Depression Rhymes with Possession. I'm Finally Owning It

I wrote my first will when I was about eight. I wanted to make sure that someone – specifically my parents – would feed my hamsters and canary after I offed myself.  

I did not consider this odd behavior. I didn’t think about it all.

That’s the thing about depression. To the afflicted, it not abnormal. This is what life feels like. A lot of the time it’s simply unbearable.

Most lucky people can’t even begin to understand. Everyone who is not a sociopath has been sad, and most have fleeting encounters with depression. It sucks, but it’s not the same.

Chronic clinical depression is exhausting. It’s painful. It’s frightening. Most of all it’s boring.

It sure as hell isn’t sexy.  Mental illness usually isn’t, unless you’re Angelina Jolie in “Girl Interrupted.” Or Brad Pitt in "Fight Club."

Most people struggling with depression are functional and cover it pretty well; no one wants to be around a miserable person. I surely don’t; I’m unhappy enough.

I could be wrong, but I don’t think most people know that I’m a depressive. I When I’m in a bad place I hide as much as possible. Additionally, I’ve managed my crippling thoughts with the help of medication. Most of the time.

For as long as I can remember I believed that everyone was brighter, more successful and certainly happier than I was.  I was partially right.

Normal children don’t write wills.  They play with friends. They didn’t spend hours in their room, afraid of not to measuring up.

That pressure was totally internal. My parents had no unusual expectations of me.

But there it is. Depression is a lot of things, but rationality it isn’t one of them.

Shrinks tried to convince me to go on early versions of anti-anxiety meds. Even as a child I knew those old meds were bad news. They barely worked  and simply  tranquilized patients, leaving them dull and fat. 

I made the conscious decision to remain thin, (it was a long time ago), creative and miserable.

By the time I was in my 30s there was actual medical hope. Prozac and SSRIs (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors) had been invented, most notably Prozac.

The problem at least for me, was the appearance of celebrity/author Elizabeth Wurtzel. Wurtzel wrote an incredibly self-indulgent, best-selling book, Prozac Nation, about her mental illness and how she was saved by Prozac. 

Or some bullshit like that. I could never make it through anything she’s written.

All I knew was that I knew Elizabeth professionally. I felt badly that she was depressed, but it didn’t make up for the fact that she was a royal, self-entitled pain in the ass. Or at least she was to me.

If she was the result of successful Prozac use, I wanted no part of it. It also became trendy, taking anti-depressives was suddenly some peculiar badge of honor. Blech.

Eventually I confided to a shrink that the only reason I got out of bed in the morning, was for the dogs. She asked me if I had suicidal thoughts. I laughed. Doesn’t everyone?

Apparently not.

She convinced me that in all likelihood I had a chemical imbalance, and to try Prozac just for a short time. It might help. If it didn’t, I could quit.

I couldn’t come up with a reason to argue anymore.

But because I am a competitive bitch, I didn’t want it to work. If it helped Elizabeth Wurtzel, it couldn’t be real. I had a real problem, and she was a poseur. Her dumb medication couldn’t help me. Right?

Wrong.

Prozac didn’t cure my issues completely. Neither did any of the other anti-depressives I tried. After all, they are only drugs, not miracles. But they help.

Now I’m functional.  Most of the time I’m at least on an even keel. If I’m not happy, at least I’m rational. 

Usually not suicidal.

I still hide in my house. I can go weeks without socializing except for the people at the barn. Occasionally I don’t answer the phone or call people I want to talk to the most because I’m too depressed to be interesting, and don’t want to bore them. 

I rewrote my will recently. It wasn’t because I was going to slit my wrists. Nope, this time, it’s because I’m old.

I guess that’s progress, right?