I thought it would be helpful and informative to share good/bad psychiatrist or therapist stories.

We'll start out with my experiences...

My first experience with treatment was at the mental health clinic at the local hospital. I was fairly indifferent toward the first psychiatrist I had there, but I was unpleasantly jarred to find out that he was leaving after six months. Apparently they were on some sort of rotation. When I walked into the new psychiatrist's office, I immediately got a bad feeling. It looked like he felt this was a temporary situation, as the office was completely bare except for the desk and two chairs. The reason for my visit was to ask him to raise my medication, as I was feeling the familiar signs of depression after being fairly stable for a year. He never even looked at me, and only asked me one question to determine whether I was depressed again or not, "Do you have thoughts of harming yourself or others?" I said, "Well, no, but I never have, so that's not really an indication for me." He ignored all the signs of depression I was recounting and refused to raise my medication. I absolutely hated him, and wouldn't go back until he was gone six months later. This time when I walked into the new psychiatrist's office I was very wary, but the difference he had made in that cold office was amazing. I'm a little fuzzy on the specifics, but I immediately noticed that the place smelled great. He had air fresheners in the office that made you want to inhale when you walked in. He had prints on the walls and (I'm pretty sure) healthy plants. I may be just remembering the plants because he was such a nurturing person. He also had a photo of himself with a child on his bulletin board, which I took as a good sign. He was very accessible, listened to me, and ordered a blood test to find out the level of meds in my blood, which indeed was too low. He stayed longer than six months before moving on, and I was very sorry to see him go.

I had trouble with severe mood swings for years and my condition was getting worse. Upon finding out that several close relatives were bipolar, I did some research and found that without a doubt I had the symptoms. I took my information and family history to a local psychiatrist. He stated with sarcasm, "If you went out and bought five Corvettes I'd believe you were bipolar, but you're not." I believed him, left and did not seek any further treatment as I descended deeper into a horrible depression. Finally I went to a local clinic, and talked to a nurse practitioner who believed me enough to give me a trial of lithium. Literally within days I rounded a corner. The medication literally saved my life. The moral of the story for me is; if at first you don't get listened to, keep looking until you do. Also, I'd rather talk to a nurse who listens than an MD who doesn't. - Kate from Idaho

OK, finally...I put off suicide until I could at least get in to see the psychiatrist. The Paxil that my GI put me on isn't working. I'm slipping down a drain. I had 1 1/2 hours of sleep last night and in another 2 hours I have to go to work. But....I went to the shrink today like I promised. Told him of my plans to end it. Told him how close I came. Told him I was already dead inside. Told him I had 2 hours of sleep and had to work again. I told him I can hardly get through a day anymore. He said "increase the paxil to 1 1/2 tabs and come back in a month". Oh well. I didn't deserve the help anyway. - angelica

About six years ago I was suffering from incredible depression. (I have since been diagnosed w/Borderline Personality Disorder, and depression comprises only a part of this). At any rate, because I was cutting myself, wanting to die, and locking myself in my apartment for weeks at a time (where I would sleep for days on end), my employer (who happened to be my church--I was a church secretary) demanded that I see the licensed family therapist they had on staff. I went. He looked like a dish of spumoni--he wore mixed pastels (polyester), and a horrifyingly bad toupee. On top of everything else, he told me (I am quoting here), that I was evil, that God was protecting other people from me, and that he felt sorry for anyone who knew me because I really was a bad person. This, said to a severely depressed person by a supposed professional, is BAD. I quit seeing him, obviously.

Here's the REALLY juicy part: he then attempted to blackmail me with my patient records, which he said (I'm quoting again) that he would keep for his own protection, in case I said anything unflattering about him. He said he would make those records public if anything bad I said got back to him. I have since found out that in my state, ANYBODY can be a "licensed family therapist", just by paying a fee for the license. Scary, huh? (NOTE: this loser has since been taken off the church staff, and I have long since gotten some QUALIFIED help. And I had a Government agency confiscate my records from his office--with my permission, because I work for a defense contractor and had to obtain a security clearance. I have no idea how many other people this pig damaged, though.)
- Anita from Alabama

After reading your story, I started to think about my psych, he's from India, he thinks I'm really off my rocker. He tells me to do other things from what my therapist tells me, and I think he uses me for his guinea pig. He's been trying to start me on some of the strangest meds, and all I want to do was to get my Effexor refilled. Then he gave me a 2-week supply, but this medicine takes effect in about 30 days. When I go back and see him, what does he do, he prescribes me something else. I'm going to find another psych and keep my therapist. She's more understanding of my problem. - Tom

Even though I had had depression for years and mild mania, I started off with a psychologist who did not refer me to a psychiatrist until it got so bad I had to be hospitalized. Thankfully, the psychiatrist knew what he was doing (actually at that point it had become quite obvious). So he became my doctor for the last 6 years and was great. Except in October he was too close to a tree that got hit by lightning and he had to stop practicing while they evaluated him. The doctor he left as a back-up was "too busy" for any sessions. I had to go out and interview doctors. That was fun. Finally, my doctor's office called me and told me to call this other doctor, that he would see me. Well, he started off the conversation stating he was a "mood expert" and started diagnosing me over the phone. He tells me I have to increase my medications and I have to be totally reevaluated and maybe hospitalized (a week before the holidays). I told him that I had no problem raising the medication and that he would find that I took my medications as I was told. He actually said "That's an oxymoron." After that experience, I did the incredible. I actually called the insurance company and asked them to find me a doctor. They did, he was nice and he took care of me until my old doctor came back. No, I never did make my appointment with the "mood expert". You should always interview a "doctor" before actually going into their office. In this state, a doctor has the power to hospitalize you if they think you are in danger or a danger to others. - Lourdes from Miami

I knew I had a bad shrink when he called me at home on Saturday morning to ask me my advice for how he should deal with his problems with his girlfriend. -- Eee-gads! - Meg

It was my first experience with a psychiatrist, but I knew it was a mess when one of his assistants/office staff/next door neighbors/whatever kept walking into the office. On the second visit, the doctor spent most of his time on the phone with apparently his stock broker as they were talking all about money, selling this, buying that, etc. Needless to say, I did not go back, and shortly after that he was arrested for DWI and essentially run out of town on a rail. (Turns out I was not the only person that he'd "ignored" in favor of his stock broker.) Current primary care doctor wants me to see a psychiatrist again, and after one bad experience, I'm not sure this is a good idea. I called the insurance company just to clarify what the benefits were. Turns out that they really don't want you to use their "mental health services." I can't use any doctor in the plan, nope, it has to be one who is also in their "merit services" program (which probably means money in one way or another). My other doctors (primary care doctor, orthopod, etc.) are located at the biggest hospital in the area --- but none of their "merit services" people are, and they could only give me two names of anyone in town that I could *maybe* see! Needless to say, I won't be seeing a psychiatrist, and I'm not terribly upset about that! - Laurie

