Depression happens

One of the people I talk with recently mentioned some of the signs of depression in his life. And I immediately jumped on him to get medical and therapeutic helps started. The signs of depression are several - lack of interest in anything, feelings of suicide or thoughts on how to accomplish it, weight loss or weight gain that's not explained, and more. But the big thing is to go to your doctor and if the doctor passes off the symptoms go to another. Depression is a medical illness that affects body and brain. Depression is just not a matter of getting out there and ridding yourself of it.

There are a number of mentions of depression in search engines, go to the sites that have real medical advice rather than the herbs or other treatments. There are drugs that have been tested and shown to help. There are therapies that have clear success rates. Go to those sites, go to some of the free medical helps in your community or the nearest major metropolitan area. But go get some help.

That's the advice I gave to 'him' and to you.

Depression

Depression

Everything
EVERYTHING
becomes
NOT BECOMES
everything is
EVERYTHING IS
a burden
a task
just one more thing
pleasures become burdens
pleasures become just
just one more thing
another task
another burden
no pleasure
no pleasure at all.

Copyright Roger Victoria 1998

Tear drops fall

The tears drip down
There is no cause
They come as drops
Drop down as mist
Theree is no cause
The tear drops fall

I say it's nothing
It's just pollen
It is, the pain
It is depression
It isn't pollen
I say it's naught

But it is something
I wake before the morning sun
with dreams of pain and ruin
and as I go through daily tasks
my laughter is a mask


The tears drip down
with hurt and aches
They come like drops
of torrents poured
There is a cause
The tear drops fall.

copyright Roger Victoria 2007

S. A D.

I can never remember what the initials stand for but SAD is the winter condition where with shorter days you head down towards depression and longer days you begin to come out of it. I normally compensate by finding myself overworking, not the thing to do in depression whether it comes from a particular incident as my first bout, or is a seasonal thing as seems to happen now.

But the problem for me is not when I'm heading down, but when I finally start coming up again. Going down is a gentle slide, but coming up is a real roller-coaster. Which is why when people talk about the risk of suicide for some anti-depressants I go - it's probably because they finally start to have the energy. That is just the perspective of one who's studied from the inside and done some light reading from the outside, but perhaps should be looked at.

And I mention SAD with that because, while I probably experienced some of it before my bout of depression that required medicine, therapy and a lot of pray, since my depression I notice it every winter. I go down and then as the days are long have a roller-coaster on up.

I suspect that some of my readers have experienced depression or have someone in their family who is going through depression. It's not just in the mind, but has repercussions for the whole of the person. And family and friends will be affected. Help the depressed person get some help and spend a little time in a support group. Recovery is sometimes harder than just living with the depression so... just a word of thought

What I've described is some of my own experience. There are a number of other ways people can eexperience depression and recovery. Check with the person rather than assume I have thngs correct for you (or someone else). But as spring is coming (and my mother's birthday has just passed with the memories of her death and the start of her depression) my thoughts and prayers turn to those who are still in the depths.

There is hope. There is a way out. It's not easy, but it is worth it.

Depression Day 5

Earlier days have been posted. I suspect this will end up novella length. At least if it goes as I have planned.

And she woke up, but it was not quite 7am, so she lay in bed waiting to take her pill. She had two things to do today. Take her pill and go to her first appointment with a therapist. She knew she could do the first and hoped that she could do the second. But today the pill didn't seem to be helping at all. Laying in bed waiting for the clock to turn to 7:00 was all she could do.

And she took the pill.

And she went to eat breakfast.

And she went to take a shower.

And she went to the closet and stared trying to figure out what to wear. She'd never been to a therapist and thought she should look nice, but was it church dress-up or work dress-up or casual lunch or dinner with friends or what. She had been just putting on clothes in the order they came up. The just washed went in the back of the closet so that there'd be some rotation.

At least the appointment had been made from her doctor's office. She didn't have to think about which therapist and what time and where to go. Those decisions were out of her hands. She didn't have to obsess over calling someone she didn't know or even someone she knew. All she had to figure out was which clothes to wear and as she thought about it it didn't seem to matter. Whatever she put on the therapist would see her. And would the other patients matter?

But what if someone saw her on the way to the therapist? What would her clothes say? Would it look like she was out for a day of shopping? Or would it be clear from what she wore that she was in trouble and going to see a therapist? And what would the people she knew say? She was supposed to be a Christian and why would she need to go to a therapist if she was really Christian? Wouldn't she be taken care of by God if only she had faith? She wasn't supposed to be one of those who grieved as those who had no hope? She wasn't supposed to be in despair? She'd lived a good life, trying to do the best she could. She'd been faithful in attending church. She'd been faithful in tithing. And how could she as her father's daughter; how could she as her husband's wife; how could she as her son's mother; how could she be going into therapy for depression? She'd always been the one others looked to for help or an example and how could she be in this situation? And why hadn't!
she seen it coming?

And she stared into the closet awhile longer before finally taking out the clothing that was at the front of the closet. A nice pantsuit, nothing to business like but enough to show that she was a competent woman. No ruffles, but enough of a V-neck to show some cleavage, but with the jacket it was clear that she was not available. Yes, it was a good outfit, she thought, it didn't say too much or too little about who she was. She could be mother, wife, and daughter in those clothes. She was intelligent, competent, and reliable with the outfit.

She knew she wasn't what her clothes said. Not anymore. And if not now had she ever been intelligent and competent and reliable? She had been a bright little daddy's girl – winning awards, but had they been because of her dad. She had been a credit to her husband – he was envied at her compose and he always made sure she knew it. She was thought of as one of the mothers to go to for advice and her son's friends were over at her house more than their own. But she didn't know if she really had been any of those things and she knew she wasn't them at present.

And so her outfit was chosen – more by default than thought – but chosen.

And she set the alarm for an hour before her appointment and lay down.

But she didn't sleep. No one in her family had ever needed therapy. They were supposed to be the sort of people who could handle problems. And she wondered if she was worthy of her father and her husband if the death of one could send her into this state where she was supposed to take medicine and go to therapy. Her family had been turning out good church workers for generations and how could she disappoint them by going to therapy and showing that her faith wasn't as strong as theirs. She should be like Timothy in following the example of his mother and grandmother and instead she was letting down the family and going away from the faith.

