Today's post is going to be short. I missed last week because things have been crazy, and this week, to be honest, I'm having a really hard week. My meds are working, but I'm deep in circumstantial depression and while it's not as bad as the chemical, it's a very close call.
As such, I want to talk about the import of animals to the overwhelming majority of people who suffer from depression.
I am actually not one of those people who believes that animals in general have high levels of recognition that "their human" is feeling badly, and therefore they need to provide comfort. Nor is this a highly scientific article on the benefits of pet ownership for the mentally ill. All I want to talk about here is how I, personally, am one hundred percent certain that the positive benefits from animal ownership are often lifesavers in the case of depression and anxiety.
To be clear: I am not speaking of trained therapy animals. I am speaking of your every day rescue.
I am alive because of my rabbits. I am alive because they are high-maintenance, and they might not even necessarily love me, but they need me. And that's the core issue. Animals need us. And for people who suffer with not feeling worthwhile or necessary, having that one being who absolutely thinks you are? Essential.
And yes, there are other benefits. For most people, pets make them laugh. Laughter is hard to come by when depressed, but pets are one of the few things that can generally cause it. If the pet is a dog, it tends to force the depressed person out of her house and to physically move, both of which are beneficial to working one's way toward a semblance of functionality.
Pets will not make everything better. But they will, almost always, provide significant aid in a number of areas and be something to focus on at the worst of times.
The person you know who has depression--or yourself--not a dog or cat person? Okay. Some other options are: guinea pigs, rabbits, hamsters, rats, mice, iguanas, geckos, frogs/toads, fish, snakes, birds, even farm animals, like pigs, horses, or goats. Obviously those last three require the ability and space to care for them, but my point is, not even this is an exhaustive list. There is an animal for just about anyone, it's simply a matter of finding that animal.
Whether the animal works as a calming device--fish often work this way-- a comfort source, something to laugh at, something to make a person more active, or just a reason why the person has to get out of bed, pets aren't magic, but they really do come very very close.
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Sunday, October 12, 2014
It's Not a Happy Pill, It's an Anti-Depressant
In 2007, I went on anti-depressants. This is notable, because I was diagnosed as needing to be on medication in 1999.
Why the eight-year hesitation? A few things:
1. Anti-depressants have a HUGE stigma to them. The term "happy pills" in an of itself is an issue, it suggests that people who need--not want, NEED--to be on these kinds of medications are in fact just looking for an easy out. It's as if we're somehow just going to our doctor instead of down the street to score some illegal substance that makes us feel better for a few hours.
To illustrate, here is a comment once directed at me by a family member. A family member, who, by the way, is nominally in the health industry: "Yeah, anti-depressants are great in the wake of, say, a tragedy. I took some [when my father died] and they helped me to get through it. But you can't live your life on a pill just to make everything easier."
In other words: stop being weak. The rest of us are just fine without pills to help us get through the day.
2. Anti-depressants come with side-effects. One of the most common is significant weight gain, which isn't fun for anyone, but for a woman--and, in my case, a woman who already has societally-induced body dysmorphia--that can be devastating.
On one of them, I stopped sleeping. On another, I was so nauseated that even basic toast wanted to come back up.
Additionally, they can have counter-indications. I was on Prozac long enough that it started CAUSING suicidal ideation, rather than alleviating it. They also cause long-term liver damage, which means they essentially shorten the lifespan of almost anyone on them.
To sum up: they are not fun and are terrible on your body.
3. For me, I was terrified. What if I went on them and they didn't work, and this was what life was like for the rest of it, a very possible seventy or more years? More importantly, what if I went on them and they didn't work because there was nothing wrong with me other than being lazy and pessimistic and a bad person?
In the end, though, I had to try. Because, honestly, things couldn't get worse, and the hope, however small, that they might get better was impossible to turn away from. My medication history has been full of ups and downs. It took several tries to find the right medication the first time, but I will never, not if I live to one million and three, forget the feeling I had when the right one--Lexapro, at that time--kicked in.
It wasn't sudden, it was slow, but there was one day when I got home from work and the gym, and wanted to do something that wasn't sleep. I had the feeling tomorrow might be a pretty good day. I felt like ticking a few things off my to-do list. And I thought, "Huh, look at that. There's a person in there."
