A Life in the Making: Two Years Later

This past weekend, I celebrated a unique anniversary.

Two years ago last Sunday, I acknowledged that the way I was living my life was not working anymore.

I was unmotivated, doing only the bare minimum to get by in my classes and at my job. I was fearful of everything: that I would never graduate, that I would be a failure, that my friends didn’t like me, that the people I loved would leave me. Despite the presence of all of the people in my life, I felt alone and slept my days away to avoid this feeling of emptiness. I was either agitated or anxious most of the time. The changes in my mood came on suddenly and were often unpredictable. I got worked up over the most miniscule things. Sometimes a perfectly good day would be ruined because someone looked at me the wrong way.

Somewhere, deep down, I knew this was no way to live my life.

Two years ago last Sunday, I stood face to face in a local bookstore with the man who would later become my husband. We were in the middle of an argument and were about to walk away from the whole thing when he asked me, “Do you think you’re depressed?” I tearfully replied, “Yes. Things that seem easy for other people just aren’t easy for me.”

And so began the journey. We even nicknamed 2009 the “Year of Health.”

Two years ago last Sunday, I named my depression for what it was. There would be no turning back, no more denying. I took the first step toward getting my life back.

And now?

Do I still struggle with depression? Yes, of course. But now I have the tools and the resources to separate the disease from the real me, hence the title of this blog: “I Am Not This Disease.” The art of self-awareness has been an invaluable tool for me in this journey. This might be the most important thing I took away from my time spent in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. I had to re-learn how to think: how to logically process my thoughts, how to use situational evidence to uncover rational information, how to recognize when I am falling back into the old, destructive thought-patterns of my past.

And medication? Once I found a combination of drugs that worked for me, I can honestly say in amazement that my brain chemistry has changed. To think that I used to feel guilty and ashamed for taking anti-depressants is astounding. Now, I look at that little pill in my hand and feel nothing but thankfulness. I’m thankful for developments in science and medicine. I’m thankful for my doctors. I’m thankful that I’m insured and can therefore afford my medications. We all know that this simply isn’t the case for all people living in this country, and I eagerly await the day when universal health care will be able to touch the lives of people who so desperately need mental health care.

The greatest gift this journey toward mental health has given me was quite unexpected. I have emerged from this experience with a greater appreciation for the people in my life. I now find myself reaching out to others in ways I would not have during my illness. Lately, I notice I have within me a new-found desire to help others. Recalling how so many people sat and waited quietly with me through some of my darkest hours, I now want to be that kind of support for others. I want to give back because I spent so much time on the receiving end.

I also think my depression has made me a better listener and therefore a better partner and a better friend, or so I hope. Now that my life is not consumed with my anxiety and depression, I have the capacity within me to consider the needs of others in ways I have not been able to before. Finally, I am present. Really present. To myself and to others.

I am currently reading a wonderful book written by Methodist minister Susan Gregg-Schroeder called “In The Shadow of God’s Wings: Grace in the Midst of Depression.” I came across a chapter entitled The Gift of Living with Paradox. I had never thought about my depression in this way. She explains that our culture thrives on instant gratification, so living within a paradox, or a mystery as some might call it, does not come easily to us. But this is exactly what living with depression is like. We constantly find ourselves between two polarities: sickness and health, rationality and irrationality, darkness and light, until we can learn how to achieve a balance in our lives. This doesn’t always come easy for a depressive because so often we think in black or white terms, or what some therapists might call “all or nothing thinking.” But this isn’t a life at all, is it? All of us, depressed or not, must learn to accept what Susan calls the “intermingling of the darkness and the light and learning to appreciate the areas of gray.”

Anyone who has gone to battle with a major illness knows that the journey toward health is never fully upward. We take a few steps forward, and a few steps back. Wash – rinse – repeat. And yet this is how we learn. We must come to appreciate all the steps of the journey. Perhaps Susan sums this up best when she goes on to say that:

“The paradox lies in the fact that the parts of ourselves that we have buried in the shadow of subconscious are essential to our becoming integrated, whole persons. When brought into the light, these qualities we have rejected are transformed by God’s grace. They, in turn, strengthen our whole personality.”

