The first
pill was surprisingly hard to take.
It wasn't the first time I had been on
an anti-depressant, and I was not opposed to starting again. I could
understand the doctor's belief that this was more than just
situational. “If you had high blood pressure or heart problems you
might need to take medicine. This is no different. Your brain needs
some help getting regulated again.” It was explained this way both
now and in the past, and it made sense.
Still, starting medication seemed like
an admission: This is bad, and I can't fix it myself. I suppose I
already knew it was bad. I already went through the “ignore it and
maybe it will go away” phase, and it only got worse. Eventually
that word, that force I had dodged for so long was again staring me
unavoidably in the face. Depression.
I tried to take care of it myself.
Reduce stress, get sleep, exercise, eat well, think positive, get out
of the house. But sleep has been a joke, and sickness has piled on
sickness. My efforts at life change were thwarted by circumstances I
could not control. Mama needs a break, but baby is crying with a
fever. Mama may be throwing up, but baby needs nursing. The
“self-care” I did manage was a brief pause in a downhill plunge.
I used to think depression looked like
sadness and crying all the time. And sometimes it does. But
actually I rarely cry. I don't feel sad as much as heavy. Hazy.
Anxious. Deathly tired. It is like carrying around a giant weight
everywhere you go. It is like too many programs open on your
computer and nothing is operating as it should. It is like walking
through thick smog – you know there is a road ahead but you can't
see it. The weight of the future grips so tightly you can't get a
full breath.
“You know that point in a book,” I
told a friend, “When you see the person heading in a bad direction
and you just want to say, 'Stop! Don't go there!' That's how I feel
about my life right now. I know I am walking down a bad path and I
just can't get off.”
I felt sick at the thought of heading
back into the same situation with the same futile hope of fixing
myself. The weight of responsibility was too heavy: I have to figure
this out. I have to do something to fix this. And I am just so
tired. I already have so many people to take care of – I don't
want to have to take care of myself too. What if I can't make myself
better and we have to go home?
So the medicine represented relief.
This is something that will help me even when I can't do all the
right things, even if we stay sick all the time, even if we can't get
this baby to sleep. I cannot reasonably expect myself to change my
brain chemistry. I can let the medicine do that, and that's okay.
And yet the medicine represented my
weakness. Oh, I don't mentally believe that, but of course it feels
that way. Whatever you tell yourself and others tell you, depression
feels like weakness, like a character flaw. We have all heard that
if you just think positively enough you can heal yourself. If you
just have enough faith. If you just ate the right food or used the
right oils or had the right genes you wouldn't have this problem.
Even in this modern day we hear whispers of shame, shame.
This is your fault.
I took the first pill. And the second
and third and a couple of weeks down the line I already feel a difference,
a change in my brain. Breath comes a little easier. Moments look a
little sharper. I feel hope that I could climb out of this hole and
enjoy life again.
I can face those whispers of weakness
and say, No, that is a lie. No one chooses their genes, no one
controls the makeup of their brain. I am weak, not because I am
depressed but because I am human. None of us were meant to be so
strong we have no need for others, no need for grace.
I am weak, but I am also strong. I am
strong because I cared for my family. I am strong because I cared
for myself. I am strong because I got the help I needed. I could
not see the path ahead but still I kept walking.
I still cannot picture the months ahead
or wrap my mind around the future. My brain becomes overwhelmed and
turns away. I accept this gift of fog that allows me to focus
instead on today. I look out the window at the bare trees and the
cold brown earth. But I remember the springtimes of the past, I
remember that one day I will be startled to find leaves in bud. The
bare ground will sprout fresh green grass. Breathe in, breathe
out, and watch the colors come back.
I write about my depression, even though it is very personal, because maybe you understand what I am talking about and you need to know you are not alone. I write about it because maybe you have never experienced depression, but I am almost certain that someone you know is dealing with it, whether you realize or not. Maybe this will help you to understand them a little better.