When I first met Dr. X I had an almost unwelcome feeling. I felt like I should be paying for his services and only then he would treat me like I worthy of his therapy. Anyway, I told him that I wanted some sort of psychotherapy rather than drugs because of sideffects, etc. Although he listened to me he decided that drugs would be most useful in this case. Well I didn't take them, but I did continue to see him. Being a psychology student I am sure my beliefs about drugs were emanating from my psyche. With time, however, I gained respect for this person with a British accent and snotty attitude. When he started sharing some of his personal history and I found that we had a bit of history in common I began to trust him. I guess trust was a real issue for me. I began taking the meds and gradually became healthier. We developed a bit of a friendship which was in the end briskly cut off by him. I guess because he didn't want me to become too dependent on this one and only friendship. Anyway I still hear his voice once in while and find comfort in knowing that he knew me enough to get me to help myself.
- Anonymous

I have been having a hell of a time, lately, with psychiatrists (i.e., finding one and keeping one) during this last bout of depression. My heart sinks when I walk into a practitioner's office and it barely looks as if they write scripts there. We probably just can't help it, but women are probably more sensitive to this. The past two pdocs I've seen (and didn't go back to when I couldn't take it anymore) hardly looked at me, either, except to say "these are the rules" type statements and ask me if was suicidal. Funny thing - it made no difference in their reaction if I said I was suicidal or swore I wasn't. Not really very humorous. The psychiatrist I saw previously was (is!) a real human being, who listened, empathized, and did his damnedest to help me feel that I too, am a human being, defects and all. He had an office with "real" furniture, old worn oriental carpets, real works of art, including that of friends of mine. Offices of both my current individual therapist and someone my husband and I see occasionally are warm, inviting, not fancy, but with pictures of both their kids and "artwork" done by the same. In other words, if they see themselves as human beings, perhaps they can give us the same courtesy. I resolve to walk right out of the "robot" practitioner's offices as soon as I walk in from now on! Our instincts may be all we have left....
- Robin

I have been to untold numbers of these people over the last 5 years that I have been suffering from depression. One told me that I could blame it all on my parents and that I should let them know. (Thank God that I did not do so). The next one would give me a depression test every week that I saw him. He placed me on different drugs over the years, all with the same results, but at least the data was of use.

I then found a good man who showed me how to use my brain to help control the pain in my left arm. Two years of little depression. Then he had a stroke. Depression back. Back to other psychiatrist, still more drugs.

Then last year a breakdown in public; result pending police charges (a man with one good arm with two assault police charges), depression deeper, placed in a psych hospital; depression even deeper.

Then my good man came to my rescue, got me out of the hospital and he now treats me (at no charge), ring or visit him at any time.
- Anonymous

I refer to the first 3 psychiatrists I saw as quacks #1, #2, and #3. I suffer from severe, chronic clinical depression and have tried nearly every psychiatric medicine known with no permanent success. I was referred to the psychiatrists I saw by an EAP. It turns out that the only requirement to get on the EAP's list was that these providers apply and send in copies of their licenses.

Quack #1 was relatively innocuous. She prescribed a combination of two tricyclics which gave me severe anxiety attacks. Every other doctor I have seen wonders why she combined those two drugs as no one seems to have ever heard of using them together. She left the area before doing any more damage.

Quack #2 apparently did not believe in taking blood levels. I wound up in the hospital (not once, but twice) with toxic blood levels at therapeutic dosages of the antidepressant I was taking. I later found out that that was not unheard of for those particular drugs.

Quack #3 used to fall asleep in therapy sessions and would tell me it was because my monotone voice put him to sleep. When I finally got angry enough to fire him, he told me I was leaving because we were finally getting to the root of my problems and I was afraid to address my issues. When I asked him what those issues were, he said that I needed to discover them myself.
- Gal

I think I know she's a good therapist because, when friends/family ask how my session went or what my therapist thinks of me, I can't really give them a pat answer. In other words, she isn't authoritative or didactic. She listens, responds non-verbally, and then when I'm finished with my latest spiel, she asks me questions about how what I've just said relates to past sessions, relationships, my experiences growing up, etc. It feels as if she is quite solidly on my side, no matter what, and I trust her. I've described our sessions as my weekly anchor to sanity (no advice from well-meaning friends, no belligerent orders to stop my behaviors, no fear or frenzy for one hour a week...).

I used to be very suspicious of therapy, I think, because of the bad press it gets in our culture. I assimilated this and thought of myself as a spoiled white female who couldn't solve her petty problems and who wanted to run to therapy (even though she wasn't "bad enough" to deserve treatment) so someone else could run her life. So I raged and screamed to get attention from my parents (alcoholic father, shy and enabling mother), fell into deep depressions at my lack of perfection, and cut my arm repeatedly to put my anger and pain into a place I could focus on.

Now I feel as if my life is my own and I don't want to spend another second feeling bitter or loathing myself. I just want new tools and perspectives so I can keep searching. I take 50 to 100mg of zoloft daily (I also take short breaks from it as I see fit--my therapist and psychiatrist both accept my need to control my medication and don't view my treatment as a power play). I still cut my arm occasionally, but we discuss it and don't treat it as some terrible backslide. I feel very lucky. I look at my chronic depression and realize that, given my life's circumstances, much of it was a sane response to insane situations. I feel that I've been easy to treat, but had I had a series of "nightmare" therapists, I'd be so much worse off. I'm very grateful to susan for her support.
- Laura

I think the thing that amazes me the most about some of the doctors I've seen for my episodic depression is that they've been so cruel. I wouldn't say some of the things they've said to me to my dog. The first time I got depressed, I was terrified. Therapy was urgent, because of my strong anxiety and complete inability to cope. Naturally, I was referred (by my kind, gentle therapist) to a psychiatrist, which was scary. Was I really that sick? I was highly resistant to the idea of meds, but she didn't try to allay my fears. "What makes you think you don't need medication?" she barked, "I think you do." She convinced me, and I'm glad she did although I'll never forgive her for treating a suicidal but intelligent teenager like an imbecile. Other doctors I saw were nicer, but there was one last year who was pure evil. I'll always remember the disgust in her eyes when, in response to the question, "Can you tell me something about this drug I'm taking?" she said, "Don't you want to have children someday? You are going to harm your children, destroy their lives, if you don't fix your problems." Ugh. I think the reason antidepressants take so long to work is that it takes you a month to get over your appointments with your psychiatrist.
- Wendy from New Jersey

My first therapist was a social worker (MSW) whom my college roommate (also an MSW) recommended to me. I felt very comfortable with her, but after less than a year, I felt my therapy was at an impasse. (she had suggested meds, which petrified me) and I shut down after that.

