“I am prone to depression”.
No.
“Sometimes I get depressed”.
No.
“I struggle with dep-” No.
“Depression has always been a-” No, that’s stupid.
I never talk about it except to my husband, and even that is new. Before him, the only time I came close to discussing it was if someone demanded that yes-I-did remember that-one-time that-one-thing happened, and I have to find a delicate and elusive way around the fact that I don’t. At all. I don’t remember most of what you said or he said or she said or I said at all during that particular time. The worst “bout of depression” years ago, that required 4 or 5 different prescriptions and a psychologist to fish me back out. I am still fascinated by stories with me in them that happened during that time; pictures with me in them that I don’t remember posing for. I lost a lot of that time, but the point is, I survived, and for the most part, for most of the time, that was all I was doing.
And now when it creeps in, I hide and deny. I don’t want drugs or doctors or labels or diagnoses. I am immediately terrified that it is going to get that bad again and I hide and pretend I am fine; all the while snapping at my family, agonizing over old wounds I can’t bear to let heal, building walls, rationalizing the idea of never leaving the house again. Giving in.
And then I emerge and I look around, three months later this time, and realize I have been disconnected, disjointed, disengaged. I come out with almost a manic explosion; I need to write this out, check everything, ask everyone, know everything, NOW. I have to get out, get moving, get something, go somewhere – do something. All in an effort to bandage anything I let bleed while I was ‘gone’. Gather up anything I missed, pick up whatever I dropped, feel anything I shuttered against and let bounce off me while I was under my rock.
I hate and love this part. Hate that I missed things. Hate that my baby is four months old and I just shrugged a three month drudge off my shoulders. Love that it didn’t last three years and I am here now. Hate that I must have felt distant to my kids and they (like I did at their ages) may have wondered what they did to deserve that. Love that I came out of it long before they got fed up and gave up on me (like I did at their ages).
Finally the blackness has lifted, but my bones ache after dragging it around for so many miles.
But it lifted, and I came out and now I am gathering up everything I missed out on while I was gone, and that’s the point.
There. Now I officially ’talk’ about it.
Just found you from your post on Bad Mother’s Basement. And when I read this particular post it almost made me cry. This was me, too. In some ways, I guess it still is. Just wanted to say hi. And let you know you aren’t alone. And that meds aren’t bad. They are really helping me right now. I’ll do whatever it takes to NEVER go back to that place again and put my kids and husband through that. EVER.
[...] problem with being someone who “suffers from depression” is that you can’t tell the difference between sad or down or blue and depressed. You [...]