Superfluous Baloney

Today I was thinking about where I was at this time last year. What events had taken place, what things was I looking forward to, who I was involved with. I'm typically horrible about remembering such details. I can remember them when they surround other people, but never myself. However, I remember this point in time last year very well. I had just ended a difficult relationship 6 weeks prior and was feeling quite vulnerable and exposed. It was around this time that I jumped into "something" with someone else without thinking. There was a million different details that made thousands of red flags, alarm bells, etc. go off in my mind regarding this person and their circumstances. I knew better quite frankly, but I did it anyway because I posses an amazing ability to rationalize any damn thing to myself and to others. Sadly, they buy it and I buy it even more. So being the amazing persuader that I am, I jumped in head first into a very messy situation and was left heartbroken just three short months later.

A few weeks prior to the relationship completely dissolving there were some clear indicators that it was going south at a rapid pace. But I clung on convincing myself if I just didn't run this once it would pay off. However, as the days passed I became increasingly aware that it was going to end and it was going to end badly. When this realization hit me I fell into one of the deepest depressions I have yet to experience. I am not ignorant enough to believe it was the relationship that pushed me down into the dark, sadistic bowels of such a sickness. It was me that shoved myself in and would not allow a chance to come up for air. I had, yet again, placed myself in a predicament that was ridiculous and completely wrong for me. Not just once, but twice and in a row. The delicate balance of my Pysche was tipped drastically in an unfavorable direction as a result.

Being the stubborn little person that I am I did not reach out for help. I did not want to admit that I was weak and was not capable of climbing back out on my own. I didn't dare mention to anyone that I have the "illness." They would look at my differently, as if I was broken. As if I was crazy. Or worse, they wouldn't believe me. They might file me away with all the other whiney, unhappy people in the world and I would be discarded.

So I decided I had suffered through such spells before on my own and surely I could make it through another. Unfortunately, I underestimated the strength and determination of this particular episode and thus I was left writhing in it for a good six months or more. Work made up the extent of my social engagements and I only left the house on the weekends to go to the gym or hit the grocery store when my cupboards were so bare I literally only had a can of tomato sauce and a bag of two year old rice. I had no desire to see or converse or interact or even breathe near anyone else. I wasn't necessarily lonely, I just decided it was completely unacceptable for anyone to see me in such a state so I stayed home. For literally six months straight.

About four months in I finally got brave enough to go to the doctor and ask for my medication to be changed. Why did it take four months for me to make the effort? Because when you are depressed you don't necessarily want to get better. Depression wraps around you until it begins to feel like another layer of skin and unfortunately you don't realize it's actually choking you. In a sick, sadistic way, it is comforting. You know how to "do" depression, but getting well is unknown and frightening. What if you try and you just can't get better? What if you get better and then it happens again? (Which is inevitable by the way. It will happen again of course just hopefully for not as long.) When you are depressed logic doesn't work. You are trapped in your own universe where reason and reality don't exist. And if you are not reaching out to anyone to assist you in bringing reason back into your life you stay stuck. Thus, I went to the doctor in an effort to start the process of making the painful climb back out.

Within two weeks of being prescribed a new medicine that seemed to be somewhat working (it takes 30 days for an anti-depressant to absorb into your system completely) I suffered a seizure and they promptly took me off the meds. Thus, the depression continued and, like many others who suffer with such an illness, my thoughts during that time reached almost an embarrassingly deep level with much finality.

The lack of meds in my system only worsened the situation so I stayed submerged for another good two months until I finally made a decision. I literally woke up one day and decided I didn't want to feel this shit anymore. I wanted to be a normal, personable individual again. So I made an appointment with a new doctor. Thank God she happened to be someone who really knows her stuff. Unbeknowst to me at the time, she had actually written a few books on the subject. She was very up to date on current meds and how well they worked depending on the person and their symptoms. (For example, I suffer from anxiety as well as depression so I either need a med that treats both or a combo of two drugs.)

I then made a very risky decision. I asked her to put me on the med that (allegedly) caused the seizure. Of course, I didn't tell her about the little episode that had occurred a few months prior or she would have never taken the chance. Yes, there are other meds that are out there I could have tried. But the problem is with these types of meds is that they effect everyone differently. Some can make you lethargic and sleepy. (Ever seen anyone with that glazed zombie thing goin' on? Yeah, that could be from anti-depressants.) Others can have no impact and still some might make you into a complete anxiety ridden freak. So I was sneaky and did not disclose my prior experience. She prescribed the med along with another for the anxiety and one month later I started to feel normal again. Suddenly I didn't mind being around other living beings that were of my own species (the pooches were my bffs through that fun little episode). I actually WANTED to get out of the house on the weekends and be in public! I even took showers on Saturdays and Sundays! This was seriously notable improvement people. Although I will always be a homebody to some extent, I now don't mind actually making plans to socialize every once in awhile. (The puppies are not fans of that.)

I guess all of this is to say (with an excellent cliche mind you) "What a difference a year makes." I feel much more at ease these days and back to my normal blase` self. It just feels good to be sane again. I think after each one of these types of episodes you come out a little stronger than you were before, a little more resilient. It has taken me almost a full year to admit to anyone what I was experiencing during that time as I have never owned up to my illness before. I feel somewhat lightened from eliviating the load, but still slighlty timid and vulnerable over the thought of sharing this part of my life that I will always battle. It is difficult to say to someone, "I need medication to be normal" especially when you are a single gal traipsing through life as a solo unit. Not everyone is capable of understanding that it doesn't make someone a freak.

The other day I had someone accuse me of being "bi-polar." They were saying it to be mean and spiteful and they reached their goal. The negativity affiliated with such labels will always run rampant. I know several people who are in fact bi-polar. You would never know it if they did not tell you. Many of them put on a brave face for the world and hide their illness as I do because of comments like the one made to me. I'm sure that some ignorant will people will perpetuate the stigmatization of word, but I do believe as more people discover friends and family that suffer from various mental illnesses that negative connotation will eventually lessen at the very least.