I thought I could get along without a therapist but after a few months I realized it was not the case. The next therapist was a social worker too, with training in Freudian analysis, which I have since read is not very good for depression. She was not very empathetic. When I was worried about my parents' finances because my mother has depression, she said don't worry about it, they have health insurance and then tried to change the subject, despite the fact that I was worried because their insurance wasn't paying for some very expensive x-rays. And she wanted to know why I was so upset to find out my mother has lung cancer. (Depressives tend to get overly upset at things, but really, she's my MOTHER!)

After being with her for almost a year, I realized I needed to do something or I would end up dead. I went to my primary care physician for a referral to a psychiatrist. He asked me a few questions, and a few minutes later he wrote a prescription for Paxil and told me to come back in 6 months.

Well, after that, I called my health insurance, got names of some psychologists. Our first session was an interview, I followed some suggestions from one of my books and asked her a lot of questions -- how often she treats depression, etc., etc. I began seeing her and saw a psychiatrist that she recommended. It's been a hard time finding meds for me (PAXIL was a bad choice for me and it's taking a while to wean me off.) But all in all I am comfortable with both my psychologist and psychiatrist.
- Susan from NYC

I recently had a panic attack. I went to the local clinic and was given Paxil. I found a shrink in the yellow pages, it's a small town and there was only a choice of two. The one just worked on state cases. I choose shrink number two.

I just got his bill for three sessions. Are you ready for this...$890. My first session I asked his charges. He said $125 for a 50 minute hour, and the first session would go longer, getting background etc. My second session lasted over two hours until I finally said, hey doc, I gotta go. I'm thinking, hey it's a small town, he's not busy, maybe he's interested in my case.

Session number three was going into two hours and I just excused myself, never thinking he has got the clock running.

To sum up, I've written the state board of medicine and spoken to their ombudsman, whose first comment was "Jesus". I've flushed the dope down the toilet, and I feel much better thank you very much.
- Rodger

 

Please feel free to add your experiences with mental health professionals, both good and bad.

Posted: Feb 08, 2009

How it feels

Note: Quotes in italics are mine.

I tell people it's like being dead. It feels like being a ghost, maybe. You float through your days feeling insubstantial, cut off from warmth, light and all feeling. Sometimes it feels like you're in a coffin buried alive. You're screaming inside your head, but no one can hear you.

"It was not really alarming at first, since the change was subtle, but I did notice that my surroundings took on a different tone at certain times: the shadows of nightfall seemed more somber, my mornings were less buoyant, walks in the woods became less zestful, and there was a moment during my working hours in the late afternoon when a kind of panic and anxiety overtook me..." - William Styron, Darkness Visible

"I'm frightened. I'm always anticipating that someone is going to scream at me, a cop in the street, my boss. I'm sure I'm going to be held up or get a flat tire at rush hour. Every ache and pain in my body convinces me I'm going to die of cancer. I can't sleep. I wake up in the early hours of the morning terrified. I'm either afraid of dying or that the house is going to be broken into. I have nightmares. I wake up sweating, paralyzed with fear. It's been several weeks now. I think I can't make it, I can't go through another day and night feeling this way. I feel beaten up, my body feels as if I've been in a fight. Nobody seems to understand." - Richard, You Are Not Alone

"I have secluded myself from society; and yet I never meant any such thing. I have made a captive of myself and put me into a dungeon, and now I cannot find the key to let myself out." - Nathaniel Hawthorne

"I didn't know what was the matter with me. All I knew was that I was feeling lower than a snake's belly...I remember we used to go to restaurants, and I'd say 'Everybody's pointing at me, the cheat, the fraud, the fake.' You really believe these things! Astonishing!" - Mike Wallace, On the Edge of Darkness

"I was much further out than you thought and not waving but drowning." - Stevie Smith

"When you're depressed, there's no calendar. There are no dates, there's no day, there's no night, there's no seconds, there's no minutes, there's nothing. You're just existing in this cold, murky, ever-heavy atmosphere, like they put you inside a vial of mercury." - Rod Steiger, On the Edge of Darkness

"I am now the most miserable man living. If what I feel were equally distributed to the whole human family, there would be not one cheerful face on earth. Whether I shall ever be better, I cannot tell. I awfully forebode I shall not. To remain as I am is impossible. I must die or be better it appears to me." - Abraham Lincoln

What it Does to You

I become virtually inarticulate; I can barely speak, which is the complete opposite of how I am normally. When I'm not depressed, most people would tell you it's hard to shut me up. But when I'm depressed, putting words together into a simple sentence is like carrying water with a sieve.

" I had pains in my arms and a kind of weakness in my legs. I would be asking questions in an interview, and suddenly I wouldn't be able to hear the answer, or think of the next question. My mind was on a completely different plane. I had no memory, no powers of concentration. If you asked me questions about a newspaper column I'd read two minutes before, I wouldn't have been able to answer." - Mike Wallace, On the Edge of Darkness

"It's difficult for the public to realize how powerful the mind is, and how much pain the mind can give you. When you're depressed, it's as though this committee has taken over your mind, leaving you one depressing thought after the other. You don't shave, you don't shower, you don't brush your teeth. You don't care. The one thing I did do, I still ate a little bit. But I didn't have much of an appetite. I know a lot of people who say they didn't eat at all." - Rod Steiger, On the Edge of Darkness

Coping

"I went to my church and found a free counseling group. The people there have stories similar to mine. We help each other. We talk about how we feel. I'm amazed that so many people feel like me. I thought I was alone." - Jodie, You Are Not Alone

"The first thing I try to remind myself is not to look at the big picture. When I'm depressed I tend to worry about the big picture, the issues I can't control. I work myself into a tizzy about my financial future, my health, whether my grown children and grandchildren are in danger, whether my house is going to be broken into, all the chores I haven't done in the house, whether my wife is going to have an accident. I self-abuse with anxiety about things that haven't happened. To counteract this bad habit I say to myself, "Earl, small tasks, small steps, one at a time. You can only manage the immediate. If you waste your energy worrying about the future you'll ignore the immediate, and it's only the present you have any control over."

