Three weeks ago today I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. A genuine laugh, I wondered if it belonged to someone else in the room. It had been a long time since I let real emotion touch me.
I am a longtime sufferer of depression, anxiety, and agoraphobia. But I’m also a grief bearer, a cancer survivor, and a member of the “I can fix it myself” club. I spent much of my adult life believing I could talk myself out of my problems. I didn’t seek out a therapist, I didn’t ask for medication, and I didn’t tell anyone how bad things were.
As National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation pulled another full-bellied guffaw from me, my spouse looked at me with knowing eyes. He’d often remarked over the past few weeks how long it had been since I had genuinely laughed. It’s how he knew my medication was working.
I’ve been anti-medication most of my life (for myself, not others.) I don’t like anything that dulls my grief—my Dad and my brothers are dead, my miscarriages were real, and I should feel grief for those things, right? The pain helps me remember them—or at least that’s what I told myself.
And I don’t like to not be in control. I barely finish a glass of wine, I rarely drink, and after each c-section I refused the Percocet and stuck to Tylenol.
But grief is a tricky thing. Depression even more so. Like a little devil, it cozies up close and tells you all the things you want to hear, all the things that will keep it close. When I couldn’t leave the house because of agoraphobia, it wasn’t that bad, was it? Who was that hurting? When I couldn’t take my youngest out to play, they wouldn’t die of missing a few days of playing outside in the cold. When I couldn’t return phone calls or connect with friends, well, they were probably too busy anyway. I didn’t need help. I could handle it myself, because I was strong.
The concept of strong is the greatest misconception in our society. Seeking help shouldn’t be classified as weak. Reaching out is one of the very hardest things someone with depression can do.
It was Carrie Fisher’s death that made me find a therapist. General Leia, who was not only tough as nails on screen, but who championed mental health awareness in real life, made me realize I didn’t want to get to the end of my life with depression in charge of me. I didn’t want to miss out on all of the little moments because I was too afraid to try to let someone else help. Carrie Fisher wrote in her memoir, “Wishful Drinking,”
“One of the things that baffles me (and there are quite a few) is how there can be so much lingering stigma with regards to mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder. In my opinion, living with manic depression takes a tremendous amount of balls. At times, being bipolar can be an all-consuming challenge, requiring a lot of stamina and even more courage, so if you’re living with this illness and functioning at all, it’s something to be proud of, not ashamed of.”
I sought out a therapist. I even asked for medication. Long story short, it took (far too) many attempts to find the right one. But I persisted, and ultimately found the one that allowed me to belly laugh as the squirrel jumps out of the tree at Clark Griswold. I’d missed out on years of comedy gold; I’d missed out on years of feeling those deep belly laughs as my children giggled and snickered. I’d even missed out on grief—because on medication, I could still feel my grief, but I wasn’t overwhelmed by it. So I could feel it without it keeping me from leaving the house.
Pills are not cure-alls. They help with the symptoms. But my therapist provides support and helps me find solutions to problems that once seemed overwhelming. Talking helps me get a better glimpse of what I’m feeling, and most importantly, helps me work through it instead of storing it inside.
If you or someone you know is suffering from depression, there are many organizations who can help.
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This story has been republished to Medium.
Photo Credit: iStock