I don't talk much about Chronic Clinical Depression. I tend to focus on Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome because they are lesser known, and horribly misunderstood. In fact, my hope is that my mention of those diseases will contribute, just a little, to the fight to get them recognized and understood.
However, I also suffer from Chronic Clinical Depression. I knew something wasn't right as far back as age 10 or 11. I can not get happy. What others call happy, for me, is mild mania. I was just born with my wires zinging when they should zapping. I suffered through many years of sadness, thoughts of suicide...and being told that I had no right to feel either. Of course, humor became my coping mechanism. So, who'd a thunk I was so miserable underneath all that good stand-up?
At the age of 25, after two breakdowns, and my mother finally being scared shitless one time too many, my doctor was called--he called me at work to tell me to get my sad-ass self to see him. They even worked me into the branch office on that very day. I was clinically depressed, I was told, and sorely lacking in B-Vitamins. I can't recall the anti-depressant I was put on, but I remember the B vitamins kicking in, and feeling like I was walking on air! I take them religiously to this day.
I have been on dozens of different anti-depressant, anti-anxiety, anti-psychotic meds in the 25 years since. I can only recall a few, and I suppose it's because they are the ones that did not work for me. I also started seeing a counselor. That poor first guy. I remember he had brown/red curly hair and wore clogs.
My visits with him were, at first, accusations that he didn't really want to sit there and listen to me, he just wanted my money. So, there were several silent sessions. I think what broke the ice was a recurring dream I'd been having about being a cheerleader and trying to climb some stairs at a beach place or something. Once I'd voiced my dream and he explained the symbolism, the dream never...ever returned. I became a fan. I read self-help books, more and more able to identify myself in them. And then he moved on. I was furious. There were the abandonment issues all over again.
I saw many counselors over the years. Each had their own style. Some pissed me off at every session. Strangely, the one that pissed me off the most was the one that helped me reach my "rock bottom". Once there, the healing could begin. And I did heal some. With the introduction of Prozac, in 1990 or so, I felt...like me. Or like I always thought I should be, but for some reason couldn't quite reach. I was funny again, and bright. I felt good about myself, and the hard journey I'd travelled to get to to that place. And Prozac worked wonders...for about six years. And that state started creeping in again. "The Nothing", as it was called in "The Neverending Story". But, by now, I was a wife and a mother to a six yr old, and a newborn.
When it started to crash down again, I was referred to a psycho pharmacologist. This was a man licensed to use me as a guinea pig, to find the right combination of medications to get me "even". I am still seeing this man. I am very fortunate that what little insurance I have covers part of his fee. We have tried many drugs in many combinations to combat the sadness, the weariness, the "nothing", the lack of sleep, and the Fibromyalgia/CFIDS, Not an easy task for either of us. He has proclaimed me to be one of his most frustrating patients, something that makes me proud. I mean if you're going to go through all the pain and suffering, you may as well be the best at it! As of this day, our combination is working.....
.....Or is it? For months I have felt flat-line. Nothing gives me pleasure, or interests me, or motivates me. I feel the same in nearly every situation. I am very tired. Yes, tired...on top of the usual fatigue. Don't get me wrong. I feel grateful each and every day, for each and every day. I praise God for the roof over my head and any food in the house. I cherish every conversation I have with my son. But, it's all in this, I don't know...null...place. I think it's guinea pig time again.
The struggles of someone fighting depression are often seen as laziness, not giving a damn, not working hard enough, not caring about their kids, their spouse. People, tired of the "drama" demand you pick yourself up and brush yourself off and move on. Boot straps are a popular suggestion. Think happy thoughts. Smile at people. Volunteer your time. Some of these are helpful suggestions. But, if you are in that abyss that is depression, none of it matters a whit.
For years and years no one spoke of the person who was "just not right". Through the years the topic has been addressed in movies, sitcoms, TV dramas, and soap operas. And yet, a stigma remains. I truly hope that at some point I can get the DVD, "No Kidding, Me Too!". It is a project of Joey Pants (Pantelioni), who has suffered for many years. In it, stars like Harrison Ford and Mike Wallace relay their own struggles. Mr. Pants hopes to further raise awareness on this widespread disease.
Depression is all around us. It comes in many forms, many ages, has many origins, and many solutions. Right now I am back on the hamster wheel looking for something to bring me above null. I know it's out there, cause I've seen others display it. In the meantime, I'll cry over minor things, become overwhelmed easily, and feel completely alone, all the time knowing that my psycopharmy and I can kick it again.
So, bear with me world. Better yet...give me a hug!
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The Young Woman I Never Knew
Last night, in our tiny town, a beautiful young woman died. As of this time, I do not know the cause. She just...passed. She was a year younger than my ex-stepdaughter, which makes her around 19. I did not know her as I did many of the other girls around that age. I did not know her favorite color, or music group, or even if she played many sports.