But she just didn't know if she had faith. She was hanging on to the idea that things were going to come to a grand and glorious conclusion with the coming of the savior, but she couldn't see how that belief meant anything when she was in the torments of hell. Why would any good Christian be in such torments of the mind? Yes if she had been asked to stand up for her faith and meet torture, then she could say she was a good Christian but how could she believe that she was a good Christian when she was in such a mess for no good reason.

And she grew up hearing stories about how an aunt had gone to Africa and survived for twenty years at a mission station before coming back home and raising a niece and nephew who had lost their parents. And she heard stories about her great-grandfather who had pledged money to help build a church and then left the church over some doctrinal point she couldn't understand even as an adult but kept on giving his pledge and more to that church until they could build. And she remembered stories about how her grandmother had taken in hired hands even with five boys since they could always feed the hand and his family even if they didn't have any money for sugar and all that they had was beef and potatoes.

And she wondered why she was in this – depression since she now had the word – couldn't she have had some great and terrible deed with which to prove her faith instead of this agony that showed her lack of faith? Weren't Christians supposed to be joyful? And weren't they supposed to be able to get over the blues? And weren't they supposed to be glad that their loved ones were with God? And why did she go into this state after her husband's death?

If she'd had enough faith wouldn't she have overcome this – depression – without medicine and without therapy?

Depression Day 4

Day 4

At seven she took the third pill. And she felt like she’d done something if not enough. She had hoped that she’d notice something even though the doctor had said it would be two weeks to a month, but nothing had changed. And it was only a faint glimmer that the doctor had said that an anti-depressant might work that got her to take the pill.

After yesterday spent lying in bed she thought she ought to eat, though she wasn’t really hungry.

So she got up and went to the kitchen, where she sat down and stared at the cupboards wondering what to eat. The thought of cereal nauseated her, even the sugar topped ones would taste like cardboard, so she just went with the shredded wheat. She didn’t need a bowl for that. She could eat it over the sink and anything that dropped she could run through the garbage disposal. And while every bite tasted like sand, still she knew that there was enough to feed her and she wouldn’t feel like throwing it all up afterwards.

And after she finished eating she sat down and waited for a half hour or so.

Then she got up and cleaned the sink.

And after she finished cleaning the sink she sat down and waited for a half hour or so.

Then she went and showered.

And after showering she sat on the tub for a half hour or so.

Then she brushed her teeth

And after brushing her teeth she sat on the tub for a half hour or so.

She thought about combing her hair, but went back to bed.

And she stayed in bed even as the phone rang and the answering machine picked up and it was her son.

And she knew that he’d be worried, but she just couldn’t talk to him, she just didn’t have the energy to talk to anyone. And she’d started treatment so she could mention something next time he called, but talking to someone was too much for today. Hadn’t she already done enough? She’d actually showered on a day when she didn’t have anything scheduled and that hadn’t always happened in the past so maybe the drug was having some effect even though it wasn’t supposed to be working for another two weeks, but it wasn’t’ two weeks anymore. It was less than two weeks, but still more than a week so maybe she was just fooling herself since she still felt the pain and she still didn’t have energy to do anything. How many hours had it taken to eat and clean up after breakfast and she used to be able to do that and six other things before seven and now she was left just trying to get up at seven to take a pill and that pill might not do any good. So why was she even taking that pill when she just was in so much pain and everything took so much effort and she lay in bed.

She listened to the answering machine click off after her son said, “I love you.” and wondered what it was she felt for him. All her being was consumed by pain and she had nothing left for the son she had born so many ears ago.

And then the real pain hit as she wondered – what sort of mother am I that I can’t even answer the phone when my son calls. All I’m doing is lying in bed and even though the pain is still throbbing shouldn’t I be able to pick up the phone and listen and reassure my son that I’m not lying dead even though that would hurt so much less than what I’m feeling right now.

And her thoughts circled round and around like the murmuring of the tide coming in – only not so painless.

And after a few hours she realized that if she called her son would be at class and she wouldn’t have to talk, she could just leave a message, and even though that didn’t feel like enough it was something.

And so she hit the speed-dial and waited for the phone to ring praying that he’d be in class so she wouldn’t cry and make him upset, praying that he’d be in class so she wouldn’t have to talk, praying that her nightmare would be over sometime. And the answering machine finished so she quickly said, “I’m glad you called, sorry I missed you, love you.” and hung up.

And she was relieved and sad and tired and wondered what sort of mother didn’t want to talk to her own son. And yet she was too tired to spend time in conversation and wondered if she should tell him she was on an anti-depressant, but thought he didn’t need to worry about her when he was away from home and she should be taking care of him so he didn’t need to know just yet.

Depression Day 3

Day 3

She was awake and turning long before seven. She was always awake and tossing through the night. But she had determined she was going to take the prescription at 7am and so she waited. She might not be able to do anything else today, but that one thing was all she needed to do. Yesterday she’d gotten more than the pill taken. She’d done a load of laundry. So today she could just lie in bed enduring the pain until it passed.

And that’s all she did.

Depression Day 1

Day 1

As she lifted her head the sour smell of stale sweat from her pillow arose. But it was too hard to move much more and so she lay back down in desperation. She didn't feel as if there were any good reason for her to stay in bed, but she just couldn't move. And that was what she had felt for a long time.

At least it felt like a long time. At this point she wasn't sure how long. She vaguely remembered happy times. But it was as if those happy times were through ten feet of cotton candy and her life now. She could see herself laughing in some photos, but couldn't figure out what that felt like. Yes, she had been happy, but not in a long, long time.

Her living room and kitchen were immaculate. But that was because she didn't have the energy to leave them messy. When she ate – everything was cleaned and put away before she fell asleep. And she didn't buy any food that might go bad. The dried milk she kept on hand didn't taste all that good when she made it up for the meal – it was supposed to sit – but when she had the energy to eat and clean up she wanted to do it then. If she waited any time her burst of energy would be long gone and then there's be the dishes to clean and they'd sit. She'd done that before when she'd tried to wait. And the dishes would sit with the big round eye of a plate accusing her of not doing anything and her mind quivering with the blows of unmet expectations. And she just couldn't face the unwashed dishes one more time. So she made the dried milk up and drank it before it had cooled and as the horrid taste went down – thought – at least I got something in my body one more time.

