Shadow, Ice, and Poison (A Tale of Depression)

Depression defies rationality. How do you reason with a mind that's malfunctioning? What if that mind is yours?

For the past year or so, I've been occupied in no small part by navigating through the wormhole of depression. Upending my life and moving a few hundred miles north exacerbated the symptoms I'd already been having: uncontrollable bouts of hysterical sobbing, so forceful I injured my chest; and a dark tint that colored my thoughts.

2011, when I first met depression. Or: Everything seems beautiful, so why isn't it?

Everything was fine. I loved my new job. I had people around me who weren't shy about telling me that they loved and supported me. And yet, this thing that I seemed to have no control over, this shadow creature, grew to fill the space inside my body and whisper bitter nothings in my ear. I could usually control it enough to get through the day, eyes icy and heart frozen, but sometimes I'd shatter and curl up tight as the world shrank to a suffocating and poisonous second skin. I'd moan for help, but I couldn't tell if I was making a sound. I'd lie in the bathtub crying and think how much of a relief it would be not to breathe anymore. "I'm so lonely," I'd say underwater, not because it was true but because that was the closest I could get to expressing how scary it was to be alone in my head.

During one of my first doctor's appointments in Washington, my new doctor saw the blank shield of my face and suggested antidepressants. "You shouldn't have to feel like this," she said. Immediately the other beast I keep inside—fear—rose up and clawed at me. Fear of medication. Fear of change that would upset the delicate balance of my body. I thought about it for a few weeks before deciding I needed quicker intervention than therapy would provide. I did both: enrolled in therapy, embarked on the trying antidepressant journey.

The first medication was the worst. The world warped. I slowly brushed my teeth, thinking about shoving the toothbrush through the back of my throat. I looked out the window and pondered jumping off the balcony. I couldn't go to work the next day, because I felt so inhuman. Derealization, they call that. I sat alone on the couch, staring at my hands, calling my doctor, until it wore off. The next medication gave me brutal headaches that had me throwing up and begging for death and struggling desperately not to smash my head into the floor to lessen the pain. The next was fine for months until it started giving me night sweats. I bought special pajamas made for menopausal women; I bought expensive sweat-wicking sheets. Still, the lack of sleep was unbearable after a few weeks. The next medication was lovely until it made me so drowsy I walked around feeling as if I were constantly coming up from anesthesia. 

Naptime in 2011. (No wonder I have neck pain.)

And yet, despite these landmines of debilitating symptoms, I would not trade them for how I was before. The joy I once had for life has come slowly seeping back, melting the ice that threatens to encase me. These scattered months of peace have afforded me the chance to feel myself again. The "talk therapy" helps me work toward a place of greater stability and understanding.

Honestly, I believe I first dipped a toe into depression in college, not long after I started having Crohn's symptoms. (Side note: A disproportionately high percentage of IBD sufferers are also afflicted with depression. I don't claim to know why exactly that is.) I also have a family history of it.

I think it's folly to suggest that troubling life circumstances equals depression. I also think it's folly to tell someone in the clutches of that malevolent shadow to "choose happiness." There is a point at which it's not a choice.

I feel pretty good lately, in my intestines and in my head. But it's funny that all my trials, at their core, come down to me against me. 

I've Got Guts

The reason five weeks elapsed before I was able to write this blog post is not that the Girls with Guts retreat was forgettable. It's mostly because the experience was so powerful that I had to let it sink in for a while first. (And for at least a week, I'll be honest, it's because I was too busy. Laundry isn't gonna do itself.)

I've been seeing a counselor for a few months. It turns out that (surprise!) I have some scary mental issues that center around being chronically ill. The counselor recommended that I try to connect with other people who have Crohn's or ulcerative colitis (collectively, IBD, the inflammatory bowel diseases) to talk to, people who intimately understand the things I'm trying to deal with. Mere days later, I saw an ad in my Facebook feed for a retreat put on specifically for young women with IBD. The first weekend in October in Gresham, Oregon (about half an hour's drive), for a couple hundred bucks? Well, I thought, if that's not a sign... 

A YMCA cabin in the trees.

That's how I found myself bunking with several other girls at a YMCA camp that was so hushed, breezy, and saturated with early-autumn colors that it seemed otherworldly. There were about 60 attendees in total; they'd come from all over the country (and Canada). At the beginning of the weekend, most of the conversation centered around "symptoms" and "medications" and "stupid hospital stories." It was the first time many of us had felt normal in years, a fact that brought several women to tears during the introductions alone.


