Oh G-d: the Intersection of Depression and Religion

Sorry about my absence last week.  This week I am acually posting something I wrote for my synagogue's newsletter.  I intend to discuss why I chose to write this and the aftermath of it in my next post.

Caveat: this post is not meant to imply in any way, shape or form that having a relationship with a higher power is necessary to better the lives of those who are depressed.  There are significant periods of time when I find it much more comforting to believe there's nothing out there, because at least then there's a reason nothing CARES that I feel like this so much of the time.

That said, to the article:

I am mentally ill.  I suffer from severe clinical depression.  Let me be clear about this: this does not mean I am sad.  This means that, when not properly medicated, I spend most if not all of my time thinking how much I would like to kill myself.  This means the desire to be dead is all I feel in those periods of time.  This means that, I can be on medication that works, but isn't quite right, and think the best I am going to feel—ever—is simply not-suicidal.  For most persons who suffer from mental illness, medication is helpful, if not an absolute necessity.  In many cases, it is the latter.

Medication for mental illness has almost as much stigma attached to it as the illnesses themselves.  People who take psychotropic drugs are weak, we "just want to feel good all the time," we "are not strong enough in our connection to G-d."  That last one is something I learned about from a friend.  Evidently, in certain sects of Christianity, taking medications for mental illness is frowned upon because if the ill person "just believed in Christ enough," they would feel the joy they do not feel.

Judaism, to its credit, does not approach treatment for mental illnesses in precisely this way.  The torah has examples of depression in figures like Saul.  Saul has periods of extreme dejection, jealousy-fueled rage at David, and otherwise irrational melancholy.  The torah tells us that David playing the harp for him helped somewhat with these emotional periods.  In the torah, David's music is the "therapy" Saul needs.  Obviously, in biblical times, the type of drugs we have today weren't even a thought.  There might have been homeopathic remedies for cuts and burns, bruises and infections, and alcohol or the like for self-medication, which is a far different thing than being properly medicated and seen to by a physician. Saul, though, didn't have the option of taking Prozac or Celexa and remembering that, oh, yeah, he was king, and things were pretty good.

From the outside looking in, it's hard not to see Saul's depression, his illness, as the reason David takes the throne instead of Jonathan.  Jonathan essentially comes from tainted blood.  Saul cannot trust in G-d enough, cannot connect to the divine enough, and therefore, David, who can, succeeds to the throne, and leads our nation, becoming a legend.  Saul's legacy is far less brilliant.  Although he is a byword for wisdom, his time as monarch is deeply overshadowed by David.  It is really no wonder persons who suffer from mental illness feel turned away by Judeo-Christian religious communities.

To make more comprehensive what I am trying to get across, telling a person who is depressed to trust in G-d, or be grateful for what G-d has given him or her, is much like telling a deaf person to just listen harder.  Helping a person who has depression (or is manic, or having a panic attack, or in crisis in any other way) to get help, however, is a way to bring him or her back to a place where s/he has the basic ability to trust in G-d, to appreciate what G-d has given to him or her, to do things with what s/he has been given in life.

I am not saying medication is right for everyone.  I am saying that a general reliance on religion has healed absolutely nobody I know who struggles with mental illness, and in many cases has made the illness worse.  I am saying that therapy of some type, or a mix of therapies, be it animal, music, art, physical, talk, medicine, or otherwise, is absolutely necessary for alleviating the worst of the symptoms of mental illness. 

We as Jews pride ourselves on taking care of our own, on tikkun olam, on our compassion.  Let us be leaders in showing compassion to those with mental illness, in helping them to get what they need, instead of judging them for their inability to be who we expect or want them to be.  Let us be leaders in caring enough to help people like me reach a place where a positive relationship with the divine is a possibility, rather than an ever out-of reach desire, another failure on our part, one more reason to leave the community.   

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.

The Honey-Do List: or, some basic DOs

I apologize for this being a week late.  My sister was doing her first half-Iron distance triathalon last week, and for those of you who aren't familiar, spectating that kind of event is an endurance test in and of itself.

In any case, as promised, the flip-side of my last blog post: or, what TO do as the friend/family member of someone suffering from severe clinical depression.  Sticking to the five number format, since it worked well last time and I like symmetry.

