So I prepared a blog post last night that just turned into a DH bashing, which made me very unhappy, so I decided to re-write it. Then, because I didn't think my usual four-five pass edit would make it any less vitriolic, I canned it. Well, it's still in my notebook, but I highly doubt it will ever see the light of day.
Instead I have something else in mind... the various reactions I've been receiving to people realizing that I have major depressive disorder and, let me tell you, I have a couple of doozies.
Here goes...
We ask for help. Really, we do. And we do it in any number of ways. We isolate ourselves and wish someone would notice that we aren't around. We become barely functional and wish the people we live with would ask what's going on. We really wish someone would notice and get us to a hospital.
But sometimes nobody sees because we're just that good at covering and the people who think they know us don't have a clue (and sometimes those people seem to enjoy putting us on an emotional yo-yo). Sometimes, when we atually admit that we're off our meds, the person who sees us isolating and spiralling just doesn't care or says that it isn't his problem.
So I forgive you for that thought because I know you had it and I know you said it. I'll even pretend you're ignorant and didn't understand what it meant when I said I had gone off my Zoloft even though you knew I'd only been back on it for two months. I'm so good at pretending that I'll even ignore the fact that you've had daily dealings with someone who's mentally ill before.
The reason I can do all of that is because you actually stopped a suicide attempt by being an asshole and that sent me to the hospital to get the help I needed.
Now I just have to get off that darned Zoloft because I hate it. I despise it. Zoloft totally sucks. The psychiatrist promised me Celexa and I had to go get really sick and need my exotic antibiotics and boom! there's the Zoloft again because Celexa and antibiotics don't mix well. (Of course, this is the same doctor who heard me say I used Mirapex for my restless legs and still gave me Requip, which wasn't the right dosage and you should have heard me at the nurses' desk that night telling them that if the doctor didn't fix this, I was going to keep him awake all night too since I was going to be awake. Apparently I yelled enough to get a sleeping pill and some neurontin for the pain.) But since I was promised Celexa, I'm going to get it if I have to jump up and down and yell and scream until I'm blue in the face. Well, except I usually only do the jump up and down and yell and scream when I'm depressed and off my meds because you catch more flies with honey than you do vinegar and I've discovered I can work miracles by being sweet. (Yes, it is against my nature to be sweet but I'm good at faking it. The sweetness, that is.)
But I've gone off-topic.
When you mention that you're depressed, you get asked what you have to feel sad about or what you feel sad about. Yeah, trust me when I tell you that sad doesn't begin to cover it. Sad would be an improvement over my utter inability to move (turns out Sasha was the only reason I didn't stay in bed all day).
Then there's the people who tell you to put on your big girl panties and get on with it or they tell you to get your head out of your ass. Yeah, wish I could. I wish I didn't have a chemical imbalance in my brain, but, unfortunately, I do. And if that was all it took to get moving, I'd be halfway to Chicago by now.
Then there's the guy who actually heard me say I was suicidal and I guess he decided that thinking about someone else would fix everything and said, "How could you do that to me?" Yeah, because it's all about you. I want to hurt myself, but it's all about you. I know you wish it was all about you, but this time it gets to be all about me, unfortunately. Of course, this is also the guy who asked if I meant anything I said in my depressed state. And the answer to that would be a resounding no. (And if you didn't ask, the answer doesn't apply because I know that someone out there is going to wonder if I'm talking about him. If you have to ask, the answer is that I'm not, yeesh.)
Finally, there's the person who thinks you just do it for the attention. Seriously. Yes, I put myself through the agony of cutting my flesh open because I want a little bit of attention. That is, of course, if I even survive the attempt. It doesn't matter if I slice my wrists vertically or horizontally. Either one of them will actually get the job done. (No, this is not and never will be my method of choice, so don't worry about it. Just way too painful for me.)
I've run into all of these people over the past couple of months and the only person who has ever been able to help me in my depressed state is me. I've driven myself to the doctor, to the hospital, to where I needed to go. And that's because it turns out that I'm always conflicted about suicide. On the one hand, I don't want to live but I'm also stubborn enough to not want to die. Go away, but don't leave me alone. Hey, whatever works.
Now, on a much brighter note, I made a new hooker last night. I took someone with no self-confidence, informed her that I knew she could do it, she looked back and told me that she believed me, and she can now crochet. It was such a joy to see her calm down by handling the yarn and the hook and to watch her self-confidence build with every stitch. But the best part was when she sat down, looked at the yarn, and called it string. She had the lingo down before she even started.
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