I didn't have to explain why I was exhausted all day. When anyone asked where the bathroom was, four other people would stop mid-sentence to give clear and rapid directions. And that pained, haunted look that sometimes showed up in people's eyes was universally understood. By the end of the weekend, though, conversation shifted to things like pets, boyfriends and girlfriends, and favorite books. The IBD seemed more important than ever--it brought us all together--and yet no longer important at all.

Nothing brings people closer like Cards Against Humanity.

I spent a lot of time napping, but the rest of the time was spent at workshops and talks for the whole group. A clinical psychologist taught coping techniques for PTSD and stress management. A dietitian poured her knowledge into us, and most importantly, she emphasized that what makes us each feel best is what we "should" eat. In small groups we talked at length about body image, relationships, and managing guilt. There's so much guilt that comes from putting the people we love through all that comes with illness, but what stuck with me was the idea that I'd be giving them a gift by letting them care for me. I'll have to remind myself of that daily.

I did a little zipline between naps. (I'm the short one.)

I wrote down countless bits of information, advice, and wisdom. The one thing I know I won't forget, though, is the guided meditation session. In a darkened room, with a heavy, cleansing rain outside, the speaker told us to close our eyes and find a feeling of joy and sweetness, to feel that in our heart center. I cast around for the feeling and found it in a memory of being snuggled tightly in my man's arms. Then, the speaker said, I was to transfer that feeling to my lower abdomen. Tears flooded my cheeks in an instant. My stomach is where I imagine an iron weight, a demon's claws, anything but joy and sweetness. But by letting the warm feeling radiate downward, I felt more connected to myself than I ever had. My tortured insides felt loved and safe and secure. And happy.

I am so grateful to the people who care about me, to the founder of Girls with Guts, to the speaker at the meditation, and to the counselor who knew enough to direct me to what I truly needed.

My bunkmates. Just LOOK at this unplanned sunglasses symmetry!

I no longer feel so alone. In fact, I might even say I feel... hopeful. Not bad for a weekend's work.

The Saga of the Tubes

I'm lying here during my fifth consecutive day on the couch, pondering this blog post, knowing that you can't retract something once it's online. I had surgery last week, and I told as few people as possible what it was for; I was nervous enough about having surgery, so I didn't want to deal with having to talk about it. But now I think I should, because it's a choice I'm proud of. I'm opening myself up once again to tell a story that might help someone else.

Here's the thing: I don't want children. I can't express how passionate I am about this. It's a decision I made less lightly than many I know who made the opposite one.

Here's the other thing: Birth control options leave much to be desired. There are essentially four options that can promise 99% effectiveness: the IUD, the implant, sterilization, or doubling up (combining more than one of these or other methods). I would not be happy with anything less than 99%. (This is true in most aspects of my life, come to think of it.) And if I knew beyond any doubt that I didn't want kids, why should I put myself through many years of anxiety and/or artificial hormones?

In Oregon, you can be 15 years old and choose to be sterilized. So I went to my doctor at 22 and expressed my desire to get a tubal ligation. Tubes tied. The ol' snip-snip. She said flatly, "You're too young to make this decision." Then she proceeded to tell me she'd had the procedure done herself and later had come to regret it. Just like that, my right to make my own decisions was stomped on by someone who thought she knew what was best for my life. Not for my health. For my life. That is an important distinction. It was not this doctor's job to do what she did, well-meaning though it might have been.

I was sent away to a gynecologist to get an implant, a little flexible hormone-rod that is inserted into your arm. My confidence was low and I felt like I wasn't even worth listening to, so I said to the gynecologist that I wanted my tubes tied but that I was willing to try the implant first. I walked away with a bruised arm but with the best birth control (other than abstinence, yes, obviously) there is. I was told to give it six months to see if any side effects would level off.

There were side effects, all right. Truly monumental mood swings: elation to inconsolable sobbing to fury in mere minutes. Unpleasant symptoms of hormonal imbalance in the nether regions. And the bleeding, so much bleeding. I'd bleed heavily for at least two weeks out of every month, and it was completely unpredictable. For a few months I thought I'd be okay, but every time the bleeding started again I would feel like screaming. I was trapped in a body that I was putting through these trials... for what?

Fortunately, I eventually chatted with my aunt. I'd remembered that she had a tubal ligation at just about my age. She kicked me back into gear, offered to help, reminded me that my decisions are justified. My disgust and anger at the doctor were reawakened; I couldn't stop thinking that I was just like livestock to those who would stand in my way, livestock whose breeding capabilities must be preserved at all costs. I was bitter. I was also gushing fountains of blood and dealing with the forced mood swings that never went away.

