Thursday, October 25, 2007

Swamp of Sorrow

Depression...a hateful word, one of the most feared in my vocabulary, above and beyond migraines and PMDD. The beast on my shoulder that whispers words of despair, of complacency. Worthlessness and hate. The anger overwhelms me at times, and then lurches suddenly into apathy. I told Ian to let me sleep until it was over, but when will it be over? This hellhound has been a constant companion since I can remember. Think young children can't be depressed? Think again.
...and my most secret fear: the pills that make it bearable - they always stop working. "What if," I wonder to myself (or is the dog?) "I'm medication resistant?" What if there's no "fix" for me, no way to get out of this except to keep clawing my way through life, a zombie, a waste of flesh because it's so bad that I can't go to school, can't work, can't get dressed when I wake. And waking, what a chore that is. It's a cruel trick of nature, to open your eyes and feel, for one fleeting instant, not happiness, but a lack of depression. Then it all comes crashing down around me and the weight of the goddamn dog lands square on my chest. And all my plans for the day, carefully thought out the previous night, are over before they start.

It seems to me that it was never this bad before Mom died, but I know that isn't true. It was just that she was there, and somehow had the superhuman strength to help pull me out of hell.

There's no one like that now. Ian tries, but he has so many problems of his own. I'm left to the whims of my (thankfully competent) psychiatrist and my own mind, twisting and turning and doubling back upon itself, over and over again until I'm stuck in a swamp of sorrow.