And at times it was a moment-by-moment decision to keep on existing in such pain. She'd started treatments but so far none of them had worked. And she lived in pain. And she could no longer remember what it had been like before she lived in pain. And the treatments – try this drug and it will take two to six weeks before it works – you've been taking it for eight weeks and there's no change, then stop taking the drug and in two weeks will try another drug – seemed futile. And every day longer until each day seemed like years.

They called it depression – she called it pain.

And she lived with it.

Today she was curled up in bed. Her book club was at noon, but she hadn't read the book and she wasn't sure she could go because she didn't want people to know that she hadn't read the book. It was six in the morning and the book had arrived. The package was sitting next to her bed. But she'd only opened it enough to see the spine and then had let it lie there, accusing her, saying she should just reach out and begin reading it, letting her know how worthless she was since she couldn't reach over there. Instead she tossed and turned and even when she wasn't looking at the book the thought of it ate at her, the acid of not getting it done rising up in her throat and burning so that she couldn't sleep, but couldn't pick up the book.

And she thought – I could call Angie, but I've already made too many excuses for not reading the books. And I've called her too many times. And if I keep calling her she might not want to hear from me again. And I don't want her to see me like this. And maybe I just won't go, but I've missed too many meetings already. And it's too early to call her, but I've missed too many meetings, or I've been to them and not read the book and I just can't do it, but I don't want to miss the meeting and the book is sitting right over there so if I start reading now I could at least pretend to know what the book is saying, but I can't concentrate enough to read and besides my comments aren't as good as those of the other people and can't be since I haven't read the book and the books been sitting there for two weeks but I just haven't had the energy, but I'm perfectly fine so I should have read the book and then I wouldn't have to call Angie and cancel but I still haven't cancelled so!
I could go but then I'd be unprepared and everyone would see what a mess I am.

And it was six-fifteen in the morning and she did not have the energy to get out of bed or to grab the book and yet she was tossing and turning and wondering if she could get out of bed today.

Once upon a time she thought that she would have thought nothing about getting out of bed. And she wondered why it seemed so hard to do, but it did. She was wrapped in a cocoon of frustration and anger and despair and it was torturing her to move and sit up and swing her legs over the bed and she dreaded the day and what would come and what would happen and whether she could actually do something. And she thought, I've got a doctor's appointment today so I don't need to actually go to the book club. I can tell them I'm waiting and they'll understand and then I don't need to read the book, but I do want to read the book and I do want to keep up with things, but how can I keep up with things when I can't concentrate on anything and it takes so much energy and I've been up since 6am and I just can't get out of bed and I used to be able to get out of bed in the morning but it seems like so much work.

And then her thoughts became, not incoherent, only of the pain. At times it was throbbing like when she'd had a migraine, at other times it was just there as a haze that covered everything so that she could barely take a breath and those times she dreaded the return of the throbbing with every movement and noise and during the throbbing she dreaded the return of a persistent ache so that neither was a relief from the other. The pain remained.

It sounds so simple, she thought, when the pain had gone. It sounds so simple to get up and do something. And yet all I can do is lie there until it passes.

And it was around eleven so she got up and called Angie to tell her that she was too sick to go to the book club.

And she lay back down to rest. How long those sessions lasted was irrelevant. Five minutes/ Five hours/ Five days she was in pain. And she could see no end.

She'd heard that some in her situation were tempted to suicide, but that held no attraction. Could she be certain that it would relieve the pain? Could she be certain that it would be final? Might not she wake up to even worse – though she couldn't imagine how – pain? The questions ran through her mind, but found no purchase as all available centers were taken up by pain and longing for something different, some escape.

If there was a light at the end of the tunnel, it was a train coming to meet her. And the tunnel had no end.

She was in a pit. And the sides were soft so she could get no hold. And when she tried to pile the dirt up so she could stand a little closer to the top all it did was fade into the rest of the dirt and she felt soiled and unkempt and still couldn't see any way out. No glimmer of light appeared at the top of the pit whether it was day or night.

There were times when there was neither pain nor agony – they were few – but they were there. But those times she felt nothing. And she wondered, she wondered then, if she were still alive.

In the nothingness that was in-between the pain she couldn't imagine what it was like to go through life feeling something other than that pain. And when she wasn't feeling anything she felt dead. And while being dead was comfortable – more comfortable than the pain – it wasn't where she had been, though she couldn't see how to get any other place. And she wasn't sure she had the energy to go any other place.

The pain ruled. And when there wasn't pain there was nothing left. And when there was pain there wasn't anything else she could do except feel the pain.

So she started about the tasks. The morning had been spent in bed so she changed the sheets. Fortunately she had several sets so she didn't have to think about doing the laundry yet. And then she took a shower. She remembered that there'd been times she spent what seemed like hours in the shower luxuriating in the sense of the water on her skin, but now she felt nothing. The pounding of the water was like the beat of her heart when the waves of pain washed over her and so she was in and out of the shower.

She didn't have the energy to decide what to wear, but that we o.k. The clothes she'd just washed went at the back of the closet so at least she wore something different when she pulled the stuff out from the front. If it was a dress, then she wore nylons. If it was a suit, then knee-highs, and she just didn't have to think about anything. And thinking took up more energy than she had to spare.

And she just did not have the energy any more.

She was lucky, she thought, that she'd never used much make-up or done much with her hair. She didn't know how she'd have coped if she had to do more than the little blush and brushing of hair these days. She certainly kept up appearances…. She didn't think any one realized how hard it was for her to get through the day, but never having done more than the minimal in the first place except for special occasions and not going out just meant she had one less thing to do to keep people from worrying about her, though why they should she couldn't understand any more.

She had no energy to care about anyone else and so she wondered why anyone would care for her. And so she got ready to go to the doctor. It was her annual check-up. The card arrived asking her to cancel if the time wasn't good and since it was too much work to pick up the phone she'd left the appointment.

Depression Day 2

Day 2

She was awake and turning long before seven. But she had determined she was going to take the prescription at 7am and so she waited. She might not be able to do anything else today, but that one thing was all she needed to do. Perhaps she would be out of pain, perhaps not, but she could do that one thing just for today she would take the pill at seven and not worry about tomorrow.

