My Relationship with Mommy Blogs: It's Complicated

Last night, my husband and I watched a new movie called The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. As you may recall from high school English class, this was originally a short story by James Thurber, of The New Yorker fame in the early-mid 20th century, about a forgetful and imaginative man who escapes from his nagging wife and boring life into fantastic daydreams. (If you haven't read it, you're missing out. You should also read other James Thurber pieces, such as Nine Needles and The Night the Bed Fell on my Father. They don't write like that anymore). 

The movie took artistic liberties, with beautiful results. Walter still escapes into his head, but he's now running from the new boss at LIFE magazine who is managing the "transition" to an all-online magazine - mostly by being a dick to everyone except his few favorites. The film's Walter, however, is triumphant; for most of the film, you wonder if these fantastic events are really real or just in his head, and you'll be cheering for this mild-mannered, balding "negative assets" man whose job is being phased out. 

In a phone conversation with "Ted" from eHarmony, who becomes his shrink by default, Walter learns that "people who daydream lack contentment." For Walter, these dreams ranged from tiny verbal victories, perfectly timed jokes that socially destroyed his cynical boss but that never actually happened, to a Spiderman-style rescue of a dog in a burning skyscraper. I don't even have to exercise the imagination anymore - just open the laptop and gaze on the (mostly Catholic) mommy blogs, with homemade king cakes and Advent wreaths and lots of children and housework but also - and here's the kicker - the financial stability to stay at home with them. 

Oops, guess I wasn't supposed to say that out loud. It's Not the Done Thing to say that stay-at-home moms require husbands with full-time jobs and sufficiently lucrative paychecks. Politicians learned this to their chagrin, not knowing that of course, these moms can only stay home because they make homemade broth and save pennies on homemade detergent and don't have to pay for professional wardrobes or day-care. "It's not a privilege to stay at home" was preached from the rooftops. Some moms just exercised choice differently. The upper-middle class family life of four-eight kids, home-schooled, perhaps on a few acres of land with gardens and chickens, is attainable by all.

Yes, I know that all stay-at-home moms aren't like that. My own mom hasn't had a full-time job - or even a steady part-time job - since before I was born. Her jobless state was sanctioned and approved by her old-fashioned mother while I was growing up, even though I was an only child who went to school, even though we desperately needed the income from even a regular part-time job. An aunt who once hinted to her that maybe she would be happier with a part-time job was told off in no uncertain terms by my father, who said that if my mother "wanted to stay at home and raise her child, that was her choice." The "child" in question was about 15 and rarely at home, because it wasn't about me at all. It was about my mom's severe depression which made her incapable of managing the most basic household tasks, much less a job on the side. Having a stay-at-home mom was less about homemade baked goods and more about waking her up at 2 p.m. on a Saturday because I worried about her health. 

As a child, I idolized working mothers. They always had clean hair, polished nails - their fingernails fascinated me - makeup, high heels. Their kids went to after-school programs that looked fun to me, more fun than waiting thirty minutes to an hour for my perpetually-late mom to pick me up from school. They had a briskness and efficiency that I admired. 

I grew up in the 90s, before the internet really took off, before Facebook and social networking, before blogs. My mom only had to compare herself with the working moms in suits or scrubs who were up at respectable hours and making money, or with her own idolized mother who raised five children on a large piece of property in the 50s-60s and never succumbed to something so embarrassing as depression. Thank God she didn't have the extra burden of mommy blogs. Even homeschooling wasn't big in our area yet - the Deep South is a little slow on the uptake when it comes to fashion, and people I knew bought chemical-laden shampoos and conventional medicines and cooked with condensed soup.

Well-meaning people always told me that "little girls turn into their mothers and marry their fathers." Do yourself a favor and never say this to anyone, ever. You never know whose mother is clinically depressed or whose father is emotionally abusive, or what other skeletons they hide safely at home. I escaped the second downfall, but now I'm the one sleeping in, staying up until 2 a.m., only working part-time, lacking motivation. Sure, there are differences: I'm on medication, and I see two therapists weekly. I'm not in denial about what's going on, and neither is my husband. Still, there are days when I look in the mirror and imagine a few more wrinkles, thinner hair, glasses. It's getting easier.

