The Proverbial "Before"

Last week, I made the decision to finally see a doctor about the feelings of depression I've been suffering from all my life but which have intensified and become nearly overwhelming. It was not an easy decision to come to and I practically had to force myself to dial the numbers to make the appointment. You can read about my feelings regarding this decision here. In the week that followed between the call and the appointment itself, there were moments of such relief at the impending change that I was brought to tears thinking of how I would explain what I've been feeling and how the doctor might help. My hopes were encouraged by friends and family who told me about their experience treating their depression, and hearing the ease of the process. There was a light at the end of this tunnel of despair.

And there were also moments of clarity, when it became so very clear that I needed this help that I had set out to get. A neighbor's cookout left me grappling with such intense social anxiety. It felt like a rash under my skin, just this slight discomfort, and all I wanted was to leave and curl up on the couch with a book. I wondered if medication would change my homebody-introverted self, but I found that doubtful. What I hoped was that it would cure that itchiness. It shouldn't hurt to be around people. There was no cause for the discomfort; my presence was practically unnoticed, and when I was engaged, the conversation was cordial. Still, I left early, leaving my friendly husband behind to socialize. He couldn't understand my discomfort (and likely resented my rudeness at just ghosting). We argued when he got home because I wanted him to come home with me so we could spend time together, but I failed to communicate that effectively, and he was left feeling controlled. "Why should you wanting to leave trump my wanting to stay?" Why indeed, I considered, and finally decided, "Because I am uncomfortable. My discomfort should trump your indifference to staying." He hadn't realized the intensity of my anxiety. And it's hard to understand when there is no cause for it. Our neighbor's are perfectly welcoming people with kind friends, and they are fun to be around. Overcome by my feelings, I sobbed. "I am a burden," I thought. "I'm saddling him with my issues and making everyone else think I'm a bitch." I locked myself in the dark bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub and sank into the darkness of my mind as I choked on my sobs. "This is why you're going to the doctor," I saw. When I got a hold of myself, I apologized to my husband for making my problems his. "I'm sick," I said. "I don't want to feel like this. But I can't do this alone." He held me and said he's there for me and he loves me and supports me and he's sorry for not understanding. And I cried at my good luck of finding someone so good to me. 

This will forever be known as the proverbial "Before". Before I Got Help. Before I Went On Prozac. 

Here's to feeling better.

When I arrived to work late after my doctor's appointment, my boss kindly asked, "Is everything okay?" With a sense of relief, I replied, "Yes, everything is fine. And it's going to be better. Got me some Prozac." A self-described narcissist, he asked, "It's not because of me, is it? It's not work?" I had to laugh. "I've just always been like this. And I'm tired of it." I have lived for nearly 30 years with depression. The despair, the listlessness, the nihilism, the weight, the ruminating, the self-defeating thoughts. I don't know who I am without these feelings. But I am ready to find out.

I have been on Prozac for almost a week now. I literally feel lighter, like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I feel like the dark cloud above me has moved on. I laugh easily at things that a week ago would have made me grin at best. I actually feel joy in a way that is hard to describe, but which I never really felt Before, when at its worst, joy was sometimes tinged with pain, and always clouded with that familiar heaviness.

I'm still me. I haven't lost my creativity, that darkness that fuels my writing -- a fear that I had previously used as an excuse for not seeking treatment, and then finally decided was a risk I was willing to take. I am still lazy, and will wait until the last possible second to do something -- even now I should be cleaning my house. But now there isn't that heaviness pressing down on me, stopping me from doing the things I need to do. Before I couldn't even make myself clean up the house or go to the store or go visit with the neighbors. Now I am simply able to do it. I am able to find the motivation. Things that would wear on me throughout the day Before, dragging me down, simply don't anymore. We've gone over to the neighbors and played Cards Against Humanity and had a lot of fun. 

There were side-effects. Crushing headaches the first three days, and some nausea, but the headaches have passed, thankfully. The nausea only comes now if I take the pill on an empty stomach, and even then it is very mild. My sleep has changed, but I haven't decided if it's for the better or worse. I have more vivid, memorable dreams, but it's harder to wake myself up. What I mean is: Before, I would be wide awake in the morning but not feel motivated to get out of bed, because "What's the point?"; whereas now, I wake up groggy and want to snooze my alarm. But maybe that will pass. 

