I was referred to as "depressed" by a medical professional for the first time just under ten years ago. Since then, I have been in and out of talk therapy, medicated once, dropped out of school twice, contemplated suicide for roughly a month with varying degrees of severity, and skipped work once. I have also tried countless times to describe my experience. This is my latest attempt, and I think it at least half captures it, which is the best I've done yet. Small victories.
Depression is an exhausting disease for all involved. Any rational part of my brain genuinely loathes a great deal of thought processes caused by shit not firing correctly or enough or at the right time or whatever is wrong with it. The disconnect is alarming. I am fine with Rational Me; I think Rational Me is a pretty okay person. I would be friends with Rational Me. Depressed Me is another fucking story.
Depressed Me is equal parts self-involved and self-loathing. Everything revolves around Depressed Me and Depressed Me hates it. Everyone is looking and simultaneously doesn't care enough and everything is horrible and will never get better and every part of my body rebels against Depressed Me getting out of bed and why is the sun so bright and everything hurts and nothing will ever get better and nothing will ever get better and nothing will ever get fucking better just stay in bed probably forever.
I hit my super-early-life proverbial rock bottom when I was 19, living in a studio apartment in Minneapolis. I was assaulted that winter, which triggered a bout of undiagnosed post-traumatic stress disorder and sent my depression spiraling out of control for the duration of my spring semester. My biggest physical symptom is usually body aches, which worsened to an extent where I felt like I physically was incapable of getting out of bed for days at a time. I was skipping class and making excuses to work from home, I rarely ate (when I did it was Domino's pizza since I never left to go to a store), and any activity I would accomplish would be done obsessively. If I made it out of bed on any given day, I would take 5-6 showers, because when I read Prozac Nation in high school she mentioned how greasy her hair would get and it made me feel sick. Depressed Me thought that as long as I was physically clean, I was fine. Depressed Me can be pretty good at rationalizing crazy behaviors.
I was going to the counselors that were provided through my school, who referred me to a doctor so I could get medication. They put me on fluoxetine after a five minute consult that involved a diagram of what looked like emoticons and asked "HOW SAD DO YOU FEEL?" in bold lettering. I answered "very sad". I met with the doctor maybe four times in those four months. When I expressed that my body aches and other symptoms were worsening, I was given a script for pain medication.
At this point, my memories get fuzzy. April 2011-July 2011 was a lot of laying in bed and half-listening to podcasts and turning off my phone. It was the only time I have ever seriously contemplated hurting myself, and I thought about it a lot. I vaguely remember calling my mother sobbing because everything hurt so much. The only thing I remember about when she drove from Milwaukee to Minneapolis to see me is that I had so many dishes in the sink and I was so embarrassed but I couldn't do them and I couldn't explain why. Not getting out of bed wasn't embarrassing because it made so much sense to Depressed Me, but there being a sink full of dishes felt like the end of the world.
Depressed Me is a self-involved asshole. Every time I thought about suicide, I came back to my family and how I could never do that to them, which made me angry. When my mom came up to be with me, Depressed Me was so angry. I was a selfish asshole that was angry that people loved me. I don't recall a lot about the time I was medicated, but I can vividly picture how angry I would get at my FAMILY for LOVING ME. This is the kind of bullshit thought process I had over and over for what felt like forever. Sometimes I still catch myself falling back into it.
I moved back into my parents' house and I stopped taking the meds and the past two years have been a lot more functional. I hesitate to say "better" with a chronic mental disease, because the word "chronic" sort of negates that. I probably should just say better, though. I'm doing much better. The idea of going back on medication terrifies me, so I'm not going to right now.
What's fantastic now is that I have people in my life--some who know this whole mess and more who don't--that I can call and say, "I'm too in my head right now, please talk to me," and they will. I'm constantly pleasantly surprised. I'm sure it's exhausting for anyone to get wrapped up in their own thoughts, but mine are consistently spiraling, and sometimes the best way to get them to stop is just to talk to someone about actually fucking anything. Sometimes I just need to go back to sleep. Sometimes it helps to write about it.
So there it is, my most public therapeutic exercise to date, and hopefully ever. Maybe I'll try it again in another ten years. Ideally, I will have expanded my vocabulary a little by then. Maybe I won't feel the need to try and do this ever again.