5.  Take care of yourself.  I'm willing to bet this seems self-evident, but only from the outside looking in.  It is incredibly easy to lose sight of self-care when being a support system for someone who is spiraling.  Self-care is a lot of things.  It is eating right, it is sleeping enough, it is physical activity, but most significantly, in this situation, it is the ability to say no, to look to others for help.

I had two friends once, and one was a depressive.  She was a self-harmer, and I'm pretty sure she had borderline personality disorder.  The other friend was someone who had never really dealt with self-harm and the threatened potential of something worse.  Both women were young at the time, and the support-friend got to the point where she was the ONLY support for the self-harming friend.

Support-friend wasn't sleeping enough, was very worn down and at one point, I asked, "When Other Friend asks you to come over or if she can stay with you, do you feel like you can say no?"

And after a long moment, she shook her head, "No."

Trying to get help while depressed is hard.  It sucks.  It often doesn't work quickly, so it seems like all the effort was pointless.  If you allow yourself to become the sole support system for someone who is depressed, that person may very well take advantage (knowingly or unknowingly) and use your support until YOU are the one whose health is suffering.

Learn to say, "No, I cannot help you right now," and to put yourself first.  Realistically, unless you are taking care of yourself, making sure that you are steady and grounded, you're not able to help us anyway, you're just creating an enabling loop.

4.  Encourage us to get help and to KEEP AT the things that are helpful.  This, obviously, ties in with the last one.  Here's the thing about depression: when we're in a depression cycle, we have neither the energy nor the mental strength to seek out aid on our own.  We don't believe it will help.  Many of us have been and been and been to professionals to no real advancement or change.

We still need it.  Not only because professionals are the best suited to know when we need to be put in a hospital and make that choice dispassionately, but because they are paid to take care of us, and therefore are an essential part of the support system.

When we're doing well, we often tell ourselves (and others), "Oh, I don't need that right now."

When we're doing well is EXACTLY when we need to be working on it.  It's when we have the best ability to do so.  Chances are, though, that we won't unless encouraged.

What's more is, we probably won't stick with it unless we see support from our friends and family.  Asking a person who is depressed what she's getting out of her therapy sessions?  An absolute no.  Saying, "Hey, I really think you're doing better at __________ since you've been in therapy,"?  Go for it.

This is the same (maybe even more so) for meds.  A lot of people seem to think psych meds are the same as say, cold meds, where once you start feeling better, you can get off of them and your body will take care of the rest.  That's not how it works.  These meds are more like something you would take for an auto-immune condition, or something else chronic.

A lot of people DO get off their meds when they start feeling better and then spiral back because the improvement stemmed from the meds fixing the problem.  Psych meds are often a lifelong deal for people with depression.  Being meds positive is a HUGE help, since there's already a stigma on mental illness and using meds for them.  Not to mention, every one of these meds comes with a barrel of possible side effects and the probability of long-term liver or kidney damage.

I avoided meds for SEVEN YEARS for lots of reasons, but definitely among them was the idea that taking them made me weak, that "now we just prescribe a pill for everything" and I didn't really need them.  I needed them.  I still need them.  And I still hate that I need them.  The last thing I need is people making me feel like I'm weak/stupid/bad for taking them.

Finally, we also need to be encouraged to build up community.  Whether this is through support groups, or hobbies where we meet other people, the more community we have, the more help YOU have when things get bad.  Community is essential.  If there's a way to help us create some, even if it's just having a few dinner parties and trying to introduce us to people you think might make good friends?  In the long run, that's going to be better for everyone involved.  You will have people to turn to for support and support for us can be diffused among a larger group of persons.

3.  Aid in good habits.  This is a little like four, but slightly different in that this is talking day-to-day behaviors.  So, for example, depression tends to breed a lot of "side effect" conditions, such as eating disorders, insomnia, agoraphobia, etc.

For example, let's say your friend's problem is agoraphobia, in the sense that she refuses to leave her hosue.  Create a standing "date night." This is important: be the one to drive, to pick the place and be ready to have to do the work of basically dragging her with you over protests. But do it.  Make sure she gets out of the house, even if it's only for an hour.

If the problem is compulsive overeating?  Do activities that don't involve food or at least involve healthy foods.

