In a recent article in the Chronicle of Higher Education, the writer compares anti-depressants to cold medicine. They are both, she claims, symptoms of wanting a "quick fix" to life's problems. I agree with most of the arguments in her article. As a practicing Buddhist and a woman of Jewish descent, I completely get that "life is suffering." I agree that only by confronting our problems do we advance and grow. I'm no escapist, although I don't believe that wallowing in my own muck does me or anybody else much good. I take cold medicine to relieve the symptoms of a temporary illness. Yes, the faster it works the better. But, my decision two years ago to begin to take an anti-depressant felt nothing like my occasional decision to swallow some Nyquil. For years, maybe decades, my symptoms of depression were vague and did not seem "classic." I also believed that masking the symptoms of psychological or emotional distress was akin to avoidance, a kind of irresponsibility. Moreover, my moods seemed related to hormones and life circumstances. I still enjoyed most things that I had enjoyed in the past. I laughed and cried. If I didn't laugh as much as I would have liked, who was to say I cried too often? I spent countless hours on the telephone talking with my sister, who, with infinite patience, listened to my pain, my despair. I also spent countless hours in a chair talking and crying to various therapists, figured some things out and discovered ways of coping with my moods. There were also issues that not only I, but all women suffered from in society: lack of respect, taking on too much, living in a society that expects everything of women and gives back little. I rejected the notion that woman should be "nice" and that anger in women was "wrong." I read Harriet Lerner's The Dance of Anger as though I would find a way, like Kevin Costner in Dances With Wolves, to embrace my anger and befriend it from a distance. In my Buddhist practice, I chanted to channel my rage and discover what lay beneath. Chanting was often successful. Chanting and my practice in the Buddhist lay organization uncovered the deep sadness and disappointment I felt in my life. It gave me the courage and support to make positive changes in my life, to begin a career, to follow some of my dreams, to develop enduring friendships. Still, the pain wouldn't go away. At it's worst, the depression felt like a toxin flowing through my bloodstream. It felt physical as though a material treatment might help. So, I tried St. John's Wort, Bach's Rescue Remedy; sugar, caffeine and dairy free diets. None of these seemed to work although the healthier diets and exercise certainly helped. Finally, over the course of a couple of years, I went to two psychiatrists to inquire about medication. Both times I left the sessions feeling like medication just wasn't for me. I continued to exercise regularly. I went back into therapy and this time got to the root of what I really wanted, the yearning to be closer to people, to friends and, more than anything, to family. So, leaving a job I love and thanks to a husband who was also ready for a change, I moved back to New York. It felt like a dream. My husband and I were thrilled to be living in a lovely, rural area and I was delighted to be no further than two hours from most of my siblings and my mother. Until circumstances, my life, caught up with me again, and I broke apart. Everything was wrong. Everything was my fault. The anxiety and despair that was always hovering near the surface emerged without respite. Depression's best companion, the monster of self loathing, was exhausting for its persistence and persuasiveness. I hit bottom on Thanksgiving day several months after the move. In the car, on the way to my mother's house, we took a different route on my suggestion. We were lost, I was sure, but my husband was convinced we could find our way. I began to lash out at him with the fury of a typhoon. Our daughter sat in the back seat and observed quietly. As my rage finally spent itself out, I said blankly: "I think I need to go on medication." Our wise, then 20 year old daughter replied: "I think so, too." That was it, I told my sister a few days later on the phone. I've had enough. They've had enough. A couple of weeks later my husband agreed to accompany me to the psychiatrist's office. He was the only doctor in the area who could see me so soon because he scheduled appointments beginning at 6 a.m. My husband drove me along the dark, winding road on the 12 mile ride to the office. I was nervous about getting lost, but we found our way. As usual. Sometimes I wonder how my husband managed to stay with me all those years. I'm not saying that I was always completely at fault. But, now that I see more clearly the effect that depression has on the family, I wonder if I would have been able to withstand it all. That moment when I was sure we were lost on the way to my mother's house and my husband was sure we would find the way may hold the clue. He may have been always sure, even when the road was dark, that we would find our way.
