100mg of Happy

I remember the day I called my mom and told her about chemical imbalances in people’s brains.

Depression is stigmatized. I had the symptoms for years and refused to do anything about it. If I sought help, I was weak. I was a disappointment. I was abnormal. That’s not to say that anyone ever told me these things about myself. I’m lucky enough to have a fantastic support system. But in my own mind, if I did anything to help myself cope, I was less than human.

I remember calling her and telling her all kinds of facts I found on the internet, and I remember she sat silent on the other end of the line until I was done rambling. I held my breath, tears in my eyes while I waited on her response. When she told me she supported me, I thanked her, hung up the phone, and cried.

I didn’t cry often those days. I bottled up. I was depressed and dealt with it in numbness and occasional cutting. I don’t excuse what I did. I had my reasons then, but I’m not about to say it was acceptable. I felt dead on the inside, and hurting myself reminded me I was still alive.

It took me a few weeks to pick up the phone to make the appointment. Shame held me back. I had all the support in the world, but support didn’t amount to shit when I couldn’t get over my own prejudices. Admitting you have a problem is the hardest part, isn’t it? Honestly, I probably would have put it off longer, but my mother had to go into the doctor’s office to pick up a prescription, and she dragged me along to set the damn thing up. I told the receptionist that I needed a physical, then whispered that I wanted to get on something for depression. She didn’t hear me and asked me to repeat. The room spun and I wanted to either sit or run. Instead, I took a breath and spoke a bit louder. She said okay, and that was all. Conversation over. On our way back out to the car I talked nonstop. My anxiety shot through the roof, so it was either talk until I calmed down or shut down completely. My mom gets that. She let me go on and on about absolutely nothing, only speaking up to make a stupid joke so we could laugh a little bit. Laughing helps. When you laugh, you remember to breathe.

Fast forward to a few days later. I went in and let the doctor get all up in my business, laughing the whole time (laughing helps), and for a brief moment I thought she forgot about the other thing. The depression thing. But after she got done scraping my insides, she let me sit up and asked the question I wanted her to ask but didn’t want to answer. We went lightly over details. What had been going on recently in my life, how long it had been going on, etc. I looked at the wall the whole time I spoke. My voice shook, so I laughed (laughing helps). She asked why I hadn’t come in earlier. I told her I was ashamed. I told her I felt like if I couldn’t control my own emotions or lack thereof I wasn’t human. I told her that I would go on lows but sometimes they’d pass and I would think I was cured, even though hundreds of times before I had gone through the same situation with zero improvement.

We talked about the difference between depression and bipolar disorder, and I assured her there was no real high. There was only lows and normal. We talked about therapy, and I assured her that speaking to a stranger did nothing for me. I went to therapy for years going up and it was not a good experience, and it only made me shut down. We talked about life in general, and I assured her nothing bad was happening outside of my own head. Most of my problems were self-inflicted. Then we talked about medication, which I agreed I wanted to try. I rambled again about the studies I had read where it’s nothing wrong with a person themselves but instead a chemical imbalance in their brain. I still don’t know why I told a doctor everything I knew about it, but she let me say my piece.

Since then, I’ve been put on the generic for Zoloft. I started with 25mg, then bumped up to 50mg, then bumped up again to 100mg. It’s definitely a change, and something I’ll delve more into detail in future posts. The main thing is, you aren’t alone. If you feel unwell or judged or scared, you aren’t alone. I’ve been there. I am there. We’re in this together, love. The least we can do is attempt to enjoy the ride.