Do You Really Understand?

42-15969694 In the eight years I have suffered from depression, I finally realized today that I have never put down on paper how I feel and felt; throughout it all, that’s bad! Maybe it’s because putting it on paper would give it the finality of admitting I have depression. Whatever the reasons, I decided it was about time I told my story. I think an explanation of the title is a good place to start, since it took some thought to finally decide on the title of “Do you really understand?” Throughout my history of depression people often say they understand what I have been going through. I used to say it myself before I started suffering from depression, but now that I have “been there” it is my belief that no-one can truly understand the living hell of depression unless they have been there themselves. So on to my story.

The first time I realized something might be wrong was when I was about 22/23 and people at work began saying I was moody, snappy, grouchy and sad. I, of course denied it saying everything was fine, until one day someone asked me whether I thought I was suffering from depression. “Who, me?” I said. Never, could I be depressed, I was the one people turned to for advice; I was the one who was always smiling, had the optimistic outlook on life. Well, at least I used to be. The more I thought about things the more I realized I had become, pessimistic, miserable, snappy, grouchy…all the things people said I was, but still I didn’t think I had depression, maybe a virus or a bug. I took myself off to my GP, explained everything to him. He too felt I was depressed, suggested I maybe start some antidepressants. Okay I thought, I’ll take the tablets, I’ll show everyone it’s not depression. The weeks went by, I still felt lousy, in fact I felt worse, dizziness and nausea had set in, so I went back to my doctors. He still felt it was depression but that maybe those antidepressants weren’t suited to me, so he changed them. I still wasn’t convinced I had depression, but I took the tablets, figuring I could prove to everyone it wasn’t. Things went from bad to worse, I was moody, crying for no reason and the tablets had terrible side effects, so much so I collapsed at work one day. My GP tried another antidepressant. Okay now I was beginning to think maybe there was some truth in the fact I was suffering from depression, still it didn’t mean I accepted it. One turning point in my life was the day I couldn’t stop crying. The tears were just flowing with no reason. Enough was enough; I went to my GP sobbing. He too felt more help was needed. He finally referred me to a psychiatrist. Even then I still wouldn’t (couldn’t) accept I had depression.

I saw the psychiatrist a few days later, lots of questions were asked, lots of soul searching was done. The psychiatrist said I had clinical depression. Could I accept I had depression? NO. I still didn’t want to believe it.

Anyway, the psychiatrist changed my medication put me on Prozac. It helped a little, but not much. There were days when the thought of getting out of bed was just too much, but I did, I still had a job, one where people depended on me. Don’t ask me how I did it, because I don’t know, but I did and I went there pretending everything was fine, I told no-one I had depression, thinking that they would label me, think me incompetent, after nurses can be the harshest judges of all, I should know I am one.

I eventually did tell some of my friends at work about my diagnosis, they were brilliant, looking back now, I have some amazing friends and I just regret not telling them sooner about my depression.

It was hard continuing to work, I didn’t trust myself to do things, jobs that usually took 5 minutes took 10 minutes because I would check and double check things, all because I didn’t trust myself to do it right, after all how could I, when I was a hopeless failure?

There were days when the world felt it was too much for me, when I wanted to hide under the duvet and shut out the world. Somehow the world always found me again.

The next part of my story is the most difficult part for me, I still find it hard to talk about, as I still can’t accept I got this low, it is the first time I have ever wrote this down. I realize that not talking about it may lead to problems in the future, but my inability to accept that I was ever once like this prevents me from talking to anyone, besides how do you start a conversation about suicidal feelings that you had 3 years ago? Also, not many people know about it, not even my psychiatrist.

Some days were worse than others, but I kept going. I was seeing my psychiatrist on a regular basis and by this point my medication had recently been increased. My psychiatrist would ask me questions; ask if I had any thoughts of self harm or suicide. My reply was always no. I lied. There were days when I couldn’t see a way to go on, days when I thought the world would be better off without me. They were suicidal thoughts. No-one knew what I was thinking, no-one could.

One particular day sticks in my mind and it will remain with me forever, I was alone in the house, the world was against me, I hated me, what was the use of living? I went downstairs and held the bread knife in my hand. I ran it lightly over my wrists first, planning on where to cut, then something stopped me, maybe the thought of what I would leave behind, maybe the fact that I didn’t really want to do this, maybe the fact I realised I was desperately crying out for help, I don’t know even now, 3 years on I still can’t say what stopped me pulling that knife hard and fast over my wrists and ending it all. What I do know is I am glad I didn’t do it.

I saw my psychiatrist the next day, said I felt at an all time low, although I never revealed my suicidal thoughts. My medication was increased, as well as arrangements for me to see a cognitive behavior therapist and a psychologist. From there things got better. Okay I had my down days, my down weeks, but on the whole life was worth something again.

I also began seeing a counselor, and over the weeks, episodes from my life emerged that helped me understand why I was suffering from depression. I finally began to realize it wasn’t my fault I had depression and this realization helped me finally accept that I did have depression. No-one can help having an illness, including depression.

I saw my psychiatrist for the last time about a year ago in 2001/2; he discharged me from the mental health services, on the advice to continue with the Prozac for a further 6-12 months. Life is good again now, at the moment, I know the depression may return, but if it does, then so be it, I know now what to look for, the early warning signs and symptoms.