The Ghost of Depression Past

I am still afraid of ghosts. The ethereal presence that haunts me is the possibility of falling back into the abyss. I am surrounded by signs of strength - family, faith, friends, career - but I wonder if inside I am fragile. Is my seemingly solid mental state actually more tenuous than I imagine? This ghost is real; I have experienced depression more than once. Both of my documented episodes of depression seem linked to an obvious reason. The first was postpartum - birth of a beautiful, healthy, happy baby followed by bouts of uncontrollable bawling. The friends who called to congratulate me were terrified that something horrible had happened when their cheery "hello" was returned with heaving sobs. My dear mother flew across country and stayed with me for almost a month. When she finally had to return to my father before he wasted away from lack of properly cooked home meals, I was still a mess and looking back on it I'm sure walking away from me at the airport as I cried was probably one of the hardest "mom moments" my own mom ever experienced. I didn't think I could survive that ...but I did.

I regained my footing, put it behind me as an isolated episode. But the ghost remained. When I became pregnant with our second child, the thought of the ghost so terrified me that I ended up in therapy during the pregnancy. The pre-post-partum variety of depression - perhaps a new entry in the DSM-IV! I just knew the inevitable post-partum depression would be the end of me. There were other factors involved this time as well. Hubby, Ex-Marine, was a current Marine at that time and his job was keeping him away from us at a time when we needed him. That same job had taken us to a foreign locale...no, not Japan or the Philippines or Guam.....Maine! To a "Girl Raised In The South" being dumped in Maine and finding myself pregnant with an absentee husband was scarier than the special effects ghosts in any horror movie. This ghost was real. But the second child came and the post-partum depression didn't. So I survived that too.

But now I wait. Waiting with this ghost is waiting for the other shoe to drop. That sense that it's going to happen. It's just a matter of time. The ghost scares me. I evaluate events in my life and wonder, "Is this bad enough? Is this the thing that will send me tumulting into depression?" A child struggling in school - is that bad enough? Financial hardships - will this do the trick? Unrelenting stress from responsibilities both loved and hated ...will one of those things be the straw that breaks me? I also avoid considering how some episodes of insanity in my earlier life may have not really been just the typical antics of a walk on the wild side teen/young adult but may have been the first signs, the foreshadowing of coming madness. So I tread lightly through my current life and I wade infrequently and with great trepidation through the pool of memories of my old life so as not to awake the ghost. The ghost has me scared and hesitant - afraid of the battle. But the ghost has not yet won. I have survived all of this...so far.

This post has been submitted to the Write Away contest for October hosted at Scribbit - this month's theme is ..you guessed it - ghosts!

DIY Psychology

Being with the ex-Marine for all the years we have been married has meant moving to wherever the USMC decided to send him (they didn't send "us", they couldn't care less about "us" - they were only worried about him - but that's a whole other blog post). All the places were great - we stayed mostly here in the southeast. I spent time in Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina - all wonderful places to live. Then all of a sudden we were skyrocketed to the top of the east coast and planted in Maine. At that point, I freaked out. It wasn't a huge episode - no hospitalization required, but it was depression. It was stop cleaning your house, stop enjoying your child, stop wanting to get out of bed depression. I wanted to sleep and play free cell and that was about it. Oh, and I wanted to go home where it was sunny and not snowing and people spoke to me when we passed.

I could sense what was happening - probably the non-stop crying gave me a clue. And I sought help. I went to see a psychiatrist. He had me fill out a checklist and talk to him a bit and then agreed with my self-diagnosis - depression. So he gave me a seven day sample pack of Prozac. Then he sent me out to see the secretary who scheduled an appointment for 14 days down the road. Depression doesn't exactly make you proactive (or at least me, I'm sure it affects everyone differently) so I didn't question this at all - 7 pills, 14 days - okay. Instead I simply came to my own conclusion that he wanted me to take the pills for seven days, see how I felt, and then not take the pills for seven days and see how I felt then. So I took the first pill as soon as I go to my car in the parking lot. The relief was instantaneous. I drove the five minutes home in much better spirits, the crying jags ceased, I had the energy to straighten up the house, cook a meal, and tend to my daughter, Bookworm. It was marvelous. I called my BFF to tell her about this miracle and she told me a bunch of horror stories about people on Prozac and all the horrible things they did when they had psychotic episodes. But I wouldn't hear any of it - this was the drug for me, it had cured my depression and I wanted to stay that way.

The result of my trial run was that the seven days taking the pill were great and then, to my befuddlement, the seven days not taking the pill were fine too. The mystery was solved when I went back for my day 14 appointment. When I relayed all that had transpired to the shrink he just stared and blinked and asked, "Why didn't you just ask me for another seven day trial pack?" I explained my seven on/seven off theory and he shook his head, saying, "No, no, no, that's not how it works." And then he proceeded to explain that a seven day course of Prozac would do nothing - nada, zilch to alleviate depression. That it took thirty days for the drug to reach a level in your system where it would be an effective treatment. And then he concluded by saying, "I might as well have given you an M&M." and that he didn't think I needed Prozac but perhaps a visit or two to sit on his couch and talk might do the trick.

So this is ending up a little longer than I expected - I think we'll have a part 2. Good night!