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.)

The Only Thing E.L. James Got Right In Fifty Shades of Grey

Many of my friends are absolutely in love with the Fifty Shades of Grey stories. As a writer and lover of books, I'm all for stories that get people reading and there's no doubt that this book wooed the masses. I've read a lot of articles against the story, many so snarky and belittling that no fan would even click (case in point, this Jezebel article, which was a hilarious read). But I don't want to preach to the choir of people who already hate the series. I'm here to beg fans of Fifty Shades of Grey to understand just how unhealthy the relationship between Ana and Christian is. Because I don't want any woman to feel "demeaned, debased, abused, and assaulted", let alone be asked to "deal with" these feelings. "For me?" For anyone. For real.

An actual quote from the book. Classic manipulation. And yes,
that is my cat's fur in the background. He's Fifty Shades of Cute.

Full disclosure: I haven't finished the books. There are many reasons I quit reading the first one, but the one I'm going with today is this: as one of my good friends put it, "It brought back too many bad memories." Articles, such as this feat of blogging masochism, detailing all the ways Christian is abusive have made me feel physically ill, making me glad that I put the book down. The book should come with a trigger warning for women who have endured emotional abuse. Everyone I know that loves the book has never been in an abusive relationship. Everyone I know that has been in an abusive relationship can't stand the book. **Please, if I am wrong, correct me. I'd love to hear your take.**

I can appreciate the role this book played in the societal need for a sexual awakening in women today's society. I'm truly glad that many women were finally able to express their desires in ways they hadn't been free to do before reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Esther Perel explained the way the book hooked readers, as quoted in Psychology Today:

"The book helped many women reconnect with their erotic selves, but more importantly, it helped them accept the intricacy of their erotic desires and the paradoxes of their fantasies, because the story gave them permission to see their fantasies as normal... And we can then ask how is it possible that in an age where women are striving for an egalitarian ideal they would fantasize about forced seduction? Well, here's what these fantasies reveal about women's sexuality: In a woman's fantasy of forced seduction she is never truly hurt -- the hurt is only there in the interest of the pleasure. But more importantly, when (in this sexual scenario) the man makes all the decisions for her and tells her what to do, he is actually liberating her from the biggest erotic block women have -- the burden of caretaking. In other words, her being submissive to the man in this fantasy frees the woman from thinking about anybody else's needs but her own."

That would make a lot of sense. And women reading this book are distanced from the experience, giving them even more freedom to accept their fantasies. Because it story isn't real. And that's what we have to remember. It's fiction. But for so many women, it has been a reality. And when you are constantly worried about whether something you do will anger your partner, you aren't truly free to focus on your own needs, even when your sexual goddess has taken control of the narrative. In the fantasy, the woman is never truly hurt -- because a fantasy is not real. But there are Christian Greys out there in the world. And the hurt they inflict is real -- whether emotional or physical or both.

Emotional abuse is a tricky thing. For me, it was hard to pin-point. And then you see it in little checklists and a light bulb appears over your head. You think, "Yeah, that's what it was. Manipulation. Possession. Intimidation. An inequality of power. The double standards. The doubt. And then that little flash of hope that makes it all worth it and keeps you hanging around, believing you can change him." It becomes ever more clear when you see it happening to someone else. Clear in a way that makes you shake your head and cringe at the poor naive girl, as your stomach knots.

The threats are easier to pin-point. He shows up at your workplace, waiting in his car. He says, "You can't hide. I know all the places you go." He waits for you outside of school, standing against the fence. He runs in front of your car as you try to drive away from him, so you have to slam on the brakes to keep from hitting him. He tells you he has a gun with two bullets -- one for you, one for your new boyfriend. "An Order of Protection is just a piece of paper."

From HelpGuide.org

It's easy to forget those heartrending moments. Standing with your hand on the doorknob, sobbing, begging him to show some kind of emotion, to show he cares, while he stands there, cold and withdrawn. Getting pissed about a text message from a girl he's rumored to be sleeping with, and then being derailed with an argument about trust and privacy, and how could you have gone through his phone? This is your fault, you know it. And maybe if you weren't so clingy, maybe if you gave him a little space and didn't demand so much from him, maybe this conversation wouldn't be happening.

But then he comes back, tail between his legs, looking all contrite and handsome and charming. "I'm sorry," he says. "I'm just fucked up," he says. "I don't know what's wrong with me." And you believe all he needs is love, because that's what all the songs and books and movies tell you. And you try and try and try, despite constant let-downs and heartbreaks because you know he can change. Because you are foolish and naive and in love.