So, here’s to living with paradox.

Here’s to two years of journeying toward sound mental health.

And here’s to you and your journey, wherever you might find yourself at this very moment.

May 2012 be another “Year of Health” for us all.

To our health,

h.

Listen to me!

It was now early spring, just a few weeks before Easter. It became clear to me that my elevated anxiety was at the heart of my most recent and lengthy depressive episode. For some time, I had suspected that my medications might be at the root of my problem. Maybe my system had built up a tolerance to them overtime? Maybe they were never the right combination of meds to begin with? Whatever the case, I was at a point where I knew I was feeling no different. It made me wonder why I was taking them at all.

At this time I was taking Wellbutrin, a unique anti-depressant that I had been on for over a year. I was also on Buspar – an oldie but goodie – for my anxiety, but looking back now, it never worked that well for me. If I took the highest recommended dose, I felt sick to my stomach. I tried to tell my psychiatrist on more than one occasion that I didn’t think my meds were helping me like they should. His next step was to prescribe Levothyroxine – a thyroid hormone that when taken at a very low dose was said to help elevate mood. When I contacted him again after several weeks hoping for yet another option, he told me we were running out of choices. Knowing that my body did not respond well to SSRI’s (Prozac, Lexapro, Zoloft), he said our next step might be a low dose of Lithium.

I never called him again.

I may have been depressed, but I knew there had to be other options out there before we pulled out the big guns. Lithium? Now that IS crazy!

I asked my therapist for a referral, explaining to her that I just couldn’t believe Lithium was my last option. She agreed. I knew there had to be another way. I knew my doc just wasn’t listening to me. I was screaming out to him: “Treat my anxiety! Treat my anxiety!” and his solution was to prescribe a drug normally given to patients with bi-polar depression. I had always known I was not bi-polar. My depression just never worked that way. It didn’t happen in extremely high and low fits. I never had the urge to stay awake for days or find myself maxing out my credit cards. It was more like a constant, undulating pulse that weighed me down – some days more than others. I only wanted to sleep. Besides, my therapist assigned me a formal diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) back in February. (For more information on MDD, check this out: http://www.dbsalliance.org/site/PageServer?pagename=about_depression_overview).

My therapist eventually put me in contact with a psychiatric nurse at a local mental and behavioral hospital. Finally – a new plan! The only drawback was that she was booked until mid-May. One evening when my anxiety was particularly horrible – racing thoughts, short of breath, pacing, etc. – I gave in and drove myself to an immediate care center. I told them every med I was on and my entire mental health history. I asked to be put on something that would help calm me down until I could get in to see this new psychiatric nurse.

No help whatsoever. They wouldn’t prescribe me any anti-anxiety medication and proceeded to inform me that if I needed further treatment I would have to go to the local hospital, admit myself, and stay overnight for evaluation. I was seething mad and completely discouraged – again. I just needed some help. I felt like no one was listening to me – again. Even after the doc inquired if I was suicidal, which I have never been even in my darkest moments, she still turned me away. Unbelievable. I knew I couldn’t go home. I would be alone with my thoughts and I wouldn’t be able to calm myself down. When I managed to finally pull myself together again, I took myself to a concert at the music school. A three hour event, it helped soothe my anxiety and lifted me up to a better place. I knew I could return home to an empty apartment and maybe get some sleep. I was going to be okay.

*                       *                       *

Since seeing my psychiatric nurse, who took my complete mental and family health history in handwritten notes, I was prescribed a drug called Cymbalta. Ads for it run on TV all the time: “Depression hurts. Cymbalta can help.” In my case, this is true. Cymbalta is in a class of drugs known as SRNIs, which target serotonin and norepinephrine. I began at 30mg daily, and eventually worked my way up to the full 60mg dose without any problems and minimal side effects. At 60 mg, Cymbalta is said to treat the symptoms of GAD, or Generalized Anxiety Disorder. She also prescribed me a daily low dosage of Klonopin, commonly known as a “benzo,” to further aid in the treatment of my anxiety since I told her I thought this was my most immediate problem. I was told to take a pill in the evening before bedtime; the idea being that I would wake up a little less frazzled and edgy.

