I’ve never tried to commit suicide. I’ve never had thoughts of harming myself or others. I don’t call out of work to sit on my couch for days on end to consume boxes of Thin Mints and bottles of Oyster Bay (although that does sound tempting). I probably don’t fall into any of the stereotypes that my friends would consider “depressed.”
But, if I took all of the money I’ve spent on my mental health over the past decade I could probably buy myself a small island and live out the rest of my life with a smile on my face and a coconut in my hand.
And, if you had four hours to review my mental health medical history you would 1) probably need a snack; and 2) lose count of the number of medications I’ve tried. You might look at it and say “Wow! She’s got to be on the path to happiness by now.”
After 13 years, I wouldn’t say I’ve reached enlightenment, but I’m working on it.
I first noticed feelings of anxiety and depression when I was a freshman in college. I was quick to brush it off as a transitional adjustment but it began to manifest itself in different ways. If I was sitting in a lecture hall and my classmates’ arm or desk (the kind that fold into the side of a chair) rubbed against mine, I felt a pang of anxiety. If I had a class in the basement level of a building I would feel stressed and uncomfortable. Over the years, my depression and anxiety have felt like loneliness with a touch of “what’s the point?” Lately, it’s revealing itself through a complete lack of motivation, irritability and desire to sleep for the rest of my thirties. It’s starting to have a negative impact on my life, particularly on my social interactions.
Tired of Being Tired
I’ve always been the sleepy one at holidays. I’m the one who eats ungodly amounts and needs to lay down between dinner and dessert. My grandma habitually reminds me that I was “born tired.” Over the past few months though, my cravings for excessive sleep and inactivity have gotten the best of me.
I can’t keep my commitments with friends and have a hard time getting excited or enjoy almost anything. My therapist recently informed me that there’s a word for this: anhedonia. It’s the inability to feel pleasure. She asked me when I last felt genuinely excited about something. My response: New Year’s Eve 2016, when I knew I was having a delicious 3-course meal in the comfort of my pajamas.
Most of my friends just say I’m being lame. They tease me about needing “more sleep than a dead person.” My peripheral friends and acquaintances probably wouldn’t notice these changes in my personality; it’s my close friends that seem to be the most annoyed. They tell me I’m always cranky and never feel like hanging out with them. But I’m not a cranky person and I remember times in my high school days when I thrived in a room full of others. It’s just not that time right now. I’m worried that they will stop inviting me to hang out but I can’t force myself to have fun when all I want to do is sleep.
While it’s been a lot of trial and error, I’ve come to know when my brain just doesn’t feel right and I continue to search for a solution. But to be honest, I’m tired. I’m so tired of trying different medications, seeing different therapists, drinking and eating to calm my anxieties and then trying to explain my behaviors and sometimes misbehavior to my friends and family.
Try, Try Again
Since first being diagnosed, I’ve tried countless medications. A little bit of Wellbutrin mixed with a tad of Effexor. How about Lamictal and a side of Cymbalta? I’ve also tried to come off of my meds completely and despite my greatest efforts, found myself back in my psychiatrist’s chair. Part of the reason that I have tried so many different cocktails of medication is because I’ve had multiple diagnoses. At 22, I was told that I had a mood disorder, specifically Bipolar II. I wasn’t buying it. I ignored my doctor and insisted that I stay on antidepressants and continued to do so for years. It was only until recently that my psychiatrist and I decided to treat what may actually be a mood disorder. So, that’s what I’m working with now. But, being on the “bipolar spectrum” doesn’t necessarily mean I’m buying a Ferrari one day and hiding away from the world the next. Mood changes can be slight and sudden and sometimes barely noticeable (just something to think about).
There was a period where I was heavily reliant on stimulants to get me through the work day. After several years of dealing with attention and impulsivity issues, my psychiatrist suggested that I get a neuro-psych exam to see if I would be diagnosed with Adult ADD. While the 3-hour test seemed to last forever and felt pointless at times, I came away with some serious insight. I didn’t have any actual attention issues. What I told myself for years was ADD was likely just my depression and anxiety weighing me down, stealing my thoughts and sucking all of my motivation out like a career-sabotaging Hoover. With that new knowledge, I’m now trying to ween myself off stimulants and focus on conquering my anxieties through therapy and mindful-based stress reduction.
I’ve also learned the importance of figuring my own stuff out before putting someone else’s brain pain in front of my own. I’m currently in a supporting and positive relationship but in the past, I found myself vying for the attention and affection of an extremely depressed guy who had lost all motivation in almost every facet of his life. I was constantly trying to pull him out of his ruts, encouraging him almost daily to see a therapist or try medication. Despite my persistence, he broke things off with me, claiming he was a lost cause and that no treatment was ever going to help him. They say hindsight is 20/20 and it’s true. How could I possibly have thought I could help this guy with his own mental health struggles when I haven’t solved my own problems?
I’ve also tried to be open to “lifestyle changes” that might help mitigate my general anxieties. A friend of mine recently gifted me a month of Headspace, a guided meditation and mindfulness app (the soothing male british accent is a plus). I haven’t been as active on it as I would have liked but I’m not beating myself up. Meditation is ridiculously hard and I’m pretty sure I’ll never get it right. But if there is even a slight chance that it will help me, why the hell not?
Where do I go from here? I can’t tell you that I’ve figured it all out or that I woke up this morning and didn’t feel a sense of dread or anxiety. I wish I could. What I can tell you is that I am going to see my awesome new therapist tomorrow and try a new combo of medication. I’ll start up this mindfulness class and get back into the gym. And, if none of those things work then I’ll go back to the drawing board. Because despite being tired, mental illness can’t get the best of me and can’t take away the things I so desperately want for my future (a husband, cute babies, a killer job and a flat in London).