Then I find small tasks that I can accomplish and - most important - that I like doing. I'll prune my lemon trees. I'll putter around in the garage, maybe even wash the car. I'll carve an animal for my grandson. Once I've accomplished them, I stop and congratulate myself for a job well done." - Earl, You Are Not Alone

"You just have to watch yourself, you have to take your medicines, and you have to be more intelligent about yourself. You have to keep moving when you begin to feel like you don't want to move. You have to occupy yourself, get out of the house. You have to learn all those things, go for a swim when you don't want to swim, go for a walk when you don't want to walk...I know all the intellectual things. Have the courage to keep moving. KEEP MOVING, that's what my license plate on one car says. The other plate says COURAGE. Don't stay in bed. Get out. Now that I'm better, if I feel a little unhappy or uneasy or I feel what I call the cold water begin to fill up and my legs turn to icy concrete, I head for the swimming pool, exercise and get the endorphins up, get them going. I exercise for a half hour, twenty minutes, and I feel better." - Rod Steiger, On the Edge of Darkness

Friends and Family

"Some of my friends were intolerant of my depression. Every time I was with them I felt guilty. They always said something that made me feel guilty. Perhaps they'd say, "For heaven's sake, cheer up, you're making us feel horrible." Or, "What you have to do is get up and do something." Of course, I was so depressed that I couldn't even think of what I might want to do. I'd feel like a failure because I couldn't do anything. On top of it, I'd feel responsible for my friends' feelings.

Other friends showed concern. They'd talk with me about my feelings and invite me to the movies. Slowly I learned to spend time with friends who supported me." - Craig, You Are Not Alone

"I don't know how you explain depression to people like my wife. I can't even approach the subject of anybody's emotional disorder. She can't even fathom why it would happen...My wife has a chemical balance that works twenty-four hours a day, with very few ups and downs, and she has very little sympathy for anyone who has mood swings. Her reaction to the problem is 'You'll be all right tomorrow. Don't even think about it.' It's like Scarlett O'Hara, 'I'll worry about it tomorrow.' Those people are very fortunate. But they don't make good counselors. If you are one of those people, in the company of someone who's depressed, you've got to realize that your happy, cheerful, pat-them-on-the-back, it's-gonna-be-all-right attitude won't work." - Dick Clark, On the Edge of Darkness

"Only my really good friends know. And even my daughter I don't show it to. You cannot take a twenty-two-year-old girl and burden her with 'I'm so down, I'm so depressed, I'm so scared, I'm so worried.'" - Joan Rivers, On the Edge of Darkness

"How can you tell anyone how you feel when you're depressed? No one wants to be around someone who's down. Who wants to spend time with someone who's full of fear, anger, and sadness? That's a real downer.

Besides, I don't know anyone who's gone through what I'm going through now. What can I say to a friend? That I want to check out, that I want to go to sleep and never wake up, that I'm so terrified of life that I can't get up in the morning, that I'm becoming a victim of delusions and hysteria? Nobody wants to hear that. People will think I'm some kind of nut case, that I'm a wimp, a weakling.

It's so lonely being depressed." - Clara, You Are Not Alone

Suicide

"...the gray drizzle of horror induced by depression takes on the quality of physical pain. But it is not an immediately identifiable pain, like that of a broken limb. It may be more accurate to say that despair, owing to some evil trick played upon the sick brain by the inhabiting psyche, comes to resemble the diabolical discomfort of being imprisoned in a fiercely overheated room. And because no breeze stirs this cauldron, because there is no escape from this smothering confinement, it is entirely natural that the victim begins to think ceaselessly of oblivion." - William Styron, Darkness Visible

"I was alone upstairs. I opened a drawer and there was a gun. I took the gun and sat down in my dressing room, with the gun in my lap, and I thought, 'It would be so easy. I want to be out of all this pain. I just want to be out of it.' It's not even so much pain, but the aching weariness of the whole thing; I just wanted to be out of it all. Oh, I was so down. I thought, 'I can't fight anymore. I can't go on anymore. I'm so weary, God, what's the point?' But when my dog came in and sat in my lap, I thought, 'Who's going to take care of Spike?'" - Joan Rivers, On the Edge of Darkness

"My husband didn't take me seriously. I can remember lying in bed at night mumbling, 'I just want to die.' He would tell me I was being melodramatic. He'd say, 'It makes me nervous to hear you talk like that. Besides, you have so much to live for!'

One day all I could think about was dying. I was going to go to the basement and kill myself with drugs, alcohol, and a plastic bag. I was terrified - of myself, of living, of dying. Somewhere in the back of my mind a little voice kept echoing the TV ad of the Samaritans, a suicide prevention group. I called them. They were the first step to getting help for myself.

Now I tell everyone who will listen, 'Never ignore a person - even a small kid - who says he or she wants to die. It could be too late.'" - Arlene, You Are Not Alone

Poetry of Emily Dickinson

Since her poems are not titled, I have separated them with lines.

There's a certain slant of light
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are.

None may teach it anything,
'Tis the seal, despair,-
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air.

When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 'tis like the distance
On the look of death.

 

---

I felt a funeral in my brain,
And mourners, to and fro,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated,
A service like a drum
Kept beating, beating, till I thought
My mind was going numb.

And then I heard them lift a box,
And creak across my soul
With those same boots of lead, again.
Then space began to toll

As all the heavens were a bell,
And Being but an ear,
And I and silence some strange race,
Wrecked, solitary, here.

---

I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.

I wonder if they bore it long,
Or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine,
It feels so old a pain.

I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
They would not rather die.

I wonder if when years have piled -
Some thousands - on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
Could give them any pause;

Or would they go on aching still
Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
By contrast with the love.

The grieved are many, I am told;
The reason deeper lies, -
Death is but one and comes but once,
And only nails the eyes.

There's grief of want, and grief of cold, -
A sort they call "despair";
There's banishment from native eyes,
In sight of native air.

And though I may not guess the kind
Correctly, yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
In passing Calvary,

To note the fashions of the cross,
Of those that stand alone,
Still fascinated to presume
That some are like my own.

---

I felt a cleavage in my mind
As if my brain had split;
I tried to match it, seam by seam,
But could not make them fit.

The thought behind I strove to join
Unto the thought before,
But sequence ravelled out of reach
Like balls upon a floor.

---

A door just opened on a street -
I, lost, was passing by -
And instant's width of warmth disclosed,
And wealth, and company.

The door as sudden shut, and I,
I, lost, was passing by, -
Lost doubly, but by contrast most,
Enlightening misery.

Posted: Feb 06, 2009

The following story describes, for anyone who's never experienced it, what it's like, and for anyone currently suffering a similar experience, the story offers hope, because this story has a happy ending. At least, it's been happy for several years now.

