A Visit From Aunt Depression

I’ve been medicated for a dozen years.  I have been in therapy.  I understand the why and the how and the what.  I’m living with the depression.  I carry it with me and it’s been so long I have memories of it and what it sued to do to me.  Like the world’s shittiest summer camp.

I normalize it when I can, I talk openly about it, and it seems to be part of everyday cultural conversation. It’s a good start.

There is one aspect of depression I haven’t heard discussed.  Hell, it could be rare for all I know because I don’t know if there is even a name for it.  I told my wife it is like my version of a monthly cycle, like being on the rag.

For a few years now, I have, on an average of once a month, a very depressed day.  There is nothing I can do about it.  It just pops in out of nowhere at all.  It’s not a bad day or a good day. It’s not particularly stressful.  It just…happens.  All day long I am sad and/or down in the dumps.  You might think this is just normal sad feelings, but I am aware of those.  Those are byproducts of thoughts or emotion showing themselves.  There is an impetus for those feelings.  This is just biological.

I think it has to exist to keep the meds working.  My depression has to have some time in the prison yard, stretching his legs and playing some basketball with the other mental illnesses.  (Anxiety is a hell of a rebounder.)

Zoloft doesn’t make me happy.  It is an airbag.  A safety net.  An emergency off ramp.  I’m not any happier because of medication.  But I can function.  My brain might need to release a bit of pressure just to keep things stable. (Remember Lost?  The numbers had to be punched into that old computer terminal to keep the island from imploding?  Same thing. Sort of.)

What do I do on those days?  Nothing creative.  Last Tuesday was one of those days and I felt it when I got home.  Didn’t want to do anything at all, including eating or engaging in diversions.  But I knew this.  I made myself watch old TV (Simpsons, I think.  Family Guy). I didn’t write.  I didn’t think about Christmas or my bills or job stuff or my kids or anything.  I knew it would not last forever, rarely more than a day.  The day was shot, and I only had to make it to bedtime.

Drink some water.  Grab something to eat. 

I didn’t wallow or cry or reach out to anyone.  Nothing wrong with reaching out, but I know when to pull the rip cord.  This was just being on the rag.  This was maintenance.  This was depression reminding me its always around the corner.  He tried to bully me for a while.  Tell me I’m worthless, wasting my time, amounting to nothing.  The same old tunes.  I’ve heard it all before. 

Yesterday I woke up after some funky and fun dreams and I felt better.  The monster was back in its cage and the security system passed inspection. 

I don’t have an ending for this, but just know that if any of these things ring true to you, you are not alone.