Like Walter Mitty, my fantasies increase as my contentment decreases. Unlike the old Walter, the internet is always here, always ready with a new fantastic vision of what another life could be. And how harmful could it be, anyway, as long as it's wholesome. 

**I want to make it clear that I don't mean to disparage all mommy bloggers, or moms who just happen to blog, or stay-at-home moms, or non-working women with disposable income. Some of you I wish I could know in person because you seem like the bees' knees. These are my own personal demons.

Every Treatment Has a Price Tag

My journey with depression began at 14. At least, that's what I've always told therapists on the first day. I have what's called "major depressive episode disorder" which means that my life is a roller-coaster ride of ups (which means "basically functioning") and downs that go way down, sometimes down to suicidal ideation. My first depressive episode was at 14, which was also the year I started my period. Completely coincidental, I'm sure.

The second diagnosis on my chart is PTSD, which is a fairly new addition. It's been called Bipolar II and Generalized Anxiety Disorder before we figured out when it started. Finally, we were able to trace the crazy panic attacks and psychosis and fear of men to the year and a half that I volunteered at a rape crisis center in college. It took us forever to figure out because I was never personally raped, but during and after that time I exhibited the signs of someone who has been assaulted. Apparently, some people empathize so strongly with those they help that they suffer PTSD themselves; it's a common problem with those who work in hospitals, prisons, etc. It's why detachment is so vital for first-responders, therapists, ER doctors, and anyone else who works with trauma survivors.

To make things even more complicated, I experienced a semi-constant level of anxiety and fear - mini-traumas if you will - during my childhood. When I think back on my childhood, I remember feeling afraid, a lot: of our crime-ridden neighborhood, of burning in eternal hellfire, of emotional abuse at home, of being too poor to eat. Experiencing this high level of stress and fear as a child wore down my defenses, so that when I spent over a year listening to women who had just been raped and watching rape kit exams and sitting with survivors while they were interrogated by police, something in my brain went snap. 

Due to my not-so-happy childhood -  and the fact that my mom is severely depressed all the time - I have a hard time knowing what "normal functioning" looks like. Maybe that's why it took me so long to get help, and why my husband was the one pushing me to get it.

Over the last three years, I've experienced multiple kinds of mental health therapies: marital counseling, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), EMDR, in-patient emergency care at a mental health ward, and group therapy, not to mention the cornucopia of drugs. Let's see, I've tried Zoloft, Welbutrin, Lamictal, Ambien, Prozac, Effexor XR, Lunesta, Klonapin, Xanex, and probably other things that I've forgotten. Out of the entire above list, the things that have helped the most are Effexor and EMDR. Thus far I've only done one session of EMDR, and it's done more good than hundreds (not exaggerating) hours of regular talk or CBT counseling. Which makes sense, since PTSD isn't something you can talk yourself out of.

These years have taught me things about the illness through trial and error, mostly error. For instance, Effexor is more "effective" (heh) because it targets norepinephrine as well as serotonin, and most medications only target serotonin. (Wellbutrin is also different because it targets dopamine). Apparently my brain needed more norepinephrine, and all the Zoloft in the world wasn't going to help it. This also ties into PTSD because norepinephrine is regulated by the amygdala, the part of the brain effected the most by PTSD. This is what controls the fight-or-flight response, along with other kinds of vigilance, concentration, and response. All of which go hay-wire when you have PTSD. 

Some of the treatments were effective, in their way, but had unacceptable side effects. For instance, Wellbutrin did wonders for my energy and depression, but it also upped my anxiety, which was already at ridiculously high levels. Maybe with the right drug combo I could take Wellbutrin again, but I'm not willing to try it until I've done more EMDR. 

Twice now I've tried Lunesta for insomnia. Oh, it does wonders for my sleep, without the horrible headaches that some medications give. However, I recently stopped taking it again because I remembered why I stopped last time: it makes my poor memory even worse and decreases my (already poor) concentration. But without it I can't seem to sleep until 2, 3, or even 4 a.m. I haven't figured out how to help this situation yet. 

There's not really an end to this post, because I could go on all day about medications and therapies and treatments. At a certain point I get depressed just thinking about it, which doesn't help. I want to write about it though, in the hope that someone who sees it will feel... not so alone. Solidarity. 