And then I cried. Because for the first time since I could remember, I could feel something that wasn't soul-numbing hopelessness. Even if it was sadness that I'd waited so long to go on the meds, it was real, an emotion, not just a blanket of brain chemical malfunction. And, as it turned out, when on meds that work, I'm actually pretty chill about a lot of things, even things that objectively suck.
Now, let me be clear: when I am on anti-depressants that work, not everything is easy. Life is still life. It is still stressful, and I still have to accept that I am not going to get a lot of things I want or wish for. People can still be hurtful, and loss still occurs.
The difference is, my brain's default reaction to all of this is not, "What's the point? Why should I bother with this anymore?" or, at the worst, "Everything and everyone would be so much better off if I just sat down with a bottle of pills and disappeared."
That's not a happy pill. I've never taken any hardcore street drugs, but from what I have been told by people who have, it's a COMPLETELY different sensation. What's more, it's ephemeral. You come down from it.
Anti-depressants don't cause happiness. They cause the brain to work the way it's supposed to.
Here's the truth: being on anti-depressants is a pain in the ass. Forget all the stuff I mentioned above, okay? Your body gets used to them. And you slip back into depression. And sometimes the best they can manage is to keep you from living in a haze of suicidal ideation. Sometimes it takes years to find the right combo, because just having that much help makes it feel like they're working. And, to some extent they are.
I have changed meds seven times since 2007. Every time is a gamble. And for years at a time, I have been willing to accept, "not actively suicidal" as "meds are working."
I'm lucky right now. I'm on the one-two-three punch of Welbutrin, Lexapro, and Abilify and it WORKS. It works in the way where, when I have free time, I actually want to read or write or watch some television, instead of sleep. It works where I can do things like plan ahead: go to the grocery store with an actual list, and come home and make meals for the week. It sounds simple. It's not. It's the difference between a life that is just made up of days of forcing myself out of bed and to do every little thing that has to be done until I can get back in bed, and days where my life is actually happening, and I'm an active participant in it. And because they actually work, instead of just providing base-stabilization, it's the first time since 2011, which was the last time I was on a combo that fully worked, that I can remember who I'm like as a person underneath the depression.
Right now, my insurance is refusing to support the Abilify, which means I'm going to have to appeal and try and figure out another way if they still refuse, since it is $830/month, which is, you know, outside my ability to afford. I'm still underemployed, and still have been for over two years. My rabbit has an ear infection that will not go away, and my dog vomited directly where I sleep on my bed while I was dancing Friday night. And you know what? It's all okay. I'll find a way to afford the drug, because I need it, and I have always figured out ways before. My rabbit is almost nine years old and this is her first ear infection, which is a near miracle. The puking forced me to clean my mattress, which really needed it. And I'm in the process of interviewing for a job I might get. If I don't, well, back to the drawing board.
I cannot emphasize enough: these drugs aren't happy pills. They do not blind me to the things that I'd rather NOT happen in my life. They don't give me moments of ecstasy. They allow me to COPE and to live my life without the constant specter of suicide.
If you or someone you know is avoiding medication because of stigma or fear, I cannot stress enough that neither of those are good enough reasons to continue being miserable. Please, please try, or get them to try, talking to a prescribing doctor. Maybe meds aren't for you. But maybe they are. And maybe underneath how terrible everything is, there's a person, screaming that zie just needs a little help, just a shove in the right direction. Get yourself, or try to help the person you love get that shove.
Why the eight-year hesitation? A few things:
1. Anti-depressants have a HUGE stigma to them. The term "happy pills" in an of itself is an issue, it suggests that people who need--not want, NEED--to be on these kinds of medications are in fact just looking for an easy out. It's as if we're somehow just going to our doctor instead of down the street to score some illegal substance that makes us feel better for a few hours.
To illustrate, here is a comment once directed at me by a family member. A family member, who, by the way, is nominally in the health industry: "Yeah, anti-depressants are great in the wake of, say, a tragedy. I took some [when my father died] and they helped me to get through it. But you can't live your life on a pill just to make everything easier."
In other words: stop being weak. The rest of us are just fine without pills to help us get through the day.