The greatest fear I have ever felt, a fear on a par with the vastness of eternity, was when I feared there would be an after life.This was for me the deepest darkest fear imaginable. I was afraid of living forever because I did not like life. I had a good family, I had a few friends, I was a very good student in school, everything seemed to be going my way, but there was something wrong with my life -- I was not happy. I wasn't particularly unhappy on any given day, but there was a general mild unhappiness which I bore day after day. One day of this mild unhappiness was no problem, even a week was easy to bear. But the constant month after month, year after year of bearing it day after day began to take its toll.

I felt I was unhappy because I was alone. I wanted to have more friends, go out more often, do more fun things so I would be happy. I began to think of ways to meet more people. I tried hard to make more friends, and I was actually quite successful to some extent. But still I felt other people were happier than me because they were doing more fun things than I was doing. So I tried harder and harder to be with friends and avoid being alone. I was not happy being alone. I abhorred being alone because it meant I was failing when I should have been out with friends having fun. Soon being alone became synonymous with failure. I had to succeed, I had to try harder, if only I could find a friend to be with I wouldn't be unhappy anymore. And it was true, when I was with a friend I was happy, but when it came time to leave I was once again alone and unhappy.

Over a span of time it seemed as if I was waiting for things to get better. I waited for tomorrow, another chance to meet friends again. I waited for next week, when perhaps something special was planned. I waited for the next school quarter, an opportunity to meet new people and make new friends. I waited patiently day after day. I waited and waited, but nothing ever changed. I felt it was my fault that nothing changed. If something good was going to happen, I had to make it happen. I couldn't just be waiting around, I had to do something. I was trying to do everything I could think of to make my life better, but somehow I still wasn't satisfied. I became frustrated. There must be something I'm overlooking. There must be another solution I hadn't thought of yet.

I went to a psychologist and told him my impossible to solve problem. How I had thought and thought trying to find something I had overlooked and hadn't tried yet. The psychologist was very good. He could see through me like glass. He knew every thought I had, and he was very helpful in clearing up the confusion I felt. But still, still there was something eating away at me. I couldn't get what I thought I needed to be happy, and the more I tried, the more frustrated and depressed I became.

My predicament became more intense as the years passed on. I knew what I wanted to make me happy, but I couldn't get it. I had already tried everything I could think of, and I had tried and tried to think of something else I hadn't already thought of yet. I went to church, I read books, I consulted therapists, but I still remained the same. The message which haunted me became stronger and stronger. It seemed that no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, no matter how long I waited, I still couldn't get what I needed to be happy. I had been trying for as long as I could remember to make my life a happier one, but still I was not happy.

Then came the problems and pressures of school. What if I didn't graduate? What if I didn't make it through college? Then that happy prosperous future of mine would vanish, or so I believed, and I'd be stuck with a mediocre job I didn't like for the rest of my life. I was already unhappy because of my inability to find friends, now I was being threatened with lifetime unhappiness because of my difficulty with college.

Then, one afternoon while I was again alone, the unhappiness I felt suddenly intensified and turned into the greatest pain one could possibly imagine. All I felt was pain. And when I say pain I cannot explain to you what I felt. It was not a pain in my body, it wasn't in me, the pain didn't exist anywhere, there was no way to point to this pain, nothing in the world hurt. It was a real pain, but the pain had no location. There was no way to identify this pain, and likewise there was no way to turn away from it.

Along with this excruciating pain was a thought that I had been trying to ignore, but could ignore no longer. It had become extremely obvious that there was absolutely nothing I could ever do to rid myself of the unhappiness I always felt. I was completely helpless, at the mercy of the universe. There was nothing I could do, no place I could go, no amount of time I could wait to escape this unhappy life. This was simply the way life was. This was a permanent condition, one that would last forever, one that had lasted forever, one from which there was no escape. The reality of my situation had become crystal clear. I had been unhappy as far back as I could remember, I was unhappy now, I'll be unhappy tomorrow, I'll probably be unhappy for the rest of my life, and Lord help me, I might not even find peace when I die. My greatest fear, a fear beyond imagination, was that when I died I wouldg o to heaven, and there I would live forever, unhappy for the rest of eternity.

No one suspected. No one knew. Friends, teachers, students, dozens of people knew me, dozens of people saw me every day, yet no one knew of the great burden I carried. And why should I tell them? There was nothing wrong. This was the way life was. These were the normal problems of life that everyone faced. Everyone felt lonely when they were alone. Everyone was worried about graduating from school. Everyone in the world had problems. Anyone in my situation would have felt the same way I felt. And since everyone struggled in their own way to stay happy, it was only in kindness to others that I did not further burden them by mentioning my own difficulties.

To a few select people I knew very closely I did occasionally mention my feelings. Most seemed to understand; a few disagreed with me. A few people told me they actually liked being alone. But ha! They were not me. They did not have my problems. They were not in my situation. And that point they seemed to understand. I actually envied those people. They had the lucky life. They were born into a situation where they always had enough people around them to keep them happy.They had all the people they could want. But I, I had to suffer the unlucky life. I had to be happy with what I could get.

It was then that my parents suggested to me a solution which at the time seemed absolutely absurd. The dumbest idea in the world. They suggested I go to a psychiatrist and get some medication to calm me down and make me feel better. I had already been going to a psychologist, and I didn't particularly want to go see a psychiatrist. A psychiatrist, I thought, was just a psychologist who also prescribed medication. I didn't think pills were a solution to life's problems. I didn't want to take pills to cover up my feelings. I knew what was causing me to be upset. It was friends. It was school. I didn't need a doctor, I needed these problems fixed. How could a pill get me more friends? How could apill solve my problems at school? Why should I need a pill to make me feel good? It seemed unnatural. It didn't make sense. What would a society be like if everyone plugged themselves into a medicine cabinet to control their emotions? It was an absurd idea, but I was willing to have an open mind and give it a try, because in the back of my mind there was this small, small thought which went like this: since there were no more logical courses of action for me to try that I had not already tried many times in the past, then perhaps, just perhaps it made a strange sort of sense that the only way out of my predicament would be to try something completely illogical.

And so my parents, who for some reason still unknown to me have always had more wisdom than I, made an appointment and took me to the psychiatrist. The psychiatrist prescribed Lithium and said the medication would take about a month to start working, if it was going to do anything at all. A month later I still had problems and I still felt the same way about them. It seemed obvious to me that this medication was doing nothing for me. So the psychiatrist added an antidepressant, Asendin, and said it would take another month for the antidepressant to start working, if it was going to work at all.