Here's the irony: after at least five years of not wanting to take antidepressants because of the fear of side-effects, the belief that I was really okay and that my circumstances needed to change, not my chemistry, after finally understanding that I was better on Cymbalta, I am weaning off them. Not by choice. It seems I am one of the few who may suffer from a rare side-effect: closed angle-closure which could lead to an closed angle attack of glaucoma which could cause blindness. Who would think, who could have known? So, now I'm on 20 mg. and the same old thoughts and feelings start seeping into my brain...the same behavior. I kicked my dog the other day because I felt irritated by her bark. She looked up at me, more in shock than pain, and I felt the same shame, the same total lack of control over myself that I had pre-Cymbalta. The monster in the mirror.
September 29th. 2015
I've been on 20 mg. for about a month now. Yesterday, I was sitting in the rain garden on campus. A blue jay took a bath in the water. First he dipped in. Then, with so much joy, he went back in, full body this time, exhilirated by the cold and clean...and my eyes teared up with the joy and wonder and beauty, he fanned his tail as if to show off and I thought "why not?" I would too if I were a beautiful blue jay.
That evening, when I got home, I was so mad at my husband that I nagged him for the rest of the evening.
This is me on a low dosage: depressed and sentimental, touched by the beautiful in nature (Nature) and enraged by the injustices, pettiness of life. Emotional.
January 12, 2016
I have been off of Cymbalta for almost a month. Yes, I am more emotional. And I am forced to deal with my problems because they just seem more severe. My sister shared an op ed piece from the New York Times entitled Medicating Women{s Feelings. It reminded me of the feminism that I used to know and love, the feminism that embraces what it means to be a woman. Because meaning is what I am seeking not necessarily the truth. The truth about anti depressants is elusive and subjective. I can only try and cope with my life now without them.
January 26th, 2016
The worst part about being off Cymbalta are the "anger attacks." A thought or worry will enter my head and then I cannot stop worrying about it and getting anxious. If the worry has to do with my husband (we need more money or his car needs maintenance for example) then he is the target of my anger. I do not stop with "I'm angry and want you to take care of this." It's "my whole world is collapsing, I have no control and I'm at the end of my rope." It was so much easier to reign myself in when I took Cymbalta. After an attack, what's almost worse, are the feelings of guilt and regret for lashing out. This morning I was chanting about this incident. I realized I feel so overwhelmed by my circumstances. I do not think there is anything wrong with medication that helps calm those feelings while I cannot do anything about the situation. Therapy can help. It never helped me the way Cymbalta did, however. No matter how many realizations or coping techniques I have used over the years, the "burn and crash" is not worth the energy. And often it's wasted energy.
October 24th, 2016
I wonder if I'm idealizing the effects of Cymbalta on me. I don't think so. I felt more creative, less self-critical and I made better decisions. I just coped better. I don't agree with the author of Medicating Women's Feelings that my feelings were a natural part of being a woman. My life feels like hell a lot of the time. I have suicidal thoughts and thoughts of self-loathing. I waste a lot of time just dealing with fear and worry. I liked myself more. Of course life was still hard. And therapy seems like such a waste of time and money. I'm angry now. Life hurts more. And it's too short.
October 26th, 2016
I'm reminded of Flowers for Algernon. Like I had taken a medicine that allowed me to feel and function more like a normal person. You could see it in my writing. The handwriting on the wall. My sentences were more complete. They tied together more. Now, it's hard to get a thought down on paper. Another thing...I've been having stranger dreams. Still, I'd rather be sleeping most of the time. Will this stop after menopause? And how long will I have to wait for that? I think about how easy my childhood was. I think of playing records and singing along with them.
The thing about Flowers for Algernon is that the main character is not bothered by his loss of intelligence because once he goes back to who he was he loses the ability to reflect on that. He's lucky in that way. But, I can't forget what it felt like. I can't forget the lighter feeling, the healthier feeling...