She had never considered suicide – that just wasn't an option. But she thought of sticking a long thin wire – too thin to cause any damage up her nose and through her sinus cavities until it reached the brain and then scraping the brain away from all connections to her skull and severing the nerves. That wasn't to kill self, just a way to stop the pain.

The fires burned in her head when she was lying down and when she was moving every motion was through water. And sometimes every movement seemed through pain and in slow motion. And so it was in pain that she took the pill for depression. Even though she knew that it wouldn't work for several weeks, she took the pill. Even as the thoughts of this won't work and I'll have to start all over again came rushing through – she took the pill.

And then she went back to bed and curled up in a ball of tears. But the tears were beyond the weepy tired that she'd had when she'd worked long hours. They were not tears of exhaustion – though she had no energy. They were not tears of frustration – though the weariness in every moment frustrated her. They were tears that came because she had nothing left. And she lay like that for what seemed hours, but was only minutes, then got up again and went to fix breakfast – cereal right out of the box.

And then she went back to bed and curled up.

And she lay there, not writhing, not turning, not moving, just curled up and laying in one spot.

And she lay there in pain.

And she thought

How long, O Lord, How long?
I cry out by day, but I hear no answer.
My tears fill the night but there is no relief.

And the psalm was a comfort. She didn't know how she got into this situation and sure didn't know how she would come out of the pain, but the psalm comforted her. Someone else had been where she remained.

And after that thought she fell asleep.

And in her dreams the fire still burned and the pliers still pinched and her nerve endings played like a Kabalevsky theme without any resolution. She could remember when even the discordant notes resolved, but couldn't hear how it had happened. And her nerves were still played without relief.

But the real pain was in the feelings and images that kept her quivering in terror as the prey of images and thoughts and doubts and fears and worries and misgivings that tore through her head at every new event – even the ringing of the telephone or the whisper of a breeze. And so she lay in bed trying not to move so that the pain she was in wouldn't change to something worse.

And the pain wasn't worse when she moved, but it wasn't better. And while it seemed to change places and intensities it was easier to live with it not moving than with the pain moving around.

And her mind went back to: How long, O Lord, how long…. and then kept circling around how long.

And that was the only coherent thought until the afternoon.

Then she looked out the window and saw the rain and wondered what it would be like to sun herself in the rain. It was cold and damp, but beside the pool she could sit and remember the days when she thought sitting by the pool was fun while the rain chilled her so that her mind might go numb.

Sitting in the cold rain seemed more attractive than lying in bed. The rain – maybe – would be a distraction to the way her mind raced and rambled and hurt and tearing itself to pieces.

And she nearly went out into the rain, but then thought how much work it would be to clean up her afterwards and sat down and watched the rain through the patio doors.

She watched the rain and thought about the chill of sitting outside, letting her thoughts congeal and freeze until they could no longer hurt.

And she sat through the rain, through the drizzle as it finished and she watched the rain.

And then she got up and started the laundry.

It was already sorted for the washer.

She'd learned to have multiple laundry baskets and sorted things as she took them off. So she never faced the task of sorting clothes and she could always see when she had enough for a load. And she didn't face a mountain of laundry to organize. And the less movement she had was best.

Today every movement seemed as if it was through congealed grease. The muscles ached and she wasn't sure that she hadn't let out more than a few noises. Yet the pounding in her head seemed to drown out anything she could say. And so she got her first load to the wash, checked the settings and started a load of whites.

She had a chair in the laundry room so she sat while waiting for the load to finish.

And she waited for her muscles to stop aching.

And she waited.

She listened to the whining of the machine and wondered if a bearing was going bad. Or if she was obsessing over a noise that the machine had always made and would always make. She only heard the pitch when the load was spinning an maybe it was just the washer going through its regular cycle and she wondered if she'd heard last time she did the laundry, but she couldn't remember whether or not she had heard that same sound or whether she'd left the laundry room and gone back to bed or whether she'd stayed in the chair and let the load finish. And those thoughts kept running through her head as fast as the spin cycle until she was dizzy.

And she waited for the final spin to finish.

And she wondered how she used to be able to do other things while the laundry was going. She'd have cleaned a room, fixed a chair, taken out the garbage, raked some leaves or something. And now all she could manage to do was sit and worry that something else was going to go wrong. And something else was going to make more work.

And the machine stopped. And she opened the lid. And she began to take the shirts and blouses and linens out to put in the dryer. And then she sat down to take a rest after the load was in the basket. She needed to rest before going over to the dryer.

And she tumbled the clothes into the dryer, started it, and sat down again – wondering if she should have started the laundry today. There were days when she just couldn't do anything, days she had spent on the couch after getting out of bed, and when she hadn't been able to get out of bed. And this should have been one of them she thought as the dryer growled.

At least the whine from the washer was gone – at least until the next load. And she wasn't going to do another load today. She wasn't even sure that she'd get the load in the dryer folded. But she got the one thing done from the doctor's appointment yesterday – she'd started taking the antidepressant.

Depression - again the story continues

Day 1

As she lifted her head the sour smell of stale sweat from her pillow arose. But it was too hard to move much more and so she lay back down in desperation. She didn’t feel as if there were any good reason for her to stay in bed, but she just couldn’t move. And that was what she had felt for a long time.

At least it felt like a long time. At this point she wasn’t sure how long. She vaguely remembered happy times. But it was as if those happy times were through ten feet of cotton candy and her life now. She could see herself laughing in some photos, but couldn’t figure out what that felt like. Yes, she had been happy, but not in a long, long time.

Her living room and kitchen were immaculate. But that was because she didn’t have the energy to leave them messy. When she ate – everything was cleaned and put away before she fell asleep. And she didn’t buy any food that might go bad. The dried milk she kept on hand didn’t taste all that good when she made it up for the meal – it was supposed to sit – but when she had the energy to eat and clean up she wanted to do it then. If she waited any time her burst of energy would be long gone and then there’s be the dishes to clean and they’d sit. She’d done that before when she’d tried to wait. And the dishes would sit with the big round eye of a plate accusing her of not doing anything and her mind quivering with the blows of unmet expectations. And she just couldn’t face the unwashed dishes one more time. So she made the dried milk up and drank it before it had cooled and as the horrid taste went down – thought – at least I got something in my body one more time.

