About two summers ago, when I was down deep in the dark hole, a kitten appeared in my back yard. We have a problem with ferrel cats in my neighborhood. The neighborhood newsletter always proudly announces how many cats the cat catcher rounded up. I'm always sad to read about the cats. We had just lost a cat so I decided to try to tame this little kitten. I was pretty bad off at the time. I know this because I was starting to get my affairs in order. My husband and I had separate banks accounts because this is a second marriage for both of us. I told him I wanted to put his name on my accounts "just in case." I didn't tell him how bad I was feeling. I started thinking about a will, but I know the laws of intestate succession in my state. My assets, should I have died, would go to my husband and my parents.
So, in this state of mind, I walked to the edge of the property along the fence line with some cat food in hand. I lay down on the ground with my arm stretched out on the ground before me. I rested my head on the ground turned to the side. The mosquitoes and gnats that buzzed around my head were biting but I tried to be very, very still. I waited patiently in this position until I could sense the kitten drawing near. Then, OUCH. The little kitten chomped down on my finger with sharp teeth. I jumped and the kitten ran. It would be a several weeks before she got that close to me again. I went out twice a day every day. I sat at the property line and tossed food in the direction of the kitten. I tossed food closer and closer to me as the kitten became more and more accustomed to me. I loved watching the trust build. Soon she was running out to greet me each morning. I remember the first time she let me touch her belly and the first time she let me carry her into the house.
I feel like she saved my life. Something needing me gave me a reason to hang on. She is now fully tamed and a member of our family. We named her Lila. We added the Grace because she proved herself to be somewhat of a klutz and because it is fashionable for a Southern cat to sport two first names.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Darkest Hours
After I described my depression to my doctor one time, he asked, "What keeps you going?" I simply shook my head and said, "I don't know."
What I wanted to say is that I'm not really very good at killing myself. I am more afraid of surviving a suicide attempt than I am afraid of death. I have never been an inpatient and I don't want to be one.
When I think of suicide, I think of the logistics. For instance hanging. First you need the rope. I'm not really sure what type to get or how to tie a noose but I'm sure I could get some information on the internet. But how do you know where to tie the noose? I think I would botch the job. A gun. A boss once gave me a gun after my house was broken into. I kept it for a couple of days and then returned it. I knew I was at serious risk with a gun in the house. Oddly, his wife's father killed himself with a gun. Slitting wrists isn't effective, I know the stats. It's also messy. Jumping. Where I live there is brand new beautiful bridge. There is a sidewalk on it where people walk. I think it is about 4 miles long. I would love to walk it but I don't trust myself. I think I could be a jumper. I wonder what it feels like as you're falling. I've tried pills, obviously didn't work. My son killed himself with carbon monoxide. Virginia Wolfe put rocks in her pocket and walked into the water.
The urge to kill myself washes over me several times a day. I push the thoughts back. I think of my husband. The thought of him finding me or having to ID my body is probably the biggest deterent. He doesn't deserve that. He also doesn't deserve a depressed wife. (I'm working on it!)
Strange as it may seem, I have worked on hotlines. I have "talked people off the ledge." Because I am a sufferer, I am very sensitive to the pain of people with depression. I am suicidal but I don't advocate suicide.
After one of my son's suicide attempts I was in the hospital ER waiting for him to be stablized and committed. The man behind the curtain in the "room" next to him was there for a heart transplant. He was rushing back from the bathroom in an big hurry. The nurses told him to slow down, it was dangerous for him to be rushing around. There two people lay side by side one desperate to live and one desperate to die.
I am writing very candidly so that people like me, people who live wishing to be dead, might come together. I talk about a very, very taboo subject. I am writing the blog I had hoped to find but couldn't. Maybe collectively we help each other cope. I also hope to connect with other who have lost someone to suicide.
What I wanted to say is that I'm not really very good at killing myself. I am more afraid of surviving a suicide attempt than I am afraid of death. I have never been an inpatient and I don't want to be one.