Cleaning up My Own Crap

This evening I had a mind-changing conversation with my husband over health insurance. (Stick with me here). As we both cried, as I tried to apologize for forgetting to mail a check almost a month ago, as he tried to express his feelings of hopelessness, the Holy Spirit hit me in the head with a two-by-four, because apparently that's what it takes.

In a flash, I remembered my wedding vows, and it occured to me that those weren't only for my husband. I too had promised things in that ceremony. I know, it's shocking.

You see, in the course of my legitimate health problems and depression, I forgot about responsibility. I believed, with the fervency of a True Believer, that depression was a valid excuse for neglecting my health, my marriage, my friendships, my work, and any other duty or relationship in my life. And if a small voice ventured to disagree, I shot it down with woe is me histrionics that ended in suicidal fantasies, pulling my hair out by the roots, and other constructive behaviors. In addition, I had convinced myself that my husband's job was to put up with it all, because after all he had taken those vows didn't he?

There is more than one way to leave your spouse. There's the one we see in divorce courts, but there's the one I grew up watching my parents model for me. They are still married in a technical sense, and they still live in the same house. But anyone who knows them at all knows it's a farce. The lack of mutual respect is palpable.

I thought that because I'd married "better" (that is, we're more compatible than my parents, though total opposites in many ways), that we'd weather the storm. However, I asked him to do all the weathering. And now he's starting to crack under the pressure.

What's so humbling is that the things he asks of me seem so small. To take care of myself; to get up at a reasonable hour; to make friends locally so that I'm not so dependent on him for social interaction; to get exercise and fresh air; to put in the hours at my job that I need in order to finish my work. You know, to act like an adult.

It's true, part of my problem is depression. Depression/ anxiety/ PTSD make those "simple" tasks seem monumental. However, I threw in the towel before the depression had a chance to attack. My self-respect shriveled so low that I drifted through life, emerging occasionally to decry injustices on the internet rather than face my own problems.

What does God ask of me? The simple and boring, the acts of love that they don't talk about in women's magazines, the daily duties that require perseverance rather than sprints.

Accepting Grace, in spite of Pride

I finally went to confession. It had been a few months, and I felt particularly nervous since this was a new priest, a new place. Therefore, I wanted to plan, to spend several hours examining my conscience.

One morning I got up and went to the Catholic cathedral in downtown Savannah. It's open all day to visitors, and there are always tourists taking pictures. I had been meaning to go, so I went, lit a candle, prayed a Rosary, admired the iconography and statues. Thinking that was that, I got in my car and started home. Halfway there, I felt a tug to call and see if any priests in the area were available to hear my confession that day.

Confused but feeling strangely urgent, I parked in a strange neighborhood and started searching for churches on my phone. In no time I saw a church with which my husband and I have no connections and called the office. To my surprise, the priest himself answered. Yes, he would be happy to hear my confession, no, he had nothing going on at the moment, why not come on over?

The church was in south Savannah, so I did have some time to consider my recent past as I drove. It's been a chaotic last few months: moving from D.C. to Savannah, my husband's graduation from seminary and ordination to the diaconnate, my sojourn in a mental hospital. There were many opportunities for sin, but as I drove the thing that reverberated in my heart was my intense self-hatred.

I met the priest, talked a bit about my situation, made my confession. To my consternation, he was more concerned with my suicidal tendencies than with anything else. He gave me his card and made me promise to call him, day or night, if I was in any way tempted to end my life or hurt myself.

One of my religious quirks is the desire to earn my own way. Maybe it's part of overcorrecting from my Calvinist past, in which man could do nothing and had no free will. Or maybe it's human nature that cringes from gifts and would rather give to charity than be charity. I would rather be given a harsh penance than be told that most of my confessed "sins" require being more merciful to myself.

Maybe that's why it took me so long to confess in the first place: I know from past experience that the grace found there is abundant and embarrassingly free.

Abortion and "The Health of the Mother," in scare quotes

I have never been in a crisis pregnancy - or in any pregnancy. For physical reasons it's unlikely to happen any time soon, and I ache for a child. Holding a baby is a spiritual experience these days. Seeing a toddler at the grocery store makes me giddy or depressed, sometimes to be point of sobbing. My friends talk of "the horror" of being saddled with pregnancy, of being "tied down" to a child, and I never know what to say. When my twenty-something co-workers talked about children, it was as if they were discussing a flesh-eating bacteria that must be kept at bay. When I said that I would be happy with "even more than" four children some day, it was as if I had sprouted large antennae.

