Medication Schmedication

"Manic depression is touching my soul
I know what I want but I just don't know
How to, go about gettin' it
Feeling sweet feeling,
Drops from my fingers, fingers
Manic depression is catchin' my soul."

- Jimi Hendrix

When I was 18 (maybe 19?) a psychiatrist diagnosed me with manic depression. These days they call it bipolar disorder. She wanted to prescribe something for me at the time, but I was reluctant. My upbringing in the church taught you that if you were depressed, it was a spiritual problem, so I felt like taking medication for it was my way of saying I didn't trust God to heal me.

That word, "depression," has evolved into a regular part of our vernacular. It's become so common for people to say they are depressed, it might as well be a hang nail or a headache. I've ignored mine for over two decades. And when I say ignore, I don't mean that I don't notice it. There's this scene in the movie, "The Mission," where as penance for his sins, Robert De Niro is chained to his trunk of worldly riches and forced to drag it through the jungles of South America. When I think about my depression, I always think about that scene. I just drag it behind me wherever I go. But I'm reluctant to talk about it because I'm afraid I'll sound like one of those people using the word, "depression," like an accessory to go with my shoes. For me, it's not an accessory. It's the shoes, the pants, the entire outfit.

When I started this blog, my intention was to be as honest and candid as possible. I've already written a little bit about my deep sadness and its connection to my weight. Someone said to me recently after having read my blog, "You were the last person I would ever think would be sad." I am a caregiver and nurturer by nature. If there's a wound, I want to bind it. If there's a hurt, I want to comfort it. If there's a problem, I want to fix it. When that is your mindset, you keep your pain to yourself. I am loathe to ever let it show and so, much like the person's reaction above, I think some people will be surprised by this revelation.

Even my closest friends don't really know the depth that it goes to. Jim has lived with me long enough to see how manic I can truly be, but as much as he wants to comfort me and love me through it, I think he feels helpless and at a loss for how to help. I've done well at hiding it from my kids. Or at least I think I have, but I've noticed lately, I'm having a harder and harder time containing it. I feel like I've sprung a leak and just as I find the hole and plug it up, another one opens up. I know that psychiatric research and medicine have come a long way in twenty years and I think it might be time for me to address this. I was manic long before I was fat, so I don't attribute my weight to being the source of my sadness, but I also wonder how much my physical health aggravates an already existent problem. 

I don't know how to describe what it feels like when the darkness comes. You can sense it. It's like watching the surf build. You can feel each wave getting bigger and gaining momentum and you know it's coming. And then it hits and your mind is fuzzy, you can't think or make decisions. Your instinct is to find a place to hide. You don't want to be engaged in conversation. You want the world to disappear because interacting with the world is exhausting. Trying to act like you're fine is exhausting. Trying to not fall to pieces every five minutes is exhausting. And there's an anvil on your chest. It's heavy and it suffocates and there's no way to get away from it. All you want is to unzip your skin and walk away from it. It's madness because there is nowhere to turn, nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. It's in your bones and it's unshakeable.

This is by far the hardest thing for me to be honest about. People who know me best know that I despise emotional vulnerability. I'm not a trusting person. And although I will hold you and comfort you and do everything I can to ease your pain, the thought of putting myself in that position, to be the receiver of those things, makes me want to vomit. I've spent the last 25+ years being my own emotional caregiver, and you know what? I'm fired. Being my own emotional caregiver has led me to make some regretful and damaging choices in my life. I cannot explain how the mania and the sadness drives you, compels you. I wish I could find the words. But I know anyone who lives as a manic is nodding their head as they're reading this right now.

I've mentioned it before, but part of this journey is my desire to find mental wellness along with physical wellness. I know the two are tied closely together. The thing is, my darkness used to cycle every few months. I would get a fairly decent breather in between. But in the last year, the cycles are shortening. In the last six months, it's been almost static. There hasn't been much of a breather at all. I've taken a bath nearly every day over the last few months. They generally last about 2 hours. My family just assumes that I need some alone time. Essentially, that's true. But it's more about survival. It's about my fighting off the darkness and somehow willing myself to get through the rest of the day. It's how I hide and cope and squirrel away precious energy, energy that is drained to near empty by just being conscious and breathing. 

Guys, I need to get better. I'm going to make an appointment this week and get myself to the doctor. If I'm going to get healthy and make constructive adjustments to my relationship with food, then I need to address the main source of my sadness. And go from this:

 

To this:

 

Oh, the drama! The intrigue! The sheer cheesiness of it all. Well, what did you expect? This is my blog, after all, and I am the Queen of fromage.