I used to think depression was a character flaw, and that one had merely to change one’s mind and just SNAP OUT OF IT, already. You know, just GET OVER IT. Decide to be happy. Let that glass be half full.
I’m not so sure any more.
Because it occurred to me last night that I’m depressed. Again. And it sneaked up on me.
I realized that I’ve been overeating for days, if not weeks. I noticed that although it was a glorious sunny day, the kind of crisp autumn day I love best, with a bright blue sky, fresh crisp air, and multitudes of changing colors in the leaves on the trees everywhere I look, I couldn’t find a smile. And I watched myself, as if it were an out of body experience, scolding my nearly four-year-old, and wondering who that woman was simultaneously shaking my head and saying that’s not the kind of person I want to be.
I found myself entertaining the thought of returning to Zoloft, because it took the edge off and gave me that buffer in which it wouldn’t occur to me to eat something unless I was actually hungry, and shielded me from immediately considering the things that Gadget says and does as assinine, and gave me that small wedge of time to process the goings on of my young child and handle him in a more kind and loving manner. I went so far as to consult Doctor Internet as to the long term effects, as in decades or a lifetime long term, of the drug, and as well, the effects while lactating. Long term, because I have to say I’m kidding myself if I think I’m going to go through any major changes in character, if the past thirty years are any indication.
Long term withdrawal side effects are frightening. I’ve read several accounts of zapping. Electrical zapping sensations in one’s brain. Not for me! And some of the drug does pass through to the milk, so I don’t want to be feeding this to my babe. And will the drug continue to work at a low dose for years on end? I don’t want to be gradually increasing and increasing and find myself on a slippery slope in an even more precarious position.
Depression defies reason, and reason is how I find comfort. Given an explanation, I can package something up neatly and put it away.
How I wish I understood depression! I’m coming to terms with accepting that it is a beast that’s bigger than just the act of changing my mind, but I don’t want to, because it makes a sort of sense that it be something that’s just messed up in my mind, and if only I would clean out those thoughts –voila, all would be well.
And yes, I can list several things to justify some melancholy:
- hormonal changes and postpartum —
- sleep deprivation
- constant low-grade nagging physical pain
- the recent loss of a dear friend, which took me completely by surprise
- and this day, in particular, is the day my brother died, three years ago
I had a different attitude about depression back then. I thought more strongly that people can just decide to get over it, get over themselves, cut the drama king or drama queen scene. He was a diagnosed bipolar sufferer. And he was doing well. His life was turning around. There seemed to be light at the end of the tunnel. And then he blew his brains out.
It defies explanation. There are no answers. Nor will there ever be, other than that he is finally at peace, and wrestles no more with that which held him captive. People may be quick to judge, and say biting things like there is no forgiveness for taking one’s own life, especially when there are children, but dare I say these people might not have walked a mile, let alone a step, in the shoes of one under the grasp of depression. They can’t possibly understand. And who can? It’s beyond comprehension.
I don’t ever want to find myself anywhere near where he was, and I don’t think I have any inclinations toward bipolar disorder, but obviously I have depression of a kind, and I think it’s time that I acknowledge that it may not be a simple matter of self-discipline and snapping myself out of it.
Because I have countless more things to be exceedingly grateful and joyful for (my beautiful boys, my family, my home, my job, freedom, and so much more), than things which I have to bring me down, it makes almost no sense why the joys wouldn’t fill my world with sunshine and blast out the darkness of the downs. And yet they don’t.
So I need to do something about it. Because life is a gift, and it is fleeting. Every moment spent out of joy is a moment of something beautiful wasted.
The question is, what do I do?
(I’m already snuggling my delicious little boy, and yes, it helps, but no, not completely.)
(I feel like I should ‘slap myself up the side of my head’.)