So I had a new med cocktail that overtime proved to be effective for the treatment of BOTH my depression and anxiety. All of this arrived at a very providential time in my life. By early May, I had been on my new meds for about two and a half weeks. I also graduated from school – finally – after nine years of work. I even attended the ceremony, which I didn’t do as an undergrad. I felt it would help bring closure to what seemed like an unending chapter of my life. I woke up every morning and could breathe just that much easier knowing that I would never have to go back to this particular school. No more pressures of academia, no more constant evaluation, no more grades assigned to my art. This chapter was done. Over. FINITO!

Some weeks later, my husband and I decided to relocate to the small town in which he was teaching. We found a small house to rent, which for someone who has lived in apartments for the last nine years, this was very exciting! Around this same time, I found a great part-time position at a Methodist church about 35 miles away from where we had chosen to live. I felt so lucky to have found meaningful work during this time of transition. Moving to a small town immediately begs the question: “What the hell am I going to do around here?” But I had been given an opportunity, and for that I am grateful.

Most importantly, it was summer, and I decided to make it a REAL summer vacation. After all my husband and I had been through, after all I had been through between doctors and meds and recitals and this and that, it was time for my mind and body to heal themselves over. This meant no recitals. No conferences. No special projects. I limited myself by taking a very part-time job at a local ice scream shop to give myself a little something different to do during my last few months in town. I spent time with friends and family. I read and caught up on all the stupid TV that I missed during the school year. I joined the local YMCA. Some days, I gave myself permission to stay in my PJs until dinnertime. Big deal, I thought. I earned this. I also kept up on my therapy through individual and couples sessions, still journaling like crazy. I even tried writing some poetry. On the whole, it was a great summer. Without challenges? Of course not. But these challenges were all the more bearable now that I had an advantage over my depression. I had finally – with the help and support of my doctors, my husband, and my family – found a combination of drugs that worked for me.

It took over a year and a half, but we found each other.

To our health,

h.

"The moment you can visualize being free from the things that hold you back, you have indeed begun to set yourself free."---Unknown

Sculpture by: Zenos Frudakis "Freedom" 

Growing pains...

(Continued from July's post:)


In the weeks that followed my father-in-law's death, my husband and I found ourselves in different worlds. He needed time to grieve, time to sort, and time to think. Of course these are all complicated learning processes - especially for someone who has just experienced a major loss for the first time. My depression was still raging. No matter how hard I tried to push it aside or keep it at bay for the sake of my husband's grief, it still managed to rear its ugly head at the most inopportune moments. I wanted to give my time and attention to my husband during this extreme time of need, but my support wavered in and out as I tried to be available to him while remaining attentive to my own emotions - a direct result of my depression and anxiety. Again, I found myself confused. I was still caught up in the fact that I had tried to do everything "right" for myself and for my healing process. I took my meds, I kept my regular therapy appointments, I constantly journalled through my feelings, and I reached out to my friends more than I ever had. No matter how much I hated to admit it, the hard truth was at the end of the day, I wanted to husband to take care of me - to make me feel better - as he had done for the past three years. My disease did not want to allow him the time he needed to tend to his own wounds. We were totally and completely unavailable to each other. 


As a result, the weeks that followed were some of the most trying and difficult times in our infant marriage. Some days we could not hold a normal conversation that did not lead to arguing and screaming. Doors slamming. Hurtful words dropping like bombs. Various things flying across the room. It was terrible. We later admitted to each other that it was during these times we both considered leaving the relationship. Maybe our marriage had been a mistake. Maybe we would become a stereotype of our generation by continuing to prove that marriage just does not last. In my heart, this was the last thing I wanted, but I was too sick and he was in too much pain and no longer able to fulfill the role of caretaker that I had come to depend on. What was harder was for me to accept this fact and figure out how to finally do something about it. 