Help us to live in clean and safe environments.  Maybe this means coming over on a Saturday and making us sort out our closets with you, if you're good at that kind of thing.  Maybe this means helping us to find a cleaning company, if financially viable.

Get us to exercise.  Physical movement helps with the depression, even if we don't want to do it.  If the weather's nice, get us to take a walk around our neighborhood.  Or maybe find a yoga workout online that can be done inside, together.  Just something to get our blood flowing.

Like I said last week, do not do these things FOR us, do them WITH us.  And if you cannot get us to leave our house/help with tiny things/etc.?  Call our doctor.  Let a professional handle the situation.

2.  Listen.  Listening is hard.  It's hard to just take in a flood of "I hate my life," and not try to help, not try to make us see where there's a flaw in our "logic," but here's the thing: you can't help, not in the big picture of actually clearing up the depression, and our logic is flawed because our brain is misfiring.  No amount of arguing is going to change that.  Chances are we KNOW our logic is flawed and it doesn't matter, because we cannot emotionally feel that.

There's a comic of one person having a panic attack, and another person says, "Calm down," and then the person panicking says, "It worked!"  When put into stark relief that way, we can all see how ridiculous a comment like that is, when someone's brain is telling her to panic.  It's the same with depression.  You can tell us to "cheer up," or "think positively," or that the "past does not define the future," or that "hope exists," and you're basically just talking to yourself.  And probably making us feel like you weren't listening or you are dismissing the way we feel.

But listening to us, listening and just saying, "man, that sucks," or, "can I hug you?" or "I'm here," any of those things, it may not make it BETTER for us, but it doesn't make it worse and it does remind us that there is someone out there who cares enough to just let us be who we are, mental illness and all.

It's not fun for the person listening, believe me, I get it, I've been that person more than once.  And it feels helpless and sometimes really eye-rolly.  But to the person to whom you're listening?  It feels like, for once, someone is actually HEARING us, and we don't get a lot of that.

1.  Be persistent/annoying.  My best friend texts me every day.  Every single one.  Without fail.   And most of the time I'm kind of like "yeah, I'm here, yeah."  But on those days where I'm holding onto things with broken fingernails and the skin of my teeth?  That grounding moment is huge.  It says, "Hey, there's someone out there who would be really upset if you did what you want to do right now."

Bug us.  Sometimes, we're probably going to be dicks about it, wanting to be left alone to ruminate, let the depression marinate.  It is very seductive in that manner.  Be that third wheel.  Disrupt our date, bring pizza we didn't ask for, and a board game.

Try to do it in a way the person in question handles well.  I'm best at text and email, so that's what most of my friends do.  They'll call in a pinch, but I don't like being on the phone, so they try and avoid that.  Other people like that voice connection, or, if you're near, maybe they'd sometimes prefer actual face to face.  You have to determine what works best for you and your loved one.

I recently saw an article about how people disappear in times of grieving to "give the mourner space."  Except that, in most cases, what the mourner needs most is a community of support, rather than "space."  Depressives are the same way.  We put off vibes that we want to be left alone, and maybe some of us even really do, but we shouldn't be.  We need to have people showing they care, making sure we're responsive, and generally just pecking at us until our brain lets up and we settle into a remission phase.

Some Basic Don'ts

I know, I'm supposed to balance the Dont's with the Dos.  But, a) Don'ts with depression are easier, and more universal, and b) relax, next week's edition is on the Dos.  I've got to maintain a little mystery, right?  Keep you coming back for more?  Or something.

Again, I really cannot speak for all persons with depression.  This is more about me and all the people I've known with the condition than the world at large.  But pronouns are tricky and not always as varied as I might desire.

I am going to do five of these, since that's a nice, round number.

5.  Do not take it personally if I don't seem terribly present.

As I've talked about in this note, depressives are taught early--and later internalize--that our tendency to be "sad" means we are self-involved.  This often creates a defense mechanism which turns us into people who automatically de-prioritize ourselves.  As such, when we are at all, even just a little bit able to be, chances are we're going to be the best person in your life for listening, empathizing, and trying to support you.

If you notice we've stopped really paying attention, say, we're nodding our heads but not responding the way we normally might, chances are a few things are happening.  Depression robs people of the ability to concentrate.  It might be taking us all our energy just to focus.  It's also possible that we don't have the energy to care at that time.  This is NOT personal.  It's not even close to personal.

