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Essay on depression
Making Sense of Depression
One Person's Inside Thoughts
An essay written in Spring 2008 and made available as a contribution to Making Sense of Depression and Mental Health From The Inside with the permission of the author.
It’s hard for me to articulate what it’s like “on the inside” of depression, largely because I have a hard time recognizing myself as depressed, but also because my damnable career in psychology has imbued me with the sense that it is inherently wrong for me to define the experience of another. But the scientist in me cries out for corroboration and consistency across a population in defining a disorder or even something with less valence, like an event or why humans even make tears, and I’m just stuck vacillating between trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me and telling myself nothing is wrong at all. It’s just all so subjective and lacks any control, though perhaps it would be best to start at the beginning, because that’s where I go when I talk to myself about being depressed.
I had a wonderful childhood. I am blessed with two parents who love
me, a sister who adored me when we were younger, I grew up in a small,
tight knit community, I kept plenty of animals around me, I had
friends, I played outside for hours everyday, I adored school and
participated in extracurricular activities and I even had a little
“boyfriend” whose mother joked with mine about being future in-laws. We
weren’t, and aren’t, rich, but I still got a new dress every Easter and
handmade gifts from my grandmother every Christmas. I believed in God,
and could pray to someone whenever I felt anxious or upset. On the
whole, I have absolutely nothing to complain about. My mother was
raised by an abusive alcoholic and a man who sired her out of wedlock,
married my grandmother after cuckolding her first husband and refused
to admit he was my mom’s father until my sophomore year of high school.
Grandma Jane would forget Christmas, pass out drunk leaving my mother
to care for her six younger sisters, and once broke a beer bottle over
my mother’s head. Mom wasn’t taken to the E.R., instead Grandma Jane
stitched her head up at home and told her to tell no one. My mother
survived years of mental and physical abuse, but the scars showed. Mom
has always been an emotional powder keg and sadly several of my
earliest memories of my mother are of her crying, inconsolate on the
couch over some perceived slight from my father. Or yelling at us for
making too much noise -- she worked nights. As I got older, I noticed
my mom didn’t behave like other peoples’ moms did, my father would
later explain it as “emotional unavailability,” but I hasten to clarify
that she wasn’t like that all the time. She was utterly compassionate
when my first rabbit died, and the next, and the next, and she also
single-handedly saved my beloved buck Bugs from death by administering
extensive home care when he got a hairball. Still, mom didn’t stay at
home with us. Slowly my dad began assuming more of the child-rearing
responsibilities, and he was great at it. Dad didn’t handle crying too
well though, and consequently my sister and I to this day hate it when
we cry. I cannot help but think of crying, especially women crying, as
an attempt to get other people to do things for them, and that’s
shameful and rude. I lived for making my adults’ approval, so I tried
to rein in the tears, do well at school and in 4-H. My little life was
doing great, until we moved.
Adolescence bites, and it bites more when you’ve moved. Several
moves exponentially increase the degree of bite and negotiating all
this when you’re mother is jealous of your comparably better life bites
the big one. At fourteen, I decided I might be depressed. I’d attempted
to hang myself a few times when I felt I’d failed someone, and there
seemed to be a running dialogue in the back of my head alternately
about how worthless I was as a person and about how I wish I had the
guts to just die. Despite the fantastic fights and the hysterical
crying, I still loved my mother. Grandmother Jane committed suicide
before I was born by walking out in front of a bus. Mom named me after
her mom, and it became perfectly clear over time that the death of
either me or my sister would be catastrophic to her, moreso if it were
a suicide. I asked to see a therapist, who asked me how often I thought
about death. My father was in the room with us, and when I answered
seventy to eighty percent of the time, he told me that was impossible.