My doctor gave me a questionnaire to determine the strength of my depression and anxiety -- the PHQ-9 and the GAD7. The last question is "How difficult have these problems made it for you to do your work, take care of things at home, or get along with other people?" For me, it has been extremely difficult. It should not be this difficult to live your life, you know? I'm not a doctor but if you take the questionnaire and find you have moderate to severe depression or anxiety, please do yourself a favor and tell your doctor about your feelings now, don't wait. It doesn't make you weak to ask for help. It shows your strength to have dealt with it alone for so long and your courage for standing up to your depression and fighting back. There is no prize, no reward for the person who suffers the longest. Get help now. I only wish I had talked to my doctor about my depression sooner. 

Teach me how to "Self-Care"

I didn't grow up in the kind of family where, if you got a cut or a cold, you went straight to the doctor. Slap a Band-Aid on that boo-boo and call it done. If you can imagine the opposite of a helicopter mom, that's my family.

I haven't been to a proper doctor since my last school physical. I do my annual visit for women's healthcare, and I tell myself that it's for the health of my breasts and my cervix, but it's really just so I can get birth control. At my last annual exam, my Pap smear came back with abnormal cells and I was told I have a strain of HPV that could cause cancer. I was scheduled to come back in six months for another exam. After battling with the hospital billing due to some confusion over changing insurance plans, I was reluctant to return. And then, a sudden promotion for my husband moved us out of state before that appointment rolled around. I would need to find a new doctor. But that's not really why I didn't go back. In truth, I was scared. And it seems like a giant waste of money to be told my cells are still abnormal and I just have to wait to see if they turn into cancer or if it goes away on its own. So six months past and I didn't go and then another six months and I still didn't go and I knew that eventually my prescription for birth control would run out and I would have to go for that reason alone. But then CVS Caremark, remarkable service that it is, simply asked my former doctor to renew my prescription for me, and they did.

But I'm not writing to talk about women's healthcare. I'm writing to talk about self-care – this buzzword in the mental health world. And it's something I was never really taught. See my family suffers from mental health issues, but our solution isn't really to take care of it, at least not for our own sake. My mother says she has to take Lexapro in order to be nice to others. She'd probably never admit it and would hate for me to be telling strangers this. She hates the fact that she has to take it at all and sometimes she doesn't take it. I try to avoid her during those times. She doesn't take the Lexapro to feel better, she takes it to act better. But I don't want to act better, I don't want to feel like this. The few times that I've suggested that I have mental health issues, or any health issues really, she dismisses my notions. Maybe she wants to believe that I am a perfectly healthy, normal daughter. But I am her daughter. And her insistence to dismiss these notions in her attempt to make me feel better serves only to invalidate my feelings and, essentially, gaslight me. She told me that everyone feels like that sometimes and that it's reasonable, that it's my job getting to me, that it's my introversion – all reasons that I've used myself to justify not getting help.

And it's not just her. My husband, head full of right wing conspiracy theories from the internet, warned me not to tell the doctors that I have a gun. But the conversation twisted and turned and devolved into a warning that "they" will come take our guns someday. Maybe they should, I said, because maybe I shouldn't have them. Indignant, he replied that they're his guns too. The implication: That my recieving mental health care would cause him to get his guns taken. Now I'm not sure who needs help more, me or him. I kid, of course, but behind this conversation lies the heart of the mental health stigma. If I get help, if I go on anti-depressants, I'll be on a list somewhere and people might know and what if it prevents me from being able to do something in the future and what will people think if they find out. 

But I have a bigger, more important question: What if I actually start feeling better? 

I booked a doctor's appointment for a general check-up for the first time in my life. I don't really know the proper way to do this, to ask for help dealing with these feelings of depression and anxiety, but I figure this is a good first step. And though I really want someone to hold my hand and call the doctors for me and tell me, "You're doing a good thing, you need this, and I'm here to help and guide you through it," I understand I'm on my own. I always have been. I'm scared and nervous and lost. But if I can put aside my protective, secretive nature and open up to this doctor, maybe I can open the door to a future free from this black dog. 

(Hey, maybe you can help me find the courage — if you've been there, walk me through it. I hate walking into something not knowing how it's going to go. Let me know I'm not alone.) 

(Also, don't worry, I'll book a Pap while I'm there.)