When I was a psychology minor, I loved to learn how the human mind worked. What made us tick, and what made us do what we did. The brain really is an amazing organ, which is a rather limited and juvenile statement, but true, nonetheless.
Unfortunately, things happen. And sometimes, the brain doesn't work the way it should. There are tumors, and aneurysms and blot clots and strokes. All medical problems. When someone suffers from any one of these things, people will be supportive of the person, rally around them, and help them any way they can. It's seen as tragic.
And then there are other things that could go wrong with the brain. Things like chemical imbalances, a lot of which fall under the category of (ominous music) mental illness.
There are few words that clear a room faster than those two. Alright, maybe not clear a room, exactly, but cause people to shuffle their feet, look away, change the subject. No one wants to talk about it, and it's sad. It's proven fact that one in ten people in this world suffers from mental illness, in some form. Some worse than others.
Let me get to my point. If you look in my file that my wonderful therapist Scott has on me, you'll see my first diagnosis is 'Major Depression,(recurrent). Ah that 'r' word. I've had it since I was thirteen, which means I've lived with it for thirty-five years.
Major Depression is a funny thing. It comes and goes. The last bout I had of it occurred two years ago when my 20 year relationship broke up. I was pretty sure that one would have killed me, but I bounced back. I was on Zoloft for a while, and that helped, but the constant weight gain, the carbohydrate craving and the inability to cry proved almost as bad as the depression. I tried Cymbalta, that made me sick to my stomach. Lexapro and Welbutrin gave me miserable headaches. I was on an anxiety drug for a while, and that seemed to fix my anxiety.
In short, I've been on five medications, and none have 'worked' whatever that means. For a while, I was fine, meaning I cared about stuff, I was in a pleasant mood, I got things done. Last October, my godmother, who I love dearly, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. She's now in assisted living. I was not allowed to help or make any decisions about her care. Because I spoke up about that, I am now disowned from most of my family. I fell into another depression, which has been hanging on since then.
Depression makes you mean. Depression makes you tired. Depression takes the good-natured person I used to be and turns me into someone who cries all day and screams at everyone, at parents, at friends, at God. I don't want to do anything go anywhere.
I wake up crying and I go to sleep the same way. This is NOTHING that I've chosen. If I could feel any other way I would. This is not 'feeling sorry for myself'. I go to therapy regularly. I have a psychiatrist. Some days, when I'm up to it, I do go out. I do eat, I do clean. The worse it gets the harder it is to do daily things.
As I've said, no one wants to deal with it.
Today I made the decision to go into intensive treatment. Instead of being happy, I feel like the biggest failure in the universe.
I'm afraid I will lose what little I have left.
I live with major depression. I don't know how much longer I can live with it.
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