2. Anti-depressants come with side-effects. One of the most common is significant weight gain, which isn't fun for anyone, but for a woman--and, in my case, a woman who already has societally-induced body dysmorphia--that can be devastating.
On one of them, I stopped sleeping. On another, I was so nauseated that even basic toast wanted to come back up.
Additionally, they can have counter-indications. I was on Prozac long enough that it started CAUSING suicidal ideation, rather than alleviating it. They also cause long-term liver damage, which means they essentially shorten the lifespan of almost anyone on them.
To sum up: they are not fun and are terrible on your body.
3. For me, I was terrified. What if I went on them and they didn't work, and this was what life was like for the rest of it, a very possible seventy or more years? More importantly, what if I went on them and they didn't work because there was nothing wrong with me other than being lazy and pessimistic and a bad person?
In the end, though, I had to try. Because, honestly, things couldn't get worse, and the hope, however small, that they might get better was impossible to turn away from. My medication history has been full of ups and downs. It took several tries to find the right medication the first time, but I will never, not if I live to one million and three, forget the feeling I had when the right one--Lexapro, at that time--kicked in.
It wasn't sudden, it was slow, but there was one day when I got home from work and the gym, and wanted to do something that wasn't sleep. I had the feeling tomorrow might be a pretty good day. I felt like ticking a few things off my to-do list. And I thought, "Huh, look at that. There's a person in there."
And then I cried. Because for the first time since I could remember, I could feel something that wasn't soul-numbing hopelessness. Even if it was sadness that I'd waited so long to go on the meds, it was real, an emotion, not just a blanket of brain chemical malfunction. And, as it turned out, when on meds that work, I'm actually pretty chill about a lot of things, even things that objectively suck.
Now, let me be clear: when I am on anti-depressants that work, not everything is easy. Life is still life. It is still stressful, and I still have to accept that I am not going to get a lot of things I want or wish for. People can still be hurtful, and loss still occurs.
The difference is, my brain's default reaction to all of this is not, "What's the point? Why should I bother with this anymore?" or, at the worst, "Everything and everyone would be so much better off if I just sat down with a bottle of pills and disappeared."
That's not a happy pill. I've never taken any hardcore street drugs, but from what I have been told by people who have, it's a COMPLETELY different sensation. What's more, it's ephemeral. You come down from it.
Anti-depressants don't cause happiness. They cause the brain to work the way it's supposed to.
Here's the truth: being on anti-depressants is a pain in the ass. Forget all the stuff I mentioned above, okay? Your body gets used to them. And you slip back into depression. And sometimes the best they can manage is to keep you from living in a haze of suicidal ideation. Sometimes it takes years to find the right combo, because just having that much help makes it feel like they're working. And, to some extent they are.
I have changed meds seven times since 2007. Every time is a gamble. And for years at a time, I have been willing to accept, "not actively suicidal" as "meds are working."
I'm lucky right now. I'm on the one-two-three punch of Welbutrin, Lexapro, and Abilify and it WORKS. It works in the way where, when I have free time, I actually want to read or write or watch some television, instead of sleep. It works where I can do things like plan ahead: go to the grocery store with an actual list, and come home and make meals for the week. It sounds simple. It's not. It's the difference between a life that is just made up of days of forcing myself out of bed and to do every little thing that has to be done until I can get back in bed, and days where my life is actually happening, and I'm an active participant in it. And because they actually work, instead of just providing base-stabilization, it's the first time since 2011, which was the last time I was on a combo that fully worked, that I can remember who I'm like as a person underneath the depression.
Right now, my insurance is refusing to support the Abilify, which means I'm going to have to appeal and try and figure out another way if they still refuse, since it is $830/month, which is, you know, outside my ability to afford. I'm still underemployed, and still have been for over two years. My rabbit has an ear infection that will not go away, and my dog vomited directly where I sleep on my bed while I was dancing Friday night. And you know what? It's all okay. I'll find a way to afford the drug, because I need it, and I have always figured out ways before. My rabbit is almost nine years old and this is her first ear infection, which is a near miracle. The puking forced me to clean my mattress, which really needed it. And I'm in the process of interviewing for a job I might get. If I don't, well, back to the drawing board.
