It’s taken me a while to accept that I have Anxiety and Depression. As in, an actual diagnosis and not just a passing thing. When it all started, in 2016, I was going through a lot of change and a lot of stress. I was fantasizing about violent things and *commercial voice* I talked to my doctor about antidepressants.
He and I agreed that it was just a difficult period of life and that I wouldn’t have to take them forever, and that gave me comfort because it meant there was nothing wrong with me.
-- Now, I’ll be the first to say that there’s nothing wrong with a person who suffers from depression. I just wasn’t ready to put myself in that category. And while we’re getting better at breaking down the stigma of mental health in America, breaking down that stigma in your identity is a different thing. There are plenty of things that are not wrong with others until they apply to you. And therein lies the truth, that we don’t believe what we tell ourselves about our prejudices. --
I was a little over 30 years old and I was incredibly worried about inheriting my family’s strong genetic line of bipolar disorder. But a family member had quit eating wheat, which had cured his mental health issues in turn, so the line between neurotransmission imbalance and dietary reaction got a little fuzzy. I quit eating wheat for good measure - which helped a lot - but I was still depressed.
Depression for me looks like not giving a fuck about anything. Not wanting to do anything, or talk to anyone, or go anywhere. Not wanting to eat, or shower, or brush my teeth or change my clothes. Feeling heavy when trying to be upright. Wanting to sit in the dark. Feeling cold. Knowing I should care about keeping my job or making sure my kids have food, but not caring. Sometimes crying at the drop of a hat; sometimes feeling like I’m not even in my body, and I’m just watching my life happen.
Often, I feel like a hypocrite because people give me so much credit. But it’s not me that’s doing those cool things, that’s auto-pilot Sarah.
Sometimes, I feel overwhelmed that the empty, detached, or hopeless feelings will just exist from day-to-day for the rest of forever.
Sometimes, I don’t feel bad at all, I might even feel good, but I still can’t move, and that’s when it’s most difficult to be kind to myself.
In some of the most unfortunate timing I’ve ever experienced, I went through a traumatic event right in the peak of this new revelation. Now, in addition to depression, I had anxiety, PTSD, and panic attacks. Fun. Stuff.
I took a low dose of my SSRI (a class of antidepressants called Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors) for about a year the first time. I was taking Citalopram (Celexa), and it really helped me. When you’re first weaning on to an antidepressant you get a little euphoric, and I didn’t mind feeling euphoric at all. But it didn’t last. Eventually, life just started to feel incrementally less hard. I still had extremely dysfunctional periods, but they were limited to roughly 2 days a month no longer included wanting to throw my child out of a moving vehicle (seriously).
Around the one-year mark, I was having trouble sleeping because of my anxiety and was starting to rely on benzos (sedative and addictive medication) to sleep. So I asked my doctor if there was a different medication that might work better for anxiety. He switched me to Zoloft (Sertraline), but it wasn’t for me. I took Zoloft for roughly 6 months, and while fewer things made me feel down, I also wasn’t enjoying things that used to make me happy.
In this period, I also decided to try my first therapist. This was a difficult decision for me because my parents are both therapists and I’ve been trained as a mental health aide, so I felt like I already had all the tools in my toolbox to work through my issues. But eventually, I just wanted to be transparent with someone who didn’t know me and had a preconceived notion of me, nor any obligation to tell me what they thought I wanted to hear.
I chose an online therapist, because I really didn’t like the idea of talking to someone face-to-face, and because I’m better at communicating in writing. I tried a site called TalkSpace, where you send two emails a day, several hours apart, to the therapist you choose and they respond in kind. It’s meant to equal 10 minutes per day, or 50 minutes per work-week, which would be equal to one talk therapy session.
I really liked this therapist, but I didn’t like the pace. It felt too slow and distant for me, and in the end, I only participated for three weeks or so before giving up.
Mid-year I decided to wean myself off my medicine. I felt that my stressful environment had calmed and I was healing from my traumatic event and that my time of needing medication had ended. I wanted to know that I “could do it” without medication.
Those three months were eye-opening. I found that I could “do-it” - get through the day without meds and act like a functional human - but it seemed to take so much more effort for me than it did for everyone else. That’s when it really hit me: it seems to take more energy for me because it DOES take more energy for me. I don’t have whatever chemicals in my brain the others have. My body isn’t making them. I have depression, and it’s a physiological disease.
I restarted Citalopram (Celexa), and I enjoyed the euphoric feeling of weaning on, before adjusting to the medication. This time, the medication brought a flood of relief. This medication was what was missing from my body. This medication allowed me to live my life. This medication made me whole.
While my depression was getting better, my PTSD was getting worse. I was constantly hyper-vigilant: looking for my assailant in every room, jumping when a stranger touched me, my pulse racing and body sweating if I was around people I didn't know if I could trust. I would awake from a bad dream full of doom, sure I was dying.
Encouraged by friends and loved ones, I decided to try a form of therapy called EMDR. EMDR stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It’s where the therapist sets this black bar on a tripod in front of you at eye level. A blue dot of light moves at moderate speed from left to right along the bar. You keep your head still and follow the dot with your eyes while intentionally exploring the traumatizing memory. Depending on your needs and your therapist, you may also have earphones that beep or hand sensors that vibrate in motion with the dot. I liked the hand sensors.
For some reason that I will never understand, experiencing the memory while your eyes move in a steady rhythm allows the brain to create a new pathway for that memory, and effectively moves it out of your animal brain and into your rational brain. Once this has happened, you can still remember the event but it no longer causes a sympathetic response (pulse racing, sweating, heavy breathing, etc.)
