My favorite definition of depression, from our dear friend Merriam-Webster, is:
“a period of time in which there is little economic activity and many people do not have jobs”
This is an important statement. Sure, it’s context is the economy, but this definition describes my depression better than any other definition.
If my entire body, mind, and soul operate like an economy, we are in serious trouble. Call Olivia Pope because we are screwed beyond repair of a stylish magician.
My brain’s primary functions are to keep all of the members of my body working together, constantly communicating, so that I may move and breathe and live. My brain can be beautiful for she is a collection of every moment of my life, and these moments work together to craft me.
But unlike normal people, my brain is unable to let the good overcome the bad. These moments are consuming my everyday living, and these moments are sick.
What happens, when all of those moments, like clouds, carry heavy matter and it starts to seem out all over my body? What happens when those moments, morph from moments turn into voices, that consume your life? What happens when these moments decide that the whole economy is going to crash?
I feel it in my back. I feel the weight of my moments. I feel it in my gut, moments punching me when I’m in class, when I’m walking on the street, and when I’m trying to go to sleep. It’s hard to move my legs and arms. In a fast paced world, I’m constantly in slow motion. I can’t think. I can’t do homework. How can I try to examine what’s wrong with the world when I’m debating if I deserve to be on this planet? How can I do anything, when the pain inside of me is crippling. How can I do anything, when I look in the mirror and I can’t stop crying because I see in me, everything I’ve ever hated about the world?
Depression.
A state of low activity, where you and everything that you bring to the table, feel utterly useless. A state of going through the motions – bad motions.
My happiness has a job, but evidently she needs some help. So the pain and negative thoughts, eager to make a difference in the world of my mind, tag-team and beat my happiness down, and I’m the one who suffers. Some days I feel nothing, but a little nudge telling me that everything bad that has ever happened to me, is my fault, and I deserved it. Some days, when I’m driving, I look out of the window and wonder if I would be better if a car smashed into me right now, ending everything as I know it.
Depression. A state of low economic activity. The people at the top are ruining absolutely everything for everyone else.
Naturally, I’m sick of this. I’m tired of being tired. So I have done the unspeakable. I take a couple little pills to make me feel like myself. Lexapro and Buproprion, to be specific. I like the Lexapro a lot more, but obviously I needed a little extra boost. I’m still trying to cope with the idea that I have to have little pills to be myself. Some days it’s really easy to understand, others, not so much.
Despite listening to everyone’s fears of becoming different and not being yourself, this is the first time in my 21 years of life that I feel like I finally have a fair chance at being the person that I have always dreamed of being.
These pills aren’t like an epi-pen to the brain. It’s not a quick shot of quick, fast, and easy adrenaline. These pills are like Mario (yes, the Mario of Mario Kart). They remove the obstacles (the chemical pain and sadness), that I cannot do on my own because I don’t have superpowers. The remove the obstacles so that I, Me, Tracia, can have a fighting chance at resolving the core of my issues. They remove the obstacles so that when I talk to my therapist, or my boyfriend, or my friends, that I can be honest and let them do their jobs. I can tell them what’s wrong without the constant fear and myth that what I’m feeling is only natural to me.
My antidepressants are Olivia Pope. They’re nowhere near perfect, and need constant adjustment. When I first started Lexapro, it was amazing, aside from the fact that my libido was non-existent and I was drowsy, all the time. So my doctor helped me take a lower dosage of that pill, and added a small dosage of another medication, so that I wouldn’t be missing out of the good effects of the pill.
The result?
I don’t want to kill myself every time something bad happens. I think I’m pretty on certain days with certain lighting. My grades are finally improving (to be honest, my grades did touch the hem of Jesus’ coat). I can talk to people!
I am finally able to achieve my goals for myself and thus reward myself for hitting those goals.
None of us are healthy. But we all can try our best to get there. Stop letting the pain bully you into thinking that it is cheating to seek out help. Stop letting the pain kick down your happiness. Call Olivia Pope, in this case, your doctor. Take a stand and invest in yourself.