However, the thought of pregnancy also fills me with dread: I am a woman with severe mental illness, whose equilibrium is largely dependent on medication. This medication is not compatible with pregnancy or breastfeeding. I also think of my childhood. My mom is/was depressed and, though she was never suicidal, it obviously impacted my life in dramatic ways. I worry about the effect on our children. Moreover, my husband already carries the burden of my health and the stress of never knowing when I'll crack again. To put it mildly, getting pregnant right now would be devastating. 

At the same time, I am also fiercely pro-life - the very idea of killing my own baby makes me physically ill. Almost every day something reminds me of the fact that in our country it is legal to kill developing babies, even those capable of feeling pain, even those viable outside the womb. The tragedy of this cannot be overstated: it is our genocide. The weight of slaughtered infants grows every day, and yet there are people I know and love who don't even see the problem.

That's why it fills me with rage when Republican politicians mock the problem of pregnancy and mental health, or when McCain put air quotes around "the health of the mother." The problem, apparently, is that "the health of the mother" can include mental health, and therefore we can't use the health of the mother as an exception to possible abortion bans.

What many people don't realize is that mental illness is fatal if left untreated. Most medications are incompatible with pregnancy, which means that a depressed woman in a crisis pregnancy situation has the rug jerked out from under her in more ways than one. The risk of suicide - of the deaths of BOTH the mother and child - is huge.

Does this mean that I think abortion is the solution? No, I don't. Our culture of death looks to abortion as the quick solution to our ills, and we can do better. Women need mental health care in addition to obstetrics. We need to find alternatives to medicines during pregnancy that don't leave women in the lurch. It's not fair to expect women to chose between themselves and their unborn child.

At the same time, I don't believe in mocking the plight of women in this terrible situation. If you don't care about the health of the mother, then you're not pro-life. Stop pretending to represent us. Start putting your money where your mouth is and actually listen to those who deal with these issues. Listen to those who struggle with suicide, to mothers who put their own lives on the line for their children every day. Get the fuck off your pedestal and stop pretending you have even a clue what you're talking about.

7 Quick Takes: Depression and Robin Williams

1

My husband is a curate at an Episcopal church. As part of his job, he was looking through a pre-marital counseling article which advised couples to be wary of "fairy-tale syndrome." Trials and tribulations will come and test the merits of the marriage. Trials like... the wife having a weird laugh.

Excuse me while I laugh/ cry hysterically.

OK, can you think of anything less helpful for an engaged couple? If your wife's "weird laugh" is threatening the marriage, you need to reconsider life in general. God forbid you have a real crisis, or even the flu.

2

News events have been on my mind, and on everyone's mind, constantly. Between ISIS (or is it just ISI now?), Ferguson, US/Mexico border issues, Ebola, the Ukraine, Gaza -  what else am I missing, folks? - I've started avoiding the news most days. I guess this is wrong, and I do check on Iraq updates and send up prayers whenever I remember, but despair comes over me every time I do any in-depth searching. 

3

And then there's Robin Williams. Everything has been said that can be said, but tears start in my eyes when I contrast the joy he brought the world and the despair that devoured him. Depression is a real disease, which left untreated is FATAL. My one hope in all this is that his tragic death will wake up those who see behavioral health care as "optional." 

4

My own mental illness is wreaking havoc. It's like having a monster eat at your brain, taking away your personality, your energy, everything that makes you you. I struggle to know what is the disease and what is me, or even what are sins and what is the disease. It's easy to blame everything on myself, but it's also easy to blame it all on the disease. 

On a related note, I have yet to find a confessor in Savannah. There are so many conflicts of interest because of my husband's job, so even with the confidentiality oath I would feel uncomfortable. But of course, if it was a real priority I would have found someone already, so.... 

Pray for me.

5

Sometimes the little things in life save us. For instance, did you ever notice how pretty the inside of a red onion is?  

I was slicing produce for a salad last night and marveled at the beauty of red onion, deep-red Southern tomatoes, golden Georgia peaches, and bright-orange pepper. It's so nice to have real tomatoes and peaches again; I've been eating heirloom tomatoes like apples. 

