Every morning for the past several months, I have woken up, rolled out of bed to fetch a crying toddler, taken him downstairs for breakfast, peeled open a banana for myself, reached into the fridge for my water bottle, and cracked open my bottle with these little pills inside. This is Cymbalta, and it is used to treat my depression. It is a serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor, and 60mg of my own personal heaven/hell. What exactly do I mean by that? Well, let's rewind a little bit.
I find that it might be difficult to articulate my thoughts and feelings about depression to an audience that may not be able to empathize with the intense emotional experiences of myself and others who suffer with depression, anxiety, and other psychological disorders. However, I somehow doubt that most of you who read this have been completely unaffected throughout your whole lives. Maybe you have yet to experience depression, but will sometime in the future. Remember, my goal is to uplift, so please try not to feel gloom and especially not pity as you read this post. Depression happens. If I can somehow help you learn and deal with an issue like this, I will have done some good.
When the day came for me to meet with Dr. U, my psychiatrist, for the first time, I honestly didn't want to get out of bed. I felt the weight of my impending visit like a child who is dragged kicking and screaming to his house after a trip to the park that ended much too soon (not that I, um, am speaking from experience or anything). I came up with excuses in my mind and out loud as to why I should not have to go. "But I've been feeling better lately. Maybe we're close to the end of this phase." That was a lie. First of all, I would not consider depression to be a phase. Though it can certainly come and go in waves, it is a sickness, not something that you can shrug off or something that will work its way out of your system. Also, I had been dealing with symptoms of depression steadily for about five years previously. "We don't have the money for this right now." This is pretty much my go-to excuse for a lot of things, mainly because it usually is the truth. My wife, however, being the loving and caring woman that she is, was stubborn enough not to let this excuse fly. "Jonathan," she said to me, very gently, "I can't force you to do anything, but these kids need their daddy, and I need my husband. I don't want to think about what would happen if you weren't here." So I went.
When I met the doctor, he was pleasant, yet very business-looking. He wasted no time in starting my treatment. He asked me very plainly what was going on in my life and how I felt. I answered him very plainly. I felt like a burden on my family. I felt like I was distant and unable to make an emotional connection with those whom I truly love with all my heart. I didn't feel like going to work, but would force myself to do it because of the duty I felt toward my family and the responsibility of providing for them. I felt like the sky wasn't as blue, the grass wasn't as green, and there was nobody in the world who knew what I was going through, or would even care. I also felt lost. Things that normally bring people joy were just things to me. I felt no pleasure in pushing my own child on the swing, going to church, basking in the beauty of nature, or any number of other activities. I felt dark. I felt lonely. I felt that something was wrong, but barely had the willpower to even attempt to fix it.
Dr. U asked me about my past experience and treatment. I told him that in 2012, I spent four days in a psychiatric hospital (a horrible place that I hope everyone stays as far away from as possible, was what I thought at the time). I was prescribed an antidepressant and a sleeping pill when I was released. I took the medicine until it ran out and then stopped. I received six weeks of counseling, which helped, but was not really a long-term solution for what I was dealing with. He asked me why I had stopped seeking professional help and didn't continue taking prescriptions. I cited money, but that was just a cover up. The truth is, I never wanted any help. I, too, was once under the impression that a positive attitude and a whole lot of grit and determination would get you through just about anything. I was defiant, misinformed, not at all humble, and it nearly cost me my life. Even while I was in the hospital, I would spit out some of the medicine in the sink in my room, so that the nurses would mark that I had taken it, but I wouldn't have to deal with these strange chemicals trying to mess with my body. I still don't like taking medication, by the way. It feels different and wrong. It feels like my brain is being taken over and my body is resisting. It really is difficult to describe.
The fact of the matter is that when suicide becomes more than a nagging thought, when it presents itself as a real option, that is one heck of a wake up call. Up to this point, I haven't used the "s" word, because talking about it still scares me. The closest I ever came to ending my life was when I was in my room, holding a CO2-powered metal bb gun to my head, thinking, "This is the end. It will be over, and I will be relieved." For a brief moment, I did truly feel that relief would come through my actions, but something grabbed a hold of my thoughts and convinced me otherwise. In truth, I don't know what kind of damage I could have done with a bb gun, but in the height of emotional anguish and excruciating internal pain, the thought of physical pain simply pales in comparison. On another occasion, I was driving home one night and thought how simple it would be to swerve to the left or to the right, in front of traffic, off a bridge, or perhaps into a ditch. It would probably look very innocent to others, like there was some kind of accident, or perhaps I had fallen asleep at the wheel. Sometimes you fall into that stupor of dark thoughts and are miraculously awakened, thinking, "Where in the world did that come from?!" But, sadly, it doesn't go away. Honestly, recounting other times when I had suicidal thoughts is quite a blur, but I can tell you that I had imagined suffocation, stabbing, and other horrid methods as means of escape.
Now, back to my recent appointment with Dr. U. I was prescribed the minimum dosage of Cymbalta and told to come back in a month. Given my history of avoiding treatment, he sternly asked, "Will you continue seeking help and come back to see me in a month," and seemingly adding, "I want to help you, now will you do something to help yourself?" I very seriously and determinedly agreed. The first day I took the medicine was the heavenly part. I've never been high, but I imagine that it feels a little bit like my experience, minus hallucinations and stuff. I went through work that day feeling blissful. It didn't necessarily make me happy, but I seemed to be immune from the bad, and that was good enough for me. When I got home, I told my wife, "I think the medicine is working. I feel so chill right now, like you could punch me in the face and I would totally be okay with it" (yes, those were my exact words).
But other days have still felt like hell. Sometimes I take the pill and I get the shakes really bad. I feel nervous and scared, to the point where all I can do is lay down and wait for it to pass. Other days I feel very tired and lethargic. I have also taken my medicine sometimes and not felt a thing at all. No change. I still feel hopeless and unmotivated. I feel like running away to a far off place, or just breaking down and crying. The thing is, I know that I am making progress. We are experimenting with the dosage, talking about what helps, getting feedback from those I closely interact with, and putting forth a strong effort to make things better. As much as I hate taking baby steps at times (I can be a very impatient person), two steps forward and one step back still feels like an achievement when you used to be in a deep, dark abyss. Progress comes when you try. You know what, failure comes when you try, too. But the greatest failure is when we fail to try.
Remember, always hope.
"Be believing, be happy, don't get discouraged. Things will work out."
- Gordon B. Hinckley
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