I had a brief email exchange with my friend Graham the other day about the bluntness with which I’ve been describing my craptastic feelings lately. It got me thinking about why I do this. Aside from the obvious answers of ‘it’s a chronicle of my life I can look back on’ and ‘it keeps my friends from out of state updated’, there has to be a reason its made public right?
Around the same time as my talk with Graham I also read a description of a session at
WAM (Women, Action & the Media conference) that my friend Alycia attended. Alycia said that one of the women bloggers there, Lisa from CultureKitchen “started blogging during post-partum depression, and she said that she blogged because she "wanted people to know who she was." She didn't want to hide behind her husband as a new mother, and she wanted to show her multiplicity and give value to all the separate parts that make her who she is.” (Sorry Alycia for not asking to borrow that from you first) So maybe when I write in a public space such as this, I just want to be a woman who is heard? I never thought of my blog-writing as a particularly feminist action, especially when I write about heartache of the dumped variety. However, it is sort of nice to think that I’m a part of women who make their voice heard, even if it’s in a tiny bubble such as this. All someone has to do is conduct a google search and they may find an entry from me that they strongly identify or react to. And that connection to the unknown is what makes the internet so awesome.
I think the real reason I write about my depression and how it is affecting me and those around me is because depression isn’t a physical disease that someone can notice. I am not wearing a cast or missing an arm. I have no way to explain to others that I’m suffering from something that is mostly out of my control. Like any disease, I can take measures to curb the symptoms by medication, therapy and attempting to exercise self-control. However, depression is sneaky for me. I never realize I am having a flare-up until it’s too late, and I’m left scrambling to pick up the pieces I broke when I was down in the dumps. I fully acknowledge that depression isn’t nearly as awful as many other physical and mental illnesses. Some people have very mild cases; other people die as a result of their depression (suicide). It operates on a scale. I happen to be someone who will have it for life, and while I acknowledge it could have much worse conditions, I’m stuck with this and I want my friends and family to understand how it affects me and them.
What makes me angry is the people who don’t believe that mental illnesses can be just as bad as physical illnesses. My dad is that way – he doesn’t think anybody ever needs therapy – that people just need to suck it up. That’s how life is, shitty, and you live it until you die. Seriously, he believes that. It seems to be more of a macho thing to not believe in psychotherapy. Poor dudes don’t know what they are missing. Anyway, people who have never had depression can’t truly understand what it feels like. It takes a physical toll too. I’ve been sleeping all day on the weekends, I’m sore, I get constantly nauseous because of the anxiety, my jaw is always clenched (and as a result I have this disgusting popping sound anytime I open my mouth to yawn). Your immune system can be weakened; it’s really not just ‘in my head’.
I feel like depression also gets treated with less tolerance than a physical illness. Nobody (hopefully) would tell someone with a broken leg “get over it jesus,” but I get that with my depression, as do other people with depression. And it really, truly hurts to be ripped on when you are already hurting. I believe that is because its misunderstood and because people think all it takes is a brain change on the part of the sick person. And for some people with one-time depression that may be it. But for me, who has had it my entire life and who has an entire family of it, this is not something I can ever eradicate. I’m deficient in serotonin. A chemical, not a feeling. And for the most part I can keep the problem at bay by simply taking an anti-depressant each morning and going on with my day. It really stings to not feel support because I have an illness nobody ‘sees’. It also doesn’t help that part of the illness is that I am so bummed I have no will or tolerance for leaving my apartment and making niceties. It leads to me not going out, then me not getting invited anymore, then me being upset that I've been forgotten about, then me not making an effort because I’m convinced I’m no fun to be around, and it keeps going. It sucks.
I never imagined that the Prozac I had been taking would just stop working. I thought I had found the right drug for me for life. I had been on it for years. I think that is the major reason why I blamed anything but myself when I first started having problems last fall. It was either “it’s too cold out, time to hibernate” or “this idiot at work sucks” or “so-and-so isn’t doing xyz”. I didn’t realize that I was getting my old depression symptoms back. And when I finally did realize what was happening, it was too late to repair the damage I had done to some things. Now the best I can do is try my hardest to repair, and hope that I get the same in return. In fact, the first time I even thought I could try a new drug was a few weeks ago when I met my new therapist, who offered that as the first thing to do.
My new medication, Wellbutrin, is incredible. I feel alert, happy, excited to be around people, cheery, motivated. Feelings I haven’t had in probably 6 months. I actually want to go out now. I want to do things to make myself better. It’s also kind of scary because it feels much more powerful than any other anti-depressant I’ve taken, so what if I get addicted to it? And is this the ‘old me’ back or is this ‘drugged me’? Does it matter who it is as long as I’m happy?
So where is this all going? Oh yes, to why I am being blunt about my depression and problems in a public format right now. I’d say for a few reasons. I want people to know that I’m truly having problems right now because I’m unable to verbally tell anyone out of a sense of shame and lack of confidence that anybody will give a shit. Nobody wants to hang out with a downer, so I try not to bring it up when I’m out. I also have received just enough personal emails as a result of these writings along the lines of “I so get it, thank you” that compel me to continue to work out my issues this way. I’ve made connections with some people I wasn’t as close to before as a result, and that is really nice. I’ll keep documenting it as long as it’s barreling through my life right now. Hopefully one day I’ll notice I haven’t even thought about it for a few weeks, and just live a happy ‘normal’ life.
There will always be haters and people like my dad who think it's bogus. I can't change their opinions, I can only change how I react to them. And maybe by writing all this, some current hater starts to change his or her mind about it and starts to think that maybe 'snapping out of it' isn't so easy after all.
Labels: drugs, the crazies
