this skin.
I think what prompted this whole opening up was a friend's question about why I have to see the psychiatrist every four months. I told her that they want to make sure I'm still doing okay with this med at this dose. And that some people struggle for years to find the right med. And that some people have bad experiences with meds, like feeling they want to commit suicide. She's a nurse, and this was news to her. So if she didn't know, then probably most people don't know.
You see those ads on TV that say "depression hurts" and all those things. Yes it does. It does hurt physically. It also hurts deep down in your innermost being. I am not a sad person. Depression isn't about being sad. It's not an emotional thing. It a brain chemical thing. It's physical. I am a happy, generous, active person, but depression made me feel like a wreck, a failure, a monster. That wasn't me. The meds simply (actually it's quite complicated) override that brain chemistry and allow me to be the true me.
So I guess the whole point of my writing this is to tell everyone who feels those things that there is help for you. You are not weak to need help. Do we tell a person with diabetes that they are weak for needing insulin? Of course not. You can live a great life if you want to. Depression does not have to drown you. Find someone in your life who will reach in and pull you out and help you find the treatment you need. It's hard, I know. It's embarrassing to admit that you are no longer strong enough to manage. That you have used up yourself. Like being eaten alive from the inside. Hang on. Ask for help. It is out there. And if you don't get the right meds on the first try, don't give up. Go to an expert. Not a family doctor. (Nothing against family doctors, mind you.)
If anything, depression has made me stronger than I was before. It has made me a better mother, because it gives me insight to see things in my children that might not appear on the surface. It gives me a heart of compassion for all beings who suffer. It makes me full of gratitude for my husband who loved me enough to hang in there with me. It makes me see more truly what is important. So that's the sappy part.
And Happy Mother's Day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
