It really isn’t when it comes to me discussing how my life is going and more importantly, my depression. No one really wants to talk about it. And I don’t in general like to fill my blog or tweets or flickr up with talking about it–because ultimately I’m on my own with it.
It isn’t so much that I hide it–I’m very honest about having it and suffering with it from my teens onward but that when I hit patches I can go one of 2 ways: I focus on only one thing or interest and try to use that to push through until I can get to a more tolerable spot mentally and emotionally OR 2) I try to carry on as usual and keep hoping that it will improve or I will encounter something that makes me feel some kind of interest or whatever to help me drag my psyche out of the inertia it ends up trapped by. Or 3) I have a major depressive episode and I see a doctor and either get put on meds or am hospitalized.
So. Yes. I have been suffering.
Because I couldn’t make #1 happen and #2 wasn’t helping.
Nothing I did was making a difference.
I don’t think I realized exactly how bad it’s been the last 6 or 7 months.
Bad. Unpleasant. Fatiguing. Pointless. Useless.
Those words don’t really cover it.
I contemplated alternatives. I thought about what the world, my cats and my husband would have to deal with if I wasn’t around. I have been a “downer” and a “bummer”. And even though I knew it I could not seem to do anything to change it. I thought a lot of it was related to the severe insomnia I suffer from. My doctor insisted that I was suffering from a generalized anxiety disorder but she wouldn’t take my concerns seriously. I was told it was all anxiety related. Which of course made me feel worse. I have been hospitalized for depression in the past and I know enough about myself to know what I’m experiencing.
The last time I saw my doctor mentioned that it was worse and that things were getting much more difficult to cope with and that the depression was making my life pretty much not worth the while to live.
That sounds more dramatic than it was.
It has just been the case that doing anything took so much more effort than I had. Interacting with people was about putting on a smiley face and then crying when I got home. All the things I took joy in — my dolls, my action figures, my photography all were too much for me to do or consider. It was picking up a craft knife and not thinking about crafting.
So about two months ago she prescribed 2 different things for me: 1 is an anti anxiety med and the other is a drug that is supposed to help me to sleep and also, have the added use of being efficacious as an antidepressant.
Anyway, I’ve been taking them and I am finally starting to feel closer to how I used to feel, back when my depression was relatively controlled.
And you know what?
I am starting to “play” with my dolls again!
I can feel the twinges of wanting to write scripts for them again. And to work on diorama projects that have been languishing half-begun or still stuck in planning stages.
I don’t feel good. But I feel better. And the fact that I am able to start looking at this stuff again without feeling guilty or like a failure must be a good thing.
I’ll update more soon.