Warning…this post could be kind of a downer. There will be limited sarcasm and no foodporn, so if you’re looking for something happier, click here for an adorable puppy photo or here for my cake ball recipe.
I’ve been struggling a bit lately. I’m being careful with the food intake, but binging on the weekends. I haven’t ballooned or anything, but the reading on the scale is further from the magic number than it was a few weeks ago. Along with the weight struggles, I’ve had trouble concentrating and haven’t been feeling well…I’ve been exhausted, achy and losing my voice every couple of days. Just in case that’s not enough, I’ve been an insufferable dickhead lately…I’m pretty sure this is what Lewis Black would refer to as a trifecta from hell.
Like the good neurotic that I am, I’ve been overanalyzing this situation, trying to figure out what the hell is causing it and what I can do to fix it. This morning, while on the 6am train to Baltimore, it hit me…my boss called from China – in addition to the expected client mini-crisis, there’s a bit of an issue with a mini-mutiny of sorts. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this issue, nor is it the first country in which we’ve faced it. It’s also not the first time she’s asked me to weigh in on how to address it. There’s an issue with one particular person and somehow, over the last three years, I’ve been the only person at the firm (past or present) who hasn’t had problems with her. I gave my views (it’s nobody’s fault exclusively…they’re all wrong). She asked how I was able to work through it like I do, without causing a big issue, and I told her that when you’re as damaged as I am, you learn ways to manage. The chit chat continued, but I had deviated. My little self-deprecating joke was actually an epiphany. I really am damaged, and dealing with that has helped me deal with the countless assholes in my personal and professional lives.
I’m the one everybody comes to for advice, or to vent, or to whine about xxxx doing yyyy to them. In close to 15 years in the same profession, I’ve never seen or heard anyone else getting a call from a shareholder who ends up crying on the phone because the stock is down (Ethel). I’ve talked more people off of more ledges than I can count over the years, most of the time trying to figure out the best way to pry open the window, climb out and join them. Most of the time, it’s just figurative, but every now and then it becomes literal too.
I have no clue how I ended up like this, but I’ve been trying to cope with depression as long as I can remember. In the latest round of the “battle,” I’ve come to realize that it’s not just depression, but anxiety too. Like I said, don’t know how this happened…if you read 20 books on the subject, you’ll read at least 15 different explanations and sets of root causes. Whether the cause is chemical, hormonal, caused by some childhood trauma that subconsciously reared its head and triggered something (if anything, it would have to be the 8 months my uncle, his second wife and her two demon children lived with us while terrorizing me), it really doesn’t matter…the fact is, I have it, and I have to deal. I may not know what the cause is, but how I found out is still pretty vivid…I was around 14; had skipped freshman year of high school and was determined to prove to everybody that I could cut it as a sophomore…it was mainly my father, who was the type of person that would see a test with a 98% and ask why I got 2 wrong.
There was a big test, I was trying to study while my sister and her friend ran around the house screaming. I complained and was told to shut my door; it had been closed since before she got there. I was told to put music on, and despite knowing it would distract more than serve as white noise, I had already tried that too. I practically begged my mother to send them to the friend’s house but she refused. I didn’t go downstairs for dinner, and when she came up to find out why, she found me sitting on the floor of my room, trying to slit my wrist with a razor knife. She called the pediatrician who told her to take me to the hospital…She and my father told my grandparents I had fallen down the stairs. They took me, I got a bandage on my wrist, a sit-down with a doctor and a referral for psychotherapy, which led to a bunch of intelligence and personality tests. They, of course, served as the basis for the next few years of therapy sessions. The folks were vehemently opposed to medication, but the talking helped somewhat…at least enough to get me through high school. I actually went to the campus mental health center a few times my freshman year, but when I realized these people were borderline retarded, I stopped.
