Almost a nice girl

Up until March of this year, I lived with my mother and my cousin. The atmosphere of that house was that of a battlefield. I mentioned in my old blog that life there was a constant scurry through a minefield, where a misstep could cost you your sanity for a few days. Each of us lived under a constant state of pressure and aggravation. Aside from the daily financial issues, there was also the minor issue that none of us could stand each other. So it was no surprise when, about a year and a half ago, I started feeling pretty down on a regular basis. Who could blame me for frequent and vicious mood swings? Why should I be surprised that all I want to do is sleep and binge eat when my surroundings were so unstable and unhappy.

Then, in March, I achieved one of my biggest goals since I turned 16. I moved out of my house, away from my family, into my own apartment. Nik and I settled in together, and I know that somewhere in the back of my mind, I expected all the unhappiness I felt to just...go away. All the major problems were gone, so I would get better, right? Except that, as you can imagine, I didn't. I got worse.

I felt like I'd never been happy, and I never could be happy. Everything that mattered to me felt worthless. Just like that sad little blob in the commercial.

I picked fights with Nik, I told him I didn't love him. I withdrew from my friends. I became distant and unaffectionate toward my son. I sank so far inside myself that at the best of times, getting to work felt like a major achievement. I felt bullied and unappreciated, and I had the constant impression that I was being plotted against. I assumed that laughter at work was generated by snide remarks about me. Though I never did more than make vicious asides about his untrustworthiness, there was a time where I genuinely suspected that Nik was colluding behind my back to put me away. For a few weeks I entertained fantasies that in my mind were realities - fantasies in which Nik and my mother spoke and met in secret to plan to take my child from me, fantasies in which Nik enjoyed a secret life with a girlfriend who was better, saner. There was a side of me that knew I was losing my mind, that wanted to get better and fix things, but as the weeks progressed the part of me that felt justified, even righteous in its rage, started to take over. I considered suicide. Not even so much to escape whatever it was that was taking over my life, but more to punish the people that I felt wronged me. Like a child breaking a friend's toy in revenge, I thought "This will show them."

I forget where along the line I made a concious decision to call a doctor. I know that an appointment was made, and I ran through a series of evaluations. The first two appointments infuriated me. Again, I felt ganged up on. I told myself that they didn't care, they just wanted to medicate me, numb me, kill my spirit, blah blah blah. But I kept going through with the evaluations, I think because part of me knew that if I stopped, I would lose the things that were most important to me. "Let me run through the motions," I thought. "I can play their game." They came up with their diagnosis and its severe and dire terms, and they prescribed accordingly.

I took the medicine. A big part of me believed it wouldn't work. A smaller part of me prayed it would, and that part started slowly getting bigger, and louder.

Fast forward a few weeks, over physical illness and various side effects, increase in dosage, etc., etc. I was better. My moods evened out, and suddenly I didn't hate the world. Moreover, I was pretty sure that the world didn't hate me. It was like I'd been watching a black and white and silent film, and somewhere along the way, without my even noticing, it had subtly changed and rolled and now it was technicolor, and dolby digital surround sound. After two years, I remembered that there used to be this whole other side of me, a side that I liked.

Things progressed rather nicely from there on out. This is about July, by now. I still had moments, days and weeks where my illness got the best of me. The medicine had some vaguely unpleasant side effects, not the least of which was a constant, crippling exhaustion.

The summer rolled out, and winter rolled in. I never fared too well in the winter. The lack of vibrant sunlight gets to me after a while. This year was worse because between my schedule and the length of my commute, there was three consecutive days every week that I never saw sunlight. The exhaustion got worse, and a weighted sadness just kind of fell like a veil over everything I did. I felt lonely and isolated. I still held tight onto the control of my paranoid rage, but I couldn't rein in the sadness. Sad seems like a paltry word, it seems like the meanest version of depression, but that's what it was. I was just tired and sad.

At my next visit to the doctor, I spoke about the seasons changing and bringing with them a heaviness that sat on me. I asked for an antidepressant. We ran through the list and finally settled on one that was almost specifically for seasonal depression. So again, another round of vomiting, stabbing headaches, dizziness and bizarre dreams later, here I am. Heavily medicated, maybe, but still me. And even more so than last time, the difference is absolutely astounding.

I'm not tired anymore. I can't believe that I forgot what it felt like to not be tired. I can't express acurately enough how amazing this is to me, how even as I type this my eyes kind of well with tears because I'm so overwhelmed by the fact that I'm. Just. Not. Tired. I can accomplish things! I can actually do my job, and be good at it! I LIKE existing! I don't think the daily grind is pointless and goddamnit, I'M NOT TIRED ANYMORE. I think I didn't realize how crippling this exhaustion was to my life, I think I didn't know that there were people who weren't tired, who didn't always just want to be in bed. Christ, I can't get over it.

And now, I'm like, a vaguely pleasant person and shit. Sure, I bitch way more than is proper or ladylike, and sometimes I still judge people based on their shoes or eyebrows, but I'm better. I'm really, honest-to-goodness better, and it only gets easier to stay that way every day. I'm not cured - I don't think I'll ever be cured, but better is enough. Better lets me see that there's a point to everything, there are things worth working for, that the world IS technicolor and surround sound, and even if it sucks sometimes, it's worth living. And that knowledge makes me a much more pleasant person.

So much more pleasant, in fact, that when my boss comes around to take pictures for the company directory, he tolerates it when I do this:

Comments

[marni]

I'm glad you are back on the mend, too. Maybe I need to talk to my doctor...