March 1st, 2017
The things I dread: The lack of control. The fear of fear itself. Not knowing what to do next. Meaninglessness. Being around people I don't want to be with.
March 15th, 2017
Wanting to die. I was just chanting and the thought "I want to die" just keeps popping into my head. Then something goes wrong. Relatively small thing. A blizzard. The neighbors get angry because we haven't cleaned off and moved our cars. I get angry at Enrique for being lazy. I hate myself because I'm lazy and didn't check when I should have to see if other people were cleaning their cars. And I had already been thinking earlier "I want to die" and anxious about the day. And then I feel worse. I talk to my mother. I feel bad. I talk to my sister. I feel bad. So, I don't want to talk to anybody. I just want to die. Why am I living? What is the purpose of my life? Supposedly, Buddhism is supposed to help with these questions. And yet, I keep thinking of the song from Little Shop of Horrors "I keep asking God what I'm for and He answers 'Gee, I'm not sure.'" It's hard to hate myself. To keep making mistakes. To not know what to do. I give up. I want to give up. If I tried to kill myself, maybe I'd get help.
March 19th, 2017
A little while after that, after really wanting to die, I began to feel better. Talked with my husband about how upset I was over what happened. I didn't tell him I wanted to die. That night, I felt better. The next day, and the day after that I felt better. Had more energy. Didn't want to die. Had a nice phone conversation with my daughter. Things were kind of looking up. Went to a Buddhist meeting today with our Warwick group. Then I went to therapy. Or rather, called my therapist. And, like happens in therapy, I talked about the negative stuff. And it didn't go well. I mean I feel okay now. Just wondering: maybe I should lie in therapy next time and say: "you know what? everything's okay with me now. I'm fine. I've figured it ought. Thank you. I won't be needing any more sessions." Or ask her "When can I be done? When can I say: "I've had enough, thanks? Do you really want me to get better? Do you ever tell a client that they are fine?" Because I really want another way. Another medicine or treatment. I really want to get on with my life.
March 27th, 2017
I just wanted to add an entry when I'm actually feeling okay. Had an enjoyable spring break last week. Enjoyed my life. Saw a friend, my mother and sister. Went shopping. Did things for myself and enjoyed them. My worry now is an upcoming trip to Austin, Texas to see Pablo. A lot of anxiety about that. Just take one thing at a time. Talk to Enrique. Make a decision. Make plans. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
March 31st, 2017
At home today with the flu. Yesterday, I felt like sleeping all day and pretty much did. It felt like I was depressed, although I've never had the kind of depression when you sleep all the time. But, it felt so good to sleep and I wondered if that was because I'm also depressed.
Things have not been going well with my therapist. I'm seriously thinking of stopping sessions with her. I still feel uncomfortable with her. Therapy is supposed to help me feel better, not worse. I want to deal with things. I just don't like it when she rambles on about things in her own life, supposedly to see how it relates to my life.
Just finished reading Patricia Bosworth's memoir. She did so much in her 20's. I'm 52 and feel like I'm barely living. It's my choice, I suppose. She lived a privileged life, and worked extremely hard. I lived a privileged life once, too. Also, worked hard. Lately, maybe for the past couple of years or so, I feel like I haven't been working that hard.
April 6th, 2017
Today driving to work I felt sad, but not depressed. Sad because Ana Lucia and Enrique are on their way to Mexico. Sad about my life and how very drab it seems to me now. Although, I am occasionally grateful for the lack of drama, the dullness of everything. It seems like this is a time to be serious, for the things going on in this world, for the strange, dark tension filling our society. For the cold Civil War feeling that's ripping through us...the fake normalcy, the ridiculous optimism. Also, I so much miss my friends in Chicago. Especially Mary. And Laura. And only if Bonnie were still alive.
They said, I've read, that it's important to focus on good things that happen. So, today. I had a nice lunch with Ana Lucia at home. And the cat is always cute. And that lovely student tonight who shut up my colleagues in a minute when he complained, so sweetly! about their comments about trans children. Sigh. So beautiful to hear a young person speak...so clear and true and unaffected. What else? Oh, the nice students in the class I taught tonight. And just helping students find a book or an article or something. Just being able to feel useful.