And at times it was a moment-by-moment decision to keep on existing in such pain. She’d started treatments but so far none of them had worked. And she lived in pain. And she could no longer remember what it had been like before she lived in pain. And the treatments – try this drug and it will take two to six weeks before it works – you’ve been taking it for eight weeks and there’s no change, then stop taking the drug and in two weeks will try another drug – seemed futile. And every day longer until each day seemed like years.

They called it depression – she called it pain.

And she lived with it.

Today she was curled up in bed. Her book club was at noon, but she hadn’t read the book and she wasn’t sure she could go because she didn’t want people to know that she hadn’t read the book. It was six in the morning and the book had arrived. The package was sitting next to her bed. But she’d only opened it enough to see the spine and then had let it lie there, accusing her, saying she should just reach out and begin reading it, letting her know how worthless she was since she couldn’t reach over there. Instead she tossed and turned and even when she wasn’t looking at the book the thought of it ate at her, the acid of not getting it done rising up in her throat and burning so that she couldn’t sleep, but couldn’t pick up the book.

And she thought – I could call Angie, but I’ve already made too many excuses for not reading the books. And I’ve called her too many times. And if I keep calling her she might not want to hear from me again. And I don’t want her to see me like this. And maybe I just won’t go, but I’ve missed too many meetings already. And it’s too early to call her, but I’ve missed too many meetings, or I’ve been to them and not read the book and I just can’t do it, but I don’t want to miss the meeting and the book is sitting right over there so if I start reading now I could at least pretend to know what the book is saying, but I can’t concentrate enough to read and besides my comments aren’t as good as those of the other people and can’t be since I haven’t read the book and the books been sitting there for two weeks but I just haven’t had the energy, but I’m perfectly fine so I should have read the book and then I wouldn’t have to call Angie and cancel but I still haven’t cancelled so I could go but then I’d be unprepared and everyone would see what a mess I am.

And it was six-fifteen in the morning and she did not have the energy to get out of bed or to grab the book and yet she was tossing and turning and wondering if she could get out of bed today.

Once upon a time she thought that she would have thought nothing about getting out of bed. And she wondered why it seemed so hard to do, but it did. She was wrapped in a cocoon of frustration and anger and despair and it was torturing her to move and sit up and swing her legs over the bed and she dreaded the day and what would come and what would happen and whether she could actually do something. And she thought, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment today so I don’t need to actually go to the book club. I can tell them I’m waiting and they’ll understand and then I don’t need to read the book, but I do want to read the book and I do want to keep up with things, but how can I keep up with things when I can’t concentrate on anything and it takes so much energy and I’ve been up since 6am and I just can’t get out of bed and I used to be able to get out of bed in the morning but it seems like so much work.

And then her thoughts became, not incoherent, only of the pain. At times it was throbbing like when she’d had a migraine, at other times it was just there as a haze that covered everything so that she could barely take a breath and those times she dreaded the return of the throbbing with every movement and noise and during the throbbing she dreaded the return of a persistent ache so that neither was a relief from the other. The pain remained.

It sounds so simple, she thought, when the pain had gone. It sounds so simple to get up and do something. And yet all I can do is lie there until it passes.

And it was around eleven so she got up and called Angie to tell her that she was too sick to go to the book club.

And she lay back down to rest. How long those sessions lasted was irrelevant. Five minutes/ Five hours/ Five days she was in pain. And she could see no end.

She’d heard that some in her situation were tempted to suicide, but that held no attraction. Could she be certain that it would relieve the pain? Could she be certain that it would be final? Might not she wake up to even worse – though she couldn’t imagine how – pain? The questions ran through her mind, but found no purchase as all available centers were taken up by pain and longing for something different, some escape.

If there was a light at the end of the tunnel, it was a train coming to meet her. And the tunnel had no end.

She was in a pit. And the sides were soft so she could get no hold. And when she tried to pile the dirt up so she could stand a little closer to the top all it did was fade into the rest of the dirt and she felt soiled and unkempt and still couldn’t see any way out. No glimmer of light appeared at the top of the pit whether it was day or night.

There were times when there was neither pain nor agony – they were few – but they were there. But those times she felt nothing. And she wondered, she wondered then, if she were still alive.

In the nothingness that was in-between the pain she couldn’t imagine what it was like to go through life feeling something other than that pain. And when she wasn’t feeling anything she felt dead. And while being dead was comfortable – more comfortable than the pain – it wasn’t where she had been, though she couldn’t see how to get any other place. And she wasn’t sure she had the energy to go any other place.

The pain ruled. And when there wasn’t pain there was nothing left. And when there was pain there wasn’t anything else she could do except feel the pain.

So she started about the tasks. The morning had been spent in bed so she changed the sheets. Fortunately she had several sets so she didn’t have to think about doing the laundry yet. And then she took a shower. She remembered that there’d been times she spent what seemed like hours in the shower luxuriating in the sense of the water on her skin, but now she felt nothing. The pounding of the water was like the beat of her heart when the waves of pain washed over her and so she was in and out of the shower.

She didn’t have the energy to decide what to wear, but that we o.k. The clothes she’d just washed went at the back of the closet so at least she wore something different when she pulled the stuff out from the front. If it was a dress, then she wore nylons. If it was a suit, then knee-highs, and she just didn’t have to think about anything. And thinking took up more energy than she had to spare.

And she just did not have the energy any more.

She was lucky, she thought, that she’d never used much make-up or done much with her hair. She didn’t know how she’d have coped if she had to do more than the little blush and brushing of hair these days. She certainly kept up appearances…. She didn’t think any one realized how hard it was for her to get through the day, but never having done more than the minimal in the first place except for special occasions and not going out just meant she had one less thing to do to keep people from worrying about her, though why they should she couldn’t understand any more.

She had no energy to care about anyone else and so she wondered why anyone would care for her. And so she got ready to go to the doctor. It was her annual check-up. The card arrived asking her to cancel if the time wasn’t good and since it was too much work to pick up the phone she’d left the appointment.