We have stopped caring about OURSELVES.  We have stopped caring about everything that previously made us happy.  In my case, when I get to this point, if I COULD care about anything, it would be what's going on with my friends and family.  But I'm so far beyond that, it's generally all I can manage just to be physically listening/hearing.

You don't have to stop talking.  Just be compassionate if the response you usually get is unavailable.  And don't get mad because we can't be the person you need right at that moment.  At least in my case, I'm trying as hard as my little heart can manage.  Also, getting mad isn't going to get you what you need or want.  In my case, it's going to mean I withdraw emotionally from you long term, because I have learned you have no ability to consider my emotions, and because the last thing I have the ability to do at that moment is say, "Hey, I need you to realize I'm having a hard time right now and that doesn't mean I don't care about you."

4.  Do not let us disappear.

This is a hard one.  Especially if the depressive you know and are trying to be there for is an introvert.  Because that person NEEDS time alone to even have a chance of functioning in the rest of her life.

If the person is an extrovert, don't mess around: make sure that person is going out with you, even if you have to provide rides, or set up hanging out at her house with some friends.  This latter is a good way to handle an introvert if you cannot get her to come out: take food to her place.  It allows her the safety of her surroundings, and means that she's eating.  Depression can cause emotional over-eating, but it can also cause a complete lack of interest in food, ESPECIALLY if it has to be made.

I am someone who's really awesomesauce at making myself eat when depressed and last night I had a bowl of cereal and an apple for dinner because I couldn't rustle up the mental energy to actually figure out a meal plan and enact it.

A sub-tip to number four is, if you get to her house and basic things, such as taking out the trash, laundry, etc., need to be done, help.  DO NOT do it for her.  Unless you physically cannot drag her out of bed--in which case, call someone stronger than you, put her in your car, and take her to the nearest hospital--have her participate in some way.  It can be small.  You can have her sit down and sort the laundry.  Or walk with you to the curb with the trash cans.  Anything.  But force her to take part in her own life.  I am not saying this is easy.  She might be a total crab-ass at you.  Or say terrible things.  Or cry hysterically.

Get her some water or Gatorade, and make her participate in her own life anyway.

At the VERY least, call or text and check in with her.  Suicide happens, in my experience, when people reach a crucial clusterfuck nebula of two points: the sense that things are hopeless, cannot get better, and things will always be this terrible and painful, and that the world, even the people in it who love us, is better off without us, and things will be easier for everyone that way.

This is possibly the most important point of this post: nobody can stop another person from committing suicide.  At the end of the day, it is the person who takes that step's choice.  That said, letting a person know you care day in and day out, even if it's just by saying "hi, thinking of you," can go a long way toward slowing or even halting the cycle of "nobody needs me" thoughts.

If you can--and being the friend to someone suffering from depression is grueling, so if this means too much mental and emotional energy on your part, just don't--occasionally find a reason WHY you care about that person to mention.  It doesn't have to be epic.

A friend recently told me she needs me to hang on because she learns things from me.  That's an A++ reason.  Any reason that's real will help.  It won't FIX anything, but it will help.

3.  Do not expect miracles from medication and therapy.

Speaking of fixing...

In some people, these steps do cause miracles.  And if that happens to someone you love, be thankful, because miracles are rare and precious.  But if what you get out of that person is instead two days out of the week that are better than they were before?  Or the ability to communicate frustration where she could not before?  Take that and run.  And be proud when those moments happen.  Let the person KNOW you are proud, not only for the progress, but for being willing to get help, to try different things, when, frankly, it's one of the hardest things.

On Thursday, I went to my prescribing doc.  He really wishes I would go to the hospital, because I have hit the space where I genuinely have no capacity to believe life will get better than it is right now, and I have no interest in continuing on in this space.  Or, as I said to my therapist when she asked me if I planned on doing another triathalon, "The thought of being alive long enough to do that is depressing."

I won't go to the hospital because I cannot afford it, either financially or time-wise, and because all it would mean is a bigger mess when I come out the other side.  Additionally, I have a bunny who just got an ear infection, and I'm the only person who can take care of her the way she needs.  My bunnies are actually my last line of defense.  I remind myself regularly that nobody is going to take an almost nine year old and almost seven year old bunny and really pay attention to them and love them if I'm not around.

