My Journey with Depression: Part I

Wednesday is a good day to write about depression. Fifteen years ago I never would have imagined that I’d have anything personal to write about depression. I had formed my views on it from television, movies, and novels, and I guess that’s why it took me over three years to even figure out what it was that I was suffering from.

In my early 20s I associated depression with crying, staying in bed all day, suicidal thoughts, grief and having a negative outlook. I’d been taught that anyone could overcome mental illnesses by pulling themselves up by the boot straps and by making up their mind to conquer it. All my life I’d been told that effort yields results.

Then I had children. And while having children didn’t cause my depression, the onset of the illness coincided so closely with childbearing that sometimes I wondered if being a mother made me miserable. I no longer felt like the woman my husband had married. She became buried in a sea of fatigue, irritability and frustration.

I went to doctors with my complaints and symptoms. They seemed to think that once my children were sleeping better, I would too. They suggested exercise. I upped what I’d already been doing. I kept a gratitude journal which was a wonderful experience, but still didn’t solve my depression. One doctor finally diagnosed an under-active thyroid. And while taking synthroid helped, something still wasn’t right.

I felt stressed out all the time. Little things became monumental. I read articles and books and tried everything they suggested as a means to reduce my stress. Relief came in an unexpected way.

I had gone in for a follow-up appointment with my family practice doctor regarding some dizziness I’d been experiencing. Towards the end of the exam, he asked, "So how do you think you’re doing?"

"Fine," I said.

"And how are you doing up here?" he asked and pointed to his head.

I thought a moment and began to tear up. "Probably not fine."

"Look," he said, "I know you haven’t been feeling great, and everything we’ve tested for comes out normal. I’d like to have you try some anti-depressants and see if they help at all." Noticing my hesitancy, he continued, "They have few side effects. Try them for a month and see if you notice a difference. If not, we’ll take you off them."

I left his office with a month’s worth of samples and began taking them that very day. When I told my husband that I was taking anti-depressants, he was a little puzzled. Like me, he didn’t think that my problems were related to depression. We were both wrong.

The doctor said that I would probably notice a difference in as soon as two weeks, and I did. I no longer felt overwhelmed. I was sleeping all through the night. I didn’t wake up with puffy feet, hardly able to hobble to the bathroom. And I felt happy.

I asked my husband if he’d noticed a difference. "Yeah," he said, "you’re just a lot nicer."

Only hindsight made it possible for me to see that I had been suffering from depression for almost four years. Once I was feeling better I wanted to know more about my illness. That was over six years ago, and my life has been a constant learning experience ever since.