My therapist was a great help and trustworthy advocate to me during these times. We began to meet frequently - once a week. I remember feeling so reassured and empowered after our visits. It was as if for a few moments I was able to access the real me again. Even if people close to me did not understand what I was going through or told me I could not change, I was still shedding a skin - still making positive changes in my life despite the fact that I was still very ill. The process was painful. I had to face harsh realities about myself, my self-worth, and my issues with dependency. I had to relearn and rediscover who I am. The real Me. I had to learn that I was never only one thing at any given time - never only a wife, never only a student, etc. The only thing I could ever wholly be at any given time is myself. This is what my therapist helped me to discover. 


I had to do some re-evaluating: What were my goals? (With and without my husband). What did my progress look like so far? Where was this progression going? What new cognitive tools did I now have? What were the warning signs that would alert me that old habits and behaviors might be setting in? She also taught me to remain hopeful and proud of the fact that I had already come so far! That those undermining, self-deprecating, negative thought-processes were slowly being chipped away and replaced with affirmations: "I am a good person. I have done good work. I am capable of change. I am capable of healing. I take responsibility for my health. I am allowed to fail and learn from my mistakes." This is at the heart of cognitive behavioral therapy. At the time, these statements were - and still are - the stepping stones that allowed me to walk towards my goal of stability and sound mental health. 


There was still one thing that did not add up. In the midst of all of my progress, I still experienced profound bouts of depression, or what I sometimes call episodes. I had little motivation to do anything. Even my music was unsatisfying most of the time. If I was out of the apartment, I was usually social and active, but most of my remaining time was spent in front of the TV or in bed asleep. My husband and I still argued and fought frequently, which over a period of time added to my already high anxiety about the future of our relationship. In our couples' counselling sessions, I vowed to work on this and that, but in my head I still wondered if I could really trust my husband to stay by my side. What if I had another horrendous episode? Would he tire of me? Of my depression? Would he leave? Or would he stay out of duty or guilt and end up angry and resentful toward me? I did not know which was worse! I was torn, and these destructive thoughts flooded my mind every time I found myself alone. And since my husband was still teaching classes in the next state over, I had a lot of alone time - especially in the evenings. It wasn't long before this way of thinking became unbearable. I had anxiety attack and anxiety attack. I tried to busy myself and distract myself with the larger world, but I could not stand being by myself and fighting with my own mind. Days were hard; nights were harder. 


I needed help.


(to be continued...)

"Must the Winter Come So Soon?"

This past winter was a tough one, but I got through it.

Now that I have come out of a semester-long depressive hibernation, I can look back and understand with more clarity what happened to me and how I was able to break through one of the longest, roughest episodes I have ever experienced.

In this post, I am going to try my best to write simplistically about a complicated topic. I realize I do not need to go back and rehash every little event, conversation, or argument that was intermingled within my overall experience. I will attempt to draw attention to the major events that outlined this most recent depression and how I was able to slowly push through it with the help of family and friends, medications, and a steady dose of cognitive behavioral therapy.

*        *        *

I remember feeling extraordinary for the few weeks that followed our September 2010 wedding. I now know this is the definition of the “honeymoon period.” After that, I admit I have trouble remembering a whole lot from the fall semester, which I now recognize as a sign in itself. Four months into our marriage, my husband and I had to make a tough decision. He was offered an interim position for the spring semester at a community college. We knew the teaching experience and the income would be great for him and for us, but the position was in the next state over, which meant we would have to live apart during the week. Together, we decided he should accept the job, and I settled in to my last two months of preparations for my final graduate organ recital.

The next two months were tough. I found out quickly that I did not favor long distance relationships. I felt alone and then ashamed for feeling dependent on my relationship for any sense of stability and contentment. I pushed through and tried to focus on my work in spite of my feelings of despair toward my marriage and toward my looming recital.

