Stigmata

Without downplaying anyone’s personal experiences or tragedies, I often times wish I could abruptly blurt out, “I have cancer”, or “I have a fractured tibia”, anything except “I’m depressed. I feel sad, worthless and lonely. I have horrible thoughts that at times seem uncontrollable. I’m ashamed of my actions, my thoughts, myself. I feel like disappearing.”

Anything except admitting that there are mornings I can’t seem to get out of bed and tears come from someplace deep within me for no apparent cause or reason.

Anything except that I feel safest alone, where my shortcomings cannot be seen or touched.  

Anything except that I feel terrified most days; That on most mornings I have to pull my car over on the side of road to control myself; That I sit there watching the seconds on the clock tick by slowly, knowing that I’m late for work, jeopardizing my job and yet not being able to stop the racing thoughts in my head that make me consider driving either straight off a cliff or straight to the hospital.

I wish I could say anything except these shameful statements, and yet also that I could say them without the stigma that, to this day, despite the popularity of anti-anxiety medications, commonly associates itself with mental illness or disease.

I see a therapist, a GP, and a psychiatrist. All of which have nearly put me in bankruptcy but how do you tell someone that you can’t join them for a slice of pizza because the few dollars you have left in the bank account are reserved for next months prescription without feeling embarrassed?

How do you tell someone closest to you that instead of wanting to spend time together, you’d rather just sit in the dark and shut out the entire world? How do I get the point across that it’s not them, but me, that’s the problem? How do you let someone into the darkest, deepest places of your soul without feeling completely naked and open to judgment, ridicule and shame?

Things are better, though. Over the course of the past 9 months, I lost thirty pounds, sometimes not eating for two or three days. My new medication seems to have alleviated that problem, as my skinny jeans are no longer as appealing as they once were. Who knew depression could make you look so good, right? I don’t pull over on the side of the road quite as often, though, strangely, I feel safest in my car, parked no place in particular, waiting out the thoughts until they pass, dodging my mother’s persistent phone calls and generally waiting for the world to stop spinning long enough for me to gain control again.

Despite Astra-Zeneca and other pharmaceutical companies hawking the benefits of every magic pill from LexaPro to WelButrin, Remeron seems to have been my saving grace. It’s an enormous dose (45 mg) saved for those of us who are seriously disturbed in one way or another. In a different class than the more common anti-depressant’s yet still classified as an “anti-anxiety” medication, it’s sole function is to restore the levels of chemicals that are supposed to occur naturally in the brain. It’s no magic pill, though, that I can promise you. It takes anywhere from 1-2 years for the brains chemicals to regain their balance, even with the assistance of medication. Restoration of those chemicals is not the end of the road, though, but instead just the beginning. Intensive cognitive therapy is the only real answer, that and a whole hell of a lot of blood, sweat, tears, rage, shame, embarrassment, anger, disappointment and more bumps in the road & set backs than any human being should ever have to endure.

It is a seemingly endless cycle of two steps forward, four steps back and most days I feel as though I have travelled a journey of a million miles. Exhausted yet unable to sleep at 11 pm, I spend my days fighting a battle against myself and my thoughts which have proved to be the most frightening opponent I have ever faced.

This battle is fought silently by me and by millions of other people on this planet every day. It is incapable of being described accurately and completely. It is a quiet monster that rages every minute of every day and follows me into sleep in the form of nightmares that play-out the fears locked in my mind.

I wish I could write a.n.y.t.h.i.n.g. e.x.c.e.p.t. t.h.e.s.e. w.o.r.d.s.