When I think of suicide, I think of the logistics. For instance hanging. First you need the rope. I'm not really sure what type to get or how to tie a noose but I'm sure I could get some information on the internet. But how do you know where to tie the noose? I think I would botch the job. A gun. A boss once gave me a gun after my house was broken into. I kept it for a couple of days and then returned it. I knew I was at serious risk with a gun in the house. Oddly, his wife's father killed himself with a gun. Slitting wrists isn't effective, I know the stats. It's also messy. Jumping. Where I live there is brand new beautiful bridge. There is a sidewalk on it where people walk. I think it is about 4 miles long. I would love to walk it but I don't trust myself. I think I could be a jumper. I wonder what it feels like as you're falling. I've tried pills, obviously didn't work. My son killed himself with carbon monoxide. Virginia Wolfe put rocks in her pocket and walked into the water.
The urge to kill myself washes over me several times a day. I push the thoughts back. I think of my husband. The thought of him finding me or having to ID my body is probably the biggest deterent. He doesn't deserve that. He also doesn't deserve a depressed wife. (I'm working on it!)
Strange as it may seem, I have worked on hotlines. I have "talked people off the ledge." Because I am a sufferer, I am very sensitive to the pain of people with depression. I am suicidal but I don't advocate suicide.
After one of my son's suicide attempts I was in the hospital ER waiting for him to be stablized and committed. The man behind the curtain in the "room" next to him was there for a heart transplant. He was rushing back from the bathroom in an big hurry. The nurses told him to slow down, it was dangerous for him to be rushing around. There two people lay side by side one desperate to live and one desperate to die.
I am writing very candidly so that people like me, people who live wishing to be dead, might come together. I talk about a very, very taboo subject. I am writing the blog I had hoped to find but couldn't. Maybe collectively we help each other cope. I also hope to connect with other who have lost someone to suicide.
Monday, February 22, 2010
The Plus Column
The depression still lingers. Right now I live at an Extended Stay America while I work out of town. The work will not last much longer. I'm not sure what I will do next. The anxiety is feeding the depression.
I put my house on the market yesterday. It was rented. I can't afford the taxes and insurance. If my house doesn't sell, I will be in a really rough position. But there are so many people suffering and in far worse positions. I read a book recently "same kind of different as me." It's about a homeless man befriended by an art dealer. After reading it I became ashamed of how despondent I become. Some people have had it so much harder.
I do have things to be grateful for. I have a fantastic husband who is loving and supportive. I have good health. I have a warm, safe place to sleep every night. I am really grateful that I can sleep. I don't know what I would do if I had depression and insomnia. When I am down, I sleep about fourteen hours per day. When I put my head down at night I am often tormented by haunting memories of the past and by my fear of the future. I tell myself "you are warm and safe" then fall asleep.
I put my house on the market yesterday. It was rented. I can't afford the taxes and insurance. If my house doesn't sell, I will be in a really rough position. But there are so many people suffering and in far worse positions. I read a book recently "same kind of different as me." It's about a homeless man befriended by an art dealer. After reading it I became ashamed of how despondent I become. Some people have had it so much harder.
I do have things to be grateful for. I have a fantastic husband who is loving and supportive. I have good health. I have a warm, safe place to sleep every night. I am really grateful that I can sleep. I don't know what I would do if I had depression and insomnia. When I am down, I sleep about fourteen hours per day. When I put my head down at night I am often tormented by haunting memories of the past and by my fear of the future. I tell myself "you are warm and safe" then fall asleep.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sunday Morning
The depression is bad this weekend. I can't stop thinking about ending it all. I am discouraged, afraid, and very, very sad. Strange but blogging, even to no one, seems to help. I am only marginally employed and losing my a__ in the real estate market. I am going broke and I am afraid.
I have been working out of town away from my husband, home, and pets. I am grateful for the work but being away hasn't been good for my mental health. "COPE!" I tell myself. "One day at a time." "Breathe." "Just take it as it comes."
I never really launched a career in law. My son was very ill while I was in law school. He was eventually diagnosed with bipolar disorder. He was in an out of treatment centers. He killed himself just months after I passed the bar. He was seventeen. He was a great kid. I hate that I passed mental illness on to him. I beat myself up for all the mistakes I made.
The sun is out. I will try very hard to feel its warmth.
I have been working out of town away from my husband, home, and pets. I am grateful for the work but being away hasn't been good for my mental health. "COPE!" I tell myself. "One day at a time." "Breathe." "Just take it as it comes."