What I do know is: Her father works with my ex, and is a funny, smart man. Her mother is hilarious, and seems game for any kind of fun. I know she was beautiful. I know she was mischievous. I know she rode her four wheeler too fast. I know she helped others as a CNA. I know that I always confused her with another girl that shared the ride to UWP with my ex-stepdaughter. I know she enjoyed life with many friends doing what friends in a town of 800 do. I know she didn't take a bad picture. All in all, I don't know much.
And yet, my heart aches tremendously for those that did know her. As a parent, I ache for hers--not even able to comprehend such a loss. As a friend, I ache for her friends, now having to deal with the hole in the group. I hope they can fill that hole with great memories and hysterical mishaps. As a member of the community, I ache for all the people she touched even for a minute, with a 'hi' or a smile.
The world, the community, the gang, the family, is one person shy of complete today.
What I do know is: Her father works with my ex, and is a funny, smart man. Her mother is hilarious, and seems game for any kind of fun. I know she was beautiful. I know she was mischievous. I know she rode her four wheeler too fast. I know she helped others as a CNA. I know that I always confused her with another girl that shared the ride to UWP with my ex-stepdaughter. I know she enjoyed life with many friends doing what friends in a town of 800 do. I know she didn't take a bad picture. All in all, I don't know much.
And yet, my heart aches tremendously for those that did know her. As a parent, I ache for hers--not even able to comprehend such a loss. As a friend, I ache for her friends, now having to deal with the hole in the group. I hope they can fill that hole with great memories and hysterical mishaps. As a member of the community, I ache for all the people she touched even for a minute, with a 'hi' or a smile.
The world, the community, the gang, the family, is one person shy of complete today.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
When Best Isn't Good Enough
I must have been raised differently. Or maybe I don't remember, but I don't think that's it.
One dollar is one dollar. In the shape of a bill, four quarter, or two quarter and five dimes--it all equals a dollar. So, when my son came to me for a dollar to go the the BB game, why did he give it back and say he just wouldn't go to the game? And why do I feel like I'll never be good enough for him...or anyone?
My income comes mostly from disability, the horrid category I am put into due to the many illnesses I have. Let it be noted that to get disability "status" you go through a vigorous questioning, get turned down a few times (just to weed out the fakers), and even may have to see the State psychologist. This income pays the majority of my bills. A bit of child support and alimony pays for the small stuff. But, there is never quite enough to pay for the extra things. Sporting events, sport gear, school lunches, xBox points, iTunes, school dances, etc, etc...
I have mentioned before that to save money I don't go out to bars, or to dinner, or to the movies...or anywhere but the grocery store, the doctor, and to see my Mom. And one thing has become painfully clear to me. Human touch is an absolute necessity in life. I am at the point where I ache for a hug. And I don't care how much it hurts. I like it when the nurse takes my pulse because she is touching my skin. I like when the cashier counts my money back because she brushes my hand. My son is not a hugger. Any time that he has, I have let it absorb into every pore on my body because I know it will be a long time until the next one. It's ironic, though. I have hugs to dole out like candy at a parade. I am steeping with love...to give. I give it out through my many friends on facebook, and I enjoy making people laugh, and hopefully feel a bit better for my words to them. But, of course, this is virtual.
After I became single again, I was pretty content with being alone. No one to answer to, but me and the needs of my son. My time. No justification as to where I went or what I did or didn't do. No accusals of faking my illnesses. I still feel these freedoms, but after three years of being alone, I need something. A special someone. Someone that I can count on to put there arms around me, and just hold on. I'm still not looking for marriage. I don't hold alot of faith in that piece of paper. But, I admit it, I need someone. I am strong, and I am a trooper, but even troopers have deputies......
One dollar is one dollar. In the shape of a bill, four quarter, or two quarter and five dimes--it all equals a dollar. So, when my son came to me for a dollar to go the the BB game, why did he give it back and say he just wouldn't go to the game? And why do I feel like I'll never be good enough for him...or anyone?
My income comes mostly from disability, the horrid category I am put into due to the many illnesses I have. Let it be noted that to get disability "status" you go through a vigorous questioning, get turned down a few times (just to weed out the fakers), and even may have to see the State psychologist. This income pays the majority of my bills. A bit of child support and alimony pays for the small stuff. But, there is never quite enough to pay for the extra things. Sporting events, sport gear, school lunches, xBox points, iTunes, school dances, etc, etc...