I did EMDR for about four months. I’m not going to lie, it was excruciating. It was also 100% worth it. I quickly learned not to make plans after therapy, and to schedule sessions 2 weeks apart so that I didn’t talk myself out of going, or overextend my budget. I don’t know why it works, but it does. I stopped having PTSD flashes, and I stopped being hyper-vigilant.
I probably should have kept going. I have more memories I would benefit from desensitizing, but I was feeling emotionally exhausted from EMDR, and more eager to talk about the things I was processing.
It would take a few months and a hospital admission before I was willing to try another therapist.
The hospital admission was not for depression, but it left me depressed. And, in another bout of unfortunate events, resulted in my having to wean off the (life-saving) antidepressant for diagnostic purposes.
The crash I had then was deep and wide. It was darker and more consuming. Frankly, I’m not sure how I kept my job. Or fed my kids. Or passed my classes. I started going six and seven days without a shower (a personal best) and watching endless hours of mindless television. My kids started to get worried. My fridge got really empty, resulting in an unhealthy amount of take-out.
I did have two very clear life-lines. One was a set of friends and loved ones who I could text with a simple “I need to come over” or “I need you to come over” or even “bat signal” who would drop by with no need for an explanation or a justification. I have a few people in mind, specifically, who would swoop up my kids and take them somewhere shinier, or who would drop off an iced-coffee and remind me to eat, or shoot me a “you got this” text.
Another lifeline was my dad-joking, pun-producing, meme-generating friend who supplied hours worth of stupid distractions so I had something to interrupt the darkness for even a short second. If you live with depression, get you one of these friends. In searching online for ways friends have supported loved ones with depression, there are a lot of variations of this. One person named his roommate’s depression, Carol. “Is Carol back? Fuck off, Carol!” One had a vault of pictures of dogs wearing wigs ready to be deployed. The point is, small joys defeat big sadness.
During this crash my doctor, who was seeing me weekly now, insisted I see a psychiatrist. He recommended one who did talk therapy as well, and whose personality he thought would fit mine. He was so incredibly right. I like people who are direct, who give it to me straight, explain the why, and don’t waste time with therapeutic language (read: bullshit).
I think, like friendships or relationships, it takes a while to find a therapist that both gets you and can speak to you in a way that you can truly hear it. This woman, who is 74 and is working as a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner, told me, “you’re the most rigid hippy I’ve ever met.” It’s the self-description I never knew I was missing. I fell in love with her immediately.
With her blessing, I was able to restart my Citalopram (welcome back, old friend) and increase the dose. And I’m on my way back, I think. Then again, I watched 5 hours of Grey’s Anatomy today and we’re reaching Day 4 of Status: Unshowered.
The problem with Anxiety and Depression is that it affects everything you do, but it’s so hard to talk about, and even harder to get help for. When you’re depressed, the last thing you want to do is make the effort to explain to someone you don’t know (or even those you do) that you’re depressed. And our less-than-helpful thoughts support the not-telling. I assume people won’t want to be my friend if they know what they’re in for. I assume my job won’t want to promote me because I’m incapable. I assume my kids will feel burdened. I assume my parents will feel sad and disappointed. And I’m afraid that those who do support me will only ever see me as this one thing. (And don't even get me started on dating.)
I decided to write about this almost a month ago, but it’s taken the month to build both motivation and courage. Because, on a Sunday about a month ago, I hit a wall, and I did not get out of bed all day. I genuinely considered admitting myself somewhere. I thought that maybe a few days in someone else’s care would do me some good. And my mom asked me (without prompting), “Do you need to move in with us for a while?” and while I was sure the answer was no I was genuinely taken aback by what a good question it was.
Then, a few days letter I read a blog post from a woman I admire titled, “I hit a wall on Thursday before dawn: an honest post about mental illness, steps to take when you’re down and out, and what it’s like to call a crisis hotline.” The transparency and relatability of this post floored me and reminded me how powerful it can be to be vulnerable. My story was her story. And it was ok. I don’t respect her an iota less because of it.
One quote (that I can’t find any more) said, “Heal loudly so others don’t die quietly,” and that’s what this blog is an attempt to do. It’s not a cry for help. In fact, I’m hoping that no one reads this unless they identify with this struggle and really NEED to read it. But I know I’m not alone. And I know that the more volume we give our struggles the more volume is given to their solutions.
So I wanted to share about my meds, and my therapists, and my life-lines, to let you know you’re not alone either. That exploring your depression takes time. And finding the right meds and the right therapist and the right support system might take a few tries. And you can talk to me if you need to. I’ll just be wrapped in my blanket, hanging out with my Grey’s Anatomy buds.
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"Someday"
Someday
I will reach my goal
I will beam with excitement
Knowing that all of my hard work has paid off
I will delight in my accomplishments
Reaching the end of a hard road
Someday
I will gaze with joy at my children
I will feel proud of the ways they’ve grown
And soak in the wonder of who they’ve become
I will praise their growth, their trophies, their successes
The purpose of parenthood fulfilled
Someday
I will have sustained multiple friendships
I will look around me
And see people looking back at me with love in their hearts
I will have been there for them, and they will have been there for me
My vulnerability, a bridge between us
But today
Today
I will close the curtains
I will turn on the heater
And wrap myself in a soft blanket
I will silence my phone and turn on the television
Warm coffee in my hands, and sorrow in my soul
I will do this
Today
So that I can get to someday
-SE DeLacey