I couldn’t function if that were true. The therapist, upon hearing my
family’s history, decided my case was genetic and the only resolution
would be drugs. That was the last time I admitted that I might be
depressed to anybody. On the whole, the remainder of my adolescence was
uneventful. I had eating issues like every Western white girl, and the
fights and unceasing feeling of impending or realized failure didn’t
stop, but I had fun and depressed people don’t have fun. I was also
functioning; I kept a job at a local veterinary clinic and used the
money I made to send myself to Germany, I was in honors classes at
school and doing well, and though I’d fallen in with the goth and punk
crowd, I still managed to find good, intelligent friends. Again,
nothing to complain about.
The cutting began sometime in my junior year of high school. I’m
reticent to call it cutting, because I’m actually too afraid of causing
irreparable damage to myself with the prototypical razor blades. It
started with scratching. When I went to meetings about college or
preparing for the future, I would get afraid. Everything would go blank
except for this terrible, awful, horrible feeling in which I drowned
and couldn’t get out. I couldn’t even hear myself tell me it was all in
my head, there was nothing but fear and heartbeats and an overwhelming
desire to feel anything else. I didn’t cut, I picked and scratched at
my hands, worrying a spot between my thumb an index finger until it
bled or until it hurt so much it broke through the suffocating
aversiveness and let me think about something else . Later I would
scratch at my wrists and cover the evidence with sweatbands; ashamed
that I was harming myself, ashamed that it wasn’t actual cutting, and
punishing myself because the sweatbands irritated the scratches. Many
of my friends who cut had it much worse than I; by now I was an NHS
student, a student leader in the gifted and talented club, and a star
pupil. The addition of a boyfriend just before my senior year pretty
much stopped the scratching. I left for college as my mother and my
sister entered therapy for depression and ADHD respectively.
I had a scare when my grandmother threw a clot my sophomore year at college. I stayed with a HA and threw out both my scissors to keep from hurting myself. It was also about this time that I got tested for and began an informal regimen of Adderall; when I get stressed or panicked I cannot think, intrusive thoughts about other things, song lyrics, and old prayers drown out anything I try to put together. I only took Adderall when I was seriously stressed, like the last two days of final week. Other than that I was doing great; I was very sad when I didn’t get the DAAD, which would have allowed me to study in Germany a whole year, but I never thought of hurting myself. My mother and sister were changing too: my mom got better every time I talked to her as my younger sister seemed to be backsliding. It didn’t seem too odd, she was just being a teenager. Germany was fine, and the domestic half of my junior year was doable too even when my sister ran away and my boyfriend dumped me by not calling. I spent the summer volunteering in lab, working in the library and serving as a HA for a group of high school girls studying science on campus. The very last day I worked with the girls, I got a call from my best friend Elizabeth.
Elizabeth’s dad had had cancer ever since I got to know her in
eighth grade; it was the primary reason her family had moved away. When
she called me in tears, I sort of just knew what was happening. That
didn’t mean I could understand it. I flew down to see her as soon as I
could, ready to help in any capacity. I knew I was going to be hurt by
watching my friend hurt and not be able to do anything about it. I
wasn’t prepared for how deeply it frightened me, nor had I realized how
much I cared for Elizabeth’s father. He didn’t just die, he wasted. The
worst shock was how quickly thereafter life went on without him.
Nothing stopped, nothing seemed to change, but Elizabeth’s dad was gone
and everything felt just every so slightly turned or wrong. Nothing
changed, and more importantly, I had no reason to be upset. He wasn’t
my father. I began losing hair at this point, but assumed it was stress
that would go away once the year began and I had things underway. It
did, until Erica, my best friend at college, moved away to be with her
fiancé's family across the country. Then my hair began falling out
again. I thought I might be depressed, or stressed, but it was an
intellectual quandary with no visceral backing. I spoke to therapists,
but left the room showered in mutual laughter. I couldn’t be depressed,
I was too happy. Halloween I felt ill and elected not to go out;
parties make me nervous anyway. I called home to talk to my Dad,
knowing full well I wouldn’t get through. It is a long standing
tradition in the Smith household to call Grandma Smith, the only
grandparent I’d ever known, and tell her what the little
trick-or-treaters were wearing this year. When I didn’t get the busy
signal, I casually thought to myself in my most typical,
worst-case-scenario kind of way, Gee, I hope Grandma isn’t dead.