As an onlooker, I can imagine that maybe this sort of relationship seems exciting. And it is. The highs are higher. But the lows are like, Mine-Shaft Elevator-Drop low. And at some point you have to assess the ratio of bad to good. Are you happier more than not? Or are the highs getting more infrequent? Healthy relationships are only exciting in the beginning. They make for very boring fiction too. 

Fifty Shades of Grey gets a lot wrong. The Atlantic posted a investigative look at the many issues in the book as well as society's reaction to the story, and it's well worth the long read. From the lack of Safe, Sane, Consensual BDSM, to the awful writing itself, this book is a train wreck. As with all train wrecks, it's tempting to rubberneck. But then you see the carnage. E.L. James got something right. And, ironically, it's something she never intended to portray. 

Curious about the author's response to the domestic abuse campaigns against her book, I sought out interviews for her reaction. I was saddened at her response. Ever the enabler, some part of me had been hoping she was a secret genius and this story was a ploy to expose abuse and begin a dialogue on what unhealthy relationships look like. But no, James is as ostensibly obtuse as she seems. 

 "Nothing freaks me out more than people who say this is about domestic abuse," she says. "Bringing up my book in this context trivializes the issues, doing women who actually go through it a huge disservice. It also demonizes loads of women who enjoy this lifestyle, and ignores the many, many women who tell me they've found the books sexually empowering."

There are so many things wrong with this line of logic, and Jenny Trout explains it best and in a calm, rational way. But the biggest issue is her utter denial of the abuse. She refuses to acknowledge what "women who actually go through it" are telling her. If you point out the abuse to her on Twitter, even in a nice, respectful way, she will block you. To my disappointment, this book was not a literary tool used to generate discussion over the (completely unrelated) subjects of kink and abuse, but just the poorly written fantasy of a bored woman. (I won't even touch on the many ways the writing sucks. It would take too long and would derail the point.) I've got no problem people with sharing fantasies. Erotica is a bonafide genre of fiction, enjoyed by many. And BDSM is a legitimate form of kink, safe and fun for those who play by the rules. The abuse we're all talking about happens outside of The Red Room of Pain. When we as a society start to glorify abusive relationships and girls are walking around saying things like, "Someday I'll find my Christian Grey," it worries me. 

If you find your Christian Grey, you should run far away. You won't want to. You'll want to stay and make everything better. You'll want to curl up in a ball and cry and wonder why he doesn't love you like you love him. You'll want to scream in his face and stomp your feet until he finally respects you. And finally, exhausted and broken, you'll walk away. If you're lucky. If you're not, maybe the emotional abuse will escalate into physical abuse. It'll happen once, and he'll swear it will never happen again and you'll believe him. He'll say he needs you, he loves you, he needs your help. But it will happen again. And then, maybe, you will escape, bruised and battered, with your life. Maybe you won't. Maybe it doesn't escalate to physical abuse. Maybe he just keeps berating you, making you feel like an utter fuck-up. He hasn't changed and it's your fault. You aren't good enough to help him. Your self-esteem is so far gone, you hate yourself. You hate that you can't make him love you. You're a failure and the only way to stop fucking everything up is to kill yourself.

Take away the sex. Take away the charm. Take away the excuses. Being "fifty shades of fucked up" is not an excuse to abuse your significant other. There is no excuse. Take those things away and you're left with a pathetic creep who stalks, threatens, humiliates, manipulates and coerces a young, naive victim.

My hope is that my friends who go see Fifty Shades of Grey will leave, much like Rosie Waterland, telling their friends (and daughters), "Yeah, that story is exciting. But, boy, is it fucked up! What a perfect example of an unhealthy relationship. Isn't it great that we live these boring, vanilla lives?" Because it is great. And I hope you never have to see the other side. I hope you can practice safe, sane consensual sex with someone who loves and respects you and cares about your satisfaction -- physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Because no one deserves to feel the way Christian makes Ana feel. My hope is that this book and movie is the closest you ever come to an abusive relationship. If you've been there, you know. 

