As per the writer/artist cliche, I suffer from pretty intense depression. This really isn't a secret if you know me, I've likely talked about it with you or you've been either present or aware that I have my good days and bad days. What the majority of people don't know is that along with that depression comes a huge heap of anxiety that dives into full-on panic.
And like all people who think they can handle their problems, I didn't really do shit about it. I thought this was just my deal, and that by saying something about it, I was jeopardizing my relationships, my professional career and any "cool credit" I had accumulated to date.
I realize now that I was totally 100% backwards on that idea -- My silence and the shit I did because I was too afraid to get help cost me my relationships, a lot of career options and my "cool credit".
So I've been looking for professional help. I have a list of names and numbers and I was dutifully making calls, getting discouraged and having a harder and harder time understanding why I was doing it. There wasn't a "prize" or "reward" I saw for doing this - no one was going to hand me a cupcake or make out with me or whatever....but I knew that I wanted the shit to stop. I wanted to break, like big huge compound fracture break, the cycle of shitty attitude and shittier behaviors and get better. Sure it cost me relationships and friendships and opportunities and burnt quite a few dreams to the ground, but on the bigger scale -- I could either live for those dreams, or I could do something and get better, so that maybe later (some indeterminate later) I could revisit those dreams and goals and have relationships where I wasn't being a bag of shit.
I did finally get through to a professional, and I explained my situation. She said, "Go meet my associate at my local hospital, he can help you."
I went, thinking I'd name-drop this guy and get whisked off to some cushy office on a double-digit floor and I'd start some process of talking and getting help.
That didn't happen.
I name-dropped that guy, and like I said a Manchurian Candidate code-word, I was checked into the hospital, and taken into the back for "evaluation".
This is where One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest became my dominating panic-thought.
Granted, I had REALLY amazing hospital people around me, who were SUPER supportive and very aware I was TOTALLY freaking out, as they drew blood, inventoried my pockets and gave me some emerald scrubs in place of clothes. (Side note - I look pretty good in emerald)
This was all around 10 in the morning Friday. Maybe 10:30, I'm not really sure. There are no clocks "in the back".
I'm someone who really enjoys a sense of contentment from knowing what time it is. I can't measure time for shit, (I also can't judge distances) but I feel way less panicky and jumpy when I know how long I've been in a room.
I was alone, and my panic instincts are pretty intense. I drowned a little in absolute fear (that I'd never get out of a hospital ever again), but eventually, people and Ativan pulled me out.
The end results? Intense therapy starting this week. Anxiety meds. Pills for high blood pressure (apparently 154/122 isn't a good state for your heart to be in for hours on end).
I went in at around 10. And was home by 6:45. A whole day that is a mixture of trauma and blurry not-quite-House phrases.
What are my goals? To get better. To be a better person. To not hurt all the damned time.
If my admission here causes you to unfollow me, unfriend me, block me on social media, ignore this blog, send me hate mail, or think that a guy saying he's getting help for his problems is a homosexual or a loser, then go forth into the world, far away from me -- that's not the kind of attitude I want around me sick, healthy or otherwise.
I can't promise anyone miracle cures or instantaneous fixes. I also won't blow smoke up your asses. This is what I'm doing, I might end up talking about some parts of it periodically (believe me, the experiences of Friday WILL end up in something I write), and I just want you to know that this is going on...
transparency, it's a thing I'm working on.
We'll talk soon.
To preface everything I'm about to say, I was officially diagnosed with depression and GAD (generalized anxiety disorder) over a year ago.
ReplyDeleteThat said, I don't really know you (I'm 'nerdettedesigns' on Twitter, if you want to say hi -- I think you're following me!), but I want to share my story, too, if you don't mind. Because I really liked this post. :)
"I didn't really do shit about it. I thought this was just my deal, and that by saying something about it, I was jeopardizing my relationships, my professional career and any "cool credit" I had accumulated to date."
This part hit me really hard, because that's the exact reason why I never talked about it, for years, to anyone. I was always a very nervous, anxious kid, but things really went to shit for me mentally when my dad died from a sudden heart attack when I was 19 (I'm 23 now). That fucked me up so bad. I spiraled into a crazy depression. PTSD-like symptoms plagued me for ages. I lost so many supposed "friends" over my random mood swings, breakdowns, hissy fits, and the like, because I didn't really know how to cope with it.