August 15th, 2017
I wish I felt like I did in the last entry. Just dull. I'm back to feeling suicidal. It's the little things that set me off. Little things that seem unsurmountable. Like the children who play every day outside our house and scream and run around for hours and hours. This just started a few weeks ago. My anxiety is through the roof. And even though I know rationally it's not that bad, I feel as if my world, my sanity is falling apart. The obsessive thoughts of anger and pain inside my head. The fighting with myself. Going home and not wanting to do anything. Not wanting to be home. It's like the depression/anger/pain feeds itself. Or I feed/foment it. Until it becomes a palpable dread, nausea, anxiety. And the sort of strange behavior. How do I explain it? I'm drained. Losing weight. Waking up too early. It's as though I'm going through something traumatic like an awful divorce, or a death or something. I'm thinking now...How can I stay away? Where can I go? What should I do tonight? And the next and the next? And the weekends. The long, endless hours? Drugs? Alcohol? It won't help. Can't take antidepressants. We almost moved to another house in August. But, I didn't like it. "Too expensive" I said. "I'd move there if we had to." Now, I'm grieving that lost opportunity. I'm convinced I've just screwed up my life. If my kids are okay, sigh...just that goodness for that. Sigh. And my faith? Well, I feel like a failure in that arena as well. Twenty-eight years of practice, and still doubting. It seems like I go through these waves of seemingly unsurmountable obstacles, and I want to quit. Maybe one of the most difficulty things is that it seems there aren't many people I can talk to about it. I try to visualize what I would like my life to be like. I can't even do that. Lee Kie said, "chant about how you want things to be, not the way things are." I'm afraid to even ask. I'd like to find a reason to live, meaning in my life or a clear mission. If my mission is to be happy, well..sigh. well...
September 19th, 2017
I had a few weeks of feeling okay. The noise was greatly reduced. I spent relaxing days and evenings at home. It was heaven. And now the noise is increasing and my anxiety came back immediately. My heart races. I feel nauseous. Afraid and at the point of tears. Suicidal. What was I going to say? I had a thought. Something sort of encouraging. And I thought this blog would help. Was I going to say that I want to find a psychiatrist to prescribe something? Was I going to say...something?
I remember now...I was going to write about my dream last night. My dream about the cockroaches. They were in the kitchen and there were so many I started crushing them with my bare hands. They keep coming back, like my other problems. And each time they come back I am worse. Oh, this isn't helping! I thought it would. To write this down is not helping.
September 28th, 2017
Reading Anne of Green Gables again after so many decades. It reminds of what I felt like as a child or a young person when I had hope for the future, when my world was simpler and things could be wonderful, magical. Like looking forward to seeing a play, even in the high school, going to a basketball game, even in the high school, Christmas Eve, or going to NYC. Going out with friends when I first got my driver's license. Going to bed happy. Looking forward to a day. Dreaming.
December 14th, 2017
I love the shorter days and longer nights. Sleeping in and being covered and protected by darkness at 5. Is that a symptom of depression? Wanting to escape my thoughts and bodily sensations. I feel very full right now...holiday parties, over-indulging. When I was younger I would feel so awful if I overate. Out of control As if I had ruined something, done something awful, punished myself. It's strange that I made such a big deal out of that when I didn't have a weight problem. It was something else. I wonder if 20 years from now, I'll feel the same about things I get so upset about now. I certainly hope so.
I told my therapist about this blog. It was actually fun to talk about it, because I like the idea. Especially the "Flowers for Algernon" analogy. The idea of my mind and feelings becoming undone. That's how I feel...like I'm coming undone. The therapist thinks that it's not the pill that will cure me. I disagree. I read the first entry in this blog and it's the best one. The most coherent. The sentences are longer and just better. And I'm trying to get that flow back into my writing. I'm trying to write with confidence and aplomb. It's like I'm checking everything I write now and thinking about it and editing it before it even gets on the paper/screen.
