Guest Writer - The Big D

By Katie Schnolis

Depression, I know your name, and I know your face. I grew up with you. You lived in my house. You blinded me for years, and yet, I didn’t recognize you when you dropped back into my life after my daughter was born. I asked myself, “How is this possible? I grew UP with depression!”

What does it mean to “grow up with depression”? My dad was diagnosed with Manic Depression (now more commonly known as Bipolar Disorder) in his twenties, before I was born. While I didn’t experience much of his mania growing up, I was very familiar with depression. He slept a lot, and he was angry and frustrated often. He was loving, and told me over and over again that I was a good kid, and that he loved me. Depression, however, loomed large in our house.

I was first diagnosed with depression (The Big D) in my twenties, but it started before that. I was described as, “the saddest little girl I’ve ever seen.” while in the third grade. I cried a lot and fought with friends as a kid.

I was hospitalized, medicated, and met many well-meaning therapists in my twenties. I hadn’t yet found the right fit. I got married in 2005, and had my son Connor in 2010. I stopped taking my antidepressants, under consultation with my doctor, as soon as I found out I was pregnant. I wasn’t in therapy at the time, because I was under the impression that I didn’t need it. After having Connor, I was under the impression that he “helped cure me” because the depression seemed to float away. I enjoyed life with him and my husband. I was managing this New Mom business pretty well.

In November 2012, I had my daughter Gracie. This was different. The biggest change, of course, for parents of second children, was the extended lack of sleep. It seemed just when the baby started sleeping well, something would happen with Connor, and I was always exhausted. That doesn’t bode well for The Big D. It crept up slowly enough to disguise itself. Depression is slick, I’ve gotta tell ya.

Gracie was a few months old when my best friends came to visit. It was all I could do to get dressed that morning. I walked around in a fog all day. My husband is a kind, funny man, but he hadn’t been able to cheer me up that week. I was looking forward to this visit with my friends. Normally, they could get me to laugh, at least for a little bit, no matter what. They were the kind of friends who had fridge privileges. You know the kind? They didn’t care that I didn’t really clean, or offer them much in the way of food or drinks. They didn’t care that I looked messy and tired. It didn’t even occur to me to care.

I was like an alien. I couldn’t feel. I fed the baby, I responded to my friends when they talked to me, I took care of Connor, but it was all from muscle memory. I wasn’t me. I was depression. It had landed and taken over. I laughed a few times here and there, but it was painful. I wanted them to leave. I was uncomfortable and I felt so awkward. I just wanted to sleep. I didn’t care that I was missing out on their lives. I just wanted it all to stop.

It was not long after this visit that I realized I was suffering from more than just lack of sleep. I had to sit with the new information for a bit to really let it sink in. And even longer before I could admit it, out loud, and ask for help.

First from my husband who said, “Please, go to therapy”, and then from my doctor.

My doctor said, and she’s totally right, by the way, “You know, I can prescribe this medication for you, but it really works best with therapy.”

The Indigo Girls sing, “Well darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable, and lightness has a call that’s hard to hear” in their song, “Closer to Fine”. This. Is. So. True. In my case, the darkness returned slowly. It was so quiet that I mistook it for exhaustion. “I’m fine. I’m just tired.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve uttered that phrase. That phrase is total crap. I wasn’t fine, although I was extremely tired. But what’s new? I’m always tired. Then, it consumed me. It was more than exhaustion. I wasn’t enjoying myself, my husband, kids, or anything around numb, if I felt anything at all. Funny movies no longer made me laugh. Sweet moments with my kids were annoying. Date nights with my husband were folklore more than a reality. All I wanted to do was to fall asleep and disappear.

I was, and have always been, a high functioning depressed person. Lower at some times than others, but if nothing else, I go to work, and do the bare minimum things for my kids. I’m not bragging by any means. I do it because of the fear of stigma. This stigma that I’ve fallen for because of what I believe from society. I never experienced any stigma from my parents. Though they’ve both passed away, my parents never spoke of my dad’s Bipolar Disorder (or my depression, for that matter) with any shame or embarrassment. It was always just his illness, like any other illness. But I had always fought hard to make it look like I am anything but depressed.

I have some good news. I found a great therapist who is a good fit for me. I’m sure there are a hundred great therapists out there who aren’t a good fit for me; they’re like any other people. It sucks that we have to try a few things (or in my case, four therapists) before we get it right. I spend more time journaling and breathing now. I read, write, paint and snuggle with my cats because they get me. I’ve started a blog, where I can share some of my crazy ideas with the world. I spend more time...well, trying to give myself the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes I’m good at it, and other times it’s a place for me to learn and grow.

Since starting therapy this last time, I’ve learned some things.
1. I can’t do this alone. I am very strong, and I am very smart. I. Can’t. Do. This. Alone. I just accept this.

2. There’s no shame in asking for help, in fact, there’s strength in asking for help. Just consider this: how good do we feel when someone asks for our help and we’re able to help them? Right? I’m right. So on the flipside, when I ask for help, not only am I receiving help, but I’m also letting someone in. I’m allowing someone see my mess, and letting them love my mess. I’m making a connection, and that’s how we grow.

3. Therapy is freaking amazing. Please, please, please, for the love of all that is warm and cozy, do not fall into the ocean of, “How can you just open up to a complete stranger? I can just talk to my friends.” This is not going to help us. A good therapist can help us. Our friends are not trained therapists. Each time I started seeing a new therapist, I was scared. I mean, I was “I’m not sure if I’m going to puke, or pass out” scared. But I went, and each time was better. Some days I have a lot on my metaphorical plate, and I’m scared again. Then I open my big yap, blab out all of my issues in a disturbingly crazy fashion that cannot be described as “clear”, and my awesome therapist helps me work through the mess. Expecting my friend to clear up my depression is like asking me to fix your car, just because I know how to drive. Please get help (if you’re unsure, please refer to number two above).

4. Medication for psychological issues works for some people, and it doesn’t work for others. Please talk to your doctor about what’s right for you. What drugs you’re already taking (legal and otherwise) have a great impact on what could work best. Many people have excellent results only using therapy. Find your perfect formula.

5. It gets better. It sounds so incredibly cliché to say this, but it’s true, and the most direct way to get my point across. It. Gets. Better. If you don’t believe me, go through your previous diary entries, text messages, emails, and all of your earlier Facebook posts, and prove me wrong. Look through everything you have and say, “No, I have NEVER had a good day in my entire life!” I really don’t think that’s true for most of the people reading this. Yes, we will have many bad days, and unfortunately, they pile on, and clump together with sticky, slimy goo. They’re heavy and burdensome, and it FEELS like we’ll feel depressed forever. But please believe me when I say this is not true. It gets better, and then it gets a little worse, and then it gets a lot better, and so on. This is the roller coaster of life. It’s not fair, but true.

6. People are going to offer us help that we don't really want. Accept it. It’s love in different shapes. They are doing their best. Just like we are, right now. Sometimes people will offer silver lining catch phrases that piss us off. Please just smile and nod. Our friends are trying, sometimes with a text, sometimes with a gift or a joke. They’re trying, and some friends just don’t know what to do when it comes to depression. Let’s love them, anyway, for loving us.