Seems I fell into a bit of a rabbit hole.
The name of that rabbit hole? Depression.
It’s something that I don’t really like to talk about, but it feels safe here, only because I have some amount of anonymity. I don’t know why I can’t tell my friends and family that I’m suffering, but I can’t. To them, I’m doing just fine, thank you very much.
I guess I don’t want them to feel sorry for me, that’s certainly part of it. Or worry, even. But a lot of it is that admitting to depression feels like giving up to me; essentially saying that I’m unable to control my own moods. I base my life on being accountable and responsible for my actions and being able to blame a mood disorder for my erratic behavior screams “COP-OUT!!”.
Of course, my logical mind screams back the undeniable fact that depression is a medical issue that needs to be fixed, just like a broken arm or bad vision. But it’s hard when the symptoms are hidden and difficult to differentiate from someone who’s just having a bad day. Because it’s something that can’t be tested for and indisputably diagnosed, it seems like an excuse instead of a disease.
All that said, I have taken some steps: I’ve started seeing a therapist. And she, in turn, has recommended that I see a psychiatrist regarding the possibility of going on medication. The psych appointment won’t happen for another month, but in the meantime, I talk and cry and whine to someone with letters after her name once a week, for whatever that’s worth.
What I do know: I’m tired of being emotionally fragile all the time. I cry too much, wallow too much, feel sorry for myself beyond what’s reasonable. The idea of taking mood stabilizing drugs scares the crap out of me. But it’s like the old axiom goes: do the same things, get the same results. What I had been trying was obviously not working, it’s time to change directions and pray for the best.