Mental Health issues. A loaded term to say the least; having connotations that range from "nervous condition" to "crazy as a bedbug" to "serial killer" and everywhere in between. It has taken me years to come to grips with my particular brand of cerebral dysfunction: years of thinking I could somehow "beat it" until I finally realized and accepted that it is what it is and it isn't going anywhere. All I can do is manage it, understand it and recognize it when it flares. Turns out, though, that last one is toughest for me.
Looking back, I know my Mom suffered from major depression for at least as long as I can remember (which means it was probably longer). That's not to say she didn't enjoy things in her life, but she was much more fragile than even her family likely thought. Why wouldn't they think her strong? When her husband skipped town and left her with a two year old, she bucked up and raised me on her own, working sometimes multiple jobs, often sending me to her parents or sister while she worked and to be sure I ate. She pulled us up to middle class, sent me to college and gave me a great life. But there was always, ALWAYS, that fragility and ingrained sadness behind her beautiful grey-blue eyes; those days when she couldn't get out of bed, of uncontrollable sobbing and long periods where she couldn't defend her own existence to herself. When I was growing up (and old enough to at least sort of understand) she told me many times that had I not been born she likely would have taken her own life. Do I believe it? Yes. Unfortunately, she lived in a time and place where such issues were not discussed! The stigma of seeing a psychiatrist and of, GOD FORBID, being on some kind of medication, was intolerable.The bottom line? My mother didn't have the resources that I do for examining and facing the demons in her head caused by fucked up brain chemistry. Chemistry that, it turns out, is inherited - yay me.
My depression always lingered, I believe, just under the surface. It affected me, I'm sure, but likely in ways that I can't identify now, so far down the road. I saw counselors during my life, to deal with traumatic events and their aftermath, but for nothing that was ever deemed "chronic". In fact, my counselors were always happy to tell me how well-adjusted I was under the circumstances and to send me off to live my life. My first realization that something was actually "wrong" with me came when, after about two weeks of staying up until two or three in the morning and sleeping until noon, I found myself once again watching extremely late night television (you know, infomercials for hair plugs and "business opportunities" in Uruguay). I suddenly burst into tears because the thought crossed my mind that I really didn't give a shit if I lived or died, and worse, I had no idea why. The next week I found myself at a Psychiatrist's answering all sorts of questions about my past, family, relationships, and so on, for 50 minutes. When I left I had a prescription for something called Paxil and a diagnosis of :"Depression Exacerbated by Seasonal Affective Disorder"--umm, what? Well, I liked how Paxil made me feel for about five minutes and when the weather got better and I left the state, I left the little pink pills behind. Over the next several years I "treated" my depression in many ways: too much exercise, too little food, too much food, St. John's Wort, Siberian Ginseng, diving completely into my work, and the beat goes on. I was, mostly able to keep my head above water. Life, however, tends to get more complicated as we "grow up" (or we grow up because it gets more complicated, as in my case) and a major turning point in how I viewed depression and how I dealt with mine came about a year after my Mom died of cancer. Thank goodness I have a terrific doc who is practical. She helped me to see that depression, in my case, isn't so much a battle with my emotions or fears or past, but rather a need to balance out brain chemistry. This was a perspective with which I could relate and finally I could banish my deep-seated fears that I might go all Zelda Fitzgerald around friends or pull a Sylvia Plath on myself (minus the talent). So over the years we tried several ingredients and amounts to get the "recipe" right. Some worked in the short term others lasted a bit longer, but finally, we found THE combo of drug and dose and for the last several years I just knew I had found the "last" recipe.
Yep, you guessed it. Boy, was I wrong. Too bad I didn't realize it until my world became very bleak, indeed.
