This is an excerpt from a memoir I’m currently writing, Thirty Cures in Thirty Years: A Depression Survival Story. It is a lighthearted book about the heavy work of mental health. For updates and availability info, subscribe to the right.
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The first time I went to a doctor to discuss my ongoing mental lassitude, I felt awkward, even a bit scared. Was I depressed enough for medication? How bad does it have to be to qualify? And even if I did qualify, how would the doctor know I wasn’t faking it? His questions made me feel vulnerable, and I teared up in his office. I got Wellbutrin.
That afternoon, I took the first pill. I told Josh I already felt better. “That’s placebo,” he said. “It won’t kick in fully for a few weeks.” He was right. But I wish he’d kept his mouth shut.
At the two-week mark when I knew the medication had reached its stable level in my system, the improvement was … underwhelming. Is there even a difference? I asked myself. But how could I tell? Between the divorce, and quitting my job, and the upcoming move, and dating, [it was hard to know if the prescription had made any difference]–make this funnier.
Still, I kept taking them. People said it would help, and I was ready to try something new. For almost three decades, I’d done it God’s way. And though I’d one a few minor battles against depression, my generals were under-equipped and … I was clearly losing the war. [say in funnier way–“my generals were underfunded and …”]. God might be really good at forming mountains and placing stars and such, but he didn’t seem like much of an expert on mental health.
And so, when gradually I realized that the medication wasn’t a total cure for my condition, I was disappointed but not disillusioned. Medication wasn’t the whole answer to my depression, I knew. But it seemed like a step in the right direction.
Besides, there was a lot to look forward to, now that I was allowing myself to really live my life. There was the big move to Seattle, and my search for a husband replacement.
Surely when I found my true love, my depression would lift.
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“The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”–Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus.
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Inner peace is hard. Reading about it isn’t. Get The Power of Acceptance: One Year of Mindfulness and Meditation at your preferred book retailer today.