Day 2

She was awake and turning long before seven. But she had determined she was going to take the prescription at 7am and so she waited. She might not be able to do anything else today, but that one thing was all she needed to do. Perhaps she would be out of pain, perhaps not, but she could do that one thing just for today she would take the pill at seven and not worry about tomorrow.

She had never considered suicide – that just wasn’t an option. But she thought of sticking a long thin wire – too thin to cause any damage up her nose and through her sinus cavities until it reached the brain and then scraping the brain away from all connections to her skull and severing the nerves. That wasn’t to kill self, just a way to stop the pain.

The fires burned in her head when she was lying down and when she was moving every motion was through water. And sometimes every movement seemed through pain and in slow motion. And so it was in pain that she took the pill for depression. Even though she knew that it wouldn’t work for several weeks, she took the pill. Even as the thoughts of this won’t work and I’ll have to start all over again came rushing through – she took the pill.

And then she went back to bed and curled up in a ball of tears. But the tears were beyond the weepy tired that she’d had when she’d worked long hours. They were not tears of exhaustion – though she had no energy. They were not tears of frustration – though the weariness in every moment frustrated her. They were tears that came because she had nothing left. And she lay like that for what seemed hours, but was only minutes, then got up again and went to fix breakfast – cereal right out of the box.

And then she went back to bed and curled up.

And she lay there, not writhing, not turning, not moving, just curled up and laying in one spot.

And she lay there in pain.

And she thought

How long, O Lord, How long?
I cry out by day, but I hear no answer.
My tears fill the night but there is no relief.

And the psalm was a comfort. She didn’t know how she got into this situation and sure didn’t know how she would come out of the pain, but the psalm comforted her. Someone else had been where she remained.

And after that thought she fell asleep.

And in her dreams the fire still burned and the pliers still pinched and her nerve endings played like a Kabalevsky theme without any resolution. She could remember when even the discordant notes resolved, but couldn’t hear how it had happened. And her nerves were still played without relief.

But the real pain was in the feelings and images that kept her quivering in terror as the prey of images and thoughts and doubts and fears and worries and misgivings that tore through her head at every new event – even the ringing of the telephone or the whisper of a breeze. And so she lay in bed trying not to move so that the pain she was in wouldn’t change to something worse.

And the pain wasn’t worse when she moved, but it wasn’t better. And while it seemed to change places and intensities it was easier to live with it not moving than with the pain moving around.

And her mind went back to: How long, O Lord, how long…. and then kept circling around how long.

Happy?

Since I've been working on the story about depression, posting more ever so often, I've been contemplating how I experience a difference in feelings since having been in clinical depression. And the major difference is that I notice my emotions more.

Before depression I never thought about being unhappy or happy. I felt the emotions and went on with life. But since depression I monitor both. If I'm unhappy I check how long it's been and wonder if I'm heading back into depression. When I'm happy I give thanks more often as I wonder if it's going to slip away It's not that the emotions have changed as much as my reactions to the emotions.

I suspect much of this is because I'm an introvert. I naturally spend more time in my head than in the moment. But some of it does have to do with a desire not to go back to depression or a fear of returning to depression (and they are the same thing for the most part).

I remember people saying things like 'you're a pastor and so you shouldn't be in depression - your faith should be stronger' or 'your mother is in a better place why are you depressed over her death' and for all those people I want to say - 'wait until you've experienced it and then tell me those things.'

My mother's death was the trigger for my depression and, because of the circumstances, it was one of the healthier reactions. Yet there are several on both sides of my family who have been diagnosed with depression and that suggests that it is a little easier for us to slip into the disease. It's not a lack of faith that led to a depression, but a trauma that overwhelmed all my defenses. Faith is what kept me thinking there could be a way out, even as I could see nothing changing. And as for those who think that my mother being in a better place - I do believe she is with the saints in glory - that still doesn't mean that I don't miss her. And her death, as she was blossoming into a new career, in an accident, at the same time as another family death, when I was driving, and a couple of other circumstances, was a trigger of my depression for many more reasons than just her death.

Depression is a disease. The more I read about it reveals that there are a multitude of factors that mean it's not all in the head. I don't recommend the experience. But do ask for care for those who are in the midst of depression. It doesn't go away without a lot of help and work.

Depression - with more added

As she lifted her head the sour smell of stale sweat from her pillow arose. But it was too hard to move much more and so she lay back down in desperation. She didn’t feel as if there were any good reason for her to stay in bed, but she just couldn’t move. And that was what she had felt for a long time.

At least it felt like a long time. At this point she wasn’t sure how long. She vaguely remembered happy times. But it was as if those happy times were through ten feet of cotton candy and her life now. She could see herself laughing in some photos, but couldn’t figure out what that felt like. Yes, she had been happy, but not in a long, long time.

Her living room and kitchen were immaculate. But that was because she didn’t have the energy to leave them messy. When she ate – everything was cleaned and put away before she fell asleep. And she didn’t buy any food that might go bad. The dried milk she kept on hand didn’t taste all that good when she made it up for the meal – it was supposed to sit – but when she had the energy to eat and clean up she wanted to do it then. If she waited any time her burst of energy would be long gone and then there’s be the dishes to clean and they’d sit. She’d done that before when she’d tried to wait. And the dishes would sit with the big round eye of a plate accusing her of not doing anything and her mind quivering with the blows of unmet expectations. And she just couldn’t face the unwashed dishes one more time. So she made the dried milk up and drank it before it had cooled and as the horrid taste went down – thought – at least I got something in my body one more time.

And at times it was a moment-by-moment decision to keep on existing in such pain. She’d started treatments but so far none of them had worked. And she lived in pain. And she could no longer remember what it had been like before she lived in pain. And the treatments – try this drug and it will take two to six weeks before it works – you’ve been taking it for eight weeks and there’s no change, then stop taking the drug and in two weeks will try another drug – seemed futile. And every day longer until each day seemed like years.

They called it depression – she called it pain.

And she lived with it.

Today she was curled up in bed. Her book club was at noon, but she hadn’t read the book and she wasn’t sure she could go because she didn’t want people to know that she hadn’t read the book. It was six in the morning and the book had arrived. The package was sitting next to her bed. But she’d only opened it enough to see the spine and then had let it lie there, accusing her, saying she should just reach out and begin reading it, letting her know how worthless she was since she couldn’t reach over there. Instead she tossed and turned and even when she wasn’t looking at the book the thought of it ate at her, the acid of not getting it done rising up in her throat and burning so that she couldn’t sleep, but couldn’t pick up the book.