6

Different things keep different folks from committing suicide. For me, the self-despair is too great to appeal to right to life or self-worth, unless I'm feeling well enough to NOT be tempted to suicide. What helps me is thinking about the good but simple things in life. I may not think my own self is worth much, but I can think to myself of ice water in the August heat, good-smelling soap, warm clothes from the dryer. Sometimes something that small will bring me off the edge. 

7

As a tribute to life, and a prayer for all who suffer from depression, here is a video of Robin Williams interacting with the famous gorilla Koko. 

7 Quick Takes: What I've Learned in Group Therapy

1

While recovering from mental illness (which means learning to manage it, as opposed to hunting for a non-existent cure), I'm attending group therapy 5 days a week. It's been awesome, and I highly recommend it, though most people would only do a once a week deal. Some of what we've learned is so obvious, and yet some of it goes against everything I used to think. For instance....

2

Self-esteem is a good thing. 

Self-esteem is one of those words that I used to mock. Only the feel-gooders, the liberals, the secularists wanted self-esteem. Self-esteem was what kids had when all participants got trophies. Self-esteem was what fueled adolescent rebellion and disrespect. In my fundy days, self-esteem was equated with arrogance. 

My Calvinist background was especially derisive. After all, we knew that all humans were scum, that our good works were "as filthy rags," and that God Himself could only stand to look at us dirtwads if Jesus' righteousness was covering us. Turns out that self-esteem is simply how one estimates one's worth. Turns out that a Calvinist background doesn't help you when you're predisposed to suicide. Other folks (I'm guessing) can hit that old depression monster in the teeth when he says you're worthless and need to die already. They can say naw man, I have worth as a human being, even with all my mistakes. Calvinism jerks that rug right out from under you. 

What I'm trying to learn is that simply by virtue of being a person, I have worth. It is hypocritical of me to tell others that they have worth and a right to life and then turn around and deny it of myself. Self-esteem says nope, you're human too, and being human is OK. 

3

You are not the depression 

Another "duh" statement that nevertheless eluded me. When you're depressed, it envelopes you, takes over your life, and before long you can't even find yourself in the mix. Your interests, hobbies, skills, energies, faith - poof! gone. It helps to personify the mental illness. Give it a name even. My depression is Bob Loblaw (from Arrested Development) and the PTSD is Nelly, as in Nervous Nelly. I'm Caroline, not Bob or Nelly. Bob may want to hide indoors all day looking at blogs, and Nelly may intensify that desire because it's "safe," but Caroline would rather go out tonight. 

4

Past, future, and "should have" are not reality

CS Lewis talked about eternity in one of his books (I apologize, I can't remember which). He describes living in the present as "dipping your toe into the river of eternity." That's the idea: eternity is real; the present is real. The past has already happened, can't nothing change that. The future isn't even here yet, and who even knows if you'll be living. "Should have" is the most insidious of all, the most deadening thought you can have. It's not real, so don't even entertain those thoughts and regrets. Speaking of the past.... 

5

What happened to me is not my fault, but my present is 100% my responsibility 

I didn't deserve the things that happened to me in the past. However, if I live in misery today it's no one's fault but my own. That may sound harsh, but what's the alternative? To give authority to people in my past? To hand over my soul to those who have hurt me? No thanks. 

6

I judge others based on my own past mistakes 

Thanks to my awesome group therapist, here's what I learned about myself this week. The reason why I fear abandonment so much is that in my past, I have poured myself into people that were needy. Then, when I got resentful (because I stopped taking care of myself) I dropped them like hot potatoes. Therefore, I go around expecting others to drop me the minute I get too needy, because I expect that others will similarly take care of me without taking care of themselves until they get sick of me. Boy did that explain a lot. 

7

I'm grateful for the PTSD

Not for the depression - I'm not quite there yet. But without the PTSD, without the panic attacks and irrationality and dissociating episodes, I wouldn't have gotten the help I need. I would just drag myself along with depression, existing but not really living. The depression alone didn't push me, didn't provide the consequences that the PTSD did. So thank you anxiety, you done good in spite of yourself. 

Have you been through mental illness or group therapy? What have you learned in the experience? 

