On depression: living with it
Sun, Apr. 30th, 2006 11:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oyceterSome things that happened over the weekend had me thinking about depression and about speaking out. On the importance of sharing experiences, of having someone else who was only an acquaintance before look across the table at you and say, "Yes. Yes, me too." On that one horrible secret you don't tell anyone coming out, on it being smaller, lighter, easier to carry once it's out of the dark.
Index of "On Depression" posts
I wrote about living in the mire of depression before and on watching someone you love and care about going through depression or mental illness as well. And I keep wanting to write about treatment, about recovery, about finding your way back. I didn't want to call it "recovering" or something, because I think that's somewhat deceptive. Sometimes you don't recover, not fully. Sometimes you heal. Sometimes you don't. For me, though, treatment and recovery and healing mean living with depression, not living in depression, knowing enough about myself and this disease to be able to coexist with it, to keep it from taking over my life.
The path out of depression has so many steps, all of them hard. But I keep thinking that the first one that I took was in finally admitting that I needed help. It's so easy to suspect depression and dismiss the possibility, to fear treatment, to fear the medication, to fear what it means for your life. And it's so easy to never decide to treat it; treatment is scary and new, depression is the familiar, even in its misery. And depression saps you of your will to do anything, much less take steps to cure it.
But one day, one month, you decide that you cannot do this anymore, and that the way out is not suicide or self-injury or the bottle or your multitude of dysfunctional coping mechanisms. For once, you decide that you need someone else's help. You ask a friend, a lover, a family member. You find a therapist or a psychiatrist. You have to talk about it in an office to a complete stranger without even knowing if this person will be the right fit. You're afraid that they'll listen to your story and tell you that you aren't depressed, that you just can't cope well, that there's really nothing wrong with you. You've told yourself this so many times before anyway.
You deal with therapists who don't seem to listen, therapists who spout platitudes and cliches. You get tired of trying, of telling the same story again and again. You deal with horrible office hours, missed calls, taking calls at the office, at the supermarket, whenever is most awkward. You worry about how you'll pay for all this. You hear horror stories on the effects a diagnosis of depression has on insurance rates. You try to read up on medication and hear people talking about their awful experiences on them, or you find articles that tell you the bad things the drugs do to your brain.
Then you have to get a prescription, get it filled, wonder what the lady at the drugstore counter thinks of you. There are side effects. There are weeks of waiting for the meds to kick in. There are even more battles with insurance and copays.
And then, hopefully, there is that one day when it feels like a cloud has been lifted from your eyes. And, oh, you can breathe, you can see, you can feel; you're alive and you're you and it's good. This is what normal feels like. This is that elusive feeling that's been evading you for years. It's so easy because finally, existence is no longer painful. Sometimes it takes a little time to recognize joy, so long a stranger. And finally, you can start working on being ok with yourself, on living.
Then there's family and friends and lovers, people at work, people at activites. Who do you tell? How do you tell them? How will they react? You try to tell some people and watch as a wall comes up. Other people say they understand but treat you like you're fragile and breakable. The worst tell you that it's not a disease, that willpower alone can conquer it. Well-meaning people ask you if you've gotten off your meds yet. There's pressure to be better, to never be down again, to suddenly be well. Other people try to help you by saying not to stress, not to worry, and they only stress you more.
But then, you find some people and you tell them, and maybe they've never dealt with this before, maybe they've had a family member or a friend deal with it, maybe they've been through the same thing. But they understand. They know the territory. And suddenly, you're not alone. It's always different, but having those people who don't think you're crazy, who can look at you and see you and not a disease, that's a gift.
Finally, when you think you've got it down, your medication stops working. You always have to worry and think, to test, to make sure that this grey day, that this bad mood is just a bad day, is stress. Sometimes you forget that normal people feel bad as well and that you can let yourself feel bad. But you can never let yourself forget that if it goes on for too long, if it persists even when the stressor is gone, that your old enemy is back and you have to muster up the energy to fight it again. You have to watch your diet, your sleeping habits, your mood more carefully, because anything could be a trigger.
But at least this time, you know enough to somewhat stave off the irrational thoughts, even though you still feel them. You have something built up: friends who will tell you that you sound off, family who will let you know that they're still there. You know you're the only one who can help yourself, you know that you can only get well when you decide to. But there are moments of grace, times when you don't have the strength, but someone else does. After a while, you find that you can sometimes even be that person.