I never really launched a career in law. My son was very ill while I was in law school. He was eventually diagnosed with bipolar disorder. He was in an out of treatment centers. He killed himself just months after I passed the bar. He was seventeen. He was a great kid. I hate that I passed mental illness on to him. I beat myself up for all the mistakes I made.
The sun is out. I will try very hard to feel its warmth.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Finding Help
Many years ago when I was a young mother with a failing marriage, I fell into a deep funk. I was on the edge. I wasn't going to kill myself because my son was alive then. I know people who have children commit suicide but when my son was alive this just wasn't an option. I could hang on for him and I tried real hard to put a happy face on for him even if I couldn't for myself, but that night I just felt like I was going to snap.
I called Duke University Hospital. I was going to admit myself. The woman on the other end of the line was so rude and insensitive I hung up the phone. I guess I wasn't too far gone because somehow I managed. But I wonder how many times this has happened. How many times has someone committed suicide and the whole world wonders why the person didn't seek help? My guess is they did -- many times and no one listened.
With the advent of medication and the numerous commercials about anti-depressant medication it seems that the nondepressed public has acquired the opinion that depression can be treated the same way you treat a headache -- take a pill and you feel better. It is a much more complicated than that.
I am working with a family physician right now. I like him. I am more candid with him than I ever would be with a psychiatrist or therapist. I have decidedly negative views about psychiatry. With that said I have several friends who are therapists and I know they are good. They are truly invested and care about their clients. I also know psychiatrists I respect, I just never had a particularly good experience. I think Wally Lamb's book "I Know this Much is True" captures my experience with "helpers" pretty well. It is not my intent to bash the helping profession, I have a Masters degree in counseling myself, I just want to share honestly my own personal experiences.
A footnote: I guess the final message should be keep trying. Your recovery journey is your own. I was honest about my experiences but as I started to closed I started to fear that I may haved turned someone off to therapy or psychiatry based on my experience. Many people have been helped by both. I know I sound like am and talking out of both sides of my mouth -- perhaps I am.
Many years ago when I was a young mother with a failing marriage, I fell into a deep funk. I was on the edge. I wasn't going to kill myself because my son was alive then. I know people who have children commit suicide but when my son was alive this just wasn't an option. I could hang on for him and I tried real hard to put a happy face on for him even if I couldn't for myself, but that night I just felt like I was going to snap.
I called Duke University Hospital. I was going to admit myself. The woman on the other end of the line was so rude and insensitive I hung up the phone. I guess I wasn't too far gone because somehow I managed. But I wonder how many times this has happened. How many times has someone committed suicide and the whole world wonders why the person didn't seek help? My guess is they did -- many times and no one listened.
With the advent of medication and the numerous commercials about anti-depressant medication it seems that the nondepressed public has acquired the opinion that depression can be treated the same way you treat a headache -- take a pill and you feel better. It is a much more complicated than that.
I am working with a family physician right now. I like him. I am more candid with him than I ever would be with a psychiatrist or therapist. I have decidedly negative views about psychiatry. With that said I have several friends who are therapists and I know they are good. They are truly invested and care about their clients. I also know psychiatrists I respect, I just never had a particularly good experience. I think Wally Lamb's book "I Know this Much is True" captures my experience with "helpers" pretty well. It is not my intent to bash the helping profession, I have a Masters degree in counseling myself, I just want to share honestly my own personal experiences.
A footnote: I guess the final message should be keep trying. Your recovery journey is your own. I was honest about my experiences but as I started to closed I started to fear that I may haved turned someone off to therapy or psychiatry based on my experience. Many people have been helped by both. I know I sound like am and talking out of both sides of my mouth -- perhaps I am.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
I'm not sure what my goal is for this blog. I think perhaps I have found a forum to discuss my depression with fellow sufferers and those who simply want a better understanding of depression. Only a very few number of people know that I suffer with depression. I don't tell people that I have attempted suicide on several occasions or that often my thoughts are filled with a desire to die to simply end the pain.
I have tried therapy and taken numerous medications. No medication worked. I went off of all medication entirely and vowed never to take another medication. After ten years, I broke that vow went back on medication. My doctor looked at me and simply said, "What have you got to lose." On the brink of suicide, I had to agree but the new medication wasn't any more effective than the medications I had taken in the past. He is suggesting ECT. So far, I just can't get on board with that.
