Getting Out: Of my head and of my way.
There’s nothing quite like when you find yourself having a full conversation about the day with your dog and truly wonder how long you’ve been talking.
My brain, even prior to the death/cancer/suicide trifecta of 2022, was never been a quiet place to exist. I’ve described the world in there as a place where I’m reading an entire orchestral score, with a stock market ticker tape running across the top, a perpetually refreshing Instagram feed on the side, but I’m riding a unicycle while doing long division and juggling Rubix cubes. On the outside, generally, I appear fairly calm. I have a reputation of being a very aggressive (and creative) problem solver.
Navigating those worlds, internal and external, takes a lot of energy.
I’ve been very open that I see a therapist regularly. However, I did not initially visit her for the chaos in my head or even the sexual assaults I’ve experienced. I went to her because I was having bad dreams about a jury trial and wanted a quick fix and because Pete’s counselor at rehab said it might be something I should try.
About a year ago the chaos in my head was beginning to be too much to handle as well as the challenges of living with an addict in tenuous recovery, my dad’s health issues, my grandpa’s health issues, working in the constantly available world of real estate, oh and a damned pandemic…and I could feel myself shutting down. I have struggled with depression in the past, I knew that not caring for myself in the middle of the chaos of others was truly just leaning into codependency. (“I’m pretty sure if I’m worthless if I can’t be of service…” Fine. I get you. Thanks Disney/Lin-Manuel Miranda)
I have a history of white knuckling it with an “I’ll do it my damned self” attitude. But, last summer, I could feel that I didn’t want to get out of bed, I didn’t want to answer my phone, I had given up reading novels at the beginning of the pandemic, I’d stopped writing in this blog or on the novel I was 55,000 words into, I wasn’t excited to cook. I hadn’t touched the piano. It was just too much. The only self care things I was doing, on the regular, was listening to a short guided meditation every day, usually to fall asleep. Occasionally, I would journal. My dad gave me an old camera and I started to try and wander to take photos and listen to podcasts. I really thought I could figure this all out on my own.
Meditation is fantastic. Therapy is great. But sometimes you need a third leg on the stool so that you can feel steady.
Even though I had a very close relationship with my therapist I had never discussed medication with her. As a psychologist she cannot prescribe so I figured she’d just tell me to go see someone else and it would be a six month wait and I would have pulled myself out of the abyss by my fingernails like I did with postpartum depression twentyish years ago.
I overthought for weeks, I researched depression online because - need I remind you - I like to intellectualize my emotions. I tried listening to podcasts like “The Happiness Project” because if I could learn how happy people do it I would be fine. I finally, somewhat timidly, told her that I felt like I was walking through soup. Not a light soup, like pho, but a chowder with too many potatoes and a shit ton of cream. It was heavy.
She encouraged that I talk to my doctor about starting an antidepressant. She told me the two that she would recommend that I research and discuss with her. I thought I had to see a psychiatrist. I had ramped myself up to it being a whole ordeal. Instead I just called for a Telehealth appointment, told my doctor that my psychologist thought that I should try X or Y medication as I was struggling with depression. My doctor said “let’s start on this one, at this amount, and let’s talk again in six weeks to see if it’s helping because we can always try a different dose, or a different medication”. **I’m not saying the name because every person should have their own conversation with their own medical professionals and what works for me might not work for you.**
It wasn’t immediate or dramatic when I left that bowl of soup feeling behind. I have no idea what day it was. What I know is that in August when grandpa had his first major surgery and was in the hospital for 31 days I still went out, daily, walked the dog and took photos of balloons. I started listening to music again. I picked up a novel. And then another. I flirted with writing again.
Sure, I was sad that grandpa was so sick and that it felt like we weren’t going to make it to his 100th birthday, I was frustrated with my husband’s relapses, I still was burned out on real estate but I didn’t avoid my phone and was developing an exit strategy. The only thing that really changed was medication that helped me balance some brain chemistry that has probably been screwed up for a long time.
I hit 365 days of consecutive meditation last week. I don’t know when my anti-depressant-iversary is. I have therapy again in a couple of days. Now, fifteen weeks after Grandpa’s death, six weeks after Pete’s suicide, and one week after my dad’s successful surgery I am so grateful for the three legged stool of therapy, medication, and meditation.
Moral of the story? I can’t rewind time and start building a stronger mental health foundation earlier but maybe my overactive brain can help someone else start the conversation with their doctor or therapist.
And, because I’m finally feeling mostly steady (and have been “gifted” (ha!) some time without as many distractions) I wrote 17,000 words in my novel this weekend and have set a deadline - the first draft will be done on Wednesday. I need a few friends to do a read through, knowing it’s a first draft, so if you’d like to be on the list, please ping me. I’m going to pick 3-4 people. I figure if you’ve made it to the end of my Sunday evening ramblings you might be someone interested in reading something else.
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