Depression: When I Got It, Why I Got It, and How I Deal With It.

This entry is brought to you be the letter D, the number 7, and Morag’s entry on depression.

I don’t think I was ever officially diagnosed with depression. In reality, there was never any reason why I should be diagnosed with it. It was pretty fucking obvious that I was going to develop depression at some point in my life. My mom has it; my aunts have it; my grandmother had it. We can all pretty much say that it’s a genetic thing. Sometimes, I joke that if/when I have a daughter, she’ll be born with depression or develop it at the age of eight. Each year, it seems to affect the generation earlier and earlier. So, I could have been diagnosed with it, but it’s not like it matters. I’ve got the scars to prove that I’ve battled the damn shit out of my depression, so I don’t need any professional doctor to say that I have it; I know I do.

I think my first real bout with the whole shebang was in middle school. I remember going to see a therapist then. I pretty much sat in petulant silence, doing my best to be a tweenager with anger issues. I don’t think I ever felt comfortable with that woman. I remember that, once, she told me that maybe my depression was caused by the fact that I “felt too much.” I’m pretty sure that isn’t the accepted policy when one handles depressed kids nowadays, but back in the nineties, no one knew shit about anything. I was put on Zoloft for the depression. It was supposed to make me “feel normal.” (These are direct quotes, here.) I remember thinking that if feeling normal meant that I couldn’t be in pain all the time, I didn’t want it. I guess I was in love with my pain. It kept me separated from the asshole kids I went to school with and it kept me different and individualistic.

I took the medication once a week or every other day. I didn’t like Zoloft. I think the big issue was an ongoing fear that someone would find out I was on medication because I was “sad.” Let’s keep in mind that no one was depressed back then. There weren’t divorces. Parents didn’t die. Kids didn’t bring guns to school and shoot up their classmates*. This was before we really became more open and honest with who we are, as human beings, and the pain that we go through being human beings. So all of those things obviously did happen, but people were still in the mindset where we “didn’t talk about that.” I was so busy lying to my friends about my dad all the time (he lives on Parker St, which is where his cemetery plot is located was the most popular lie) that it was easy to lie about the Zoloft, too. And to be honest, I thought my pain was who I was. I thought it was important to keep it because it made me who I was.

(* I find it amusing that what I’m talking about is only fifteen years ago. But in that time, we were still transitioning to the society we live in today. There’s been a helluva lot of huge changes in the last fifteen years in mental health and what we’re more willing to discuss in public. It’s really amazing.)

After my first bout with my therapist, I was pretty much of the point where I decided therapists weren’t my cup of tea. This was later brought home to me when I went to another one. This one was a rape specialist. She was recommended to my mother by my best friend’s mother who was seeing her, too. I didn’t like her. She was older and, I felt, out of tune with what it was like to be a hormonal teenager, compounded with being a depressed hormonal teenager. This was also eleven years ago and again, things have changed dramatically since then. She was the first person to explain to me about what exactly date rape was (because, you know, no one knew about that shit back then and no, I’m not joking), but she was one of those people who still had a knack for making me feel guilty. Wasn’t it my fault that I was in that situation int he first place? Wasn’t it my fault because I let it happen? Wasn’t it my fault because I didn’t scream? See, the thing is, she never said these things to me but she made me feel that way.

I pretty much gave up on therapists then.

I also gave up on medication, then, too.

Since then, I’ve been trying to make my own way without medication and without therapy. I’ve given in to therapy when I was splitting with my husband. And I really liked her; she was open and honest and just let me ramble on about anything. She was a good therapist and if I could remember her name, and had insurance that she carried, I would so go back to her. In the mean time, I’m rambling down a road that’s both scary and uncertain. I’m just trying to figure out how things work now with a brain that doesn’t work properly and how it affects me.

And boy, does it affect me.

Last year, I gave in and started on Welbutrin. I liked it; it helped me to cut down on smoking. Since I lost my job, I’ve gotten into the habit of forgetting to take it. I have a huge batch sitting on top of my stove as a reminder that I should take it. I never do. With the lack of taking it, I’ve been trying to figure things out again. Where do I start? How do I fight this on my own? Do I rely on others when I’m feeling down? Can I get out of bed?

I don’t know.

See, the thing is that being depressed is just another aspect of who I am. It’s there. It’s a part of who I am. I’ve got reasons, now, for it. Before, when I was first seeing a therapist, I had reasons then, too. But, now, I think the reasons that I give in to my depression are more apparent and more worthwhile. That’s probably me, being a jackass to myself in saying that my reasons as a tweenager for being depressed weren’t “good” enough. But, it’s only now, with the rapes and the molestation that I think I have a good reason (if there’s such a thing) that make it more apparent as to why I’m depressed. It’s like, before, I had this little sign on my chest that said, “I’m depressed,” but there didn’t seem to be a good enough reason for it. People would look around and say, “Oh, well, that’s nice.” But after I was raped and after I was molested and after my shitty MEH and his rape, things just you know, it made it more real, I guess.

I’m just rambling.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I am depressed. I have reasons for it. I live with it. And one day, I might actually be able to deal with it properly or better. Maybe, even, one day I’ll be able to slay the demons that are at the cause of said depression. In the mean time, I’m depressed. And that’s my life.

8 thoughts on “Depression: When I Got It, Why I Got It, and How I Deal With It.

  1. I’m sorry you’ve had to go through some awful things. I was never fulfilled or ready to be helped until I felt I had a “reason” to be depressed. But even now I do, it’s still hard to help myself. I too feel like it’s a part of me. Depression is a vicious cycle, but I wish you the best in overcoming your demons x

  2. It’s my life as well, finally getting some better but not 100%, but better I’ll take compared to what I was a few years ago. It was bad. You are so not alone.

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  4. Pingback: Depression – why it was never about sadness. « Halfway Between The Gutter And The Stars

  5. Pingback: •ρ• How Do I Live? « Reflections on Reality

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