These medications were strange indeed. A medication that took a month to start working? Whatever happened to the instant relief medications I was used to? A medication should start working the moment you take it. Why should it take a month for this medication to start working anyway? Heck, if you waited long enough all my current troubles would eventually be solved one way or another and then you'd give credit to this medication, which does nothing. This seemed like a scam to me; I really did not understand it at all. I was very skeptical.

A month after starting on the antidepressant medication the current problems with school were all worked out and things seemed to be better. It was only coincidental to me that the problems had worked themselves out at about the same time I started taking the antidepressant medication. So I stopped taking the medication, stopped seeing the psychiatrist, and went back to being the way I was before.

Then one day, about a year later, I had a relapse. This time I was at Disneyland with some friends, and it was the worst day of my life. Sure there were the usual problems with my life I had to face, but I was at Disneyland, this was supposed to be the Enchanted Kingdom, a place to be happy. I was surrounded by my friends and a hundred thousand other people, yet I felt like the loneliest person on the face of the earth. The pain was back, and it was intense, and it was everywhere. Not everywhere as in the physical world, for this was not a physical pain, this pain originated in the realm of thoughts, and as thoughts are not considered part of the physical world but instead exist without location, so too this pain could not be pointed to but existed nonetheless, so that no matter where I looked, no matter where I turned, the pain was there, everywhere. I looked at the people around me, and they reminded me of the hopelessness of life. Every person in the park was trying to escape the same reality I was. They could try and divert their thoughts away from their true existence by an amusement ride or a video game, but it wouldn't change anything. They all were still inthe same hopeless boat called life.

This obviously didn't make sense. This obviously was not logical. This time I did not blame external events as the cause. Only I was feeling this way, nobody else. The problem was obviously in me. I was superimposing my own pain upon the park. I was reading into people's faces my own thoughts. I obviously had a very big serious problem. I was in serious trouble. I needed help. I was in pain. It was then that I changed my mind about the medication. Suddenly, it all made sense.

I went back to the psychiatrist and got more medication. For the next two years we tried different medications, trying to find the best one for me which had the least side effects and the most therapeutic value. We tried Asendin, Norpramin, Desyrel, and then we tried Tofranil, and suddenly I knew we had found the right one. That mild feeling of unhappiness, I don't know what happened to it, it just wasn't there anymore.

That feeling of discontent, that worry about my future, that waiting for the future to come, that disappointment because the future never changed, that dangling fear that the future would never change, I had tried and tried for years and years to deal with those problems. They were caused by common problems of life. Finding more friends, meeting more people, being more active, having more fun, that's what I needed. Then I found this medication, and those feelings aren't there anymore. Suddenly I'm able to feel something which I've never felt before. I feel content. I feel satisfied. I'm at peace. I no longer wait for the future because I'm happy where I am now. I enjoy the friends I have, I meet new people when the opportunity arises, but I do not lament the friends I don't have. The future will come when it does, and I will enjoy it when it gets here. I no longer think of life as difficult, now it's challenging, exciting, interesting, fun.

Those feelings I had in the past don't even seem to make sense now as I think back on them. What was I upset about? The solutions I sought made logical sense, but the problem itself was an emotional one. It wasn't logical, it was just there. If I try to explain why I felt bad in the first place, there are no words I can think of to say. Back then when I felt bad it made sense because that was the way I felt. I would explain it to other people assuming they would feel the same way if they were in my place. Most people seemed to understand; a few seemed to disagree with me. I ignored the ones who disagreed with me. Obviously they weren't me, so they couldn't possibly feel as I felt.

Now I no longer feel bad, and if I try to explain how I felt before, I can't. Because now when I describe the situation I was in, it no longer conjures up visions of unhappiness for me. It sounds like an ordinary situation of an average person leading a typical life. Back then it also sounded to me like an ordinary situation of an average person leading a typical life, except then for me it conjured up visions of great unhappiness, because back then for me that was normal, that was the way life was.

I used to imagine myself as living on the edge of a cliff, always in danger of being pushed too close; or as an airplane flying low and losing altitude, always headed towards the ground; or as in a rat race, always winning the race but somehow the race just keeps going. I always felt I was headed towards disaster, never actually reaching disaster but always headed towards it. I had to work to avoid the disaster, that's how we survived, that's how everyone survived, it was simply a part of life. One always had to work hard in life, and there was never any amount of work which was considered enough, because you always lived onthe edge of a cliff, the airplane was always pointed downwards, and the ratrace never ended even though you constantly won. But now things are different. I no longer think of cliffs or airplanes or races. I no longer think of life as a constant struggle to avoid disaster.

Unhappiness is a feeling which is difficult to pinpoint; it's not always easy to tell if it's really there or not. You have to think about it for a moment, go searching through your thoughts for any signs which indicate unhappiness is present. I used to frequently consider whether or not I was unhappy, but I was never really sure because I could never really find tangible evidence. When I was trying out the various medications I wondered how I would know when we had found the right one. I would constantly search for signs of unhappiness, as if I was performing a scientific survey to collect data. I figured I'd know when we had found the right medication because the data I was collecting would indicate there was no more unhappiness. I was wrong. I knew we had found the right medication because I stopped collecting data. I stopped searching for signs of unhappiness. I stopped wondering if I was unhappy or not. It was no longer an important issue. The unhappiness I always fought was no longer present. It was not missing or absent, it didn't go anywhere, there was no void where it used to be, itwas just no longer there. What I always believed was caused by my interactions with society turned out to be a medical problem.

If one feels sick, we believe there is something wrong with his body. If one feels depressed, we believe there is something wrong with the world he lives in. These beliefs our culture has are accepted with such faith as being so obviously self evident that it is inconceivable to even question their validity. Yet one of them is wrong. Depression, like sickness or pain, is a condition of the body. It should be treated like any other illness, because that's what mental illness is.

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Posted: Feb 06, 2009

Most of us who have accepted our mental illness have had those moments of profound irritation or anger when we hear the subject of mental illness and its treatment used as a source of comic relief. Prozac has been relentlessly marketed, and has become a household name, and therefore is tossed around in conversation by people who know nothing about depression or antidepressants. Most of us have heard someone say, "Oh, take a Prozac and lighten up," or something to that effect. Darren Ross read an article by a writer who referred to Prozac twice in a completely ignorant manner, and decided to take the time to try to set the record straight by writing a letter to the editor. I'm sure he educated a good number of people, and since he addressed many myths and misconceptions about depression and mental illness so well, I asked him if I could include his letter on my web page. I would suggest that if you are trying to educate someone about mental illness, depression and its treatment, you print off this section and give it to them.