It had been more than six months that I'd been living with the implant. I went back to the gynecologist and said, yes, I was willing to try the IUD, but I knew that I would always just want to be sterilized. She listened, gave me gentle reminders of the alternatives, gave me a referral to a surgeon.

I went to the appointment with the surgeon shaking with nerves, going over my prepared speech, trying to ignore all the "Babies rule!" signs and framed baby photos everywhere that seemed designed to make me feel less than. But the surgeon said she'd do the surgery. She asked me what my preferred method was: cauterizing, tying, or removing the tubes. That was a "duh" decision if I've ever encountered one. I jumped back in the car and squealed with delight. Someone had listened to me! I had been granted control over my body!

Excited to be in this hospital.

I had the tube-removal surgery a month later. The surgeon even removed the implant at the same time. The cost was low, and the surgery process was downright pleasant. I have little pain at the moment unless I try to cough; I was taking some intense pain medication for a couple days until I ended up with an incredible thumping "narcotic headache," vomiting painfully at five in the morning (breaking my six-and-a-half-year vomit-free streak, sadly), but I seem to be doing fine without the meds.

And, most joyously, I feel like I'm finally in the right body. I'm free. I could go on at length about my reasons for not wanting to reproduce. But that's not the point of this post. To head off the protests, I'll just say this: I would much rather regret not having a child than regret having one. And in the meantime, I will most happily be tubeless.

How to Do All the Things?

This has been a difficult month of introspection and stress. As February draws to a close and I begin to see the clouds parting, I'd like to reflect a bit. And possibly check myself before I wreck myself.

Look! I'm on a slide!

I was literally afraid of the slide. Embarrassing.

Updating my editing website proved to be quite a boon to my freelance business, perhaps more so than I'd hoped; I've never actually had to turn away work before. I had the opportunity to proofread (that means the book's already laid out) an amazing mix of investigative journalism and memoir about dog overpopulation, and for some reason now I think I like dogs. I also got to edit (that means the text is rather more raw and unpolished) a memoir about one woman's cancer diagnosis, which had a happy ending. I love having the chance to be so immersed in others' worlds and get paid for it.

Zumba is going well, too; it's no longer a source of stress in my life, and every class feels as exhilarating as it did when I first started teaching.

I also started a little Etsy business I call Effervescents. I make and sell fancy fizzy bath bombs. And I get to keep the "photo models" to use myself (score!).

I wore red on Valentine's Day.
We went to the trampoline place and were the oldest people on the trampolines. Oops.

That's all great, but guess what immediately falls to the bottom of my priority list? Everything not on my to-do list. I love having the energy and the ability to pursue the things that keep me excited; on the other hand, it'd also be nice to get to, like, sleep in or relax once in a while. Stretching, meditation, meal creation, and exercise all fall by the wayside every time I accept a new project. I just don't know how to do anything halfway. And I want to do all the things!

Anyway... If somebody knows how to achieve balance, please let me know. I'll keep trying.

Excited

Today I'm taking a moment to be excited about life. My health is reasonably good (although you wouldn't know it from the dozen monthly doctor's appointments and all those pills and needles), leaving me free to seize and create new opportunities that I fully intend to make the most of this year.

I recently left the studio where I've taught dance-fitness (and, for a brief stint, kickboxing) for two years in order to seek greater ease and freedom as an independent instructor renting a small dance hall an hour a week. My first new class was so much fun (the claps echoed most satisfyingly!), and I discovered when building the playlist that I felt eager and fresh as an instructor for the first time in several months.

Many of the participants from my first new class. Zumba people like photos.

I've also acquired a laser focus on my professional career: revamping my freelance website, setting up a social media strategy, making time to learn and stay updated about the latest in the field, and networking with those in the know. I've been lucky throughout my freelance career to have exactly the amount of work I can handle without needing to go out of my way to solicit it. Now I want to make sure I'm the best I can be in my freelancing as well as my full-time job.

Why not also set up an online store selling handcrafted goodies? Why not enter a contest or two? For now, suffice it to say that all these pursuits leave my mind whirling at night...in a good way.

Personally, I intend to relax more, read more, stretch more, experience nature, do yoga, meditate, try acupuncture. Food is still my kryptonite, but you could say I have an in-home cook. I delight in the arms of love, arms that don't hold me back but instead support me fully.

Will and I are hugmasters.

Yes, this year is looking good. I might as well savor it.