The New Old Depression

It was a Friday afternoon, the day before my son’s eighteenth birthday. The weather was cold or warm, overcast or sunny, but not raining. Too early for rain; it wasn’t even spring yet. We pulled into the underground parkade as if leaving civilization behind. It felt like hospital. Somehow every parkade felt the same, even the new ones where the zones have sweet names like “forest” and “prairie”.

We checked in and I sat down, glad to not be back in the triage zone having to explain the unexplainable to a nurse trying to make my unexplainable fit into a drop-down menu category. We were placed in one of the “mental health” rooms in Urgent Care, and told to sit on one of the vinyl chairs. Me, in the farthest corner from the door, my husband four feet away but beside me. Opposite him stood a bedside table with a phone. I wondered how old the phone was and if anyone ever used it. “Is that a real window?” my husband asked, knowing the answer before I looked through the blinds at the mirror behind it. Why had we chosen these two chairs, I wondered? The third chair sat empty, waiting for the psychiatrist. I stared at it, waiting, trying to imagine what the psychiatrist would be like. Old, probably.

She walked in, and she was breathtakingly beautiful, with a smile that warmed up the room. Not what I expected, and I almost forgot where I was. She asked me dozens of questions about my life growing up and my life as an adult and then asked if we wanted to know her diagnosis.

“Please,” we both pleaded.

“It’s depression,” she replied, in the same tone she would use if I were being diagnosed with a cold.

We were both surprised. I’d never had any problems getting out of bed. I never wondered if I should be alive. I never felt alone or unloved.

“But I never feel worthless or guilty,” I said, confused by her diagnosis.

“You need cognitive behavioural therapy,” she replied. “You’ve been ill for a very long time,” she added, “and you’re going to need medication and therapy to get better.”

She gave me a prescription for Seroquel and Cipralex and wished us luck. She promised to see me in a month, and we came back, dutifully returning to the parkade and the vinyl chairs.

Awareness is not enough

This week is Mental Health Awareness Week. The statistic that 1 in 5 Canadians will experience mental illness in their lifetime is being repeated over and over on my Facebook and Twitter feeds. Awareness is awesome, but it’s not enough. Politicians are tweeting that they are raising awareness but what we really need is funding. We need more psychiatrists so that it doesn’t take a year to get in to see one. We need publicly funded therapy so that we can stay out of the hospital and keep working (and paying taxes!). We need mental health services that are as easy to access as a family doctor visit. We cannot continue to talk about awareness and continue to not fund treatment. The stigma of mental illness will never go away when our treatments are expensive; this makes them appear as an optional treat for the wealthy. It would save money to fund treatment; it’s time to do the math and get it right.

The Rocky Road of Depression

This weekend has been tough. I seem to feel good for a while and then come crashing down because I’m wishing things were different. I’m wishing I knew nothing about depression and wishing I was better and wishing I wasn’t spending so much money on therapy and wishing I didn’t need medication. But wishing is pointless and damaging so I need to catch it and put it back in the cupboard with the leprechauns and other imaginary things. This road of recovery is a bumpy one and I feel like I’m on one of those tuc-tuc vehicles on a dirt road and just when we get going the driver realizes that we’ve been going the wrong way and back we go, holding on for dear life. The rational part of my brain knows that I’m improving. It knows that I have more energy and more patience and more self-compassion than I did when I started treatment but the rest of me wants to see benchmarks of improvement. When I started running I noticed every little improvement – running a bit further, running the same route in less time, being less tired after a run, etc. But this beast of mental illness doesn’t give me indicators of success, and it shows me it’s still boss after I have some good days by reducing me to a heap of tears on the floor. My family is left wondering what they did to set me back but the reality is that even with them being the greatest and most loving and supportive people in the world, I still have a lot of crappy days. I wish for someone to tell me when I’ll be better, to give me a date when I can say, “I used to have depression, it sucked but I’m over it” but no one will. So I keep journaling and doing thought records and being mindful and I flip the numbers back on my “0 days since I was a crying mess” board each day and maybe this time I’ll get past 10. Maybe. If I don’t, I’ll just try again.

Letters to me

For depression awareness week, I thought I would share with you a few of the letters I have written to myself over the past month as I began medication and therapy for depression. I revisit these letters most days to remind myself that the fight is worth fighting. #whatyoudontsee

Dear Me,
I heard you have depression. That sucks. It sucks that you’ve been fighting to keep your head above water for the last eleven years and this is what you end up with. It sucks to have to deal with yucky side effects of the medication when you don’t even know if it is working. But here you are. Take some time to grieve, that the person you thought was you is depression you, not the real you. And then when you’re done grieving, you can be excited about getting to know the real you. The real you has been hidden for over 10 years! And now you get to meet her! How exciting! Be patient and kind, as you would with a small child that’s just been given life-changing news. Give her time and space to heal and to grow and love her.

Dear Me,
You are having a terrible day today. Every effort feels enormous and you’re wishing you were dead. Not even dead so much as never been born, never set foot on the Earth. You feel like you want to evaporate and turn to dust. You need to know that you are loved and that you make a positive difference in the world. As awful as these feelings are, they are temporary, and they are not your fault. The medication is messing with your head and there is a good chance that tomorrow will be way better. Remember that the world is a better place for having you in it.

Dear Me,
Today you are down and feel that you should be able to beat all this on your own without medication and without therapy. But unfortunately that is not the case. You need help, and you need lots of it. But that’s okay. Really. You have a great husband and great kids and a great doctor and they are all behind you, supporting you and wanting you to get better. Try not to compare yourself to other people or to read anything or listen to anyone who is against medication. They are not you. You have been fighting this for over 10 years and the fact that you need help now is not a sign of weakness. It’s a sign that you’re ready to fight and win.