I cannot emphasize enough: these drugs aren't happy pills. They do not blind me to the things that I'd rather NOT happen in my life. They don't give me moments of ecstasy. They allow me to COPE and to live my life without the constant specter of suicide.
If you or someone you know is avoiding medication because of stigma or fear, I cannot stress enough that neither of those are good enough reasons to continue being miserable. Please, please try, or get them to try, talking to a prescribing doctor. Maybe meds aren't for you. But maybe they are. And maybe underneath how terrible everything is, there's a person, screaming that zie just needs a little help, just a shove in the right direction. Get yourself, or try to help the person you love get that shove.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
"It's like...": Talking About Depression Through Similes and Metaphors
As someone who was on Prozac for two years, the thing I still think of immediately upon hearing the word is the commercials they used to have, with a cartoon person under a cloud that followed her around. I remember thinking, "Yeah...no, it's not like that."
It's not that the single-person-rain cloud is a terrible metaphor, but it's really not a great one, either. For one thing, we use that particular metaphor to refer to people who bring drama or other things we don't like to a situation, regardless of whether that person is actually mentally ill. It's specificity, therefore, leaves much to be desired, and more than that, it lumps those of us who are actively fighting against that "cloud" with persons who embrace it. Another thing is, while we all might find Pigpen from "Peanuts" cute, we also all think he could go and find himself a bar of soap and some water. In other words, when we see artistic representations where only one person is being affected by something, we tend to put the onus of dealing with it on that person without much consideration for what that means.
Obviously, metaphors and similes are contextual. Not every one is going to apply in every situation. But, here are a few solid and decently transferable ones.
1. The broken arm: I cannot take credit for this one, it comes from a friend whose brother is on the Autism spectrum. Hir mom once told hir that if hir brother had a broken arm, nobody would expect him to pitch a baseball game with that arm. But because nobody could SEE the Autism out front, people often expected life skills of him that were the equivalent of asking a kid in a cast to pitch that ball.
Depression is the same way. No, you can't see it. That doesn't make it less real than a broken arm and it certainly does not make it less debilitating or limiting. Some people with depression CAN do everything persons without can. Others cannot, plain and simple. And even the ones who can? Are struggling at least ten times as much as a person with normal brain chemistry to complete the same exact task.
2: The minefield: Also not mine. I wish I could remember who I picked this up from. Living with depression is like walking through a minefield every day, except that only the person with depression knows there are mines. She spends all day avoiding them, and if she gets to the other side of the field, everybody acts like it's not a big deal, no accomplishment, nothing to give her a shoulder squeeze about and say, "Hey, well done."
HOWEVER, if she accidentally trigger one of those mines, it's huge and ugly, there's a good chance others get hurt and everyone blames her. She didn't actually SET the mines, she just couldn't avoid one. Whether she couldn't see it, or it wasn't possible to jump over, or whatever, the triggering was not intentional. But she gets in trouble for it, all the same, when every other day, hurtling and running and desperately trying to cross that damn field, everyone takes her actions for granted.
3. The monster: This one is mine. Every day I get up and I'm being attacked--think of this in physical terms. The attacker is up to the person creating the metaphor. Mine is amorphous and monstrous.
But I'm being attacked. And I'm struggling against my attacker, throwing kicks and punches, screaming for help, trying all kinds of things, waving my hands. It's not just that nobody hears me--although many people don't--it's that people hear and walk by anyway. In my head, I'm always on a busy street, and people know what's happening, but they still walk on by.
The thing is, at the end of every day, the monster resolves itself into me. Because, as one of my friend with depression once said, "The problem is, my brain is trying to kill me."
I agree, to a certain extent. But really, my brain is trying to do the maximum amount of harm UNTIL it can kill me. Which means that, yes, the monster I'm fighting? Me, and only me.
This is a short post, because I don't want to muddle this issue, it's too important. Verbal and visual representation of mental illness in a positive way is sorely lacking, and if I can inject just a little bit of it into the common rhetoric, I will be pleased.
To sum up: things to avoid are more broad metaphors and similes--pick something specific, like a broken arm, like a physical attack, a minefield. Avoid metaphors and similes that are used for sadness, because sadness is different. Use descriptive terms and EXPLAIN why the two are good comparisons.
