Monday

Dickybird's post the other day has had me thinking quite a bit.

See, a few years ago, things got bad for me. First, I started not sleeping. Oh, I could get to sleep, just not stay asleep. I'd wake up about midnight, stay awake until 5 am or so, then fall asleep for 15 minutes before my alarm went off.

Then, I stopped having the energy to do anything. I went to work, showered every morning, but that was about it. Never one for housekeeping, I just stopped. dishes piled up in the sink, not for days, but weeks. I would throw them out, rather than wash them and put them away.

At the same time, several friends moved away. I've never liked being alone, and there I was. Alone.

The few friends I had left were getting married or partnered up... I was not. The wonderdog wasn't yet in my life, and I just felt...

Nothing.

I felt like my presence made no difference to anyone. Oh yeah, if I died my mom would be sad, but really, I made no impression on anything. I wasn't a good teacher, I wasn't attractive, no one wanted to be friends with me.

What was the point?

One night, out to dinner with my mom, she told me she would pay for me to see a therapist. She said she was worried.

Whatever. I'd go. But it was just a waste of money as far as I was concerned.

Again, what was the point?

But, off I went.

Now, I love to talk, usually. Particularly about myself. My mom loves repeating something I said when I was 12 years old, " You know Mom, I think I'd be a pretty good psychologist, but I'd really rather talk about me than anyone else."

I went to Dr. No-Talk-About-It, who gave me a diagnosis of Clinical Depression, gave me prescriptions for two anti-depressants, one anti-anxiety and a sleeping pill, and sent me on my way.

She didn't want to talk about my childhood, or my issues with men, or my father, or how I had such a hard time with my boss at work. Just take the pills, make sure there aren't any bad side effects, and bob's your uncle, you'll be cured.

Okay.

So, the suicide question. I never considered it, even while I was thinking how my existence had no meaning in this world. Why not? Not because of any spiritual or religious reason, and certainly not because I was thinking of the pain I'd cause if I left this life for good (I didn't think anyone would care or even notice, remember?). No, I didn't think about it, because it would have required some energy on my part. I was throwing out Calphalon pots rather than washing them; what kind of planning would have to go into offing myself?


The pills actually helped. I started sleeping, which helped me get back on track, and the drugs did... I don't know, make me feel a little less adrift. I knew I had to do more though, so I switched doctors. A friend once said that drugs are what kept me afloat, but I'd have to do the swimming back to shore on my own. As goofy as that sounds, it was true.

I've not taken the pills for gosh... four years now? I don't go to a shrink anymore, and I wash my dishes now... if not every day, then every other day.

But. Whenever I feel blue or down, I worry. Will it happen again? Is it coming back? Depression is frightening because it feels so real. It's not like there's blood or pus that needs to be attended to. Something that's obvious to others.

Depressed people are shitty to be around. A former friend of mine, who knew I was going through some rough times, didn't believe in depression. It was just me "feeling sorry for myself" and being "very unpleasant and bitter to be around." She told me that lots of people had it much worse than I did, and I should get over it.

I wasn't much fun then.

The memory of feeling like I didn't matter, like nothing mattered, is still vivid; I know now it was caused by a chemical imbalance in my brain (a chemical imbalance by the way, that is quite common with people with frontal lobe Epilepsy, which I had as a child). It felt real though.

Which is why I don't believe in letting people choose suicide in most circumstances. I don't believe it's a rational choice most of the time. We like to think we are in control. We like to think we can just "get over something" or "choose happiness" if we try hard enough. Sometimes we can't.

I didn't have a terrible childhood, I did well in school, traveled around the world, had a decent job.

Depression just happened. Lucky for me, I came out of it.

Suicide would have denied me that chance.