College wasn’t a complete disaster, although there were a handful of “episodes,” but never anything as bad as the first. I married the ex wife at 22 (proof that a high IQ doesn’t necessarily equate to regular intelligent decisions). A few years into it, the depression came back in a big way. There were a few more self-termination efforts…tried a knife again (sharper one this time), some pills (my knee didn’t hurt for a month after that), and maybe the dumbest one ever, electrocution (a fuse blew, she yelled at me for interrupting a really good game of Wii bowling, and I wish that was a joke). I knew I needed help, but was afraid to get it at first. When I finally did, I ended up doing the combo…therapy and medication. It was a little bit of a rough adjustment to the meds, but once they kicked in, holy shit…it was like I was awake for the first time since the biggest mistake of my life (those 2 little words). With the lights finally on, I realized I didn’t want to be married to this “shiksa whore” (my grandmother’s pet name for her). In hindsight, I should have known during attempt #2, when she found out what I was trying to do and encouraged me not to give up. Anyway, I got rid of her and quit my job (another abusive relationship I was in for far too long before dislodging head from rectum). I started feeling better, and decided to stop the therapy and the meds after a a while.
There were a couple of good years of sewing my wild oats, both professionally and personally. When things started going right though, I ended up right back in the rut. I had met a pretty amazing girl (the only reason I’ll be saying those two words again in 8 weeks), had an okay job and things were decent. I was still working like a migrant for much less money then I deserved, but it wasn’t terrible. I was coping with it for a while, but things got progressively worse. Weekends would come and I wouldn’t want to get out of bed, unless it was to shift to the couch. I’d get up, go to work, come home, overeat, go to bed and repeat. I realized after a while of this misery that if something didn’t change, I’d lose the woman of my dreams (the real one this time…not some delusion of a fat, dorky 22 year-old), so back to the shrink I went. Realizing I had better results with the combo, I went to a legit psychiatrist this time. I’ve been on 4 or 5 different medications for both the depression and anxiety, with more different dosages than I can count. With these drugs, it’s basically trial and error, but thankfully we’ve found a cocktail that’s working relatively well. I’ve been going for a little over a year and a half this time. It hasn’t always been easy, and the bad times usually end up coming whenever there’s a prolonged period of feeling good, almost like a little bitch slap to remind me that there’s this weight hovering over me. Sometimes it’s nothing more than being “down,” other times it’s the lack of energy and not wanting to do anything. When it’s really bad, it becomes physical…I have random symptoms, but no actual illness. That’s how I know something needs to change.
Nobody knows if there’s a cure for depression, but I’m pretty sure if there is, it won’t work on me. I’d love to beat this someday, but shit happens. I’m resolved to the fact that there are going to be ups, downs and in betweens. There’s no trick to make yourself feel better or anything. You just have to relish the ups, soften the proverbial kick in the nuts from the downs and most importantly, make the most of the middles, because it’s not just about highs and lows.
At 33 (in 4 days), I’m pretty much resolved to the fact that I’ll never be “fixed.” I have to live with it, and I have to learn from it, both the good and the bad. I’ve learned a lot from this shit over the years. I’ve figured out ways to try and counteract the downs…they don’t always work, but I always try; I’ve learned to enjoy the ups more than I ever thought I could. Most of all though, I’ve learned to appreciate the middles for what they are…stability. When it comes to the extremes like this, less is more.
I’m almost back to New York…been babbling for almost 3 hours, and I have no idea what the point of this post is. Hopefully someone reads this and can relate, or can use it to help understand what somebody they care for is going through. It’s not something you can always control; it’s not something you can “snap out of.” Before I learned how much medication can help, I used to see those commercials for antidepressants where they’d talk about how it’s a legitimate sickness and think it was bullshit. It took 33 years, 3 doctors, a bunch of pills and lord knows what else, but I finally realize it’s not some cheesy marketing line to make people like me feel less defective…it’s true.
If you saw my warning 1,800 words ago but didn’t click through to the cake balls or the puppy, read through to the end and don’t like it, go fuck yourself…and have a wonderful evening. We’ll return to our regularly scheduled nonsense very soon (my birthday’s this weekend and I get to cook, bake and barbecue for a handful of friends all day Saturday…happy birthday to ME…when I was younger, there were no guarantees I’d make it this far). On a related note, hopefully nobody is offended by any of this. Suicide is obviously a serious thing and not something to be taken lightly, I’m not trying to find the humor in it, but this is one of the ways I cope. Oddly enough, I feel a little better now than I did when I got on the train…
Healthy for the Wedding 