Note: I didn't edit Darren's language, so if you're easily offended, you've been warned.

Dear Editor:

If someone were to tell you during a conversation that he or she was diabetic, would you stand back, point at them and laugh, "Ha haaa - I bet you have to take insulin?".

If you are not the kind of person who would do that, then perhaps you too will share my bewilderment as to why - with the infinite number of things there are in the world to make fun of - anybody's medicine would be used as a source for laughter.

On Jan. 24, 1996, Jane Doe made fun of Prozac twice in her column. Probably none of you remember it, but I do. At that time I was too wrecked to lift a finger with any confidence, let alone write a clever letter in response. It's taken me a year and over 9,000 mg of Prozac to get my health back, and now I'm off the meds and ready to cause trouble again. Now it's my turn to talk. I know this drug from the inside, and there isn't one fucking funny thing about it.

Prozac is a medicine used to treat clinical depression, a label which I hate because it does not do this mental illness justice, especially since ordinary depression is normal. I would much rather this sickness be called the latin equivalent of "black vortex" or "brainstorm," because to the layman "clinical depression" carries probably as much weight as being "clinically" bummed out or sad, and the label problem carries over to the medication known as "antidepressants."

Prozac is a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor, not a simple tranquilizer or (as many people regard it) a "happy pill." For those of you who persist in the belief that it is, the strongest proof that you are wrong is not to be found in medical journals, but rather in the gutter, because there exists no street trade in Prozac. There you will find addicted people drinking Lysol and inhaling glue vapors, but they leave the 'zac alone because it simply does not work in that way, period.

What does clinical depression feel like? There isn't enough space here to begin to try to describe it accurately, but I can say that it is worse than some traditional descriptions of hell that you can imagine. If I would've had my choice of either feeling the way I did or having a demon bury a pitchfork in my ass, I would've selected the hot 'n spicy option. Another example that comes to mind is from the 1982 movie "The Dark Crystal." In one scene a gelfling has her life essence sucked out and put in a bottle. It doesn't kill her, but leaves her a virtual walking corpse (been there, done that!). If you give a rat's ass to hear it described better, you could check out the "Wing of Madness" web site or the books "On the Edge of Darkness" by Kathy Cronkite, John Bentley Mays' "In the Jaws of the Black Dogs" and William Styron's "Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness" (by the way, do these people sound like they've got something more than "the blues"?).

Clinical depression is a relentless illness, with the quality of a chinese water torture. Once the sickenss manifests itself, there is nowhere to hide and all you can do is get help and wait for the storm to pass. On average, 15 percent of the people seized by it cannot endure the wait, and they kill themselves.

Less than half of the people with this disorder are diagnosed or seek help, and one of the main reasons why they don't go for help is because mental illness is still shrouded in mediaeval fear and shame. This shroud is maintained in part because unlike HIV, cancer and other disease that have a lethal facet, a large part of our society still thinks it's OK to ridicule the mentally ill. There is no reason for shame as far as I'm concerned, for the brain is just another wet and squishy organ in our fallible bodies that can get sick as easily as a kidney can.

In regards to professional help, my course marks have been fairly poor, but I'm giving myself an A+ for having had enough brains to get help myself. For the last year I've been seeing a proper therapist who works right here at the college - Alec Kenobi. Initially I thought "How in the hell is this going to help me - I'll talk, he'll talk - so what? This is hopeless."

Well, I learned that genuine therapy does work, but it is not a simple motivational talk that works overnight - it takes time. Seeing Alec regularly allowed some part of his persona to inhabit my twisted mind, and I relied on that in the times when I couldn't see him. He was a living example for me of intelligence, good humour and success, things that I had thought were forever lost.

It's chic for people in any kind of psychological recovery these days to say, "If X hadn't happened, I'd be dead." It's easy to say, but I can't say because I really don't know. What I do know is that when I try to conjure from my imagination a scenario in which I could have managed without Alec, I can't do it; there isn't one there. If I had let the artificial shame of seeing a "shrink" get the better of me, I would've had to rely completely on myself. I would have had my autonomy, but me and my autonomy would've succeeded in nothing more than a trip to Kurt Cobain country.

Before any of you pick up a pen with the intent of delivering unto me a gentle lesson about free speech and the ability to take a joke - don't bother, because I don't believe in censorship and if Jane Doe wants to continue to make fun of mental illness, I think that's just super.

But know this - it is the mark of a weak comedian to take a shot at a popular, easy target, and making fun of Prozac in the '90s displays the same bankruptcy of imagination and lack of talent as it did to make a big boob joke about Dolly Parton in the '70s. Thankfully, if anyone included such tired crap in their act today, they would be considered a quaint antiquity.

I have faith that with the passage of time, common sense will win out and people will stop making fun of Prozac, because while medical science has produced a medicine that helps me with my problem, they haven't yet developed an agent to cure chronic stupidity.

Signed,

Darren Ross

P.S. My thanks also to a great doctor, fellow students, faculty (especially Tommy Marin), and Rhea in the Bookstore for successfully helping to drag me out of 1996.

Posted: Feb 06, 2009

Let me tell you right away that I am uncomfortable recounting my experience with depression. Not because it's painful to talk about (though it is), but because I created this web page about depression to help other people, not to go on and on about myself. However, I can't forget how illuminating William Styron's account of his depression in Darkness Visible was to me before I was diagnosed and treated for depression. It really was the book that made me recognize my illness and therefore led me to seek professional help. Since Styron is so much more eloquent than I could ever be, I urge you to read his book. If nothing else, it will help you explain your illness to other people, if you have it, or help you to understand a loved one's pain if you are close to someone who suffers from the "black dog", as Churchill called it. If you are interested in my story, read on. You may recognize yourself or someone else in it.

My parents divorced when I was two, and I essentially lost my father. My mother and my sister and I moved across the country to live with my grandparents, and I only saw my father every few years when I was growing up. My mom remarried when I was almost four to the wonderful man I consider my real father, and who has been there for us one hundred percent ever since. However, the loss of my biological father had profound effects on my personality. Many people who suffer depression lose a parent early in life, either to death, divorce or abandonment. I don't know if I would have suffered from depression without that early loss; perhaps my depression is wholly chemical. I do know that the only picture of me as a child which shows me laughing was taken before my father left. Every picture taken afterward shows a solemn child who smiles only diffidently.

I was a painfully shy child. I had very few friends, was terrified of talking to strangers or a group of people, and was careful never to draw attention to myself. I was afraid that if I was the center of attention, I would look stupid or do something wrong. It's likely that as a child, I thought my father's leaving was due to my behaving badly or doing something wrong, so I was always afraid of doing that again, and making my mother leave. I sought refuge in reading, confident that in books I could never say or do the wrong thing. That served to cut me off even more from the rest of the world.

