The D-Word

The time has always been now to discuss depression.  So let's just dive right on in and get dirty and uncomfortable.

I have poly-cystic ovary syndrome, and the community of suffers throws around the phrase "invisible disease" a lot.  We suffer the consequences of our imbalanced bodies with no outward signal that we're fighting a health battle.  We inwardly cringe at our attempts to politely explain why we don't have children, attempt to muster encouragement while battling insulin resistance and weight gain, and brave a smile while having four hours of blood work done.  There's not a 5K to support PCOS research or t-shirts that read 'I'm so classy even my ovaries wear a string of pearls'.  



(But seriously, I need that shirt!)

My battle with PCOS has given me some courage to discuss my other invisible disease: depression.

My last blog post was both fueled by depression and depressing to read.  But it was absolutely reality.  So I'll give you an concise history of my depression.

Age 14, diagnosed with and medicated for severe anxiety.  Felt like a zombie on medication and constantly conveniently forgot to take it.

Ages 15/16, lose best friend to stupid boy (yeah, I know.) and grandfather dies, dip into severe low phase and am officially diagnosed with the d-word.  Prescription dosage upped, constantly reminded to take meds.  Begin seeing a therapist weekly.

Age 17, break a boy's heart and my own, go on a roller coaster of high and low phases, still forgetting to take medication.  Still seeing a therapist weekly.

Ages 18/19/20, enter college, decide my life is awesome, completely stop taking medication and attending therapy, probably convince people I'm certifiable with my mood swings.  

Ages 21/22, senior year of college, stress over future, experience death of a dear friend, two grandfathers, and an uncle.  Fail at getting grown up job after graduation.  Get totally heartbroken and enter the absolute worst low phase of my life.  Back in the therapist's office, back on daily medication and a hardcore pill for "really sad days."

Age 23, begin teaching middle school in a poorly performing school and anxiety skyrockets.  

Age 24, move to Texas, fiance's job takes him out of state, severe loneliness and depression creeps in.

Present, dealing with a lot of what my therapist called "situational depression."  I have more good days than bad days.  Only take a fast-acting anti-anxiety medication when needed for panic and anxiety.

I've never shared all that, even the concise version, with anyone.  It's surprisingly exhilarating to get it all out there.  I guess the reason I've never shared it is because I've never really felt like I could accurately describe depression and what it is and does to me.  But a college friend of mine recently crept into my head and hammered out exactly what happens on a fairly regular basis.  So I've shared it below.

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Let's talk about depression, y'all.

You know that voice that sometimes pops up in your head when something goes wrong? The one that says "you fucked up" or "shouldn't have said that" or "maybe I should have handled that differently"?

Imagine that that voice doesn't just pop up when you actually mess something up.

Imagine that it is always there. Always. When you sleep and when you dream, while you wake and work, while you drink and eat and spend time with your loved ones. Imagine that you try to drown it out but it is always there, a drumbeat against the movement of your mind. Imagine that even in your happiest times, even when the music of life is at its sweetest - you hear it. Pounding pounding and drilling into the heart of you.

Sometimes it quiets for a while. Sometimes you can forget it, at least for a time, because life is lovely and in this moment with these people you are happy. But then the party ends, and we all go home; but the drumbeat stays. You know it will always be there. You know you'll wake up the next morning and it will thrum in your mind. You know that it will be there with you until the end. It is closer to you than a wife, a husband, a friend. It knows your weaknesses, it feeds on them. It chips away at your strengths until you can't tell that they're worth anything anymore. Imagine that the first voice you hear in the morning and the last voice you hear before you sleep are not the sweet tones of your loved ones, but the ruthless voice of an inquisitor. Questioning, judging, hating everything you've done, everything you are. And you've heard it for so long that, even though you know that YOU don't think these things, something inside you does. And it is strong and loud and implacable, and it will never, ever, leave you in peace.

Now imagine that there are times when that voice gets even stronger. You can't control it, you can't predict it. It is a storm out of a cloudless sky. But all of a sudden, your food tastes like ash and your friends speak all and say nothing, and always, ever, you hear that drumbeat. Thudding against your skull, pounding you until you have to drink or smoke or sleep to silence it. And even when it's quieted, you know it will return.

It will ALWAYS return. You will bear that hateful weight until the day you die. Something broke inside you long ago, and this is the price you pay. And you'll plead and cajole and pray to God or gods or devils, but the drumbeat is stronger than them all.

You'll blame others, or blame yourself. Neither will do you any good. Neither will it silence the demon that sings you into destruction. In all likelihood, it will only make it stronger.

Now imagine that this is your life. Every day. Every hour. At your highest points and your lowest - even if you sing another tune, you will still answer to the drums. And their song is Doom Doom Death and Ruin.

And imagine that you know there is no cure. Nothing will fix this. No medicine, no doctor, no therapy, no God, can fix what has been broken deep deep inside. So deep you don't even know what the wound was to begin with.

And imagine that you know there is no way out.

That is depression.

He goes on to respond to some comments left by readers:

Thanks guys. It's weird to see people talking about in public. Kinda heartening though.

I do want to make one postscript to the thing. My ending came off pessimistic, and to a certain extent that's fine, because there isn't a cure

But counseling, therapy, medications, give you tools to MANAGE depression. Won't cure you, won't fix you. But you will learn how to recognize when you're in a depressive phase, and you will get tools to manage it.

I know it's some silly ass GI Joe advice, but knowing is half the battle.

So if you even have a suspicion that you're dealing with depression, go talk to somebody and figure that shit out. If you're fighting a trench war against your own mind, it's not weak to call for reinforcements. It's the SMART thing to do.

And if you're suffering from depression, then I say don't you dare give up.

Don't you fucking DARE. 

(Thanks, Brendan Carrell, for being a part of the conversation.)

I've learned in my decade of dealing with my depression that really all you can do is deal with it.  I've been medicated and head-shrunk and prayed for.  And I'm sure that each of those has helped at one point of another.  But there is no cure.  Depression is an invisible disease, and unfortunately, it is often a silent one.    

When a tragedy occurs, like school shootings, mental illness is quickly blamed, and possibly rightfully so.  We recognize the problem.  But we don't talk about it.  We blame it for evil acts, but we don't contemplate what our society can do to remedy the mental illness epidemic sweeping across our country.  An estimated one in five American suffers from some mental illness.  Twenty percent of our country is in pain and we're shaming them for it!  We're sneering at them and blaming them for horrible tragedies instead of extending a hand and asking what we can do to help.

With the recent suicide of Robin Williams, I've seen lots of people calling for the depression discussion.  We need to start talking about it.  We need to normalize depression, discuss it, support the sufferers, encourage treatment, and most importantly, make treatment readily available.  

I shouldn't have to pay exuberant fees for therapy sessions because they're considered elective.     Veterans with post-traumatic stress disorder shouldn't have to wait years for government assistance with therapy costs.  Mental health screenings should be part of basic health care.  Therapy should be considered basic health care.  PTSD suffers shouldn't be near the bottom of a list of patients to treat.  

Most importantly, those suffering with mental illness shouldn't be shamed.  It shouldn't take the tragic suicide of one of the most beloved men in America for us to reach out to the vast community of mental illness sufferers.  Let's start talking.