The Diagnosis

In this post I referred to

"a diagnosis that surprised me, yet was expected, rocked me, yet was a strange sort of relief. I have been drafting a post in my head since this summer about it. I'll eventually write it down, but I am not quite ready yet. I'm still rocking a bit too hard with it. (I promise, there is no need to worry, it's not that big a deal - it just rocked me.)"

It is very hard to write this down. It seems silly, I know, and in some ways probably seems like not a huge deal (I'm not dying or anything), but it's a Really Big Deal for me. It's hard to write about, to make public like this.

In May 2013 I realized I was depressed. Not the "oh, I am so depressed because NBC cancelled Up All Night" kind of depression (although - really - I loved that show), but real, clinical, "is my life really worth living" depression. I read a blog post in which a woman lawyer I'd followed for a while described very honestly her experience with depression, and I thought, I think that's me. I told Bryan I thought I might be depressed and he suggested I call my doctor. I didn't.

Then one Monday night a couple of weeks later, I got upset about something very, very small and very, very stupid and I... lost it. I'm not sure how to describe what happened, other than I sort of... snapped. Something in me broke, and it was awful. I cried so hard I almost hyperventilated. I actually wished I could hyperventilate. I couldn't speak, I couldn't pray, I couldn't even control my own thoughts for more than a second or two, and my own internal voice turned against me, calling me a failure, a terrible wife, mother, friend, and lawyer, and completely unlovable, and saying I was just like my mother - crazy. I was literally curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth, shaking my head "no", and I couldn't stop. I was just hoping I would pass out. Eventually it all slowed down and I was able to lie down, Bryan rubbing my back and praying aloud, and I calmed down and fell asleep. But it was embarrassing, and absolutely terrifying.

Tuesday morning I called my doctor. We talked through the PHQ-9, the screening tool doctors use for making an initial diagnosis of depression. It was immediately clear I was depressed, and if I had been entirely honest it would have been even more apparent and even alarming. I didn't even realize then how bad really it was. My doctor told me the diagnosis - the one I was expecting, but still so, so afraid of - and scheduled an appointment right away.

I was immediately given a prescription for an antidepressant. That first pill was so hard to take. I stared at that bottle for a long, long time, sitting on the couch and trying to deny that I needed it. I didn't want to become my mother (who has been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder), and I kept feeling guilty for causing such a fuss when I really wasn't all that bad (I realize now I was wrong about this). I finally opened the bottle, took out a pill, and stared at that for a while, willing myself to take it and at the same time begging myself not to. It just felt like taking that medication would make it real, final, undeniable. Finally, I had a soft, fuzzy and somewhat blurred thought - my kids deserve to have a mother - me, their own mother - who is present, engaged, positive, and able to function and love them in a way my mother was never able to. If this little pill would help me become that person, I would take it, for them. Every day for a thousand years if I needed to. So... down the hatch.

More to come.