As a teenager I was moody and self-absorbed. Of course, that's considered to be common for teenagers, so my behavior was written off as normal. Unfortunately, I also had no interest in school, sports, clubs, etc. Part of it was the fog that was beginning to descend over my mind from time to time and part of it was a fear of failing in anything new. The only time I felt good about myself was when a boy was chasing after me. Of course the flip side of that was that a rejection from a boy I was interested in sent me into a black mood, unable to do anything but cry. Occasionally I thought of going to a psychiatrist and saying, "help me" but in that scenario I also saw rejection. I pictured the doctor saying, "There's nothing wrong with you - why are you wasting my time when I could be seeing people who really have problems?"

My college years for the most part were relatively free of depression. I was much more social, and with the exception of being expelled for one semester due to a lack of interest in my classes, I was more motivated academically. Until what I think of as the "black hole time" - what was probably my first major depression. I was in my last semester of school, worrying about finding a job in time so that I could stay in Boston with my boyfriend, and panicking over the prospect of being entirely on my own. The semester before I had been raped by a male friend, and this may have been a trigger. My moodiness got worse and worse, and I was constantly fighting with my boyfriend, through no fault of his. In my mind, I vividly saw myself teetering on the edge of a bottomless black hole. I felt that if I fell in, I would never stop falling. In desperation I went to the walk-in clinic of a local hospital and told the doctor that I thought I had very bad PMS. I described my symptoms, and he told me to keep a record of my moods. I promised to do so, but I was in no shape to follow through. I could barely get my schoolwork done, and certainly didn't have the energy to keep a log on top of that. I found out years later that he had made a notation concerning possible depression in my file, and that he would follow up with me. He didn't get in touch with me again, probably because I graduated a few weeks later.

The next few years I went in and out of major and minor depressive episodes, although I didn't recognize either for what they were. I remember a few periods of doing nothing but dragging myself to work and, in my free time, reading romance novels. My roommates would try to coax me into going out and bar-hopping (which I normally loved), but I just didn't feel like it.

In the summer of 1990, as I've said, I read Styron's Darkness Visible. As I read it, I kept saying to myself, "This is me; I've been feeling all of this." However, I still hesitated to see a psychiatrist. Not that I wasn't seeing a doctor. I was overwhelming my family doctor with visit after visit, sure that I had this disease or that ailment. I think I was in his office every two weeks on average that year. My hypochondria wasn't the only problem, though. My memory and concentration, which had always been excellent, were completely shot. I couldn't retain anything I read. I lay in bed every morning trying to think of a reason to get up and go to work. When I wasn't at work, the only thing I had the energy to do was watch TV.

I had been dating a man for a year who not only was depressed himself, but was an alcoholic. I had been pressuring him to make some sort of commitment to me, without understanding why it was so important to me. Finally, the morning after a particularly nasty argument, as I lay in bed, the sound of his car driving off made me crack. I started screaming and couldn't stop until I was hoarse. Shaken, I called my family doctor and asked for the name of a good psychiatrist. I saw the head of psychiatry at the local hospital a few days later. I remember sitting in his office twisting my hands together in my lap as he asked me about my family history and my symptoms. At the end of the hour he told me he thought that they could help me (the most beautiful words I could remember ever hearing) and that he would set me up with a therapist and a psychiatrist at the hospital's mental health clinic. He also mentioned that they might want me to go on medication, an idea which I negated immediately. I had hated taking medication since I was put on tranquilizers for migraines when I was a teenager.

The next few weeks, which were at Christmas time, were horrendous. I went to a dear friend's wedding, but was only able to endure half an hour of the reception before escaping, crying on the drive home. I kept ahold of myself all Christmas Day, but started crying hysterically as soon as I left my parent's house, and cried all the way home. Things got slightly better after the holidays, and I was going to therapy once a week. I was gaining insight into what made me tick, which was helping me to a great extent in my relationships. However, it was not alleviating what was steadily growing into a shrieking storm inside my head. In early spring I sat in my bedroom and decided that if this was the kind of pain I was going to live with for the next fifty years, then life would hold absolutely no appeal for me. Strictly speaking, I wasn't thinking of suicide, but I'm sure it would only have been a matter of time before I sought that relief. I told my psychiatrist that I was ready to try whatever medication they wanted to give me. He put me on Norpramin, which is a type of antidepressant. The side effects (dry mouth, shaking hands, dizziness in the morning) were unpleasant, but I was determined to stick it out for the six weeks they told me it would take for the medicine to take effect. This was my only chance at having my life back.

Not only did I get my life back, I got a new life. At first I noticed only that the noise in my head was fading, and I was beginning to take an interest in things going on around me again. But as the weeks went on, a whole new personality emerged. Instead of the classic clothes in smoky colors I had always worn, I now was gravitating toward flashy clothes in bright colors. Now I wanted to draw attention to myself - I loved it! I, who had always been so shy, was now smiling at strangers and eagerly entering into conversation with them. I was suddenly interested in everything: food, clothes, science, sports, history, etc. Not only did I have a thirst for knowledge, but I also had the energy to follow through on it. I read voraciously, but for the first time I wasn't trying to escape into a make-believe world; I was fascinated by the one I inhabited.

I felt that for the first time in my life, my "real" personality had emerged. Going on the medication did so much more than I expected. The only thing that marred this rebirth was the thought that I had wasted so many years living in the fog of depression. I mourn all the years lost, all the opportunities missed, and all the friends that I had alienated. If I had understood more about this illness, if there weren't so many misconceptions about it, I probably would have gone to a doctor years before.

Now, almost ten years later, the only time my depression has come back has been when I've gone off my medication or the level of medication in my blood has become too low. I have high and low moods like everyone else, but the low moods are always of short duration, a day or so, and always in reaction to something negative or stressful happening in my life. In other words, my moods are normal.

I'm begging you, if you think you have depression, get help. Although it's true that not every case is as successful as mine, around 80% of people who have depression can be helped. I'm not advocating medication for everyone. I have a friend whose outlook on life has been changed by psychotherapy as much as mine has been changed by the combination of medication and psychotherapy. Every case is different. Your best bet is to educate yourself as much as possible about this illness in addition to seeking professional help. Depression is a terrible, soul-stealing illness. I don't know if we will ever be able to eradicate it, but from my own experience I know that the tools to defeat it are there. You owe it to yourself to give those tools the chance to rescue you from the pain and emptiness of depression.

Posted: Feb 06, 2009