"You should cheer up! Go shopping or do something fun!" I think one of the most difficult aspects of being functionally depressed is that one who is suffering mightily but continues to meet needs and expectations of job, home and family, seems like they should be able to "snap out of it" or "pull themselves together". What is missing though is the joy, enthusiasm and perhaps most significantly of all, the idea of doing for one's self; meeting one's own expectations and needs. In my case, those needs are the first to go and the hardest to justify getting back. Most people, I suppose (and this is simply a guess) who haven't actually had to deal directly with depression, in themselves or a loved one, cannot comprehend the magnitude of what depression can do to one's entire sense of self. Instead, they rely on images from the media, history, urban legend or family myth: "Aunt Griselda was known to wear bird's nests in her hair and wander, lost in 19th century St. Louis in her dressing gown and a mink stole, singing "I Am The Very Model of a Modern Major General" ---And I apologize if my readers actually had an Aunt Griselda, I mean no offense. The bottom line, though, is that most people have the best of intentions. It is so difficult for them to even pretend to understand something that may be so fundamentally foreign to them. Add to the mix that most people want to help "fix" another's problems and one can find themselves in a miasma of well-meaning but completely useless and, if the sufferer isn't careful, offensive "remedies" for what ails them. On my end, when the chemicals are balanced, I suffer from an excess of personality, so when the depression flares significantly, it is nearly impossible to hide, because the "vibrancy" fades. Thus, I cannot count the times that people who thought I was "blue" (I prefer Holly Golightly's "mean reds") suggested I get a pint of Ben and Jerry's, a good movie and just settle in (rarely a good idea for me, if the ice cream is to make it past one sitting). Trouble is, for most of us when a "sad" day hits, those are not bad suggestions, and we all have bad days, it's part of life. Being able to feel and express a broad range of emotion is what makes each of us unique. But when the occasional sad or apathetic day or week turns into something that seeps into your soul, darkens your perceptions, limits your vision, and makes your bones ache, that is when it is time to look beyond ice cream. But dealing with it-ok, I have that down, just try a new recipe, check.
My most recent problem arose, I think, because I felt so good for so long that I didn't snap to when I started to slip; started to feel somehow less than myself. The hardest part of being functionally depressed, for me at least, is how difficult it is to recognize when things start to sour. As the mother of a six year old, wife, full-time career person, I (like so many) am busy, and I get tired and I get stressed. So the slip started and it was easy to blame the externals - I am working too hard, my job sucks, I have no time to myself, etc. Eventually I just expected, because of my life and its demands that I was supposed to feel somewhat bad. And that cycle continued and the decline continued and then suddenly (and when I say suddenly, I mean that all of this took, an estimated 9 months to get my attention) I found myself hurting. Really, every joint in my body, nearly all the time. My doc tested me for all sorts of things including Rheumatoid Arhtirits, and friends suggested I had Fibromyalgia. In the meantime my tolerance for stress weakened further and I become MUCH more emotional; edge of, or all the way to weepy ALL the time and so apathetic I didn't leave the house on weekends unless my husband used a crowbar to get me out the door. I honestly think, that if the physical pain hadn't come, I would still be in the pit of despair and completely unable to even think of writing this post.
For those who are lucky enough not to have a clue about what I am talking, think about this: You know how when you wake up in the middle of the night and you need to pee? You open your eyes and even though it is dark, you can see and you get up, walk to the bathroom and then out of habit you (foolishly) turn on the light and what happens? You are blind for a few seconds until your eyes adjust. Then when it is time to return to bed, you switch off the light and BAM, you are blind as a troglobite feeling your way back to bed. Well for me, I had no idea how bad my depression had gotten; how deeply and painfully it was affecting my life, until I looked back and saw the dark after being in the light. Oh I could see and function in my dark world because I was used to it, but I was miserable, and yet I had no idea to what degree that misery was affecting my family, my friends (who I barely saw anymore) and myself.
So, now I am on a new medicine combo and am feeling like myself again. Twice, in one week people have commented that I seem "lighter" somehow. Yes, lighter now that the yoke of my chemically-derived demons has been lifted. Of course, as I feel better I can't help but wonder if my little one will face similar issues (odds are...). I am comforted, however, in knowing that her mother can help her navigate those waters should they become dark and rough. She will have the resources (and maybe more) that I have. By the way, please don't take this post as a cautionary tale. On the contrary, I write this in the hope that I will remember to glance at it if (when?) I start to slip again. My doc is hopeful that this new med will be IT. Hmmm. Time will tell I suppose, but I am cautiously optimistic, which proves I am becoming myself again. To your (mental) health, everyone.
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