There's been some activists encouraging people to donate to Domestic Violence shelters with the hashtag, 50 Dollars Not 50 Shades. There are a lot of things I dislike about this campaign -- the propaganda isn't well-researched, it cites flawed studies, and the slander against the BDSM community is unfounded and feels very witch-hunty -- so I'm certainly not advocating this particular cause. But I can get behind the basic premise of it. I can't afford 50 dollars and I don't expect anyone to donate that much. But maybe skip the popcorn and put that money toward your local domestic violence shelter or to your state's coalition of National Network to End Domestic Violence. Maybe you think this is all blown out of proportion -- it's just a story after all. But for many women (and men), this is real and it is scary. And they need your support.

Everyone's Battle Is Different

I am a successful, contributing member of society, approaching thirty years of age. But there was actually a time in my life when I couldn't see myself living past 20. I remember remarking to myself on my 21st birthday that I'd made it farther than I ever thought and wondering how much longer I could go on. By then, a lot in my life had changed for the better. Things were good and I still had these terrible thoughts in my head. Since then, I finished college. I studied writing, an outlet for my passion and creativity, as well as a source of therapy. Since then, I found a loving, supportive man who loves me not despite all the darkness inside of me but because of it — and then I proposed to him and we got married. Since then, I've moved out of that house that reminded me of such a bad time in my life, and out of that town that held so many memories of people I'd rather forget, where everywhere I turned was a ghost of my past. I made a career with the same company I joined when I was 16 years old, moving my way up the corporate restaurant ladder. Oh, and I still occasionally do that thing I got my degree in.

How did I get here? as the Talking Heads would ask.

A friend told me today, "I'm proud of you for overcoming everything you've gone through in your life." I love her and I am truly fortunate to have people like her in my life who know what depression can do to people and who understand that everyone has a struggle. But I don't feel strong or brave. I look at people who overcome cancer and I think they are strong. I look at people who overcome sexual assault and I think they are strong. I look at soldiers to live with PTSD and I think they are strong. Those people have overcome. Those people have gone through worlds more that I have. For me to sit here and talk about my depression as if I've been through something traumatic is just pathetic. It's whiny bullshit, isn't it?

There's always a bigger fish. There will always be people with bigger problems, more righteous anger, or more serious issues. I can't cry because that shows weakness. If I talk about my problems, I'm asking for pity. If someone notices my scars, I cut myself for attention. I don't want any of these things. I would rather slink into a dark corner and die alone. How do I dare talk about my problems when so many people are going through or have overcome so much more than I have? 

That's the problem with the mental health stigma: that feeling of guilt and shame that accompanies any conversation regarding ones own problems. But everyone's battle is different. Someone out there is going through the same things I did. The struggle of the middle-class white kid stuck in a small town with demons in her head telling her she'll never be good enough, but knowing that it could be a hell of a lot worse, and knowing that doesn't make her feel a damn bit better. I have to keep reminding myself that this is why I am writing this: for her.

I'm still trying to figure out how exactly I made it this far. Identifying the tipping point isn't easy. I didn't just wake up one day and regain control of my life. There were baby steps that I took to get there. Positive affirmation was the biggest factor. But it was a journey worth writing about, so I will gather my thoughts on it and compose something at a later date. 

For now, I'll leave you with a final thought. It's National Suicide Prevention Week. There are people out there in the world who see suicide at such a foreign idea. They wonder how anyone could ever think that it is a reasonable solution to their problems. (It's not.) I hope those people recognize how fortunate they are and attempt to reserve their judgments. I have a wonderful life and I know that people would never guess it, but there are still days that I wish I wasn't alive. And considering the astounding 350 million people around the globe that have depression, if you aren't one of them, I guarantee there are friends and family of yours who have the same dark thoughts come creeping into their minds. So what can you do to help? Show them you care. Listen when they talk. Call them up or send a message. Ask what's wrong when they seem upset. Give them time to answer and don't be surprised if they have trouble articulating it. Don't pretend to know how they feel and don't make it about you. Just be there. And let them know how important they are to you. 

And if you are one of those 350 million? Talk about it! The only way we can help each other understand how common mental health issues are is to start talking about our own battles. Tell people what it's like to live an hour in your head. Speak out (with compassion) when you hear someone saying they don't get it and help them understand. And catch yourself when you start to judge someone you deem "crazier" than you. 

Finally, I know calling hotlines is weird and scary, but seriously, if you are at the end of your rope, if your situation has become so desperate that suicide is your last resort, I'm begging you to please at least call these folks first: National Suicide Prevention Lifeline — 1-800-273-8255.