February 28, 2011. The recital day. A total of four years of graduate work put on display for one hour of just one evening. I felt the insurmountable pressure rising within me and I began to experience some serious nerves. My forehead dripped sweat, my breath shallow, and my hands shook uncontrollably. If I had ever had a surreal experience, this was it. It was like being outside of myself – like an observer. My body was seated on the organ bench just trying to make it to the end, but my mindful self was off to the side in a fog observing my every struggle and evaluating my every wrong move.

I do not know how I finished, but I did. It may have been what I consider to be some of the worst public playing I have ever done, but I got through it. Still, I was devastated. I felt the tears forming before I let up my final chord. I tried to hold back my emotions as audience members came through my receiving line. I do not remember anything that was said, only the people I saw that night. I just wanted to go home and lie down in a quiet room and rock myself into a long, deep sleep.

Four days later, my husband’s father passed away.

(to be continued…)

A 'Saintly' Tribute

They lived not only in ages past,

there are hundreds of thousands still,

the world is bright with the joyous saints

who love to do Jesus' will.

You can meet them in school,

or in lanes, or at sea,

in church, or in trains,

or in shops, or at tea.

for the saints of God are just folk like me,

and I mean to be one, too.

-John Henry Hopkins

November 1 was All Saints' Day.  (I'm particularly aware of these things because I work in a church).  On All Saints' Day, we remember and honor the dead - all of those who have walked the earth, served in their communities, and gone before us.

*     *     *

The past few weeks have been beyond difficult.  A series of consistent and often drastic ups and downs, followed by a series of strictly down days - that's the best way I can describe it.  My doctor has already changed my medication once during this time, and he will most likely change it again before the Thanksgiving holiday.

I just want some consistency, some small measure of control, God forbid - one tiny ounce of predictability!  I'm tired of feeling agitated all the time.  I hate it when a single incident sends me into a spiral that I can't find my way out of for sometimes a period of days.

On the brighter side of things, during this most recent series of episodes, the people who are closest to me insist that I have begun to handle my depression differently than I did even six months ago.

Good news, right?

All I know is that when I am at my lowest, the idea that any of it is different (the feelings and emotions themselves or how I handle them) seems impossible.  At these moments, all I can feel is the pain and the confusion that comes from feeling like I am somewhere else - that "other" place I retreat to and never know when I'll return from.  

The hope in all of this is that with time, and with the tender care I am so fortunate to receive from others (and from myself, occasionally), I always emerge.  Sometimes the knowledge that whatever I'm feeling at the time will most assuredly not last forever is hope enough for me.  

*     *     *

With the coming and going of this year's All Saints' Day, sure, I thought about those people I don't see anymore and how they touched my life.  Then it occurred to me that there are "saints" walking among us everyday.  These are the people who graciously give of themselves to others, those who love fiercely and unreservedly:

The family who calls to check in with you when they know you're going through a bit of a rough patch.  

The group of friends who drop by in the middle of the day to sit and laugh with you when you just can't make it out of the house.

A long-lost friend from the past who messages you with words of kindness and encouragement out of the blue.

Yes, friends, there are saints among us.  I know this because I live with one of them.

*     *     *

When my husband and I first started dating, I was constantly afraid that I would push him away.  I feared one day he would wake up and decide that carrying on a relationship with me was just too much to handle.  I alluded this fear to him one night through tears, to which he said, "I can always stay with someone who is struggling..."

...because a struggle ultimately implies growth.

We live.  

We experience.  

We fail or we gain.

We learn.

We shed a skin or two.

We emerge - changed.

We set our feet out on new ground and forge ahead.

Living with depression is a constant struggle, but if I live by my own words, it also means that I am in a constant state of growth.  

It's terrifying sometimes, but I'm pretty sure it's the way to be.

My husband sees it all.  The good, the bad, the ugly, and the UGLIER.  He experiences all of it in his own way.  We often talk about what it means for him to live with and love a depressed person, and furthermore, what does it entail for the depressive to acknowledge the painful experience her partner feels at the same time she is experiencing a pain all of her own?  

This creates an awful notion; one that makes it increasingly difficult to confide in him, even though he insists that it is helpful when I do this.  Sometimes I think to myself, "Could I be more of a burden to him?"