What it's Like to Despair

This is for every person with mental illness. This is for every person who draws her own blood to find release. This is for every person who can't trust themselves around a gun, who has pushed her face in a pillow because "maybe suffocation won't hurt." You are beautiful and smart and worthwhile, but you have to believe that yourself. Unfortunately, my words aren't enough, and I get that. Some day you'll understand. Keep your head up.

Before I checked into a behavioral health facility, everything I was ever taught turned against me, like knives in my mind. At last, I decided that a real knife could end the train of thoughts. But I couldn't get the guts to cut the skin. I ridiculed myself for that, too. 

What an idiot. What a worthless piece of garbage. It's a wonder anyone puts up with you. The only reason you're still married is because he pities you. No wonder you haven't made new friends yet. No wonder you don't have a job yet. What moron would hire you? Who would take a chance on you after what happened last year? 

My husband and I decided to check me into Coastal Harbor adult inpatient program. I went to the group therapy Monday morning, but I quickly dissolved into tears and panic. I got through the intake at Coastal in a haze, and with reluctance I gave up my wedding rings and prayer beads. Later that day, I gave up my underwire bra and had the strings cut out of my yoga pants. That night I cut my meat with a plastic spoon. It's the ultimate disarmament. 

Problem is, that only works for so long. Eventually, you have to go back to the real world of steak knives and shoe laces. That's why you have to disarm your own mind. 

When you're mentally ill, your mind is your most deadly weapon. 

Sometimes, religion is a damn good knife sharpener. In my case, it provided the damn ammo. Somehow, I don't think that's the sword Christ promised to bring. 

Growing up, we ridiculed the concept of self-esteem. What morons these worldly moderns were! What a great lie Satan fed them, that they needed even more pride! Thank goodness that, by the grace of God alone, we were free from that lie. We knew the truth, that our hearts were black with sin, that Jesus died "for such a worm as I!" 

Irony was not, perhaps, our strong suit. 

I learned a lot at Coastal, like putting ice cubes in the hot coffee so you can chug it during breakfast and actually get to drink it. But mostly I just deprogrammed. I sat on the benches outside during smoke break, staring at the Spanish moss draped across the oak trees over the roof, and bathed in the love of God. And I asked God to forgive me. I saw how much it pained Him when I tear myself apart. 

One time, my therapist asked me the criteria for worth. What does it take for a person to deserve to live? I answered automatically, "Everyone. Everyone deserves life, no matter their age or mental capacity or health." 

She looked at me and asked, "What makes you so different?" 

Do or do not, there is no try

I love the start of Lent. Ash Wednesday is one of my favorite services; going up to have the priest put the sign of the Cross on my forehead gives me chill bumps every time. It's one of the few religious activities I can count on to be emotionally meaningful every time. And as many have noted, the beginning of Lent is great because you feel all spiritual and shit and get a thrill from your penances/ devotions/ whatever you decided to do. It's beautiful in a clean, pristine way, kind of like snow. Sometimes you even get that cool blue skies and sunshine over thick snow.

And then it gets grim. The snow starts melting, and in the city it's just gross. There's nothing pretty about that devotion anymore, and the penance starts to feel like penance. Instead of freshly fallen snow, you get that chilly, icy rain when it's 34 degrees that the weather channel calls a "wintry mix."






So it was cool when I got to see tulips on my way to the Easter Vigil, even though I'm struggling to feel the whole "Easter joy" thing. Usually I'm Easter's biggest fan, mostly because I love spring and am wimpy about cold. This time around, it feels anticlimactic. Maybe it's because we're moving the third, not the last, week in May, and I'm scrambling to get a new job. Maybe it's because we've discovered that those experiences I had working at a rape crisis center are still haunting me, that I'm not "over it." Maybe it's because the therapist says "it will be a long haul," and dear Jesus we've already had a long haul. We're ready for this 4-year Lent in our lives to be over.


I don't have a pithy statement to wrap it all, make it flowers and sunshine and beauty. At this juncture, spring is a choice, not just something that happens around April and May. I can choose life, choose to pursue healing and growth with a vengeance, or I can give up and throw myself into the fires of Mount Doom while clutching the ring, my precious despair and pride. I can smell the flowers or cough up the ashes, gorge myself on animal fodder or relish the feast. There's nothing I can do to pull myself up by some non-existent bootstraps, but I can turn in the right direction and stubbornly crawl.

