Depression, Shame and Guilt

It has been many years since I’ve felt any shame over my depression and the fact that I take medicine for it. As a memoirist and a blogger, I’m too accustomed to publicly sharing my weaknesses as I strive for authenticity.  As a Christian and Bible teacher, I’m too accustomed to grappling with the darker masses of the soul and shoving them into the light for healing. Twenty years of anti-depressants. Twenty years of accepting and loving myself in this weakness.

So I was caught off-guard this week when my use of anti-depressants was called into question because I’ve really grown in confidence, and in learning to accept it.

It started with my son’s trumpet teacher. We were discussing how hard he is on himself when he has no call to be. He’s got a talent for the trumpet, he’s hard-working, and he’s only in his second year! I explained that we had invited a family psychologist to come to our home to try and help him with this, adding that I, myself, struggle with depression and have been taking medicine for twenty years. There was an awkward pause as she looked at me. And then she turned to my son and said, “Well, you know what your antidepressant is?” She tapped his instrument. “This is!”

And like that, I was reduced.

The second incident was the worst because it came from the psychologist herself. In everything until this she had been wonderful. Very gentle, and extremely wise in knowing how to deal with some of the smaller unhealthy family patterns before they morph into dysfunction. That was why we called her. But when she found out I had been on medicine for twenty years, these are some of the things she said:

Anti-depressants are for short-term use, not long-term.

Any issues you have need to be worked through with long-term therapy.

You don’t need them to be a wonderful mother.

After twenty years, they have permeated your body and you will need to detox, like with alcohol.

And just like that I was reduced. When she started in (again, in a very gentle, respectful voice – a boosting sort of voice – which was at such variance with the content of her speech), I tried to tell her that I wasn’t really open to what she was saying right now, explaining that I had done long-term therapy several times, and I had attempted to go off medicine under supervision several times. I tried to tell her about my head trauma from the car accident. But she only reinforced her argument. Gently.

The truth is, I have wanted to try to go off medicine again. I’ve been wondering if my new life as a full-time author, where I don’t have to run around and teach, and squeeze my scraps of writing in between outings, will be conducive to trying to go off. I’ve been wondering, if I can really get my nutrition and exercise habits under control, will that help me to manage my depression without medicine? I’ve been wondering these things and gearing up to try again.

But her pressure to do it, or her hints that I should have already done it, have the reverse effect on me.  It’s this twisty guilt-shame-panic darkness that threatens to strangle me and convince me that I cannot. It’s this perverse need to show her that she’s wrong and that I can’t do it, thereby validating the twenty years I’ve “wasted” under the influence of medicine.

The third episode was yesterday with my very good friend. I told her about what happened with the psychologist, and she said that she sort of agreed with her, that her mother decided to go off anti-depressants from one day to the next and found that she was totally fine without it.

But the difference with my good friend is that she listened to my story, and then said that my situation sounded different, and that no matter what she was there for me. She validated me and gave me a huge hug, and we were fine. Even though her initial premise was – if my mom can go off it just like that, so can anyone! – she finished the conversation with words of support.

But I still had a headache yesterday. I woke up with a headache (which might have been caused by eating junk food, which might have been caused by feeling badly about myself, which might have been caused by the guilt and shame I felt over taking antidepressants). Regardless of the cause, the headache got worse over the course of the day, and by 8pm, I was in bed with the shutters closed against the daylight, feeling like someone had a crowbar under my left cheekbone and was trying to pop my eyeball out. I slept for twelve hours.

I need to talk to the psychologist. *sigh* I need to tell her that I found her comment to be destructive because – although she was there to assist the family, and therefore had some rights to give an assessment – she didn’t know enough about my past to be able to make that decision. She was not there as my long-term care provider. I’ll have to tell her that I felt like vomiting after she left. I’ll have to tell her that, rather than feeling empowered by her wisdom and help, I felt reduced.

I really don’t want to have to do that.

So that’s what I wanted to tell you about today. I don’t necessarily need for you to tell me I’m okay (although you probably will do that, sweeties that you are).

In case you didn’t catch the nuance, I don’t want you to advise me on whether nutrition and exercise will cure me of my depression (although I am confident you caught the nuance and wouldn’t do that).