cacophony

I still hate it here.

In an effort to keep my head as far above water as I’m able, I have gone back to reread my journal from the time when I was first in recovery from depression, when I first began taking this medication.

I so want to draw, to learn to draw. It can’t be too late for that, can it? Suddenly there are all these exciting plans and possibilities and ideas in my life! And they don’t have to be complete today — they can take years to develop because I’m STILL GOING TO BE HERE in years to come. The trees have colors. A red so deep it’s almost purple, plum, wine and a yellow that jumps into your head and screams at you and every possible color in between. Driving to the library I missed my exit because I was looking at the trees and I was laughing out loud. I don’t remember that kind of joy in something so simple ever in my life. I want to draw. I want to take photos. There is so much I want to do and so much, finally, really — in front of me! Did a medication do this for me? Or is this really who I am?

. . . .

I think I feel like I have to relearn myself. This person on this little pill is so different from the person I have known for so long. Wow. I could like this person a lot. I need to learn how to do being happy. How to do more than just cope and actually live.
Oh wow. The person I am. My green and white salvation. That’s waht it seems like to me. I am scared of relying on a medication to be me. I am scared of going back to the life I had. Jesus, it’s like someone flipped a switch. The difference is the fear doesn’t paralyze me. It’s great and scary and amazing and fascinating. I just want to cry and scream and laugh out loud. Forever. And twirl around like a child. I love this me.

That’s the point, Carrie. Cling to it.

It seems, after nearly seven years being depression free, six of them without meds, that I’m here again and unable to escape on my own. So I’ve got an appointment with my doctor and will be starting antidepressant therapy again. I feel so defeated.

. . . .

The first time I clearly remember feeling crushed by despair, I was very very young. I don’t remember how young, but certainly before I was twelve and maybe before I was ten. I was sitting in the bath, and it seems looking back that I had been for hours. The water had gotten cold, and I remember reaching out and draining it, staring at the water swirling around the drain and in some dim part of my brain, where thought was still happening, I wished I could follow the water. I sat, knees drawn to my chest, arms wrapped around them, and rested my head on my knees and cried, rocking back and forth. I was wet, freezing, and felt . . . desolate. Crushed. Hopeless. Angry.

. . . .

I found myself in the shower less than a week ago in almost exactly the same position — still freezing and desolate. At 31 years old, I felt essentially no different than that very young girl all those years ago. This came shortly on the heels of using a run to push myself past the point of sanity, to a point where I was crying from the physical pain in my legs and feet and lungs, but continuing to push because I needed the pain. I wanted to hurt. Sitting on the floor of the shower, I realized I can’t do this on my own. The past six months have been an exercise in excuses, telling myself that I would feel better soon, trying to trick myself into believing that I did feel better, and just being downright stubborn. Sitting there, rocking back and forth, I couldn’t feed myself those excuses anymore.

. . . .

When I was 23 years old, I found out who I was underneath the depression that had been with me as long as I have memory. I started a combination of med therapy and cognitive therapy. I truly believe that a little green and white pill, and a woman name Stella, literally saved my life. Becoming well — not depressed — was a surreal, exhilarating, miracle experience. At that point, I believed I’d be on an antidepressant for the rest of my life. In reality, after 18 months of med therapy, I was able to wean myself off the medication and still not relapse into depression. I’ve been able to maintain that status quo for almost six years. Until about six months ago, anyway.

. . . .

I really thought I’d won, that I had all the tools I needed and that I’d never be here, in this place, again. But here I am. I hate being here.