Debbie Downer, otherwise known as depression, is the worst for me. She’s a nasty, venomous witch. She says, “No one loves you. Everyone is pretending. He’s going to leave you as soon as he finds a replacement. You are a stupid loser. Everyone would be better off without you. Do the world a favor and jump off a bridge.” My idea of a replacement girlfriend is short, skinny, exotic, perfect, and stylish. In short, no resemblance to me. I beat myself with the inadequate stick, but my superpower is faking it. Only those close to me will know I’m depressed. Others call me eccentric. I avoid them all if I can.
A few years ago, my doctor wanted to change my medicine because my thyroid was getting worse, and my thyroid medicine dose was climbing higher and higher. I don’t think I’ve ever changed my medication for reasons other than debilitating or health-related side effects. I tried to go off a medication seven years ago. I slowly went entirely off the rails–psychotic. I felt terrible immediately. My brain told me I was a piece of crap (using stronger language) the first week. By week two, I was paranoid, thinking everyone who cared about me was talking disparagingly. I didn’t want to be around anyone. On week three, I’m delusional. I think, “My friends and family don’t love me anymore. They never did love me. They pretended to love me because they felt sorry for me.”
My boyfriend and I planned to go away for the weekend, and the plans fell through. It was the final straw. I believed all my negative, poisonous thoughts were reality. I decided to leave alone. I looked for a getaway. I wanted to pay cash so no one could trace me. The plan degenerated into an I-need-to-kill-myself-by-Friday plan. I decided I would drive my car to a church and park, take the bus to a nearby town, rent a kayak, and jump off and drown.
I didn’t want anyone to feel bad or guilty about what I planned. The worst part of the plan was that I picked drowning in the sea because I have an irrational fear of drowning and getting eaten by those creepy creatures that live at the bottom.
As Debbie Downer, with nothing else to turn to, I started to pray. I chanted, “Thy will be done. Thy will, not mine, be done.” I felt at peace when I prayed for the first time a few years earlier. I felt like something was out there. Something that cared about me: puny, whiny, sniveling me. It gave me hope. I kept praying.
At first, I prayed. “I don’t think anything out there gives a hoot about my life.” I prayed anyway. Whatever is out there, likes me and you and you. God is a mystery, but I can feel him. Sometimes, I even hear his whispers. I stopped questioning who God was when I heard, “Why is not a spiritual question.” I don’t care what God is. I only care that I can have his soothing presence in my life. Even if God was knowable, I doubt I’d be selected out of trillions to know.
As I waited for Thursday to end, when I could carry out my plan, I imagined myself at work Friday, waiting to go home at noon, park my car, and finish the dastardly deed. By this time, I practiced praying daily. I prayed and realized I felt nothing. I didn’t feel that comforting presence. I told God, “I can’t feel you. I don’t feel any peace. If you have a better plan, you must make me do it. I can’t. I’m nothing. I feel worth less than a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe. I’m done if you don’t do something.”
Rude people tell me God responds immediately when called on, and you can always feel him. He responded to me immediately, but I felt nothing. Mental illness is loud. It blocks my connection to God.
When I got home, my boyfriend texted me, which I ignored. When he called, I had no desire to live. I didn’t care. The situation was hopeless and futile, but I picked up the phone anyway.
It was futile because I knew someone would eventually fix my medicine. I would be better. I would be happy again. My conundrum was that I knew it would be fixed today and haywire again tomorrow. I knew I would be well and then sick again–that this hamster wheel would spin again and again and again. I knew from experience that I couldn’t find the right medicine and take it for years. Eventually, no matter how perfect it was, it stopped working. The treatment vanishes in a fog of side effects.
A person who is slowly losing their mind to depression doesn’t look like you think they should. I thought people with depression stayed in bed all the time, didn’t work, and never answered the phone.
I have had some of these symptoms during a depressive episode. The symptoms are as varied as the people who suffer from them: irritability, intensity, self-centeredness, obsessiveness, being hard to talk to, being negative, opinionated and vocal about it, argumentative with intensity, and sleeplessness, to name a few.
I realize depression–a little monster hiding inside me–comes out when she wants. At first, I’m moody. A few weeks later, people avoid me and call me “psycho” and “downer.” Some people leave me in favor of ordinary folks who aren’t angry, intense, and overwhelming. Even a person with experience can fail to recognize depression in someone else because it manifests itself in different ways.
I think monitoring my depression is the same as monitoring my blood pressure. I need to check myself every day or every few days. Do I see any signs? Am I sleeping at night? Am I more irritable than usual? Am I negative and self-obsessed? I need to be on the lookout for these things. The way for me to treat bipolar (mania and depression) is by monitoring myself for symptoms. If I catch myself early, I might be able to head off a full-blown episode. This method has been working in my life for seven years. If I watch out and report symptoms to my boyfriend (now husband) and psychiatrist, I am more likely to maintain my sanity. Sanity is good.
For more information, see Prognosis and improved outcomes in major depression: a review and Major Depressive Disorder.