And she thought – I could call Angie, but I’ve already made too many excuses for not reading the books. And I’ve called her too many times. And if I keep calling her she might not want to hear from me again. And I don’t want her to see me like this. And maybe I just won’t go, but I’ve missed too many meetings already. And it’s too early to call her, but I’ve missed too many meetings, or I’ve been to them and not read the book and I just can’t do it, but I don’t want to miss the meeting and the book is sitting right over there so if I start reading now I could at least pretend to know what the book is saying, but I can’t concentrate enough to read and besides my comments aren’t as good as those of the other people and can’t be since I haven’t read the book and the books been sitting there for two weeks but I just haven’t had the energy, but I’m perfectly fine so I should have read the book and then I wouldn’t have to call Angie and cancel but I still haven’t cancelled so I could go but then I’d be unprepared and everyone would see what a mess I am.

And it was six-fifteen in the morning and she did not have the energy to get out of bed or to grab the book and yet she was tossing and turning and wondering if she could get out of bed today.

Once upon a time she thought that she would have thought nothing about getting out of bed. And she wondered why it seemed so hard to do, but it did. She was wrapped in a cocoon of frustration and anger and despair and it was torturing her to move and sit up and swing her legs over the bed and she dreaded the day and what would come and what would happen and whether she could actually do something. And she thought, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment today so I don’t need to actually go to the book club. I can tell them I’m waiting and they’ll understand and then I don’t need to read the book, but I do want to read the book and I do want to keep up with things, but how can I keep up with things when I can’t concentrate on anything and it takes so much energy and I’ve been up since 6am and I just can’t get out of bed and I used to be able to get out of bed in the morning but it seems like so much work.

And then her thoughts became, not incoherent, only of the pain. At times it was throbbing like when she’d had a migraine, at other times it was just there as a haze that covered everything so that she could barely take a breath and those times she dreaded the return of the throbbing with every movement and noise and during the throbbing she dreaded the return of a persistent ache so that neither was a relief from the other. The pain remained.

It sounds so simple, she thought, when the pain had gone. It sounds so simple to get up and do something. And yet all I can do is lie there until it passes.

And it was around eleven so she got up and called Angie to tell her that she was too sick to go to the book club.

And she lay back down to rest. How long those sessions lasted was irrelevant. Five minutes/ Five hours/ Five days she was in pain. And she could see no end.

She’d heard that some in her situation were tempted to suicide, but that held no attraction. Could she be certain that it would relieve the pain? Could she be certain that it would be final? Might not she wake up to even worse – though she couldn’t imagine how – pain? The questions ran through her mind, but found no purchase as all available centers were taken up by pain and longing for something different, some escape.

If there was a light at the end of the tunnel, it was a train coming to meet her. And the tunnel had no end.

She was in a pit. And the sides were soft so she could get no hold. And when she tried to pile the dirt up so she could stand a little closer to the top all it did was fade into the rest of the dirt and she felt soiled and unkempt and still couldn’t see any way out. No glimmer of light appeared at the top of the pit whether it was day or night.

There were times when there was neither pain nor agony – they were few – but they were there. But those times she felt nothing. And she wondered, she wondered then, if she were still alive.

In the nothingness that was in-between the pain she couldn’t imagine what it was like to go through life feeling something other than that pain. And when she wasn’t feeling anything she felt dead. And while being dead was comfortable – more comfortable than the pain – it wasn’t where she had been, though she couldn’t see how to get any other place. And she wasn’t sure she had the energy to go any other place.

The pain ruled. And when there wasn’t pain there was nothing left. And when there was pain there wasn’t anything else she could do except feel the pain.

Depression and taste

I didn't notice a change in taste during my bout of depression. I was in too much pain. But there seems, at least for some, a change in perception. More studies are showing a direct physical link between depression and the whole body.

Depression: a story (more)

As she lifted her head the sour smell of stale sweat from her pillow arose. But it was too hard to move much more and so she lay back down in desperation. She didn't feel as if there were any good reason for her to stay in bed, but she just couldn't move. And that was what she had felt for a long time.

At least it felt like a long time. At this point she wasn't sure how long. She vaguely remembered happy times. But it was as if those happy times were through ten feet of cotton candy and her life now. She could see herself laughing in some photos, but couldn't figure out what that felt like. Yes, she had been happy, but not in a long, long time.

Her living room and kitchen were immaculate. But that was because she didn't have the energy to leave them messy. When she ate – everything was cleaned and put away before she fell asleep. And she didn't buy any food that might go bad. The dried milk she kept on hand didn't taste all that good when she made it up for the meal – it was supposed to sit – but when she had the energy to eat and clean up she wanted to do it then. If she waited any time her burst of energy would be long gone and then there's be the dishes to clean and they'd sit. She'd done that before when she'd tried to wait. And the dishes would sit with the big round eye of a plate accusing her of not doing anything and her mind quivering with the blows of unmet expectations. And she just couldn't face the unwashed dishes one more time. So she made the dried milk up and drank it before it had cooled and as the horrid taste went down – thought – at least I got something in my body one more time.

And at times it was a moment-by-moment decision to keep on existing in such pain. She'd started treatments but so far none of them had worked. And she lived in pain. And she could no longer remember what it had been like before she lived in pain. And the treatments – try this drug and it will take two to six weeks before it works – you've been taking it for eight weeks and there's no change, then stop taking the drug and in two weeks will try another drug – seemed futile. And every day longer until each day seemed like years.

They called it depression – she called it pain.

And she lived with it.

Today she was curled up in bed. Her book club was at noon, but she hadn't read the book and she wasn't sure she could go because she didn't want people to know that she hadn't read the book. It was six in the morning and the book had arrived. The package was sitting next to her bed. But she'd only opened it enough to see the spine and then had let it lie there, accusing her, saying she should just reach out and begin reading it, letting her know how worthless she was since she couldn't reach over there. Instead she tossed and turned and even when she wasn't looking at the book the thought of it ate at her, the acid of not getting it done rising up in her throat and burning so that she couldn't sleep, but couldn't pick up the book.