So, instead, my doc doubled my dosage.  If this doesn't work, the next step is putting me on a THIRD anti-depressant, co-currently.  Being honest, I sincerely doubt any of this will even take the edge off.  Changing meds hasn't worked the last two times we've done it.  I don't think it will now.  I don't think going to therapy is doing anything, because I've reached the point where there's nothing more to say: something I straight up told my therapist this week.  And that's the disease.  It tells me, in no unclear manner, that nothing I do will help, that things will always be like this.

And I believe it, because I have no other choice.  But I go to therapy and doctors because I know its the right thing to do.  If you know a depressive who constantly goes and does the work, at her worst, she's not doing it because she believes it will change anything.  She's doing it because she's supposed to.  Hug her and tell her she's doing a great job and you're proud of her for keeping it up, even when it seems hopeless.   Because, trust me: it does.

2.  Do not let us go silent.

This is another hard one.  For me, talking, really talking, when I'm like this, is a chore.  I'm tired of hearing my own voice in my head.  I don't have anything new to say.  I don't want to pretend to be happy.  Silence is my best option.

Which is why, once a week or so, it's important that someone find a way to get me to talk, even if I am saying the exact same thing.  Things haven't gotten better for me in two years.  They're unlikely to anytime in the foreseeable future.  I'm not going to have a lot that's new and interesting to say.

Ask leading questions and listen anyway.

It's like this: I may be tired of hearing my voice in my head, but that's not going to shut it up.  And a lot of the poisonous shit it says?  Is just plain better getting released.  When someone overdoses, we pump her stomach, because "better out than in."  Depression is the experience of constantly overdosing on hopelessness without any affirmative action on one's own part.  Someone's gotta go in and make us bring it all up every once in a while, because just like the drugs, if not as immediately, it will kill us.

1.  Do not, do not, do NOT, EVER, say the words "things could be worse," or "just cheer up," or any variation thereof.

I actually get that for some people this helps.  Those people are not chemical depressives.

Have you ever broken a limb, or had a bad flu, or cut yourself deep enough to need stitches?  Out of curiosity, did thinking positive thoughts about getting better hasten your healing process?  Because, if it did, you might have either mutant or angelic powers, and you should consider a career in televangelism, or something.

I can think all the positive thoughts I want.  Realistic ones, even.  Ones like, "I write well and research like a boss and have a really interesting professional and academic background: someone has to hire me sooner or later."  Or, "Lots of people meet life partners much later in life, things are just taking their time."  I can repeat them in front of the mirror every morning.  I can use them as a meditation, whatever.  My BRAIN does not believe them.  Because my brain does not function correctly.  Much like a broken arm, the essential function of my brain is in a state of disrepair and works on a basis of limited functionality.  The difference is, fixing a broken arm is a decently exact science at this time.  Fixing my brain?  Not so much.

As far as the "things could be worse" approach, let me quote something I saw on tumblr, the font of all true wisdom.  (That is a lie.)

"In breaking news, the person in the worst situation on planet earth was finally found and THAT person is allowed to be sad.  No sads for anyone else, though, ever."

Like I said, I realize that for non-clinical depressives, this sometimes helps.  I've met people who find it useful to think about the fact that they could, say, not have a home, or be going hungry, or be physically ill.  And I envy the crap out of those people.  Man, if I could make myself better by thinking about all the things that could be worse?  I'd be the world's happiest chickadee.

For a moment, though, let's take it for granted that I don't actually want to be so miserable all the time that I would rather be dead.  And from there, let's take the logical step that if it were that easy for me to feel better, I'd have already fixed the problem.  I talk in this note about how, not only is using this approach unhelpful, it's DANGEROUS.  It tends to cause a guilty reaction, which will not only make me stop talking--see point number two, this is NOT a good thing, it doesn't mean I feel better, it means I've been made to feel like my pain does not matter--but will stay with me, and very possibly trigger a cycle of even worse feelings of worthlessness than are usually an issue.

A sub-suggestion here is, "things will get better"?  Also not helpful.  I cannot convince myself of this.  You telling me it?  Feels dismissive, even if it is not intended to be.  And again, it makes me feel foolish for not being able to make my brain believe it, makes me feel like I should stop talking, like I should go away.  Away away.

