Depression Talk

Joomy did an interesting post on taking a break this week, one that I read with fervor, because man, I really know what its like to need a frickin’ break.

I don’t know why, but I never feel really, truly good about myself unless I’m busy, busy, busy. I like to have a goal for each day, and I like to achieve it, and if I don’t feel good about the day, I feel as though I haven’t reached my full potential for that day.

I have this terrible habit of finding something to do, and then adding to it, and then adding some more to it just for the hell of it. Good times, all round.

Last fall was perhaps certainly the worst episode with depression I’ve ever had. I spent months desperately trying to pretend like I was happy when I spoke with others or when I wrote on my blog. The guilt that accompanies serious depression is perhaps one of the worst parts of it, for me at least. I always feel that I have everything in my reach to have a complete, happy, and full life: yet, occasionally I fall into the depths of despair and there is nothing that can get me out of it. Nothing.

Perhaps it was the fact that I lost my Grandfather rather traumatically, in a drawn out illness that took him away from us but kept him alive for a long period of time. Perhaps it was that my brother was sent on his third tour of duty in Afghanistan, and that I couldn’t get him or his wife and child out of my mind. Perhaps it was that I lived with someone who I truly felt was going out of her way to make my life miserable, to make my home completely unsanitary and odiferous. Perhaps it was the fact that I was taking six university courses, working twenty hours, drinking alcohol in my spare time, and cut myself off from the world because I didn’t feel that I had the energy to cope with human interaction.

Believe it or not, I somehow managed to not be depressed through my father’s slew of medical tests after a couple scary episodes, through my mother’s diagnosis and treatment for breast cancer, my moving back home, one of my closest friends’ diagnosis with MS, and the final breakup with Dubai Guy. I blame that on drugs. Lots and lots of drugs, the good ones that keep the happiness in my brain floating around being happy.

But I digress. I think one of the most important ways to deal with depression is to recognize your own limits: You need to be able to find that perfect balance between busy enough to keep you from sitting on your couch thinking you’re useless, but not so busy that you lose sight of yourself, your goals, your life, and most importantly, your sanity.

I feel really well lately, I feel as though I’m on top of my game and ready to take on the new challenges that my crazy job sends my way each and every day.

I drove into the city on Saturday evening, a trip that was sort of spur of the moment, but one that I needed nonetheless. I drove down the main streets of the city, looking at all the sights there are to see in the fresh six o’clock darkness now that the time has changed.

And I was overcome by how absolutely awful I felt last year at this very time.

I spent most of my time last year sitting on my balcony, drinking whatever my drink of the week was. I spent that time praying to God and to Orion, who’s belt I could see clearly almost every night. I thought that if I sent enough thoughts up to the two of them, I might be saved eventually.

I stayed at my good friend Mal’s house this weekend, and we did one of our favorite types of nights: Fat Kids Night. We ate copious amounts of food, drank Cosmopolitans, and watched bad television.

Fat Kids Night is a tradition that Mal and I started when I couldn’t face leaving the house, when I couldn’t put on clothing or makeup or face people. We would gather up supplies and sit at her house or mine, chain smoking and watching horror movies. And I said to Mal, as we both looked up at the hunter, Dude, do you know what a place I was in last year?

And she said, Yeah, And it’s really good to see you eating and laughing and being normal. Because last year, there were a number of times when Mal would create these dishes of home cooked food that were just so wonderful, and I just stared at the plate and cried.

I don’t know what caused me to spiral into that dark place last year, I don’t know why all of a sudden, I became this desperately unhappy person who people mostly just wanted to run away from. It scares me, that I became that person, because nothing terrifies me more than that. Nothing is scarier than thinking I could go back to living that way again, to feeling those feelings again.

I spend a vast majority of my time when I’m thinking about being insane worrying that it will become me again. And recently, I’m taking steps to avoid it, because I don’t think I can take it again, and I don’t think the people around me can take it again, either.

I haven’t been posting much in the last few weeks, partly because I’m working close to seventy hours per week, and partly because I just don’t really know what to say. Its not that I’m at a loss for words, because I’m not… But at the end of the day, I’m just tired, sleepy, and cranky, causing all coherent phrases or sentences to leave my mind entirely.

Despite my insane working hours, I’ve been feeling great lately. I went through a period in mid-October hating my medication and the fact that I take it. As a result, my medication regime was sporadic at best. However, after a few days of brain shakes and queasiness, I straightened up and started back on my regular routine.

I don’t know why I struggle with medication like I do, but I do and I’m not sure what plan of action to make here. I’ve been toying, as usual, with the idea of living med-free again, but we all know where that leads: Sitting staring blankly at nothing, listening to bad country music and generally being a totally non-productive member of society.

I think that at this point, it is fair to say that I have done more than enough experimentation with a medication free lifestyle, and I know deep down that I need them to function like a sane and rational human being.

When I take my medication properly, everything is good but I spend my time despising the fact that I need pills to make the world go ’round. When I don’t take pills, I feel like ass, I look like ass, I act like ass, and everything is just generally a big old pile of ass.

So, I’m happy and doing well. Work is great, school is great, I’m being challenged in my professional and personal life just enough to keep me wanting more. But I’m doing it with the help of pharmaceuticals, and that is upsetting to me.

It is clearly time to put this issue to bed, to quit beating the dead horse, and to accept that I’m a better person when I deal with my medical issues the way they are supposed to be dealt with.

But how do I go about doing that?