The SSRIs are the worst for me, they actually make my mood worse. Mostly, I am a functional depressive. On SSRIs, I can't get out of bed. The simplest tasks seem impossible. I am medication free again. I keep hoping the next new medication will be the one for me.
When I was younger I honestly thought I would conquer depression. I would go to therapy, work through all my issues and baggage, take medication as prescribed and viola I would be cured. I know that some people have a bout or two of depression and then fully recover, but I also know there are people like me who struggle throughout their lives.
I want to chronicle this year. I am hoping for a good one. I turned fifty this year. I want to try new things. I want to reinvent myself. I don't hope to be cured forever of depression. It would be nice to find new ways of coping -- of managing it somehow. I hope to find people who are willing to share their own experiences with me. There is something so powerfully therapeutic in sharing stories of recovery.
If I had to describe what it was like to be depressed I would say it is like being at a wonderful ball where the banquet tables are overflowing with delicious foods. You fill your plate and eat but you cannot taste the food. You are nourished and your physical need is met but you are denied the joy of tasting.
I have tried therapy and taken numerous medications. No medication worked. I went off of all medication entirely and vowed never to take another medication. After ten years, I broke that vow went back on medication. My doctor looked at me and simply said, "What have you got to lose." On the brink of suicide, I had to agree but the new medication wasn't any more effective than the medications I had taken in the past. He is suggesting ECT. So far, I just can't get on board with that.
The SSRIs are the worst for me, they actually make my mood worse. Mostly, I am a functional depressive. On SSRIs, I can't get out of bed. The simplest tasks seem impossible. I am medication free again. I keep hoping the next new medication will be the one for me.
When I was younger I honestly thought I would conquer depression. I would go to therapy, work through all my issues and baggage, take medication as prescribed and viola I would be cured. I know that some people have a bout or two of depression and then fully recover, but I also know there are people like me who struggle throughout their lives.
I want to chronicle this year. I am hoping for a good one. I turned fifty this year. I want to try new things. I want to reinvent myself. I don't hope to be cured forever of depression. It would be nice to find new ways of coping -- of managing it somehow. I hope to find people who are willing to share their own experiences with me. There is something so powerfully therapeutic in sharing stories of recovery.
If I had to describe what it was like to be depressed I would say it is like being at a wonderful ball where the banquet tables are overflowing with delicious foods. You fill your plate and eat but you cannot taste the food. You are nourished and your physical need is met but you are denied the joy of tasting.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Blogging. . . .Hmmm. . . . .The only thing I can think to write about is the thing that has consumed my life for about the last thirty five years. Depression. It is my hope that my words might help others who struggle.
I trace my depression back to a day I came home from school. I was a rising ninth grader. I was beaming as I told my parents I was going out for cheerleading. I pictured myself in the green and gold uniform of a Summerville Greenwaves junior varsity cheerleader as I broke the news. The response I got: "We're moving." My father was transferred to Dover, Delaware. I moved into a new house the day before ninth grade started and then the rain came.
I sank into a deep depression. I was so depressed by the end of my senior year, I attempted suicide for the first time. I'm not sure anyone really noticed. My dad was busy transporting the dead back from Vietnam and when he got passed over for promotion (kicked out of the military)my mother had to return to work. They had six children to feed. Besides what is the difference between a normal moody teenage girl and one who is severely depressed?
I trace my depression back to a day I came home from school. I was a rising ninth grader. I was beaming as I told my parents I was going out for cheerleading. I pictured myself in the green and gold uniform of a Summerville Greenwaves junior varsity cheerleader as I broke the news. The response I got: "We're moving." My father was transferred to Dover, Delaware. I moved into a new house the day before ninth grade started and then the rain came.
I sank into a deep depression. I was so depressed by the end of my senior year, I attempted suicide for the first time. I'm not sure anyone really noticed. My dad was busy transporting the dead back from Vietnam and when he got passed over for promotion (kicked out of the military)my mother had to return to work. They had six children to feed. Besides what is the difference between a normal moody teenage girl and one who is severely depressed?
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