Happiness is so elusive. I feel the sensation of happiness is as stable as a speck of dust? Something hanging off the cliff. Me hanging off the cliff, one foot on and one foot off. So, I might as well enjoy standing here while I am.
December 21st, 2017
The shortest day of the year. Would they could all be short now. I would stay awake for four hours or so and sleep the rest. I hear there are parts of the world where it is dark almost all the time for months out of the year. Maybe I could move there? I wish: I had somebody in the SGI that I could talk to about how it feels to feel hopeless, and when it feels like praying is useless and how f**** hard it is to tell people about NMRK when I harbor so many doubts in my life. Oh, to feel hope! That is my wish: to have hope. Create some hope, they say. Okay. I hope.
I don't want to read this years from now and think "How pathetic!" So, let me just say that I am not those thoughts and feelings that I just wrote. I can still smile! And laugh! And I have a lot going for me in my life. Really and truly.
December 28th, 2017
For a few days now I've felt okay. The weather has been bitter cold, Christmas has finally come and gone, and New Years is just a few days away. So, things are quieter and calmer. For now. And I'm trying to be "in the present." I'm struggling with my faith. It seems kind of harsh sometimes. I guess all I really need to keep in mind is "practice for oneself and others." Not feel bad or guilty. I've been reading a memoir called "Drinking: a love story" by Caroline Knapp. A lot of the feelings she talks about that alcohol helps soothe I can really identify with. Except that it is not the miracle elixir that it is for her. They say that alcohol makes depression and anxiety worse. But, it seems to me that before the alcoholism does more harm than good, that it really does seem to help. It just doesn't work like that for me. A drink or two does, but not for long and not that much. And I can't drink when I'm anxious, really anxious. Anyway, I'm really craving a full-bodied red wine for these cold, cold days.
Yesterday, Enrique and I went to the Frick Collection in Manhattan. I drove there and back and really didn't mind at all. We only stayed for a couple of hours. The weather was so cold, we had no desire to walk around. I'm glad we went mostly to say that we did. And that it was beautiful.
January 6th, 2018
It's almost like I'm afraid to feel hopeful because the crash is so bad. Better to stay down to avoid the fall. Still, I'll take the moments when I'm feeling okay. I forced myself to share a NMRK card with a couple of young women today, in a restaurant and in a pet store. It was okay. Struggling to overcome myself.
January 9th, 2018
I miss the way I felt even just a year ago. Drinking as much tea as I wanted. Loving where I live. I miss looking forward to things. Now, I look forward to something and almost immediately dread it's end.
January 12th, 2018
What I really want...to live in Warwick in that house, 177 Bellvale Lakes Road.
Later this afternoon, listening to a conversation with Daphne Merkin and Dick Cavett about their suffering with depression. Sigh. I envy that. To be brilliant and be able to talk about your depression in a way...to have a wonderful, smart, funny conversation (and at the 92nd Street "Y" with people listening to you, being entertained by your talking about your depression)...to be able to write and/or interview people and be so interesting. What does somebody like me, and like so many of us, who aren't especially articulate, intelligent or outstanding in any way have to show others? Those of us "ordinary" people who are also depressed/anxious? It seems so selfish to stay inside my head as an ordinary person. Someone who writes or performs for a living is at least doing something else. Is making life meaningful through their battles with meaninglessness.
It seems that my "depression" and anxiety have more to do with blaming the world or myself for not getting what I want: the place I want to live, not working hard enough to make my job interesting to me, not pursuing my interests in music and theater more intensely. I have to find meaning in therapy sessions with a therapist who makes me dredge up things from my childhood, my mostly very happy childhood, to try and figure out why I am so unhappy and negative and anxious.