I would give my college degree to take back that thought.
I know my thought didn’t kill my grandmother. Her heart did that.
But I can’t shake this combination of guilt and insane disbelief. The
counselors here gave me three months for proper mourning, but it wasn’t
until the Neuroscience seminar on depression and OCD when I really knew
something was terribly, terribly wrong. As my peers casually listed
symptoms, in terms of happening to someone else, as we discussed what
depression might be, but always as something outside of that room, as
our professor waxed philosophical, I realized I’d been dealing with
this big ugly thing sitting in my head telling me terrible things and
choking any other emotional experience out of existence for three
months, and it didn’t look like it was going away.
Therapy doesn’t seem to be working. It helps to know I’m not crazy
given the circumstances I grew up in, but that doesn’t make moving from
my bed in the morning any easier. I have been gradually increasing my
Adderall dosage, trying to coax a coherent thought from the quagmire of
self-loathing a doubt. It seems, given my grades, that all this has
done is increase my startle and drop my weight to levels which disturb
my friends. One night I had been drinking with some people I didn’t
know, and one person informed me that I only speak to hear myself be
right. When I got back to my room, there was something else sinister in
my head. I cannot describe it because it wasn’t me, and it was telling
me to do things to end myself. I cut as hard as I could with my
scissors before I realized that I couldn’t not do what this entity was
telling me. If I still believed in God, I’d swear it was Satan or some
other demon in my head. I spent the night in the Health Center because
I was too afraid to go to the ER: my mother would find out, and I
already have enough difficulty trying to get health insurance due to a
series of abnormal pap smears (so add impending fear of developing
cervical cancer to all of this). So, I recognize that I have a problem,
or I may. It would seem that if I am depressed that self-doubt would be
one of the primary symptoms thereof.
So when I ask myself if what I’m feeling is depression, this is
what I think about. Then I think about the prototypical “depressive”
symptoms. Anhedonia: It could be that I’ve lost interest in the things
I used to, or it could be that they just aren’t as fun period. School
seems to get harder and harder with very little payoff that I’m
interested in. I do have a hard time starting anything for fear of
failing, and while I used to love writing (especially for cathartic or
expressive purposes) I now loathe my assignments. Every. Single. One.
Increased or decreased need for sleep: I sleep all the time. If I have
nothing pressing to do, I sleep, and sometimes when I do have something
pressing. When I need to get work done, I pump myself full of caffeine,
Adderall and nicotine so I can’t sleep. This just makes my later
extended sleeps seem reasonable, despite the fact that earlier
rebounding from an all-nighter just required an extra two to three
hours. Concentration problems; this intrigues me, do I have
concentration problems because I’m depressed, or because of the ADHD
categorization which runs through my family? It would seem like this
depression has been building over time which would make it the causal
factor, but if it’s acute, onset with the spate of deaths I’ve
experienced recently, maybe depression only exacerbating my attentional
issues. The other two common symptoms, self-loathing and feelings of
hopelessness or despair, have been my constant companions since
adolescence, and it’s almost more frightening to assume that I’ve been
depressed that whole time. Again, I cannot think of myself that way,
because I have good times. I have fun with friends and party without
being invaded by demons. I can smile. I have no reason to be depressed.
It’s impossible to do what I do and be depressed.
It would seem my case seems to match our professor’s
characterization of depression as a mismatch between visceral signals
and what my I-function seems to think of them, if I am in fact
depressed. What worries me is that despite seeking psychoanalytic
therapy, and supportive friends and family, and a serious reduction in
stress, I feel worse. I’ve been crying more than I have my entire life.
I miss my grandmother so much it actually physically hurts. Food looks
repulsive, my boyfriend’s affections annoy me and I’m so desperately
afraid of failure I put off my senior work until a point in time at
which failure was all but guaranteed. I just want it all to stop. I’m
too afraid to do anything about it, and I don’t know what to do about
it.
Comments
depression.
very interesting.
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