Secret Lemonade Drinker

Many people feel that Nick Drake was severely depressed when he wrote and recorded his final album, Pink Moon. Listening to it, it’s not hard to understand why. Sparse and haunting, the album is devastating to listen to sometimes (for me, all the time.) While Nick certainly suffered from mental illness, his sister says that he was not depressed during the recording of the album because when he was truly depressed he wasn’t able to write or play. Why? Because he was depressed. Sadly for Nick and his family, his depression led him to commit suicide at the age of 27, and we are left with three beautiful but somber albums to reflect and speculate upon. Nick Drake is just one of the many examples of the casualties of depression.

Whenever someone is suffering from a bout of depression, even simple things like making a pot of coffee can feel like you are rolling a boulder uphill. What’s the point? Won’t it just roll back down to the bottom again? Just leave it where it is and take another nap.

I had big plans for this blog. I had big plans for many things. If there is one lesson I can take away from my illness it’s that I am never going to make big plans again. When you inevitably break them, the squeeze on your psyche is excruciating, which then spirals you further down the self-loathing staircase.

This is not an entry about giving up. Life may scare the hell out of me at times, but death is far more scarier to me. There are no craft beers on the other side, so why would I choose that path? No, it is an entry about trying to understand the nature of the beast within, and refraining from feeding it more fuel than it deserves. I will write when I write, and that’s that. Never make a promise you do not intend to keep.

More importantly, never give up, because eventually the sun really does rise again.

Anxious Away!

I’ve been on many prescription drugs in my lifetime, mostly all of them having no positive effect on my disorders. A combination of depression, anxiety, and OCD (newly diagnosed!) can be a tricky thing to prescribe for, especially if you’ve been constantly mis-diagnosed (I was once put on anti-psychotics that knocked me out; I couldn’t even function. I’m not psychotic.) About a year ago, perhaps a bit longer, I decided that I was fed up with the toll the drugs were having on my body, and my life, and decided to stop taking them. I really was in a bad way. Of course, my life slowly spiraled even further out of control, opening up a new Pandora’s Box: do I continue to slide further into this misery I created, or raise the white flag and try again, this time with a new set of doctors and therapists? I chose the latter. I had a superb therapist before I moved, and I was lucky to find another great therapist where I am currently living. I approached her with some ideas about psychotropics, and she helped guide me towards something she thought would help me accomplish a semblance of normalcy; she even went as far as helping me find a doctor. This time, I found a doctor who was more interested in my well-being than just pushing the pills down my throat.

Yesterday, I sat in the office, talked briefly, but intensely with the doctor, and left with a new prescription (again.) I am already feeling the benefits of the drug, which doesn’t need to build up in your system in order to be effective, nor is it habit-forming, which was a concern for me. I know it will be a long road of psychotherapy and pharmacological therapy, but I’ve finally admitted that I am sick, and I can’t do this alone.

The resolution feels good. Let the sun shine down on me, and all of you, as we all live in this world together.