Thursday, September 24, 2009

ugh

I have a problem with depression.

I have for as long as I can remember. And it's hard for me to admit because I've always felt like it was something I needed to hide, or cover up, I've always felt broken.

I tried to commit suicide when I was in 5th grade. I was having problems at school and didn't feel like I had anyone to turn to and I mixed everything in my chemistry set that said "harmful or fatal if swallowed" and when it was done bubbling, I drank it. And it did nothing. Seriously, nothing. I didn't even get a little queasy.

Starting in junior high, I used to cut myself and act out in various other ways like shoplifting, staying out all night and sleeping around.

My (n)ever-vigilant mother didn't notice any of it.

But I never really knew to ask for help because I didn't know any different. And it wasn't all the time, sometimes I'd just fall into a funk and not be able to get out for a while.

My family moved out of state when I was 19 and I was on my own and I was generally too busy with work and school and trying to have a social life to focus on my depression.

Sporadically, I'd considered medication, but I've always been a writer/artist/creative whatever and I thought meds might interfere with that or take it away, so I always tried to deal with it on my own. (and anyone who has known me longer than a couple months knows that sometimes I disappear, stop returning emails, stop taking calls, etc, for weeks/months at a time - sometimes I just can't deal with anything)

A couple years ago, after researching depression a bit more, I started to think that maybe I did need some kind of help, maybe spending days and days crying on the couch wasn't normal. I mentioned to my husband that maybe I had a problem with depression - it was the first time I'd ever said it out loud. He totally blew me off. I tried to mention it to my doctor at the time, but the only thing he ever offered me, no matter what was wrong with me, was Ibuprofen and a weight loss brochure. So I just sucked it up.

A couple months ago, in spite of me being all kinds of healthy right now, eating great, exercising all the time, spending time outside, depression snuck up on me. And it was bad, I was weepy all the time, couldn't sleep, couldn't deal with anything. One day, I decided that I was tired of my depression, tired of using it as a crutch, tired of using it as an excuse, and just tired of it keeping me from being interested in my own life. I realized that maybe I needed some help.

So, at my "well woman exam"*, I mentioned to the nurse/doctor lady that I thought I had a problem with depression. She asked me a few questions, asked about family history, asked if I'd taken any depression tests before.

"Passed them all with flying colors."

"Okay," said gently. "Let's see if we can't help you out with that." She handed me a bottle of Prozac** and made me a follow-up appointment.

As of today, I've been on it for 4 weeks and, while I don't wake up like Snow White with birds chirping around my head, it seems to have filed down the sharp edges of depression and it helps me cope a little better. So that's cool, right?


*apparently, this is the politically correct term for pap smear. Sorry, you can give it all the cute names you want, it's still me wearing a paper gown while some stranger goes spelunking in my crotch

** it's SO dumb, but I was actually disappointed to "only" get Prozac - I mean, I see 9 million commercials a day for 9 million different types of meds and I get old school Prozac?

Labels: le crazy