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.
