hope... in pill form

In December 2012, I truly thought I was running out of options. I knew there were still things I hadn't tried. I knew there were people who were sicker than I was, but I had reached my breaking point. Just one more ounce of despair, hopelessness, and fear... I could have let my life fall out from under me. My job, my house, my hope for better things to come.  My safety was hanging by just a few threads. I was almost there.

I share this not to scare anyone, and not for sympathy, but to show you all how real this is. I cycled into a particularly bad bout of depression. Depression manifests differently for everyone. Everyone's bottom is different.  Surprisingly, my immense fear of failure is what kept me from giving up.  I went to work because I knew that if I didn't, I'd eventually be fired. I'd lose my house, which is home to me, so much. Second only to my childhood home, I think. Nothing will ever outrank the beauty of the home I grew up in and the memories that, God willing, won't ever leave me. But I digress.

The point is, I needed something to keep me afloat. And this house and my ability to pay for it and keep food in the pantry and take care of my cats (my babies, until my life goes down a different path) ... it kept me holding on. But just barely.

Just get to January 8th. That's all you have to do.

I was off work the week of Christmas and started the week with a chest cold that kept me in bed for a couple of days. Once I gave in and stayed in bed for that weekend, getting back out proved to be exceptionally more difficult. Somehow, I got myself into a shower and showed up at Christmas family functions. I even felt a little better for a moment. My family has this amazing ability to bring me out of my darkest places, and they don't even know it.

Just get to January 8th.  That was the name of the game throughout the Christmas/New Years holidays.

Holidays passed, and I went back to work on January 2nd. 6 more days. On January 4th, I called into work. I couldn't do it - just those two days in the office had worn me down. It embarrasses me to share this, because I feel like a flaky employee and, until I started truly battling mental illness in 2009, that was the furthest thing from the truth. I'm still trying to get back to the hard worker I used to be.

Finally.  January 8th. I walked into my psychiatrist's office hoping that my life was about to change, get better. But to be honest, I didn't think it was going to. I had but an ounce of hope left and even in that, I was skeptical.

We've tried the SSRIs (anti-depressants that affect how serotonin is processed in the brain). There was a brief attempt with SNRIs (affects serotonin and norepinephrine) that was a disaster -- see "effexor and jodi" post. 5 years of therapy and 3 1/2 years (at least) of trying like hell to find the right med.  And yet, I was in the deepest depression of my life.

It kind of went like this:

Psych: "What do you want to do?"

Me: "What are your suggestions?"

Psych: "This med that med the other med... these are options for treatment resistant patients"

Me: "With your experience, which would you suggest for me?"

I'll interject here and explain for anyone who has never consistently seen a psychiatrist, these appointments are about 15 minutes long and sometimes you have to force the doc to stop, think outside of the box, and tell you what to do.  It's one of the many things that needs to change in the mental health world.

Then she said, "Lamictal."

I had actually heard of Lamictal (brand name for generic lamotrigine) when one of my close friends began taking it a little more than a year before. The drug was originally developed as a treatment for epilepsy. Then, they discovered it treated depression and cycling in bipolar patients, which is why my friend took it. Then, they discovered that it was even effective for "unipolar" depression.  

Let's do it. At this point, it probably won't get much worse.

For the first two weeks I was on a tiny dose... had to titrate to the correct dose slowly (i.e. ramp up). By February 5, 2013, I was on 50 mg. I felt physically better. My bones didn't feel like they weighed me down so much. Each day was still a struggle, but physically I did feel lighter.  But I was still in the dark. I was still struggling. I wasn't sure this was going to work. 

On February 5, we upped my dose to 100mg.

On February 7, I told my therapist "I actually feel like a human being today"

I've been getting better every day. A pill won't fix insecurities or things I'm not happy about in my life.  But what it does do is let me feel real emotions instead of the ones my imbalanced brain concocted.

Am I cured? No. I'm not even sure if that's possible -- I'm certainly not a scientist that can try to figure that out. But I'm better. And I can laugh and I can see potential for the future, and getting out of bed still sucks but it's not impossible. I just don't like mornings.

If you get anything from this post it's this:  don't give up. Keep pushing. Keep looking for answers and options and push your medical professionals to think outside the box. Have honest dialogues with your health care professionals about your symptoms, emotional and physical.  There's something out there that can help you. And by all means, do not force yourself to go through the process of treating a mental illness alone. That's the worst thing you can be in a time like that --alone.  Let people take care of you. Let them pull you out of the darkness, even if it's just for one day. Keep fighting, no matter what.

Do. Not. Give. Up.