As you can probably guess, I've spent the last week doing some deep thinking, with the help of my friends (isn't that a song lyric?). Stacy told me that she's been watching this build for some time to see where it went. I asked her what "this" was. She said that I've been saying over and over that I'm not happy, and that I've been saying that for a while. That threw me for a loop.
I think of myself as a pretty positive, happy (some might even call me perky) person. Now that I look back on my life in the past nine or ten weeks, I haven't been so positive, happy, or perky. After last week and my almost-physical paralysis, I realized that I was depressed and despairing. I've had some experience with both depression and despair, and I can recollect clearly those times I was depressed (four) or in despair (two). I'm not talking about hormonal depression or a one-day thing; I'm talking about when a situation or chemical has you in a depression that lasts for days or weeks.
The most recent experience I had with depression was three years ago when the severe pain in my abdomen was diagnosed as endometriosis. My doctor wasn't able to reach it during surgery, so he put me on a medicine that simulates menopause in order to dry up the endometriosis. He also put me on estrogen to counteract the negative effects of menopause. The treatment was supposed to last six months.
The first three months were almost pure hell. In the previous experiences I had had with depression before, nothing ever came close to the depth and length of this depression. I found I was crying almost all the time, I felt almost numb inside, and I had no motivation to do anything. After my three-month check-up, my gynecologist wanted to know why I hadn't told him what was going on. I shrugged. I knew why I was depressed, and I knew it would end soon. What was there to do about it? He said he could have written me a prescription for anti-depressants.
But it didn't matter. The endometriosis was dried up and gone, and he told me to stop taking estrogen immediately. I did, and the depression cleared within a few days.
Now I'm back at the depression place where I have no energy, I'm almost numb, and I feel incomplete - not completely myself. I know why I'm at this place; it's because this whole eye thing has sapped my emotional strength and physical energy. I'm not able to live the life I want (and that, quite frankly, I was able to live before my surgery), and I'm not happy with that option. Yeah, I know. Another "not happy."
It occurred to me this weekend that I could take anti-depressants. I could possibly see light and not wait for the end of the tunnel, which seems weeks and months away. I could make it easier on myself and not struggle so much with the emotional strain while I'm trying to get better.
I shared what I was thinking with Stacy, and she said, "But you haven't been diagnosed with depression!"
I don't need to be diagnosed by a psychiatrist to know that what I'm feeling is depression. When I sprain my ankle in Colorado and feel that pop, do I need to go to an orthopedic surgeon for him to diagnose that it's sprained? No. I know what to do (therapy, rest, massage, and specific ankle exercises).
The point isn't whether the chemicals help me. It's that I've surrendered.
Not in a I've-lost-the-battle form of surrender, but in a I'm-not-in-control-of-absolutely-everything-around me form of surrender. I can't do it all.
I've never wanted to consider anti-depressants, even the few times a therapist or doctor has recommended it during those periods of depression. I felt that *I* knew what was wrong; I could solve it. I didn't need medicine to help me do those things. It's the same way I view my struggle with weight loss. I know what to do: eat sensibly and exercise. There isn't a magic pill. *I* should be able to do it myself. That's why I haven't joined any support groups - I should be able to do it all myself.
The interesting thing is that I don't look down upon those who seek outside themselves for aid. Close friends are on anti-depressants, and I know many people who have used the support of weight-loss groups like Weight Watchers. I cheer them on.
And don't allow myself any outside support (until recently - thanks, Stacy!).
But for me, it's different. For some reason, I think I should be able to control it all. I think I should be able to will myself to health. I think it's up to me whether my eyes improve or not. I think it's within my control to stave off another surgery. I should be able to work hard and long and make it all work.
And I can't.
So, whether I choose to take anti-depressants or not, the lesson itself is more powerful.
I surrender.
Comments