Today I'm taking a break from reminiscing about my glory days (thank you Bruce Springsteen). I'm not sure how funny any of this will be. I'm not really feeling funny, but sometimes that's when the most off-the-wall stuff comes out.
About 20 years ago, I was diagnosed as "clinically depressed". I know this means there is a chemical imbalance in my brain and my synapses don't snap. The first medication I was given in an attempt to combat my moods was Paxil. Now that stuff was really interesting. Talk about having a "buzz". Paxil made my brain feel as if a huge hive of bees had moved in -- and they were constantly seriously really agitated. I'll admit that earlier in my misspent young adulthood, I had enjoyed getting a buzz from some slightly less than legal drugs. One of my favorites and the one I came closest to developing an addiction to was amphetamines. Amphetamines made the crown of my head hum. And I thought that was a good thing? I never did anything like Quaaludes or other downers. If I was gonna do drugs, I was gonna do something to get me "up". I've always been able to do down on my own without any chemical assistance.
Once when Bud and I were sharing a townhouse with our friend Tim, I caught the end of my finger in the mechanism on the recliner that opens and closes the footrest. I was lowering the footrest and the end of the middle finger on my left hand got caught between the crossing metal slats as they closed. I started making some strange sounds as I was unable to make the chair footstool go back out again. At first Bud and Tim thought I was play acting, but once they saw my face they realized I was seriously having a problem. They rushed over and opened the footrest and got me out of the chair. I ran to the nearby lavatory and stuck my hand in the sink under running water. There was blood everywhere and about an 1/8" piece of my finger was missing. (I was a nail biter at the time, so I didn't even come close to cutting into the nail that was already bitten back to the first knuckle.) Bud and Tim got my finger wrapped in a reasonably appropriate bandage and the bleeding stopped. Then Tim turned to me and said, "Where are your ludes?" I looked at him and said, "What ludes?" He said, "Well okay if you don't have ludes, what do you have?" To which I replied, "Nothing." He swears I am the only female he ever met in his life who didn't have a closet full of downers. The only medication I had to take for the pain was Tylenol, and not prescription Tylenol either. Fortunately, that teeny bunch of flesh on the end of my finger grew back within a few months and now you can't even tell I cut it off.
Anyway, I hated the way Paxil made me feel, so my doctor changed me to Prozac. I've been taking Prozac (or the generic) continuously since, and most of the time I'm okay. No one is ever gonna nickname me "Sunshine", but I do all right. In view of my history with wackos and suicide, one would think that would be the farthest thing from my mind. And, with only one exception, it has been. I have only given thought to doing myself in one time, and it scared me so much to realize what I was thinking, I snapped right out of it. I have never entertained the thought again. Unfortunately, I can't use that little magic trick to keep me from crying jags and withdrawal from life. You would think after all of this time, I would notice when things are getting blacker. But I don't. It's always a shock to find myself in tears for no reason. I never seem to notice that I quit participating. Until I get to the bottom. Oh God, I pray it's the bottom because I never want to go any deeper. And that's where I found myself yesterday.
I thought this blog was keeping me on a more even keel. But I got so wrapped up in all those tales of days of old. Well, yes, it was fun and it was exciting, but there was heartache and sorrow then too. Then I start to look at my life now -- which in reality is a whole lot better than it might have been. I don't like to feel sorry for myself. I don't have much to feel sorry about. But depression causes you to skew your view of everyday life until nothing is good. You can tell yourself a million times how lucky you are to have all these wonderful people in your life, but depression just will not allow you to feel the love, or see the sunshine, or hear the music.
As if depression isn't enough, I also suffer from SAD (seasonal affective disorder). That means as the days get shorter and there is less and less sunlight, I tend to get more and more depressed. My sister, Cindy, sent me a special light that approximates sunlight and I sit under it to read during the fall and winter and early spring. It helps some, but nothing short of living near the equator is the cure.
And finally, there's those hormones (I hear my male readers groaning and mumbling "Oh crap, I don't want to know about this"). I've always been hormonal. I started having "female problems" at a very early age. I had endometriosis before anyone knew what it was. I was the poster girl for PMS. I could go on for pages about all the mess I went through being female. (I have never, however, for one second, wanted to be a man. I was a tomboy when I was young, but still I was glad to be a girl.) By the time I was 35, my female parts were so bollixed they had to all come out. Which, incidentally, no one told me at the time, but if you remove a woman's ovaries, and don't give her another source of estrogen, she will go though menopause -- IMMEDIATELY! I have to tell you, it is a miracle Bud and I are still married, because I truly went off the very, very deep end after that surgery and it took a lot of patience on his part for us to make it through. But, make it through we did. Of course, then you get to be in your 50's and you get to go through menopause again. Somehow, I don't think that's fair, but it doesn't appear there is much to be done about it. At least I didn't go completely crackers the second time around.
So at the moment I'm having some serious problems with depression. I'm fighting. I called Bud and cried. He told me to pack up my laptop and go sit on the deck in the sunlight. I did, but it's a little cool out there, so I can't stay long. I really don't get out of the house enough. Since I can't drive, and I'm not too good at walking, I usually just sit around inside. I need to make a more conscientious effort to go out and get some sunlight. I've also communicated with my sister Cathy, who is a doctor. She's gonna make some adjustments to the chemicals I put in my body to try to make up for the ones I don't get naturally. I already have an appointment with my family physician for later this month, so we will evaluate the new meds and make adjustments as necessary.
I hate being depressed. I hate feeling this way. I hate talking about it, but if I don't talk about it, it will just build up and make me more depressed. I have a wonderful life, a fantastic family, and the best friends in the world. What the hell do I have to be depressed about? I wish it were just that simple.
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