Depression lies, often telling us that we don’t need the medication that keeps us sane. Depression is a lying liar who lies.
This is her story:
I’ve been on and off anti-depressants for years. I first went on them when I was married to an abusive asshole. It’s not hard to imagine why I needed them. I probably needed treatment for PTSD back then, but it wasn’t as widely accepted as it is now. Maybe my therapist at the time didn’t know much about it or maybe she thought I didn’t have it. I don’t know. What I do know is that I have had my own issues with admitting I suffer from depression and admitting that I need brain altering drugs to deal with it.
Logically I know that there is some sort of chemical imbalance in my brain that causes me to enter The Dark Place.
Emotionally, I think I’m just fucked up and should be able to just pull myself out of The Sads when I get them. I feel like I’m admitting some sort of weakness by taking the drugs. There is absolutely no mistaking the difference I feel when I’m on them. Not only am I happier in general, but I’m a fuckton less bitchy. The most minute details won’t set me off when I’m on meds. When I’m not? Watch out. Look at me the wrong way at the wrong moment and I can’t promise that I won’t stab you. This makes living with me not so much fun sometimes.
Lately I’ve had a pretty good run off the meds; a couple of years this time. So good, in fact, that I fooled myself into believing that I was right all along. I didn’t need meds. I just needed to bully myself out of The Dark Place. It worked. Until it didn’t.
I’m in The Dark Place now. Way deep inside it. So far down the light above is just a pinhole. I’m struggling to claw my way back out. I need to make the appointment. I need to get back on the meds.
I need a kick in the ass. I need to realize it’s not a weakness to take the drugs.
The weakness is NOT taking the drugs.