So what DO you say to a person who's depressed?  *grins slyly*  Come back next week, mes amis.

What You See Might Be What You Get, But It's Not Who I Am

In the past two weeks, I have finished writing two stories, each over ten thousand words long, and edited them in order to send on to outside editors.

I have walked ten miles in two-and-a-half hours, and I have swum a mile in a flat fifty minutes.  I've biked fifteen miles.

I've taken the ice bucket challenge, donated to two charities, and volunteered for another two.  I've also been to a meeting as part of the executive board of my synagogue.

I have been on time to both my jobs every day and taken care of every piece of business that has come up, including a surprise clusterfuck with the courts that occurred twice last week.

These are some of the things I've done in the past two weeks.  In that time, I've also spent almost every waking moment reminding myself that if I kill myself, nobody is going to take care and love my two rabbits.

Hi.  My name is Leslee.  I am thirty-four.  I have a Masters and a JD.  I am licensed to practice law in two states.  I have been published three times in academic books and trade journals.  I have a black belt in taekwondo.  I finished an Olympic-length triathalon in 2013 and will be walking a half-marathon in about a month.  I have had people respond to my fiction stories, posted under a nom de plum, and tell me that those stories have helped them to deal with serious emotional traumas within their lives.  I have a dog and two rabbits.  I love to lindy hop, and have been swing dancing for fifteen years.  I played bridge against my grandparents twenty years ago, and now I play it in bridge studios.  I'm part of a Toastmasters group full of crazy-awesome people.  I love to read.  I like to bake and I like eating what I bake even more.  I've been to China and Israel and a number of other places and I want nothing more than to go to a new and different places around the world.

And I am seriously, clinically depressed.

I have been in talk therapy on and off since 1992.  I have been going consistently since 2006.  In 2007, I finally consented to being put on meds.  They worked for about six years.  I had to change them four times in that span of years.  They have not been working, despite new changes, for about six months now.

I exercise, I watch what I eat, I get the sleep I am supposed to get.  I have been trying neuro-feedback for six months.  If it was going to help, I probably would have seen a change by now.

I would like to try electro-convulsive therapy (ECT), and my therapist agrees it's probably my best option at this point, but it is $300 - $800 a treatment, and you start at two treatments a week.  I could MAYBE afford one a month.

Lately, I've talked a few times on Facebook or at a Toastmasters meeting about how I "pass" as mentally healthy.  About how that means most people do not understand what I am telling them when I say I'm depressed.  And about how that makes it almost impossible to get real help or support outside of mental professionals paid to provide aid.

About how I taught myself early on--out of fear of the consequences of doing anything else--to believe that nothing in life except things that are pleasureful for me is optional.  In other words: going to work?  Not optional.  Getting writing done?  Optional unless I owe someone else a story.  Then non-optional.  Going to a board meeting?  Non-optional.  Reading a book?  Optional, with a side of only-if-you-have-finished-everything-else.

This means I am insanely efficient, and if I tell you something is going to get done, it will either get done, or, on rare occasions, I will let you know well in advance that it is not going to be possible.  This means people see me as put together, as "fine."

This means that in the eyes of the world, I am not depressed.  I am maybe, perhaps, sad.  Sadness is an emotion.  It is an important emotion.  It is not an emotion that makes death the only thing a person wants out of life.  Depression does that.

Because my depression is even more invisible than that of the person who won't get out of bed, or who cuts herself, or who can afford, time and money-wise to go to the hospital, I spend a lot of time pushing back against people's misconceptions about depression, and how it functions.  Those misconceptions have been rife in the media and popular discussion in the wake of Robin William's suicide, and I've felt more and more that I have some responsibility, because I have the ability to do so, to talk about what depression, and particularly functional depression looks like.  And how functional depression requires as much support as the kind that keeps sufferers in bed.

Since I am working on being kind to myself--an uphill process--I am setting the goal of updating this blog once a week to talk about something related to functional depression, anything.  And maybe people will read, and maybe they won't.  Maybe someone will see this, and feel less alone, and maybe nobody will.  But words are one of the few things I've always had control over, in a world where I have very little control over anything.  They are the way I have met most of the people I am closest to in the world.  So I am going to try this.  Try and see if it helps me, if it helps others, if it helps.