And in that vein, this overwhelmed suburbanite is experiencing her own sizable shifts in personal history. All morning, a blue plastic package, roughly 3x8 inches and a 1/2-inch wide, has held my inner and outer attention. I pick it up. Turn it around and around. Read the label. Set it back down on the coffee table. Move on to a chore. Return to the coffee table. Repeat . . . without a lather and rinse. It's been there since yesterday afternoon when I brought it home from the pharmacy. Where it had been called in as a prescription by my primary care doctor after a follow-up visit for fatigue and related symptoms. A visit where I ended up connecting dots I've long found creative ways to keep separate.
To be honest, I think I have known for a year that the emotional quicksand bogs of my periods had begun popping up with increasing frequency and their pull on me went from requiring a mountaineering rope to a construction crane! And the line between PMS and everyday began to blur. I was -- I am -- investing far too much daily effort to wrest myself free of the sucking pit at my feet. Well, over my feet, over my knees, and sometimes higher.
Factor in the uncommon: my ongoing struggles with an eating/body image disorder which has dogged me since the impressionable age of 10; the burden I willingly shoulder for my brother as he battles his childhood, drug use, mental illness, and institutionalized thinking; standing tall in the wake of two major life crises within our nuclear family over the past two years; supporting my youngest sister as she wends her way through psychiatric treatment/recovery and the Colorado court system after the post-partum psychotically enacted deaths of her two children.
Include the more common life occurrences: your child graduating and moving on to college, responsibilities to volunteer and do your part with church and school and sports, being there for friends and extended family, keeping a household and its finances out of the RED ink. Shake it all up and pour it into one person's brain. Somewhere in that challenging and volatile mix, even the most motivated of thinkers, the most principled of prayer-seeking, the most befriended of gals, the most driven of individuals, the most balanced of 'emoters,' (I think you see where I'm going with this) may discover the quicksand is entirely too wide to avoid, too deep to rely upon the regular rescue. And folks, I'm not the MOST of anything on that list, save for possibly the 'befriended' category. 1 outta 5 ain't bad!
All of that to say this: I'm depressed. Out of the seven options in 'dictionary.com' for the word DEPRESSED, there are two I would choose to fit my situation. I'm combining them here.
adj. sad; dejected; being below the norm
(I also like a segment of the botanical/zoological definition: flattened down)
Though I don't fit the stereotypical profile of clinical depression which most people carry around in their heads -- I don't sleep all day, neglect personal upkeep, shun social interaction -- I do check off on every single symptom, save for suicidal thoughts, on the depression checklist. The fact that I can write a positive blog or laugh or find beauty in small things or force myself to exercise, get dressed, and generally push through my days, doesn't exclude depression. Quite the opposite, as I am consciously making myself do each of these things to fight the descent I feel within me. People rely on me. God has a plan for me. I don't want it there. I reject its presence. I've tried a host of non-medication assists to root it out. But what I'm feeling is beyond a "read your Bible more and pray often" approach. It has surpassed what the benefits of exercise-induced adrenaline offers. Organic foods and herbal remedies won't touch it. The power of positive thinking gains only a foothold. I'm flattened down.
In a nutshell -- I rather like the appearance of the Brazil nut -- I am in turns angry, irritated, upset to the point of crying, sometimes sobbing, more than is healthy for my outlook. More than is healthy for my kids to witness. Or for my husband to comfort. I don't enjoy gardening, cooking, reading or writing with the same passion I once did. My once sharp edges are dull. Outside of the iron- and B12-deficient fatigue dragging me down, there is an underlying weariness which constantly tugs at every elemental corner of who I am. I recognize this dark character as someone I've met in other men and women over my lifetime. When he gains entry, some folks allow him to unload his furniture and live rent-free while he tears down brightly-painted walls and rips out gorgeous hardwood flooring. I have no wish to be his landlord. Instead, I'm hoping to serve final eviction papers. ASAP!
SSRI's (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors) are a specific class of antidepressants which can pick up the slack where personal efforts leave off for people truly seeking a leg UP and OUT of the quicksand. They work by increasing the brain's level of serotonin -- a hormone which acts as a neurotransmitter and is often considered a 'feed good' chemical. Think Prozac, Paxil, Luvox, Lexapro, Zoloft, and Celexa. Prozac was sub-branded several years back as a product called Sarafem and marketed to counter the very real effects of PMDD (pre-menstrual dysphoric disorder). The actual word, 'seraphim' refers to celestial beings, the highest order of angels, and appears in Isaiah's vision as written in the Old Testament. I'm not sure what the company was alluding to there though I have actually cried out to the heavens during my more agonizing period episodes and felt the opposite of angelic in the foggy emotion-impaired state preceding these monthly painful interludes! My little blue plastic box contains the generic version of Celexa.
You know, I tell my brother, "Gary, you have a chemical imbalance in your brain which you can't control. Take the lithium while you get counseling and gather the tools you need to begin managing your life!" and I believe it. Beyond all doubt, I know he needs medication. I've listened to the very real stories of close friends and family members who reached similar points in their own lives, some with obvious triggers and others with no discernible cause, and they were helped by antidepressants. Combining their use with counseling, exercise, stress reduction, and time, in varying degrees, improved their ability to function outside of the robotic life movements which often accompany moderate depression. These were not not flawed, weak, or 'crazy' people. I didn't judge them. I could appreciate their journey out of a mental and emotional quagmire.
You know, I tell my brother, "Gary, you have a chemical imbalance in your brain which you can't control. Take the lithium while you get counseling and gather the tools you need to begin managing your life!" and I believe it. Beyond all doubt, I know he needs medication. I've listened to the very real stories of close friends and family members who reached similar points in their own lives, some with obvious triggers and others with no discernible cause, and they were helped by antidepressants. Combining their use with counseling, exercise, stress reduction, and time, in varying degrees, improved their ability to function outside of the robotic life movements which often accompany moderate depression. These were not not flawed, weak, or 'crazy' people. I didn't judge them. I could appreciate their journey out of a mental and emotional quagmire.
But I am judging myself, as is my habit, afraid I will turn out to be the broken one who can't be repaired. I'm also beating back that lurking fear of medication which kept me from taking something as simple as OTC ibuprofen for labor-like period pains for over a year. I also realize that by posting this, it leaves me open to criticism and conjecture. There is yet a mystique associated with an endeavor like this. My own teenage daughter exclaimed, "Oh my God, what's the matter with you!?" when I told her I was trying an antidepressant. On the other side of that coin, though, are people who identify with all or part of this cycle. Maybe this will encourage a fellow sufferer to take the plunge. Or remind one in the midst of treatment that he or she made the right choice. Or I'll receive a healthy dose of empathy from one of the many success stories out there who have graduated from 'forcing their way through life' to 'purposefully navigating through life.'
The reality, however, is painfully clear to me. Unless I enjoy thick sludgy nastiness flooding my ears, eyes, nose, and throat, I'd better pop the foil on that RDY 343-imprinted Citalopram tablet and chase it back with a full eight ounces of cool filtered water.
Bottoms up.
Bottoms up.
Pop it, girl. Have no fear. <3
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