Katie Doyle, Girl About Town

Tuesday, Feb. 07, 2006 - 11:38 p.m.

I was thinking in the shower today that the last two years have been particularly difficult. The last 5 have by and large sucked, but the last two involved mass suckage of relationship, and that, coupled with their more recent part of the timeline tend to make them stand out as particularly hideous. And reading back in this diary, I have really slipped away from what I meant it to be, what I would have liked it to be, what I would prefer it to be. Which is less angry, more fun. More charming and delightful. More the me I used to be. I think it's seriously time to get back on anti-depressants, because um...yow.

That's right, I said it. Publically. I take me the happy pills. Or used to. Because they make me a functional human being, but more, they make me a human being who doesn't wish I had the guts to put a bullet into my brain. See, here's the thing about major, clinical depression: it makes it very, very hard to feel good.

Yeah, I know; wah. Suck it the fuck up, whiny baby. If you've never suffered from actual clinical depression, you just can't identify. You think you know what it's like to feel down or maybe want to cry all day long for like, what, 3 days? Or maybe a week or two. But I'm talking serious depression, here. I'm talking having a huge, sucking hole inside your chest that you can't fill up no matter how hard you try, a hole you can feel devouring you slowly, eating you alive every second of every day, making it hard to breathe, so empty it literally hurts. And you deal with that every day. Of every week. Of every month. Of every year. Of every decade, until you can't remember what it was like to be happy, even though you know you must have been, once, somewhere around your 6th birthday or really, any time before your father suddenly went apeshit when you were 7 and turned into a psychotic fucking lunatic your mother just shut down to get away from, so there you were, seven years old, looking at a world turned upside down and painfully aware of the fact that despite your not having any idea how to deal, you were On Your Own.

So you shut down. Because the only way to handle the chaos is to feel as little of it as possible. To keep your head down, stay low, and just get the fuck thru it as quickly and painlessly as you can. You live in a world inside your head, because that's the only safe place to be. And you create a future that's a better place, where people love you and want you and don't crucify you for your achievements. Where it's okay to say no and stand up for yourself, even have a sense of pride in who you are and make plans to do what you want with your own life. Someday becomes a firmly entrenched part of your vocabulary. Every single thought begins with someday. Or why. Because why is a deeply intrinsic part of the insanity you're trying to survive. You think if you can just figure out why, you'll have an understanding of the thing. And if you could just understand it, maybe you could make sense of it, and every second of your life wouldn't be so fucking terrifying. You walk around with a hard knot in the pit of your stomach, because you have learned never to let your guard down. You let your guard down, you open yourself up to surprise, and surprise hurts a helluva lot more than the blow you saw coming. Bob and weave, baby, bob and weave.

The problem with a duck & cover approach to life, though, is that you're so desperate to shut out the bad that you also shut out the good. If you leave the door open even a crack for the good, the bad will pour in with it. So you batten down the hatches like a pro, water and air tight. Nothing getting in, nothing getting out. Unfortunately, if you do that long enough, you teach your body that's what normal is. You train your brain to squelch the pain, but pain is pervasive. It mixes with everything. So your brain shrugs and starts methodically closing valves. There goes anger. There goes laughter. There goes grief. There goes joy. Fear though, fear manages to stay. Tricky bastard, fear. That fucker never leaves you alone. You're jumpy all the time and sleep light. Your hands never stop shaking. You can breathe absolutely silently, even when you're winded, because you never know when you'll have to hide, and you don't want your breathing to give you away. You stealth sneeze so you don't draw notice, and you can take physical pain without uttering a sound. But when all you feel is fear, fear becomes the norm. It doesn't even stand out. It rules everything you do, every decision you make, but it's just a vague ripple in the numbness you're drowning in. You can't even cry, even when crying would be a relief, because there's nothing inside you that's free to come out but fear. Good old negative fear.

And that's where anti-depressants come in. Contrary to common belief, anti-depressants don't make you happy. They don't alter your perception of reality, they allow you to see reality. They allow your brain to start making chemicals in the right amounts so fear no longer has the upper hand. You move from surviving to living. Hope replaces fear and makes it easier to see choices. You can think and plan. You still feel sad, but that's not all there is; you can feel happy, too, so setbacks are easier to handle and less crushing. The first time in my entire life someone told me a joke and I realized 10 minutes later that I was still smiling over the punchline was after I'd been on anti-depressants for 6 months. I think anti-depressants are a gift sent from God, and I bless the man who came up with them and every scientist laboring today to make better ones. The year and a half I was on them are the best months of my life, and I need to go on them again. Life is too fucking long to be this miserable. But I resent having to take a pill to feel what I assume most normally functioning human beings take for granted. I hate the side effects that invariably come with them, from zero interest in sex to dry mouth and bad breath and shaking so badly I can't pour a cup of coffee or getting so lightheaded I have to sit down in the shower before I faint. I'm extremely sensitive to most drugs, so if one has a side effect, I usually get to experience it. I've been fighting not to have to go back on anti-depressants again ever since I went off of them 10 years ago and immediately began the slow spiral that brought me back to this horrible, dark place. But some serious reflection the past several days has forced me to confront the fact that I can't function like this any longer. It has affected my friendships, my relationship, the life decisions I have made, my work performance, and every single aspect of my life, not for the better. I don't want to feel this way. I don't want to merely survive my fucking life. I have to occupy this world until I'm 90; I need to be comfortable in my skin.

So here I go, calling my psychiatrist, a very quiet and still man who is probably a perfectly nice, caring human being - at least, if his profession is anything to go by - but who somehow turns the words "warm" and "fuzzy" into "room temperature" and "prickly". He's not so much a fluffy bunny as a porcupine...with his quills up. A man so very silent he makes Darth Vader seem chatty by comparison. And I'm putting him in control of my mental health. Because I have to. I can't take this any anymore.

Peace out,
Katie

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