But then one day, at my old job a couple years back, my boss had noticed that I had seemed really stressed lately. Truth was, I was just going through a REALLY bad anxiety attack (that usually last 1-3 days for me) and an angry bout of depression. Worst thing about it, it was never triggered by anything specific, it would just happen .. But I broke down sobbing in his office and explained everything that I was feeling, and he encouraged me to go see a therapist.
So I did, and things got better. I was lucky enough to be put with a therapist that I really, really liked from the very get-go. I freaked out and stopped going when he mentioned medication, but that's another hurdle I'll have to get over .. for now, I'm okay enough. I still have these problems with constant anxiety and bouts of absolutely crippling depression, but its nowhere near as bad as it used to be. And, I have an amazing team of managers at my current job, who have been more like friends than anything, who don't judge me for my random stress. They're easy to talk to and want to make sure I'm okay, and I'm so thankful.
So I hope that you have a great support system, because so far, other than therapy, it's been the best medicine. I try to surround myself with people who are supportive, and don't waste my time with the ones who aren't. It's hard sometimes, but it's something I had to go through recently with a group of so-called friends, but now that I don't talk to them anymore, I feel so much better. I feel like I can really move on with my life.
I wish you all the best. :)
I was on medication about a decade ago - a therapist I was too scared to say wasn't any good for me had labelled me with a rather at-the-time trendy bipolar diagnosis and saddled me on some meds that kinda worked...I mean I wasn't feeling depressed, so who really cared that I wasn't feeling ANYTHING positive either? I swore off meds after that, and my adamant decision really blew up in my face as my anxiety got worse, the paranoia became...savage and I just kept sabotaging anything I did because I was afraid, or hurting or both.
ReplyDeleteI mean, the last pills I took didn't help, so why should these, right?
But when you're in a hospital ER triage room, and the very nice pretty nurse is saying that if you don't take these two pills, you'll likely rant and rave you way into an upstairs room for a week of observation, you make the decision to swallow two pinhead sized pills right quick.
Now, I'm not a saint. I've been drunk and high and stoned before. But these pills sort felt like that: that loose sluggish disconnect of limbs, like someone attractive is rubbing you with a warm towel and promising you that they'll make you feel good in naughty adult ways - but more importantly, they took the panic of "Oh god what I am going to do now that my relationship has imploded / now that I'm alone / now that I'm doing bigger work and getting praise for it / now that I've decided it's time to not be so scared" and it...didn't hurt.
I knew it was there, the way you know that there are people in other countries or the way you know that things in your fridge are cold - just facts and statements, unblemished by screaming anxiety that you're fucking everything up by breathing and hoping you can fix things.
The pills don't fix the problem, I know now that I need to talk to professional people and do some really hard rewiring of my thoughts and habits, but the pills make that possible. It's a kind of hope I only really got when I was with someone I trusted, alone, privately and safe. To get it from a pill gave me hope.
You're awesome, person I'm following on Twitter, and I hope you find the help, healing and happiness you need and deserve.
Since these comments are not as ephemeral as tweets, let me go on record here.
ReplyDeleteGood for you, John! I'm glad you had the courage to seek help AND were willing to post this so that those of us who know you and care about you have some insight into what's going on.
What? You're a person and not just a magical editing machine? I'm going to flip a table here. And good on you. My mild depressions savage me, I really can't imagine what more severe cases are like. But I've got your back. Be the awesome.
ReplyDeleteBravo John. You're doing the right thing.
ReplyDeleteYou have harbored this very human thing. Unleashing the torrent of confession only seemed apocolyptic while, in fact, people are supportive, understanding and totally stoked that you are reaching out for hep. It will make your life BETTER.
ReplyDeleteYour friends and colleagues care.
Good on you, John, for seeking help. Here's hoping for as smooth a road to wellness as you can find.
ReplyDeleteI'm happy for you. Mental health matters.
ReplyDeleteI hope your new program of meds and therapy works out and you feel better. No one should have to hurt all the time when they don't have to.
ReplyDelete