Before I launch into this section on depression, I offer first a quote from Brené Brown. “High lonesome can be a beautiful and powerful place if we can own our pain and share it instead of inflicting pain on others. And if we can find a way to feel hurt rather than spread hurt, we can change. I believe in a world where we can make and share art and words that will help us find our way back to one another.” This is the main reason I keep publishing these posts.
I don’t recall if it happened when I was 7. It happened when I was 17, 27 and 37. There have been circles and loops in between, but the majors have been about every 10 years. The version at age 17 was angry and dramatic, very teenager.
At 27, ugly reared its head again. First time I tried meds to deal with it, too. It was awful. I lived in San Francisco at the time. Fortunately, I lived alone. I went to work, came home, and locked myself down in my apartment. I was taking Prozac. Apparently that is not the drug for me. I was incredibly miserable for the 6 weeks I took it, which was how long the doc recommended I had to take it for it to have a chance to start working. I was a hot mess. Ok, maybe just an ugly sad mess.
Funny thing happened, though. After 6 weeks of that flavor of hell, I stopped taking the medication. Abruptly, which isn’t recommended (please do not take advice about psych meds from people who take psych meds, unless they happen to be your doctor). It worked out ok for me, because the medication had really been working against me. The rebound effect was glorious. I felt human again.
Then 37, oy. The worst. It kicked off before 37 hit. I was working a ton, but things got really bad when I started not performing as well at my job, which I eventually lost. That’s far from the worst of it for me. The worst is feeling like a waste of time and effort. The worst is knowing I cannot, even though I want nothing more than to do. The worst is not knowing how far I can sink. It’s pushing over 2 years and I don’t know that I will ever feel whole or human again.
This isn’t a pattern I want to continue into the future. Every time it takes me out at the knees, it’s harder to get up, get over it, and move on. But I get up anyway.