Sometimes I get into a funk. Wait. Let me be honest.
Sometimes my depression gets worse.
The first twenty years of my life were full of joy and life. Sure, I was fat and kids are mean, but their words never penetrated my joy. I was happy. I laughed freely and a lot. I enjoyed every moment of my life even the bad ones.
Almost. There was one time when I was 10-ish I contemplated suicide. If I hadn’t been so afraid of pain, I’d have cut my wrists, but I couldn’t and I never ever ever spoke to a single soul about it.
Maybe it was an omen of things to come.
When I was 20 I experienced my first real heartbreak. It had been fine when the boy dumped me a few weeks after we started dating. I’d loved him for years before, we were good friends. He broke my heart, but I was ok. It wasn’t until after a horrible summer that things took a turn for the worse.
I had a bad summer, humiliating and hard, and I was depressed when I started school again. Then he asked me on a date and I stupidly said yes. He tore me to pieces at the end of that date.
I spent that next college semester in a black hole of depression. I ate, I slept, I worked, I went to class. I faked it. I faked it hard. No one except my roommates knew something was wrong. I made straight A’s. I learned how to fake it really well. I’m not the type of person to get consumed by my depression. It’s an invisible illness and I am damn good at hiding how bad mine gets.
Right now, I’m writing this, but I don’t want to. I want to curl up in my bed in the dark and do nothing, think nothing, be nothing.
I’m not. I’m sitting on my couch homeschooling my daughter and writing this blog.
I didn’t medicate my depression until after my son was born. I knew something was wrong with me more than usual. I was so very angry. Angry at the drop of a hat. But not angry–raging. I would fly into a rage over things that didn’t matter in the least.
I talked to my doctor and she put me on citalopram. Low dosage and it worked! In fact, I was happier. I wasn’t back to the utter joy of my youth, but I was happy. And the rages went away.
About two years into that I had to increase my dosage. The rages had started to come back. My doctor assured me that it was normal to have to increase the dosage.
I admit that I am back to needing another increase, but I don’t know if it has to do with being pregnant or simply because I am there and would be there even if I wasn’t pregnant.
Right now I am in the bottom of an oubliette, curled into a ball, and ready to just be forgotten. Well, that’s where I am emotionally. Physically, I’m fine. I’m still sitting here with the girl, doing worksheets because she wants to. Honestly, I wouldn’t be here if she didn’t ask.
I’m fine. Really. I’ve done this for a long time. I’m good at faking it. And I will talk to my doc in a couple weeks. Until then, I’ll fake it til I make it.
This is me. I come from a long line of ice people and barbarians where the women fought next to the men in battle and where the women fought the men in battle–and won. I can fake it. Your neighbor, sister, brother, friend, whomever shouldn’t be required to fake it like me. Don’t use me as an excuse to shame someone else. I come from a very long line of alpha females. I am an alpha female. I can do things other people can’t. So don’t read this and judge your friend. I won’t stand for it.