26 at 26: H for Hope
(A) Quantum (of) Depression
Late last year, I turned 26. So, in the tradition of the great panel show QI, for the first half of 2014 I will be running through an alphabetical view on 26 things in my world so far.
I’ve gone to my fair share of therapists. And my latest one, back in New York, was so heavily concerned about my behavior that she nudged me towards a psychiatrist and, ultimately, medication. I had the feeling that the psychiatrist would’ve given me medication just for showing up, but my therapist also felt I needed it, so it was okay by me. I was started on Escitalopram, with a stock of Alprazolam just in case a panic attack shows up again.
Even though I’ve had a somewhat up-and-down life, that was the first time I was ever directly treated for depression. And I was 24. Surely, I thought, if I were depressed it would’ve reared its head earlier than that.
But suppose it had. I’ve read through the diagnostic criteria in the DSM4, and the impairments seem to describe just about my entire waking life. I’ve been quiet, avoiding work, and spending too long on the computer for ages. Maybe I’ve been depressed for quite a while and just dealt with it. My parents being opposed to psychiatry didn’t help much; I had one therapist late in high school, for a few weeks, until they declared her a quack. Hard to get an expert opinion when you can’t go see an expert.
So what changed? Well, I was on my own, but I definitely found that to be a positive. College was fine; good structure, manageable stress, lots of interactions. Then I graduated, and… that’s where things started to tumble, it seemed.
That isn’t unusual, obviously. The whole notion of post-graduation anxiety, the stress of student loans and managing employment and all that, is such well-trodden ground that even I’m wondering when I’m going to get to the point already.
The point is in the headline — hope. I fell into a job after graduating, and as a result found myself in a city I didn’t particularly care for or see many opportunities in. After a few months in that job, I was eager to get out. But, there was nowhere to really get out to.
The whiplash of going from the freeing potential of college to that sticky of a reality trap does something to you. I found myself ranting at work about fairly innocuous matters. (They were stupid matters, but innocuous.) I was taking mental health days. The mere fact of employment was weighing on my psyche.
I had my side projects, and those helped me carry on. Sure, work sucked, but I could at least focus on those. They offered hope. But when they started failing, my hope vanished. What should have been brushed off as minor roadblocks on my entrepreneurial path were instead enough to push me onto medication.
I’m not going to go into an argument as to whether or not psychiatric medication helped me, or help in general, or if they’re over-prescribed or under-prescribed or correctly-prescribed or any of that. All I know is, it gave me enough energy and confidence to look for new jobs again. And after finding a job and moving to Portland, I was able to ween myself off the Escitalopram without having any noticeable mood dips. Did have plenty of brain zaps, which are… not fun, to put it mildly. But for months afterwards, I was fine.
So. Do I have depression?
I don’t know.
I’d think, if anyone, I would know. I mean, it’s my brain. I’ve read the diagnostics, I know how I’ve behaved and felt. And I still don’t know for sure. Many of my friends have depression proper, and I feel like the “stable” one — up until I feel my modicum of hope run out and I have a panic attack.
The only constant I can figure out is my job. Sydney keeps trying to tell me that I’m not my fucking khakis, but I can’t help but be deeply invested in my professional efforts. (That, and I don’t even own khakis.) When I can find some value to what I do at my job, I feel like I have some personal worth. But when my work feels hopeless and meaningless, I feel hopeless and meaningless.
So if my job involves bullshit work, doing things that nobody needs and doing them with less vision and planning than other brighter companies; if my job offers no room for advancement and no certainty that it’ll even exist in a month’s time; if my options for sanity seem limited to a new job or a new bottle of pills/booze — I’m definitely going to look like I’m depressed.
And those around me have noticed, I’ve been looking very depressed lately.
And now, a moment of zen:
“Hope is a waking dream.”
