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I'm going to out myself here. My family has a long and robust tradition of depression, and I am no exception. I remember first drinking ink and eating staples at the age of 10. Many long years of symptoms and acting out and generally hating everything later, I went on Prozac briefly in college, when all the kids were doing it. It was kind of a revelation. Stuff just wasn't that difficult anymore. Really hard stuff, like getting out of bed or concentrating on reading for more than five minutes at a time totally got done without a second thought. I realized that this is what "normal" was like. Not fighting yourself and gravity every inch of the day. Not looking at the world through a fog, or having conversations on a five second delay. It was pretty sweet.
Prozac made me an asshole, though.
With the elimination of chronic second-guessing also came the elimination of self-doubt. I was certain I was right. About everything. Not only right, but also interesting. I stopped worrying about what other people thought. No one could hurt my feelings, and why would they? I was right, after all.
Prozac was kind of a blunt instrument. I went off of it after six months and was grateful to have hit the neural "reset" button. It taught me how to cope better.
Fast forward 16 years. I've been through some depressive cycles, struggled some, but been able to maintain on my own without chemical assistance. Go me.
In March, I had my daughter. While I was pregnant, I had this great feeling of complacency. Everything was going to be fine, the universe and my body were both doing their respective jobs. The baby was growing well, and we looked forward to a bright future together. After having her, though, things got a little wonky. I struggled to get up in the morning. The breast pump filled me with despair. I got hit by waves of sadness at random times. I had body aches and felt just old all of a sudden. Why was this happening? Life is pretty great. I have a wonderful husband, an appallingly fantastic, beautiful genius of a baby (ask around) that I am completely in love with. We're stable, everyone's healthy and I'm launching a new career and doing work I love. What unbelievable luck on all fronts. I'm grateful and knocking wood just typing this.
So, what the fuck is my problem?
It's chemistry, stupid.
Eventually I caught on and called around to my various doctors to find one who would just write me a scrip based on my family history and brilliant deductive powers. My Primary Care obliged and I started Zoloft about six weeks ago.
I spent the first week gritting my teeth. I was twitchy and felt like an exposed nerve ending for the first few days. Kept waking up with my jaw all clenched up. But then good things started happening. Those aching feet that had me hobbling around in the morning? Gone. I mean, I kept the feet. But the aches disappeared. My back stopped hurting and it was easier to get out of bed in the morning. I still hate that that bastard breast pump, but it doesn't make me cry anymore. And I can concentrate (when the baby's out of the house) on getting work done. Life is better.
Why am I writing this?
Because it's a low-drama story of treating a condition and we need more of those. It still seems to me there is some stigma around depression. People have a hard time recognizing it, and getting treatment. The nature of the disease is such that it's hard to get off of your butt and get it treated. You may be plagued by self-doubt, feelings of unworthiness and generalized irritation. You may not want to try brain meds. You may want to wait it out, or you may not know someone who's discussed it plainly.
I want to be the best parent I can be. It's my primary motivation. Where I may have been slow to act on my own behalf, I am determined that my daughter have the best I can
