I hesitate to post this. Mental illness isn’t something most people want to hear about but I feel the need to share.
I have struggled with anxiety/depression for the majority of my life. Usually, I am able to hide this and the casual observer would never peg me as being depressed. In fact, I have grown so accustomed to the feelings of inadequacy and self-doubt and the constant internal monologue of all that isn’t right, I hardly recognized it this time around.
It wasn’t until my wife, with tears in her eyes and fear on her breath begged me to see my doctor. I am really good at suffering but knowing my behavior was causing her to suffer was just enough to break me out of my pattern and seek help.
I made a promise to her that if she was ever concerned about my mental health that I would defer to her no questions asked. I ignored the second part of that promise this time around but she persisted and eventually I was sitting in the doctor’s office, again, talking about how I felt.
The signs were all there and looking back it was obvious that I was spiraling. The constant pain, the complaining about e v e r y t h i n g, the lack of interest in anything outside of work, the weight gain, and overall fixation with misery had become my new normal.
I have always been a high-functioning depressive person. The anxiety married to my depression is a powerful tool I use to drive me just this side of mania. I can work like a dog and when everything is clicking the accomplishment I receive from overworking masks the crumbling foundation. Every brick added through work is usually enough to replace the cracks in reality and the constant work of rebuilding is just enough to tip the scales until it isn’t.
This time, the wall disintegrated and the other side revealed a giant mirror reflecting a version of me I wished wasn’t real.
I filed out the depression questionnaire and jokingly asked the doctor if I aced the test? Unamused he responded, “No, but you got our attention.” A few awkwardly phrased excuses why I felt this way later, my doctor prescribed medication and wanted to see me next week. He asked if I had thoughts of ending my life?
I lied.
To be fair, I thought about my life ending, not personally ending it, but he didn’t buy it.
It’s a strange experience when you know someone believes you are going to kill yourself. There’s brevity to the conversation and deflecting with humor feels like a fart in church. I had enough respect for my doctor to let him in a little and shared my relief as he handed my anti-depressants prescription to my wife.
I’m feeling much better now.
It’s been a few weeks on medication and things are much better. This is only a stop-gap until I can see a therapist and dig into the emotional side of things. At worst, something traumatic haunts my psyche but it’s likely I have a chemical imbalance that causes my serotonin levels to dip.
I can still justify my actions based on perceived experiences and point the finger to all that is wrong but that doesn’t do anything positive. The only thing blaming accomplishes is adding fuel to the slow burn of disappointment that powers my darkest ideas about myself. I am a terrible friend to myself and I hope to figure out how to break up with that part of me.
So there is it.
I have been struggling with depression and anxiety for some time now and I need help. Part of my healing will be to accept this and embrace that reality in my life. It’s easier to consider it today than it was last month peering back at concerned faces watching me flirt with the abyss.
I know the abyss is still there but I have no desire to peer inside and listen to the echo of regret. The phrases are becoming more dissonant and foreign as I filter the once familiar tune.
I was tired of that song anyway.
Thanks for listening.