People told me that it would take some time to
get my medication figured out. They said I shouldn’t get discouraged if the
first medication isn’t right for me, or if it takes some “trial and error” to get
the dosage right.
So I felt lucky when the first medication
turned out to be the right one. 25mg, 50mg, then 75mg, the magic number. I take
three little brown pills each night, and my depression, anxiety, and anger are
nowhere to be found.
I’ve decided that I like this way of living.
I’ve come to accept this new life as normal for me. Depression? That’s something
that used to plague me long ago in some other life. You know, back in the days
when I was too stubborn to go to the doctor. I have to laugh when I think of how
stupid I used to be.
Yeah, right.
I’m like a guy who wanders into church for the
first time and thinks he “gets it.” Six months later he wants to teach a bible
study and meet with the pastor to explore the possibility of ordination.
God, I should have seen this coming. Fucking
Pride. They do say it comes just before the fall.
A couple of weeks ago I was cleaning up around
the television. I grabbed a half-empty can of Diet Coke and headed for the
kitchen. Jeanene said, “That’s my Diet Coke.” I nodded, but continued toward the
kitchen, thinking I would put it on the counter for her. She didn’t see me nod
and repeated herself a little louder. “That’s MY Diet Coke.”
I nodded again, but for some reason it didn’t
register that she wanted me to leave the Diet Coke where it was. I was thinking
of other things and by this time was just entering the kitchen. Jeanene, thinking I hadn't heard her, spoke up
again, this time loudly.
“THAT’S MY DIET COKE!”
A surge of rage coursed through me like an IV
push of pure adrenalin. There was no question of holding it back. The best I
could do was to keep from yelling at her. I whirled around and hissed through my clenched teeth.
“I HEARD you. I was just going to put it on the
COUNTer!”
Jeanene looked shocked and a little hurt. There
was no reasonable explanation for this anger, nor was there any warning of its
arrival. I was embarrassed and immediately regretful, but the residual effects
of the anger were still with me, so I turned around and put my hands wide apart
on the kitchen counter. Then I leaned forward, dropping my head and letting my
weight rest on my hands. I didn't want anyone to see my face. This anger felt
familiar, as did the feelings of sadness that now rushed into the void it left
behind. Later I apologized to Jeanene.
Then Friday night came. The girls had a couple
of friends over for the evening. To me it seemed like there was a chattering mob
of people in my house. There were only five girls, but it felt like twenty-five.
I began to feel anxious, so I retreated to my bedroom with some Poptarts and my
computer.
Jeanene found me there and looked at me with
her head tilted slightly. It was the “Why are you way back here and so
disconnected from us?” look.
That’s when it hit me. The depression was back.
My heart started beating faster. I paced back and forth in the bedroom, fretting and picking
at the skin around my fingernails. Crazy thoughts fluttered around in my head.
“What if the medication is losing its power?
What if it becomes less and less effective until I feel like this all the time
again?”
“What if modern science is wrong and there
really are demons in the world? What if some graduate school demon has selected
me as the subject of his dissertation?”
Saturday was horrible, just like the old days.
I didn’t want to do anything productive, and doing nothing made me feel even
worse. I held on and waited for night to come, though I dreaded going to bed. I
wondered if Sunday morning was going to be bad.
No. Sunday was a good day. I was in a great
mood, and I had a wonderful time with the three sisters that afternoon. Monday
morning I woke up and felt as though I was “back to normal,” whatever that is.
I don’t know what happened that week. It was
like some dark presence inside of me surfaced briefly to remind me that my
journey to emotional health is just beginning.
Trust me. I’m properly humbled. I keep
parroting phrases I either heard when I was a chaplain in a rehab unit or on
television from George Bush senior.
“Easy does it.”
“Stay the course.”
“One day at a time.”
“Trust the process. Quitting now
wouldn’t be prudent.”
My medication does have a few annoying side
effects. The worst of these is a ringing in my ears that sounds sort of like crickets.
It gets louder if I clench my teeth. And I still occasionally wonder if I really
have a chemical imbalance, like my doctor says I do. At this point, it’s almost
a moot question. I feel good, and I don’t mind taking drugs if that’s what I
have to do to feel this way.
Ouch. That sounds familiar. It sounds like
things I heard addicts say in rehab. You know what? I don’t care. That’s the way
it is. I have to take drugs, and I’m going to keep taking them, though I wish I
could find some way to make the damn crickets go away.
In spite of this recent bump in the road, I
have reasons to celebrate. I feel joy again. Joy in living and not just in
writing about living. And I can write as much as I want now. Writing is a
legitimate way for me to spend my time and not just an irresponsible way for me
to escape my sadness and anxiety.
Nothing has been broken that cannot be fixed. Jeanene loves me, and the three
sisters are all smiles. They tell me they had forgotten how silly and funny I
can be. I’m joking around again and playing pranks. Reiley called me on my
mobile phone the other night, and I answered with a Cockney accent:
“Oy, Bob! This ere bird thinks Oi’m er father!”
Yeah, daddy’s back. And he’s so glad to be
here.
And you know what? Time is on my side. I have a
lot of living left to do, assuming I manage to stay alive. The presence of God
seems very real to me right now, and there is joy in my humble prayers.
And I think God is hearing my prayers, even
over the sound of the crickets.
rlp