It's understood that spouses or partners will take turns taking care of each other as life takes its own series of twists and turns.  But what happens to the relationship when one person in the partnership must intensely care for the other person over a prolonged period of time?  

I want to scream every time the word "caretaker" gets thrown around.  It peppers our (sometimes heated!) conversations as well as our sessions with our couples therapist.  I want to cry out, "I WANT TO TAKE CARE OF YOU, TOO!  REALLY, I DO!"

The hard truth is that sometimes, I can't.  I just can't, and after all of the venom and the tears and the silence of the aftermath, I have nothing left but to say, "I'm sorry.  I'm so, so sorry."

I'm sorry that I spontaneously cried into my omelette during Saturday brunch.

I'm sorry that sometimes, no matter how much you try to care for me, all I can hear is blame. 

I'm sorry that when I am cycling through my depression, I often can't make room for your pain, although I know it's there.  I do.

Most of all, I'm sorry that sometimes, I'm just not here.  

*     *     *

So the struggle continues - but so does the growth - and in the midst of it all, I give thanks for saints.  For family, for friends, and for husbands whose capacity for patience, mercy, strength, and love is the very stuff of sainthood.

To our health,

h. 

To Error on the Side of Depression?

I had not planned to write this particular post.  In fact, I had an entirely different post in mind, but I decided I needed to write on this topic, for it touches on important aspects of this disease:  relapse and remission. 

What does one do when an episode hits you like a ton of bricks out of the blue?

I should first tell you that I have only actively dealt with and sought treatment for my depression for just shy of a year.  Compared to the length of time I have experienced symptoms, that's hardly any time at all.  That is to say I'm still learning - every day - more about what this illness is, and what it means for me and the people in my life. 

There came a point this summer where I was fed up with not knowing what was going on with me.  I was tired of constantly feeling out of control.  Anyone who has battled with depression knows just how terrifying it can be to surrender yourself to a disease that essentially robs you of who you are.  When you are in the eye of the storm of a depressive episode, your will cannot help but submit to it, and you often feel robbed of your own body and mind.  For these reasons, I was (am) on medication, but I wasn't quite sure what it was actually doing for me.  I continued to seek therapy, but I wondered whether it was really helping me.   I repeated the same worries and frustrations over and over again.  I even began to feel sorry for my therapist - I couldn't have been a fulfilling case.  Week after week the same complaints with seemingly little progress.  But I went anyway.  Still, I knew there had to be more ways to become better acquainted with what depression IS. 

I discovered this is a huge task. 

I began with the Internet.  The information I found was at first overwhelming, and eventually redundant.  (You can only take an on-line screening test for depression so many times).  Each site - even the national professional organizations - presented me with similar information: "see a doctor if you experience four or more of these symptoms for longer than two-weeks: loss of interest in normal activities, isolation, sleeplessness (or sleeping too much), changes eating patterns, blah-di-blah-di blah..."

Not good enough. 

I wanted something or someone to speak directly to me, to tell me that these swirling emotions and painful uncertainties I was feeling were legitimate.  Sometimes my mind travels in circles when it comes to thinking about my depression.  I have a way of talking myself in and out of owning up to the disease.  When I feel good, I wonder how I could have ever had times when I felt so low.  I ask myself, "Do I need to keep taking the meds?  Maybe I'll talk to my doctor about going off of them."  Or, the most horrifying of all, "maybe I'm not really depressed.  Maybe I just had a few bad days."

