TRIGGER WARNING
For whatever reason, today has been a rough day for me. Rougher than usual. Today, in quiet moments, my mind kept whispering the same thing over and over. "I wish I were dead."
I've been depressed, quite literally, as long as I can remember. My mother always told me that I was "the most miserable child she ever saw." She told me that I was meant to be sad. I don't blame her for saying it, at least not now, because I know now that she was also severely, clinically depressed and was never treated. All she could see in her only child was the lifetime of poverty, misery, and woe that she had endured. And so the prophecy was foretold.
My doctor realized that I was depressed when I was about 25. I'd been treated, grudgingly and lackadaisically by a couple of doctors since I had reached adulthood. I never had a doctor take me seriously and actually try to treat me until I went to Dr. Childs. He recognized it for what it was....not a sad, poor, socially awkward fat girl (although I was all those things) but rather a severely depressed, non-functioning adult with a small person, husband, and mother who depended upon her. We tried medicine after medicine. Time after time. Trip after trip. I had almost full bottles of seemingly nearly every type of SSRI there was on the market back in the early-to-mid 90's. Prozac was ineffective. Zoloft gave me the tremors. Effexor was useless. Paxil helped for a while and leveled off. Wellbutrin made me want to kill every breathing creature. Slowly.
I'd get frustrated and just stop taking them. Cold turkey. Then I'd get severely depressed and start taking them again. We kept trying different dosages of different things and ended up with the most successful for most of the years--Paxil at 40 mg. I still only took it sporadically. Dr. Childs kept encouraging me to seek counseling but I couldn't see what good it would do. I decided I could deal with this on my own.
In case you don't know, SSRIs can markedly change a person. The Paxil stopped my mind from running like a rat on a wheel but it made me a faded-out version of myself. Terri Lynn cusses, pitches fits, throws things, sings out loud, laughs too loudly at things that are very inappropriate, and burps way too loudly. On Paxil, I just stopped. Tim said it was like looking a blank wall. He didn't understand what I was dealing with but he knew that he wasn't familar with the new version of me and he didn't like it. Because of his constant opposition, and because of my broken brain, I stopped taking the meds for years. I stopped living. I existed and not very well, at that. I had massive panic attacks. I couldn't walk in a restaurant alone. I could not drive on Broad Street (as random as it was, it was a thing). I stayed home more and more. I retreated more and more.
In 2011, I began to notice a difference in myself. I couldn't then, and I still can't today, pinpoint what happened or exactly when. But my brain began to change. I still don't know what happened. But I started sticking my toes in the ocean of life. I began to laugh more. I was becoming more interested in politics and found like minds on Facebook. I reveled in a good political argument n(perhaps a bit too much at times). I started going out more. I started making friends. I discovered that Rome is a pretty cool town with some really amazing people. But, through all that, I was not medicated and sliding deeper into depression. I guess, in hindsight, it could and should technically be called bi-polar behavior but without the very manic highs.
I started to self-injure. I started to seriously have suicidal thoughts regularly. Realizing that I had a real problem, I went back to Dr. C. and we tried Lexapro. I believe that he'd given up on me ever finding a medicine that would help. But Lexapro has been a lifesaver, quite literally. It doesn't magically "fix" me. I still feel suicidal. I get depressed so deeply at times that I can't function. My heart literally hurts from a pain that isn't physical and that no doctor can treat. My throat even aches with that same pain. My stomach, too. As Dr. C. often says, "It's the physical expression of your depression." That doesn't mean the pain isn't real. It just means that there is no bone, joint, or ligament that can be fixed or treated. The broken part of me is in my brain (and possibly in my soul but that's another discussion).
In the last couple of years, I've finally found a good therapist, I've taken my medicine a bit more appropriately although depression brain causes me to often forget or, worse, refuse to take it (It's not gonna help anyway. Why bother?). More than those things, however, I've found meditation. I've worked on my energy and my heart and my soul. I've opened my mind to another realm of healing and it has been nothing short of amazing. I'm a different person than I was even a year ago. I'm out and about and working in the community and sticking my nose in business that many would proclaim to be not my own. I'm an advocate and a helper.
But....in the quiet moments, when I'm alone, my broken brain begins to whisper....
What do you do when your brain is out to get you? What do you say when, sitting alone in your office, you notice that little thought, just under the surface. Like a whisper of wind, "I wish I were dead." Most of the time I just notice that little voice without giving it any attention. But today, I really put some thought into it. Why does your brain turn against you? And what the hell are you supposed to do when your BRAIN turns against you?! How can you possibly win that battle?
The answer is short and sweet. "I dunno." I also don't know why it's become important for me to "talk" about it. Perhaps the Universe knows there is someone out there who needs to see and hear this--to know that they aren't alone. Perhaps just by realizing that my thinking has gone beyond it's normal faulty thinking, I've made progress. For whatever it's worth, I keep pushing back against that voice. I meditate. I clear my energy. I still argue about politics (and most anything, depending upon who you ask). I still sing out loud and badly. I still laugh at inappropriate things. To borrow a phrase, I'm not going gently into that good night. I'm raging against the dying light.
But....still, in the quiet moments, the only voice I hear begs me to stop raging.
