Depression, My Old Friend

I'm sorry I haven't posted in forever. I keep hoping that after a doctor's appointment I'd be able to get on here and post that we'd finally found the right medicine combination for me! But it hasn't happened yet. And the fact that we haven't found the right combination means that right now, I'm in a slump. It got particularly bad last week. On Thursday I felt so miserable that even getting out of bed was a major challenge. Luckily it was a short-lived bad streak and today I'm feeling alright. I think I'm still mildly depressed because I still don't feel a whole lot of joy in the world, but I'm headed the right direction. For now. Which brings me back to depression, my old friend.

I've dealt with depression off and on since I was 10 or 11 years old. Maybe younger, but definitely by then. I know this because when I was in 5th grade (11 years old) my uncle committed suicide and I had a major wake up call. I was seriously scared because I realized that I was depressed and headed toward suicide if I didn't get help. That's not a wake up call any 5th grader should ever experience, but unfortunately, it was mine. It's been over 15 years and I've had many wake up calls since then, most of them dealing with depression. They all started with one day in May when my parents said my uncle had disappeared and was suicidal.

Depression was a hush, hush topic at my house which is kind of silly. I've had two uncles commit suicide. You'd think we would have talked about it. And we did...kind of. But when we talked about my uncles, we talked about their faults. One was an alcoholic, so him being depressed and committing suicide could be easily explained away (because him being an alcoholic couldn't possibly have been because he was depressed). The other had anger issues (again, couldn't be the depression/mental health disorder causing the anger not the other way around). Depression and suicide were always talked about as if they were the result of something wrong with the character of the person if they were talked about at all. So what was a little 11 year old supposed to think on that day when I realized that I was depressed? I thought there must be something wrong with me, my character, my person that made me depressed. Maybe I wasn't a good enough girl. Maybe I was too sensitive. Maybe I had the wrong attitude. Maybe I needed to repent of something I was doing wrong.

I was scared to tell anyone I was depressed because that would be admitting there was something wrong with me. I did tell my dad that I was sad a lot of the time, and nothing came of it. That experience "proved" to me that telling people didn't help and could potentially hurt. So I told no one until I was in 8th or 9th grade when I told my best guy friend. He told me that he couldn't even imagine me as sad. I was a good little liar by that point. But underneath my big smiles was the lurking depression.

Depression lived with me through high school, through my foreign exchange trip to Germany, and on. The worst was when it completely messed up my first attempt at college. I went from being an honor student to being put on academic probation. It was in college that I was initially diagnosed as having clinical depression. You should have seen my mom (whose two brothers committed suicide) when I told her I was diagnosed with depression and went on medicine. Her crocheting went from the normal relaxed to super duper fast. She was angry. The thing that helped me was my "perfect" sister was diagnosed with depression about the same time. Me, my depression might be brushed aside as behavioral issues, but my sister didn't have those in my book. Obviously depression ran in my family. With that diagnosis I started to let go of the belief that there was a flaw in my character because of my depression. Even if my mom couldn't see that it was a medical issue, not a character issue, I started to realize it and that was enough.

Now I know that I don't struggle with clinical depression. I'm bipolar NOS and have to deal with hypomania on top of my depression. Depression, my old friend, is only half the battle. But for me, it's the worst half. It's the half that robs me of my will to live. It's the half that makes me feel worthless and not good enough. It's the half that makes me think that maybe my mom was right and there is something wrong with me beyond my disorder.

Depression may be my frequent companion, but I refuse to let it rob me of my life. I've been suicidal before. I know what it's like to review my life and think there's nothing worth living for but that's a lie. There is ALWAYS something worth living for, even if it's just to see one more sunset, to watch the moon make it's way across the sky, to see a delicate flower. Life can be beautiful, even if it's only for a moment. One moment is sometimes all it takes to keep me going for one more day. And each day turns into another until somehow I find myself waking up one morning and realizing that my friend, depression, has left me once more.

Breaking Stigmas

I just had an interesting conversation about depression with a friend. It was one of those not so good interesting conversations. He started by saying people with depression should do more to get themselves out of it. I explained that sometimes people were just doing the best they could to hang on and doing more to get out of it wasn't an option. He then took the "I was depressed once and I didn't have to use medicine and I got out of it fine" approach. I very carefully stated that not everyone can do that. This friend somehow had missed all the conversations I'd had with people about my mental illness because he still didn't realize that the some people I'm talking about include myself. Finally, after listening to a little bit more I couldn't take it anymore and I admitted that I spent all of Christmas break (and into the semester) depressed. My medicine search is still in process and I've spent the last couple months having a hard time getting out of bed every morning, much less doing things like homework. Once he realized that he was judging me with his statements his tune changed and he was supportive (to an extent--he still didn't get it).

It makes me wonder how often this situation occurs. People judge those with mental illnesses because they don't understand them only to later learn their harsh words were directed toward those know and care about. Unfortunately this happens too often. My own mom was very upset the day I told her I was struggling from depression. She had this idea that being depressed meant I was doing something wrong. It was my fault. Part of me was actually relieved that when I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I didn't have to tell her. How horrible is that--being glad my mom was dead so I don't have to face her with my illness?!?! The sad thing is my mom knew depression. She experienced it often. That judgement that she sent my way the day I told her I was struggling with depression back when I was 18 is the same judgement she sent herself every day she dealt with depression. Our society still has deep stigmas about mental illnesses, whether we like it or not, and those stigmas are hurting people.

After the conversation ended and my friend left, a lady who was nearby and overheard the conversation told me she thought I was awesome, that she didn't know how I do what I do while dealing with mental illnesses, and that someone has to be the spokesperson. I responded honestly. I don't know how I've made it as far as I have considering my depression and hypomanic periods. I also agree, someone has to be the spokesperson. Better yet, we need spokespeople. We need more people like me who are willing to say "No, you're wrong. Mental Illnesses are REAL diseases that can be classified next to things like diabetes and heart disease. You wouldn't judge me if I told you I had to take insulin. Don't judge me because I have to take a mood stabilizer."

I'm lucky. I *mostly* have supportive friends and family. I am surrounded by people who care. This makes it easier for me to stand up and say "hey! I'm bipolar! Like sucks right now because I'm struggling with a bad depression. I'm doing the best I can but it might not be what you think is good enough." But I feel really bad for so many people out there with my disorder and disorders like it, the ones who don't have the support I have. That's why I need to talk about the disorder. I have to be the one who says these things because I can without it hurting me too badly. I might lose a friend or two, but I have a solid support system who will stand by me even though I'm definitely not perfect. Stigmas will only change if we change them. That's why I'm sharing my guts with you. Not because it's easy, but because it needs to happen and I can be part of that change.

Here's the cool thing: you can be part of the change too. It's really simple actually. Be patient with people who have mental health disorders. Try to be understanding. And accept them for who they are. You do those things and you are a part of the change. It's that easy.

And if you're one of the many of us with a disorder but don't feel comfortable sharing your story, I understand that too. Just be careful to not jump on the wagon my mom rode on and think the disorders are a sign of weakness. You are a wonderful person. Sure, you may not be perfect, but you're good the way you are and so am I, disorder or not.