I have mentioned before that to save money I don't go out to bars, or to dinner, or to the movies...or anywhere but the grocery store, the doctor, and to see my Mom. And one thing has become painfully clear to me. Human touch is an absolute necessity in life. I am at the point where I ache for a hug. And I don't care how much it hurts. I like it when the nurse takes my pulse because she is touching my skin. I like when the cashier counts my money back because she brushes my hand. My son is not a hugger. Any time that he has, I have let it absorb into every pore on my body because I know it will be a long time until the next one. It's ironic, though. I have hugs to dole out like candy at a parade. I am steeping with love...to give. I give it out through my many friends on facebook, and I enjoy making people laugh, and hopefully feel a bit better for my words to them. But, of course, this is virtual.
After I became single again, I was pretty content with being alone. No one to answer to, but me and the needs of my son. My time. No justification as to where I went or what I did or didn't do. No accusals of faking my illnesses. I still feel these freedoms, but after three years of being alone, I need something. A special someone. Someone that I can count on to put there arms around me, and just hold on. I'm still not looking for marriage. I don't hold alot of faith in that piece of paper. But, I admit it, I need someone. I am strong, and I am a trooper, but even troopers have deputies......
Monday, February 14, 2011
Just another Monday in Paradise
Valentines Day has never been my favorite holiday. Having grown up plain, and built like a linebacker, I was not one to get Valentines from the opposite sex. I was loud, and knew nothing about that art called flirting. Hard to get? Try hard to escape! Really, it just was not a day I "celebrated" love, or anything else.
I've only had one special someone during any Valentines Day, and even those fifteen Valentines Days were only scattered with what one could call romance. There were some nice weekend getaways, and in the beginning, very nice jewelry. But, I was not a jewelry gal. Not the only-wear-when-going-"out" kind, anyway. This may have been a disappointment to my someone. What, then, is a man to give? I love bouquets of flowers, but he wouldn't send those because they wouldn't last. He was willing to send roses, which are beautiful, and smell wonderful, but they are not my favorite. Eventually, we forwent gifts altogether. And not long after, just mumbled the traditional greeting to each other.
My Dad always left a big Valentine heart of candy at our places at the table. He worked 16 hours a day, and managed to remember to sign a card for each of us. Even though he once was so tired he signed his name, rather than "Dad", it was a treasured treat. He will be gone ten years in four days. Hopefully, he's met Russel and Stover and Whitman to thank them for quick, easy...tasty gift ideas.
I've been divorced for three years now. My Valentine these days is my son. Of course, he would just d i e if he read that, but it's true. I told him from the time he was very, very young he was my Best Guy, and I still tell him that. And he still is. "Forever and ever, my baby he'll be."
Today, I was to have a date. Informal, casual meeting of two souls looking for someone to "hang" with. In perfect Valentine fashion, I was stood up. It should not surprise me. It should make me cry, right? It doesn't. Am I angry? Damn straight. Bitter? Yep. But, it is, after all, just Monday. In two days I have a bone scan to determine the cause of my hip pain. In three days I will pause to remember my Dad. A man that worked too hard...for us. Played too little...our loss. And loved very deeply...with no idea how to show it. But, he was my Valentine when I was young. At least I could count on that.
I've only had one special someone during any Valentines Day, and even those fifteen Valentines Days were only scattered with what one could call romance. There were some nice weekend getaways, and in the beginning, very nice jewelry. But, I was not a jewelry gal. Not the only-wear-when-going-"out" kind, anyway. This may have been a disappointment to my someone. What, then, is a man to give? I love bouquets of flowers, but he wouldn't send those because they wouldn't last. He was willing to send roses, which are beautiful, and smell wonderful, but they are not my favorite. Eventually, we forwent gifts altogether. And not long after, just mumbled the traditional greeting to each other.
My Dad always left a big Valentine heart of candy at our places at the table. He worked 16 hours a day, and managed to remember to sign a card for each of us. Even though he once was so tired he signed his name, rather than "Dad", it was a treasured treat. He will be gone ten years in four days. Hopefully, he's met Russel and Stover and Whitman to thank them for quick, easy...tasty gift ideas.
I've been divorced for three years now. My Valentine these days is my son. Of course, he would just d i e if he read that, but it's true. I told him from the time he was very, very young he was my Best Guy, and I still tell him that. And he still is. "Forever and ever, my baby he'll be."
Today, I was to have a date. Informal, casual meeting of two souls looking for someone to "hang" with. In perfect Valentine fashion, I was stood up. It should not surprise me. It should make me cry, right? It doesn't. Am I angry? Damn straight. Bitter? Yep. But, it is, after all, just Monday. In two days I have a bone scan to determine the cause of my hip pain. In three days I will pause to remember my Dad. A man that worked too hard...for us. Played too little...our loss. And loved very deeply...with no idea how to show it. But, he was my Valentine when I was young. At least I could count on that.
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