And so, you keep going, one day at a time, one foot in front of the other. It's not a straight path or an easy one, but it's progress, it's movement. It's not just choosing life, but choosing to participate in life.
Index of "On Depression" posts
I wrote about living in the mire of depression before and on watching someone you love and care about going through depression or mental illness as well. And I keep wanting to write about treatment, about recovery, about finding your way back. I didn't want to call it "recovering" or something, because I think that's somewhat deceptive. Sometimes you don't recover, not fully. Sometimes you heal. Sometimes you don't. For me, though, treatment and recovery and healing mean living with depression, not living in depression, knowing enough about myself and this disease to be able to coexist with it, to keep it from taking over my life.
The path out of depression has so many steps, all of them hard. But I keep thinking that the first one that I took was in finally admitting that I needed help. It's so easy to suspect depression and dismiss the possibility, to fear treatment, to fear the medication, to fear what it means for your life. And it's so easy to never decide to treat it; treatment is scary and new, depression is the familiar, even in its misery. And depression saps you of your will to do anything, much less take steps to cure it.
But one day, one month, you decide that you cannot do this anymore, and that the way out is not suicide or self-injury or the bottle or your multitude of dysfunctional coping mechanisms. For once, you decide that you need someone else's help. You ask a friend, a lover, a family member. You find a therapist or a psychiatrist. You have to talk about it in an office to a complete stranger without even knowing if this person will be the right fit. You're afraid that they'll listen to your story and tell you that you aren't depressed, that you just can't cope well, that there's really nothing wrong with you. You've told yourself this so many times before anyway.
You deal with therapists who don't seem to listen, therapists who spout platitudes and cliches. You get tired of trying, of telling the same story again and again. You deal with horrible office hours, missed calls, taking calls at the office, at the supermarket, whenever is most awkward. You worry about how you'll pay for all this. You hear horror stories on the effects a diagnosis of depression has on insurance rates. You try to read up on medication and hear people talking about their awful experiences on them, or you find articles that tell you the bad things the drugs do to your brain.
Then you have to get a prescription, get it filled, wonder what the lady at the drugstore counter thinks of you. There are side effects. There are weeks of waiting for the meds to kick in. There are even more battles with insurance and copays.
And then, hopefully, there is that one day when it feels like a cloud has been lifted from your eyes. And, oh, you can breathe, you can see, you can feel; you're alive and you're you and it's good. This is what normal feels like. This is that elusive feeling that's been evading you for years. It's so easy because finally, existence is no longer painful. Sometimes it takes a little time to recognize joy, so long a stranger. And finally, you can start working on being ok with yourself, on living.
Then there's family and friends and lovers, people at work, people at activites. Who do you tell? How do you tell them? How will they react? You try to tell some people and watch as a wall comes up. Other people say they understand but treat you like you're fragile and breakable. The worst tell you that it's not a disease, that willpower alone can conquer it. Well-meaning people ask you if you've gotten off your meds yet. There's pressure to be better, to never be down again, to suddenly be well. Other people try to help you by saying not to stress, not to worry, and they only stress you more.
But then, you find some people and you tell them, and maybe they've never dealt with this before, maybe they've had a family member or a friend deal with it, maybe they've been through the same thing. But they understand. They know the territory. And suddenly, you're not alone. It's always different, but having those people who don't think you're crazy, who can look at you and see you and not a disease, that's a gift.
Finally, when you think you've got it down, your medication stops working. You always have to worry and think, to test, to make sure that this grey day, that this bad mood is just a bad day, is stress. Sometimes you forget that normal people feel bad as well and that you can let yourself feel bad. But you can never let yourself forget that if it goes on for too long, if it persists even when the stressor is gone, that your old enemy is back and you have to muster up the energy to fight it again. You have to watch your diet, your sleeping habits, your mood more carefully, because anything could be a trigger.
But at least this time, you know enough to somewhat stave off the irrational thoughts, even though you still feel them. You have something built up: friends who will tell you that you sound off, family who will let you know that they're still there. You know you're the only one who can help yourself, you know that you can only get well when you decide to. But there are moments of grace, times when you don't have the strength, but someone else does. After a while, you find that you can sometimes even be that person.
And so, you keep going, one day at a time, one foot in front of the other. It's not a straight path or an easy one, but it's progress, it's movement. It's not just choosing life, but choosing to participate in life.
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