And she thought – I could call Angie, but I've already made too many excuses for not reading the books. And I've called her too many times. And if I keep calling her she might not want to hear from me again. And I don't want her to see me like this. And maybe I just won't go, but I've missed too many meetings already. And it's too early to call her, but I've missed too many meetings, or I've been to them and not read the book and I just can't do it, but I don't want to miss the meeting and the book is sitting right over there so if I start reading now I could at least pretend to know what the book is saying, but I can't concentrate enough to read and besides my comments aren't as good as those of the other people and can't be since I haven't read the book and the books been sitting there for two weeks but I just haven't had the energy, but I'm perfectly fine so I should have read the book and then I wouldn't have to call Angie and cancel but I still haven't cancelled so!
I could go but then I'd be unprepared and everyone would see what a mess I am.

And it was six-fifteen in the morning and she did not have the energy to get out of bed or to grab the book and yet she was tossing and turning and wondering if she could get out of bed today.

Once upon a time she thought that she would have thought nothing about getting out of bed. And she wondered why it seemed so hard to do, but it did. She was wrapped in a cocoon of frustration and anger and despair and it was torturing her to move and sit up and swing her legs over the bed and she dreaded the day and what would come and what would happen and whether she could actually do something. And she thought, I've got a doctor's appointment today so I don't need to actually go to the book club. I can tell them I'm waiting and they'll understand and then I don't need to read the book, but I do want to read the book and I do want to keep up with things, but how can I keep up with things when I can't concentrate on anything and it takes so much energy and I've been up since 6am and I just can't get out of bed and I used to be able to get out of bed in the morning but it seems like so much work.

Depression - anti-depresssants and suicide

I'm always interested in the articles about a possible link between anti-depressants and suicide. Having been through depression myself and on medication and in therapy - the whole drill, I'm inclined to the supposition that anti-depressants don't really increase the risk of suicide, they only stabalize and give enough energy that one might be able to commit suicide. At the worst of my depression committing suicide would have taken energy that I just didn't have until after I was on anti-depressants. But that's my view and research may or may not show that true for depression and anti-depressants. It is worth looking at the study and the note about the study at The Corpus Callosum.

Depression - a story

As she lifted her head the sour smell of stale sweat from her pillow arose. But it was too hard to move much more and so she lay back down in desperation. She didn't feel as if there were any good reason for her to stay in bed, but she just couldn't move. And that was what she had felt for a long time.

At least it felt like a long time. At this point she wasn't sure how long. She vaguely remembered happy times. But it was as if those happy times were through ten feet of cotton candy and her life now. She could see herself laughing in some photos, but couldn't figure out what that felt like. Yes, she had been happy, but not in a long, long time.

Her living room and kitchen were immaculate. But that was because she didn't have the energy to leave them messy. When she ate – everything was cleaned and put away before she fell asleep. And she didn't buy any food that might go bad. The dried milk she kept on hand didn't taste all that good when she made it up for the meal – it was supposed to sit – but when she had the energy to eat and clean up she wanted to do it then. If she waited any time her burst of energy would be long gone and then there's be the dishes to clean and they'd sit. She'd done that before when she'd tried to wait. And the dishes would sit with the big round eye of a plate accusing her of not doing anything and her mind quivering with the blows of unmet expectations. And she just couldn't face the unwashed dishes one more time. So she made the dried milk up and drank it before it had cooled and as the horrid taste went down – thought – at least I got something in my body one more time.

And at times it was a moment-by-moment decision to keep on existing in such pain. She'd started treatments but so far none of them had worked. And she lived in pain. And she could no longer remember what it had been like before she lived in pain. And the treatments – try this drug and it will take two to six weeks before it works – you've been taking it for eight weeks and there's no change, then stop taking the drug and in two weeks will try another drug – seemed futile. And every day longer until each day seemed like years.

They called it depression – she called it pain.

Depression

It's not all in the head. There's new evidence on depression - that it induces bone loss. More information at the Frontal Cortex.

Depression

It’s not all in the mind. There is a link between depression and bone loss according to one recent study. And, in my experience, depression runs in family. My mother had depression. More than one of my cousins has been diagnosed with depression. I’ve had depression. And while my first bout of depression (hopefully last) was brought on by a specific situation the tendency towards depression didn’t help matters.

And while depression takes several forms, it is not something that can be conquered by just picking oneself up and moving. For some depression is a loss of interest in anything, a loss of feeling. For others it is too much feeling and all of it bad. Some other people have a cycling between numbness and pain.

My not getting out of bed in the morning and putting off laundry way too long was not enough to get me into treatment for depression. What finally got me there was when I was experiencing images horrific enough that I’ve stopped avoiding horror movies. I used to avoid horror movies because of the blood and gore and just not being able to live with seeing that. Now I don’t go to them for another reason - I critique the blood and gore for accuracy and the movies just don’t hold my interest.

Depression is real. It is a real medical problem. It has several causes and there are web sites that can give a lot more information with a lot more accuracy than I have on the subject. But all the information adds up to in the end is that depression just isn’t in the mind and it is not something that is easily or quickly cured. Depression is real and it brings a lot of pain.

A poem describing some of my depression

When through the dark of night in pain
I wander through the fields of rain
When nothing seems to be worthwhile
Still you are near through all the miles

I walk in sunshine and still the woe
Seems closer than a breath and so
I pace the miles within a room –
The room of mind that’s full of gloom

Yet in that gloom there is a spark
Of unseen hope in midst of dark
A smell that fire again may light
And bring perspective to my sight

A memory left both faint and dim
When I could feel and sing a hymn
Of praise to God and joy in life
Though all I have right now is strife.
Copyright Roger Victoria, 2006

When in the dark

When through the dark of night in pain
I wander through the fields of rain,
when nothing seems to be worthwhile
still you are near through all the miles.

I walk in sunshine and still the woe
eems closer than a breath and so
I pace the miles within a room –
the room of mind that’s full of gloom.

Yet in that gloom there is a spark
of unseen hope in midst of dark
a smell that fire again may light
snd bring perspective to my sight.

A memory left both faint and dim
when I could feel and sing a hymn
of praise to God and joy in life,
though all I have right now is strife.