Forging ahead, I decided to read everything I could get my hands on.  Some articles, but mainly books.  I just couldn't find what I was looking for.  Nothing seemed to be clear-cut.  No one book had definitive answers, helpful and sometimes hopeful as they were to me.  It turns out that this is just a feature of the disease.  No one, from the doctors to the sufferers, knows for sure what causes depression and what can be done to prevent it.  So, we treat the symptoms in a variety of ways.  Andrew Solomon's book The Noonday Demon recently put it in perspective for me:

"Luck plays a significant role, bringing on us as if by chance those dews of happiness.  Some people respond well to one treatment, some to another.  Some people remit spontaneously after a brief struggle.  Some who do not tolerate medication can in fact achieve much through talking therapies; some who have given thousands of hours to psychoanalysis get better the minute they take a pill.  Some people drag themselves out of one episode with one treatment only to descend into another that requires a different treatment.  Some people have refractory depression that never lifts, no matter what they do.  Some people have dismaying side effects from every form of treatment, and some people never encounter the slightest trouble from hideous-sounding therapies.  There may come a time when we can analyze the brain and all its functions, when we will be able to explain not only the origins of depression but also the reasons for all these differences.  I am not holding my breath.  For the time being, we must accept that fate has given some of us a strong vulnerability to depression, and that among those who carry such vulnerability, some have treatment-responsive brains and some have treatment-resistant brains.  Those of us who get substantially better in any way must count ourselves, no matter how dire our breakdowns may have been, among the lucky ones.  We must, further, treat those for whom there can be no recovery with forbearance.  Resilience is a frequent, but not a universal, gift, and no secret in this book or elsewhere can help the unluckiest of all." (page 134).

To return to my opening question...

Up until about two weeks ago, I was feeling great!  The stress of our wedding was over.  I was working on my goals with an eye towards graduation and upcoming recitals.  I was focused and motivated.  I woke up most mornings ready to begin my work and cross off items on my list of tasks.  My hopes were so high.  Maybe the worst was over.  Maybe everything had finally aligned itself - the medication, the therapy, all the work I had put forth towards understanding and accepting the challenges I had been given.  It was all coming together and settled in a place where I had a handle on my life again.  There it was - that consistent feeling of control over my own life that had gone missing for so long!

~             ~             ~

I could sense it coming on - the sudden and unexplainable irritability, the loss of rational thinking, the absence of motivation, the unsettled feelings I would experience whether I was alone or with others - but I chose to fight it.  It had stayed away for this long, surely I could ward it off...right? 

No, I couldn't, because this is depression.

The last two weeks were just a reminder that the more I try to forget about it and the less I chose to acknowledge it when it surfaces again, the longer and more painful the depressive episode becomes. 

I have decided to close with excerpts from my journal, as they put last week's experience in the most accurate perspective. 

I've also decided that next time, it will be easier to error on the side of depression, even if it does turn out to be just a really bad day or series of bad days in the end.  For me, it's always better to take a step back and really look at what's going on, and what led up to it.  It's only after that point that I can begin to heal and find my true self again, even though it's next to impossible to be able to do so when you're in the midst of breaking down. 

It's worth it.

To our health,

H

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October 11, 2010

I feel like I've been kicked.  Beaten down, and then kicked.  I feel like I'm moving slowly today.  I don't have a lot to say or even think.  I feel blank inside.  I woke up this morning in tears.  They just came - unstoppable.  I slept until nearly 2pm.  I skipped my practice time in Auer Hall.  It was the only time I'll have in there this week.  I skipped my one class.  All I had to do was show up and sing, but I can't even do that.  It's taken a hold of that, too.  I cancelled my lesson with ______.  It was only a half hour lesson, but I just didn't want to set foot in school today.  Today I've been completely useless.  I went from being a blob in our bed to being a blob on the couch...Compared to the life I had been living for the last five weeks, today I haven't really lived at all.    

Here I am again.  I spent a week in denial that I was feeling different.  I thought (again) that I could ward it off.  That I could overcome these feelings and intensity of emotions.  I wanted to so badly.  I wanted to reclaim my life - my moods, my emotions, my behavior.  For the last five weeks, I've had the power to make sound decisions; to reason with myself and the world around me; to control any overly-emotional outbursts I might feel coming on. 

I couldn't do those things last week.  I was easily irritated and put-out.  I snapped at M. and dragged him into whatever anger I was swimming in at the time.  Worst of all, as he has pointed out to me, I take out my anger and my frustrations on him.  And he gets hurt. 