January 23rd, 2018
I'm thinking about Daphne Merkin and the courage that it must have taken her to write about her deep depression in a way that is readable. One can't go on and on about the grayness and despair and expect readers to keep reading. And one can't go on about the grayness and dread and expect to keep writing about it either. At some point, it makes more sense to go to sleep or watch television or have a drink. How do I get myself, to motivate myself to just do something: to follow through with an idea, to pick up my guitar and play and sing, to go to a poetry workshop. Or not to keep saying "I don't want to" and just do it because I want to, because it's got to be. Because it's time.
April 18th, 2019
Over a year has gone by since I've posted in this blog about depression and anxiety. Amazing that I really forgot about it until now. Maybe it's a crisis or desperation that propels me to come back to this. Now, hating my job as I do and terrified that we won't find a home to move to in July, I'm feeling paralyzed and so desperation leads me to write. Reading my last post, I see that at least I have picked up my guitar these last few months. Even though I don't like the way the teacher is teaching me, at least it forces me to practice because I'm paying for lessons. And my sisters just texted me. At least I have a family I love and that loves me. For that, I'm super grateful.
December 11, 2019
I forgot to save/update my last entry on Monday. I've decided to try and post something every day. I read an article about starting New Year's Resolutions in December, sort of a trial run to see if you're really committed to something before committing to it. This post, "The Happy Pill" is supposed to be a journal or log of my experiences with depression (now include anxiety) on medication and now off medication. Right now, at this moment I don't feel too bad. But, I'm always wary of this feeling because I think/know it won't last and so I am just waiting to fall off the cliff. I suppose I should commit to writing a certain number of words per day. 250? 500? How many is enough? I will research this.
December 17, 2019
Well, I haven't been writing in this every day. Funny how the days go by and I forget to just add an entry into this blog. It isn't difficult. I don't share this with anybody and I can write about whatever I want. Today I'll talk about how the curse of indecision is so painful. Small decisions. Big decisions. They can all seem painful and tortuous. To buy that gift or not? I bought it...that was wrong...I didn't buy it...that was wrong too. Trying to enjoy things without feeling guilty for not thinking of others enough. Torturing myself for not doing something. Even a small thing like not buying a flannel sweatshirt for my husband, Enrique. I was so worried that it would be the wrong size that I returned it. And the store in Great Barrington is two hours away from home, so I can't change my mind again. Which I did. And now I feel awful about that. When there are so many other things to feel awful about. Then I hate myself and who I am and my mind. Struggle to focus on the important things. Sigh. Medication would help stop these obsessive thoughts, right? Or at least I would sleep better and not let them wake me up. Should I, shouldn't I? Should I listen to others? Should I listen to myself? Over analyzing, and obsessing. It's exhausting.
December 19th, 2019
The depressed person asks: "Will I ever be happy?" and dreads to hear the answer: "Maybe." She looks in wonder and envy at those who turn their lives around. She blames herself for not being able to do the same. She blames herself. When it comes right down to it, who else can she blame? She thinks: "I can pull myself out of this. I've done it before." But, really she wonders: "Can I do this again?" "Think of others." they tell her. "That's the best way to pull yourself out of suffering." "I've tried that," she says. "It's only temporary." Still, she feels like she has to pretend. Don't let others, especially her children, see. Even though they do anyway. "Just keep busy," she tells herself. Actually, that does help distract her for awhile. Appreciate what you have. Do think of others because, well, what else is there? Except for books. And music.
February 27, 2020
I remember when I was confident and didn't think I was worse off than most people I knew. I remember when I was in high school and I felt smarter than most of my class-mates and pretty sure I would have a great future. I remember when I felt okay about myself, and not ashamed and depressed and worried into a frenzy.
December 1st, 2020
9 months into this pandemic. And a few months ago I started on Cymbalta again. 30mg. It took the edge off my suffering and pain for a while. But, in June, when we moved to this house and that same day I discovered that my mother had months (how many?) to live, I broke down in a horrible way. Could not stop crying and screaming. Lost over 10 pounds. Will I be able to pull myself out of this? Hope? I guess you're never too old to be depressed. Never too old to change, either. Change my negative thinking.
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