And please, if anyone has other good metaphors/similes, leave them in the comments.
ETA: A comment was left with the World Health Organization's video on depression. This metaphor did not work for me, because it needed a LOT of narrative explanation, which I try to avoid, and because it's based on a dog, which is something I have positive associations with. That said, it might work for others, so I am glad to have the resource. Thanks, Jay!
It's not that the single-person-rain cloud is a terrible metaphor, but it's really not a great one, either. For one thing, we use that particular metaphor to refer to people who bring drama or other things we don't like to a situation, regardless of whether that person is actually mentally ill. It's specificity, therefore, leaves much to be desired, and more than that, it lumps those of us who are actively fighting against that "cloud" with persons who embrace it. Another thing is, while we all might find Pigpen from "Peanuts" cute, we also all think he could go and find himself a bar of soap and some water. In other words, when we see artistic representations where only one person is being affected by something, we tend to put the onus of dealing with it on that person without much consideration for what that means.
Obviously, metaphors and similes are contextual. Not every one is going to apply in every situation. But, here are a few solid and decently transferable ones.
1. The broken arm: I cannot take credit for this one, it comes from a friend whose brother is on the Autism spectrum. Hir mom once told hir that if hir brother had a broken arm, nobody would expect him to pitch a baseball game with that arm. But because nobody could SEE the Autism out front, people often expected life skills of him that were the equivalent of asking a kid in a cast to pitch that ball.
Depression is the same way. No, you can't see it. That doesn't make it less real than a broken arm and it certainly does not make it less debilitating or limiting. Some people with depression CAN do everything persons without can. Others cannot, plain and simple. And even the ones who can? Are struggling at least ten times as much as a person with normal brain chemistry to complete the same exact task.
2: The minefield: Also not mine. I wish I could remember who I picked this up from. Living with depression is like walking through a minefield every day, except that only the person with depression knows there are mines. She spends all day avoiding them, and if she gets to the other side of the field, everybody acts like it's not a big deal, no accomplishment, nothing to give her a shoulder squeeze about and say, "Hey, well done."
HOWEVER, if she accidentally trigger one of those mines, it's huge and ugly, there's a good chance others get hurt and everyone blames her. She didn't actually SET the mines, she just couldn't avoid one. Whether she couldn't see it, or it wasn't possible to jump over, or whatever, the triggering was not intentional. But she gets in trouble for it, all the same, when every other day, hurtling and running and desperately trying to cross that damn field, everyone takes her actions for granted.
3. The monster: This one is mine. Every day I get up and I'm being attacked--think of this in physical terms. The attacker is up to the person creating the metaphor. Mine is amorphous and monstrous.
But I'm being attacked. And I'm struggling against my attacker, throwing kicks and punches, screaming for help, trying all kinds of things, waving my hands. It's not just that nobody hears me--although many people don't--it's that people hear and walk by anyway. In my head, I'm always on a busy street, and people know what's happening, but they still walk on by.
The thing is, at the end of every day, the monster resolves itself into me. Because, as one of my friend with depression once said, "The problem is, my brain is trying to kill me."
I agree, to a certain extent. But really, my brain is trying to do the maximum amount of harm UNTIL it can kill me. Which means that, yes, the monster I'm fighting? Me, and only me.
This is a short post, because I don't want to muddle this issue, it's too important. Verbal and visual representation of mental illness in a positive way is sorely lacking, and if I can inject just a little bit of it into the common rhetoric, I will be pleased.
To sum up: things to avoid are more broad metaphors and similes--pick something specific, like a broken arm, like a physical attack, a minefield. Avoid metaphors and similes that are used for sadness, because sadness is different. Use descriptive terms and EXPLAIN why the two are good comparisons.
And please, if anyone has other good metaphors/similes, leave them in the comments.
ETA: A comment was left with the World Health Organization's video on depression. This metaphor did not work for me, because it needed a LOT of narrative explanation, which I try to avoid, and because it's based on a dog, which is something I have positive associations with. That said, it might work for others, so I am glad to have the resource. Thanks, Jay!
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