Last week I had NO patience.  I let the littlest things set me off...clearly, I wasn't in control anymore.  My emotions, my thoughts were being handled by something else - something I refused to name & admit to.

I knew I was irritable.  I knew I was edgy, and I kept telling myself it would pass.  Maybe I would wake up the next morning with a better grip on things.  Day after day, this didn't happen.  That didn't stop me from trying.  I WOULD will this away.  I WOULD rise above it and reclaim my rational, reasonable self that I had seen for several weeks. 

I just wanted to wait it out, to see if maybe - just MAYBE - I was having a "normal" person's bad week.  Logic tells me that it's normal for people to have off-days, even off-weeks.  Maybe that's all this was. So I continued to will and wait for my real self to reemerge.  I knew I was in there!  I knew it!  I could do this...

I'm not sick this time.

I can now see everything that's wrong with those choices.  I've spent so much time trying to accept that I am a depressed person, and that that's OK.  Yet after all that work, all that reading, writing, and pondering, all those small yet such important steps I took towards accepting this disease and what it means to my life - I was in denial again. 

I thought I had it this time.

I just wanted to see - is that so wrong?

And I failed.  In so many ways.  All that time I spent trying to "think" my way out of another episode, my husband was left in a corner wondering where the real me went.  Every time he tried to scratch the surface of what was really going on, I turned off, shut down, and dismissed him.  Surely it couldn't be that - I was in control, remember?  And who is he - trying to be my doctor and diagnose me!

I ignored all the pain this was causing him.  I selfishly expected him to wait around while I tried to sort it out on my own. 

I left him alone.  Again and again and again...

This is not private anymore.  I am no longer on my own.  We chose to get married.  We share our lives now - and that means we share everything in them.  I have no excuses anymore.  I have nothing left to hide behind.  I know what it is I'm dealing with.  I've named it, admitted to it, and continue to deal with it daily. 

It's the same end every time.  You think I'd have learned by now.  The moment I'm willing to admit to myself and to M. that I'm having a hard time, that's the moment I open myself up to the possibility of healing...

    

What this Blog is about...

This blog is about depression.  


Mainly, my depression.


It is about me sharing my story and everything I have learned along the way...
...besides, what would all of the struggle and private pain of the past few years have meant if I never shared it with others?  What's the point?  Did I really go through this for nothing?


Depression happened to me just as it happens to millions of people.  


Depression.  Happened.  And sometimes, it still happens.


So, let's talk about it.  


It is about my struggle to understand depression as it applies to my life and the lives of those around me...
...because depression often leaves us feeling like we are outside of ourselves, indifferently watching our own lives pass us by.  It also leaves our friends and loved ones wondering, "who is she?  Where did she go?"  


So, let's talk about this, too.     


It is about my gradual, pain-stakingly slow yet humble acceptance of this disease...
...however, after months and months of trying to figure out what the hell was going on, it hit me:


I am not this disease.  


And neither are the millions of other people who live with depression or other forms of mental illness.  


This is something we should all be talking about.  [To see how other people around the country are not only talking about it, but doing something about it, visit www.walktowashington.org.]


And finally, the creation of this blog is a symbol of my healing process...
...because out of everything I now know about my depression, one thing is for sure:


I must remain pro-active about this disease while I am feeling good.  Having a series of symptom-free days, weeks, or even months does not mean I will never have to face it again.  As one DBSA leader put it, "You can't wait until you feel better to do things.  You have to do things to feel better."  [For information on the Depression & Bipolar Support Alliance (DBSA), see www.dbsalliance.org.]


As I write this, I have been symptom-free for nearly a month.  This may not seem like much, but it is the longest stretch of time within the past year or so that I have felt good - like myself.  


Will it last?  


I don't know.


What if it comes back?


This time, I'll know better what to do.  I'll know that the depression isn't me; it's only the disease itself.  I'll know it's okay to reach out, to seek help.  Recently, I've had a deep desire to make sure that EVERYONE knows this.  


So, it's okay.


Talk about it - don't wait.  There are people in your life and in your community that want to help you.


You'll be glad you did.  


To our health,
H.