Depression Talk

I managed to make it out of grade school without an official diagnosis of anything, and sometimes I wonder if my life would have turned out differently had I not been so stuck on denying completely that I had anything wrong with me.

Before the end of the eighth grade, I had been interviewed by a counsellor at school who I smiled brightly to and told her that I never had any thoughts that might be out of the ordinary. No, Ma’am! Not me! I’m not crazy! I was scared for a variety of reasons from a young age. Mostly I was scared of being teased by my peers further than I was already. Mostly I was scared of facing something I couldn’t understand.

I made it out of public school and on into high school relatively unscathed. I started dating, I started skipping class, talking on the phone, occasionally flipping through a text book, and going to school dances when I could. It was ok, I suppose, although looking bac I have to say that high school was terrible, and who doesn’t hate high school?

Sane people, I think.

The first time I actually really and truly feared for my mind was when I was seventeen. The exact circumstances, in retrospect are entirely unimportant. What is important is that I HAD LOST MY MIND.

It was at this point that I gave up sleeping and all my life I had been a fantastic sleeper. I also gave up on most of my social activities in order to stay at home and laze about in my pajamas. I love pajamas to this day. I rarely actually wear real pajamas and instead I choose to steal oversized T-shirts from people I love and pair them up with jogging pants. I always wear something that belongs to someone else when I feel down because it’s like having a piece of them right there with you. Or it’s not at all like having someone right there with you, and there is just something comforting in swimming about on the couch in a shirt that is large enough to hold you and three of your closest friends.

I think the thing that scared me the most was that people would think I was crazy. I didn’t want to be like someone out of a movie. I thought for sure that the minute I was diagnosed with something, anything, that I would turn into a raving, screaming lunatic being carried about by large men in white jackets and into an institution.

I don’t know why I had this fear. I had never witnessed an even like that in my life, but it was a paralyzing fear that led me to stay away from discussing the thoughts that went through my head all the time with anyone.

As a result of my inability to sleep, I also encountered an inability to eat and I lost copious amounts of weight during the first months.

I suppose that it is time, once again, to give praise to good medical attention because a person really can’t do without it. I was so sure that my doctor would initially hear my complaints, leave the room, and come back followed by the people who were to carry me out. Instead, my doctor nodded. He listened to me. He wrote down what I was saying in my chart. He asked me questions. I was sitting curled up in a ball on the seat in his office, my fists wound up into the sleeves of my oversized sweatshirt, staring down at the ground with tears streaming down my cheeks. And rather than getting up and injecting me with some kind of sedative before tying me to a stretcher?

He listened. He listened and later that night as I sat in my giant clothing on the couch beside my mother, this overwhelming feeling of Dear God, I’m in my own house and not locked up somewhere and not being sedated by strangers who think I’m not fit to be in with the rest of society.

I have to say that my initial appointment with the doctor was one of the most relieving things I’ve ever done in my life.

Amanda