"But even as hope died in Sam, or seemed to die, it was turned to new strength. Sam's plain hobbit-face grew stern, almost grim, as the will hardened in him, and he felt through all his limbs a thrill, as if he was turning into some creature of stone and steel that neither despair no weariness nor endless barren miles could subdue."

I Can't Be Cured of Depression

**For anyone who reads this and relates, please know that my prayers and thoughts are with you. If you ever think of committing suicide, please call 9-11 or a suicide hotline for help.**


Those of you with major depression know what I'm talking about. You get on medication, start doing counseling, and things are looking up. You have interests again! You don't want to sleep all day! You have the energy to get through a full day of work! All those little things that "normal" people take for granted are yours, or at least in part.

And then one day you think to yourself that the medication has worked so well that you can "finally" get off it. You dream of never again taking Zoloft/ Klonapin/ Prozac/ Welbutrin (I've done them all baby). You dream of "finally kicking this thing" and "functioning like a normal human being."

So maybe you decide to skip every other day. Just to experiment, just to see if it's just a sugar pill and you're experiencing a major placebo effect. Maybe you find yourself pretending to take your medication so that your spouse won't suspect you. You hate being deceitful, but "nobody understands" that you need to be strong, to kick the pill-popping, to stand on your own two feet.

And then one day you find yourself clinging to a rail at the metro station, tears welling up in your eyes as you try not to huddle on the filthy tile floor and sob. You want to call your husband but your hands are shaking so badly that you can't make a call. You try to focus on breathing slowly, in and out, while you listen to your heart pound. And when the train comes roaring by you jump like a hunted animal, and it's all you can do not to claw at your face.

The term for this is "medical non-compliance." It sounds so rebellious doesn't it? It doesn't sound at all like someone who just wants to "get off those meds." But there's one thing this past year has taught me, and that's not to judge people. People, don't ask God to teach you this, because He will, and it will hurt.

When you've found yourself in the psych department of the ER laughing hysterically and threatening the doctor - yes you, you little white middle class college-educated nerd - then everything changes. That woman on the street with the matted hair that's picking through the garbage and yelling at pigeons? That could be me without my advantages - without my husband, without medication, without our support system, without capable doctors, and yes, without meds. When I look at a "crazy person" I see myself, and it ain't pretty.

And when you are forced to look at all this, to take in the pain, then you finally admit that you are weak. I need medication in order to do things that "normal" people do without thinking, and you know what? Even with the meds it's not working so well. I still get panic attacks that require fast-acting medication and well-honed relaxation techniques. I still wonder if anyone actually likes me or if they just put up with me. I still wonder when my husband will realize what a mistake he's made and leave me, even though he's said over and over again how much he loves me, how he will never leave me. I still struggle to make it through work. A "good day" for me is a day without a full-blown panic attack. Thus far, today has been a good day.

So there are a couple of things I won't say anymore:

"I struggle with depression." No. I don't struggle with it, any more than someone struggles with diabetes. I have it, or it has me, but with the proper treatment and support it doesn't have to rule me.

"Once I get off the meds...". It is humiliating to realize that I may always require medication to balance my brain chemistry. It's humiliating because we stigmatize mental health, and I just want to be normal damnit. Apparently that's not in the cards. Oh well. Slowly but surely I'm discovering that maybe the strong thing to do is to accept that I need help.

I'm not looking for a cure anymore. I'm using the supports I have - the excellent cognitive-behavioral therapy I found in DC, the excellent psychiatrist at the same place (The Ross Center for Anxiety if you live in the area - it has excellent doctors and counselors), the medication, the breathing exercises, the yoga mat that I pull out every night though I rarely feel like it.

It's kind of like when you've done your first confession, and you feel light as a cloud, and then you sin again - badly. So you go a second time, and then a third, and then a fourth, and you start to wonder if you're a worse sinner than the others. And then one day you accept that for the rest of your life you will go to confession, and a huge weight rolls away. (Please note: I am emphatically NOT saying that depression is a sin. No, no, and no. The point of the analogy is that these problems ain't goin' nowhere).

I don't think it's coincidental that I had these epiphanies within days of each other.

And now I try to let it soak in. I will always need confession. I will always need treatment for depression. I will always need other people. I will always be dependent, and I will never be rich enough to turn away the gifts that God sends my way.