Since my diagnosis of “depression etc” as I like to call it, 7 months ago, I have gone through a mixture of responses to the D word. It’s like a really unwelcome relative that moves in, uninvited and elbows her way in beside you on the couch. “Are you gonna eat that?” she might say, ask she filches the food off your plate.
I have gone through some kind of grief cycle with this-
Denial- “I can’t be depressed, depression is for losers who can’t cope, I’m too busy for this shit”. Why would I be depressed? Nobody died! I just got married, which was awesome, I just bought a great place, I am healthy, I have great friends, my job is fine. What have I got to be depressed about??
Then fear. It all went a bit stark and very lonely. Arctic landscape.
Anger (still here I’m afraid): this depression is a bastard. How dare it come along and eat up my confidence and personality. How dare it force me to take time off work and want to cut my hair off like Anne Hathaway’s. These stupid pills I have to take make me dizzy and crappy.
Shame: shame, I’m afraid has been a constant. I am ashamed to be depressed. I am ashamed to have an eating disorder. But the ED is almost less of a deal for me. Maybe because EDs are everywhere, and probably most women I know have food issues, and (sorry to be honest here, you won’t like this) there is a little bit of pride attached to being anorexic- restricting your food intake is hard. Getting through that and still carrying on with your day is a challenge. There is a sense of being a toughie. Lots of anorexics will talk about the feeling of clean-ness, lightness, almost a rush (yes could be the low blood sugar).
But the depression-shame is different. Understand this: I strive on striving, I like to be good, the best at things. I am a good girl. Parents love me. My house is tidy. My work diary is covered with ticks. I get stuff done. I am on a mission. Depression doesn’t fit in there. Well, duh, it obviously does but you know what I mean.
I made an interesting choice about my treatment. There is a world class mental health facility basically right beside where I work. If I went there I would have access to the best professionals and a shorter waiting list, but I would have to run the risk of people see me go in, bump into me in the corridor. What if I needed to run out crying and ran into someone from work!
But I went for it. I didn’t want to wait. I took the chance. Now, I haven’t ever bumped into someone from work but seriously, the stress of trying to walk in there every week for my appointment borders on the ridiculous. Actually I may dedicate a separate blog to it.
Anyhoo- I have only told TWO people that I have depression- my husband, and eventually my sister. No one else. Not a word.
Acceptance: this is where I want to get to. Accepting that this depression, or break down or whatever, is here to help me- to adjust my approach to life and soften my perspective, to allow myself to not be “super” at all times. To give in. For that to be ok.
As the Irish government transport tagline says:
“We’re not there yet, but we’re getting there” choo choo
theefexordiaries 