I’ve reached a new stage of depression. It’s a combination
of acceptance, and being completely “fed up!” I don’t care if I am required to
take medication for the rest of my life. I will do whatever is required to
recover, and avoid another major depression episode. Mindfulness, yoga, cardio,
weight-training, gratitude journals, happiness jars, veganism: if it works, I’m
doing it!
In the past, I’ve had a chip on my shoulders about taking
anti-depressants. Primarily, this is because we’re still in the dark ages as
far as how much we know about the brain, and how to treat mental illness. I’ve
always fallen into the paradigm that I’ll take it if needed – I am taking them
now - with the goal of getting off the meds as soon I’m able. It’s a difficult cycle
of titrating on and off medication, and then worrying that every bad day will
mean going back to the medication. But really, how many people over the age of
forty-five aren’t on daily medication? Even if it’s a cocktail of vitamins and
herbs we all seem to be popping something. The reality is, you wouldn’t tell a
diabetic they don’t need their insulin, nor would you deny corrective lenses to
anyone who needs them. Why would I assume that a chemical imbalance in my brain
can be neglected? Stigma.
Well, fuck it! There is no need for me, or anyone, to suffer
because mental illness makes someone else uncomfortable. At forty-eight, the list
of people whose opinion of me matters is pretty, darn, small. That is as it
should be: not everyone has earned that privilege. Certainly, a virtual
stranger on the internet, at work, or at the mall, doesn’t merit a second
thought.
Over the past few years I’ve grown accustomed to
disappointing myself. It’s not a comfortable feeling, just one that I’ve
accepted as inevitable. This is not my normal modus operandi. Disappointment in
myself used to be met with tears and outrage, not acquiescence to the inevitable.
And OK, that’s probably no healthier than remorseless and habitual
disappointment, but that’s an issue for another day.
I’ve been too busy people-pleasing, doing all the things I
thought I should do, and agreeing to things I didn’t want to do. I was barely
keeping my head above water, no matter how hard I paddled! I didn’t have the
energy, or tenacity, to hold myself accountable for the care I was not giving
myself. The healthy habits I was able to develop were only functions of desperation.
Self-medication, not an antidote. A placebo that turned to yet another burden.
I couldn’t truly understand, prioritize, and embrace those habits as essential
(and well-deserved) self-care. No matter how much I talked the talk, I felt ashamed
of walking the walk.
So, if eating healthfully isn’t an indulgence - and an expensive
used of our limited funds - and time at the gym isn’t a vain and selfish waste
of valuable time; I’m stuck in the somewhat unenviable task of changing my
thinking. Not only are these things essential, they are things I authentically
WANT to be in place for me to be content in my life. Whether, or not those
things are indulgent, or self-interested, or narcissistic, is a judgement for
someone else to make. Their opinion of me is none of my business!
That sounds like determination, and it is, but it’s also
giving myself the same care, consideration, and kindness that I would give
anyone else I truly cared about. In short, it’s taking a page from my own book,
and heeding my own advice. Imagine that!
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