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High Functioning Depression is Like Running a Marathon Every Day
Who knew grief could be so exhausting?
I think I’ve always been depressed.
I was too shy to talk in school until fifth grade, the same year I had a sort of hysterical laughing/crying jag when I got caught with a much more interesting book tucked into whatever book I was supposed to be reading.
I was terrified of getting in trouble — getting in trouble at home meant a beating, and the principal had a giant paddle with holes in it hanging on his wall.
But the teacher just patted my shoulder with a nervous look on her face until I calmed down and nothing more was said about it.
The first time I was prescribed medication, I was in my 20s and my first husband was beginning dialysis. I cried every day and developed an anxiety disorder that still dogs me. We were both so young and so terrified. And then my dad developed kidney disease and went on dialysis, as well.
Guess which disease I’m most afraid of.
I visited a psychiatrist (who was also the psychiatrist at the county jail) who decided that Remeron was the answer. But my “friends” at the court where I worked said it made me mean and I stopped taking it.
I also had flash cards at my desk that I’d written affirmations on, but they made fun of them and so I threw them away.
I have a talent for finding toxic work environments.
The next time I tried medication was when my second husband left me. I must’ve gotten Prozac from my GP, back when having a GP was still a thing. Prozac Nation was prominent in the public imagination and it seemed a logical choice.
I think it made me fat, but the crying eventually stopped. And rather than wallow in despair, I instead rabidly and relentlessly stalked my ex-husband, his family, his mistress, and even her family, for the next ten years.
My mom died in January and I have finally closed her estate. It took me probably four times longer than it should have. I just couldn’t face it. I didn’t have the luxury of someone just pointing at a line and saying, “Sign here.”
