I was 19 years old working at a University. I really liked my job, and my boss was a nice, understanding lady - but I knew I had been slipping and it was noticeable. I was prepared for some sort of confrontation when I slide the back door of my office building open and settled into my desk. Lori walked in from the other room and sat down in an open chair near by. "You're in a little bit late again today, Katie." Her tone was sweet, sounding more of concern than anger. "Is there something going on?"
Silently, and without warning, I started to cry. I was crying a lot. I knew I had to say something, give some reason that would explain this sudden meltdown in my office at 9:25am. "My brother just left for the Navy." I sobbed. It was true. My brother had come home on leave before getting stationed, much like we all knew he would months before. Yes, I was very upset my brother was leaving again. I was sad he wouldn't be around. But what I wanted to say was "I got pregnant. And the guy that got me pregnant left me. And I don't think I can afford the apartment that I am living in and I am sinking into debt. And I may or may not be drinking too much for a 19 year old girl. And I think I have to move." But instead, I sat in my office silently crying. After about 10 minutes of watching me cry, Lori went in the other room and got on the phone.
I didn't know what she was doing, all I knew was that I had to pull myself back together, turn around and get back to work. But instead I sat in the same position, facing her empty chair, and cried and cried. Lori came back into the room shortly after. She handed me a piece of paper with an address. It was a mental hospital just down the road. There was a therapist waiting there for me. I was being sent by the University's HR department to be assessed.
The next 2 hours are kind of a blur. I sat down with a women in a basement office of what looked like any other normal hospital building. She started to ask me what was going on, and I determined that if I was being sent to a mental hospital by request of my employer, it was probably time to start being honest. I started with the story about Zach leaving, as it seemed to explain some of the sadness. At least enough to transition into the worst of it. I ended up explaining everything, which lead to explaining a lot of other things from before that had just never been explained to anyone. After an hour long chat, I was handed paperwork to be admitted into the psychiatric out-patient program at their hospital.
The out-patient program was designed for people leaving in-patient with more serious problems, while being on the mend. And with folks that weren't bad enough to warrant checking into The Hotel-Crazy. After signing my name a dozen times, I was being walked into the back of a building to a small classroom. Inside there was 9 people sitting in a semi-circle talking to a leader. As it had been explained to me, I was going to come to this classroom everyday from 8am-4pm for group sessions, individual therapy, arts and crafts, and reflection.
Over the next 2 weeks I got to know a mother who recently buried her son, a woman who was admitted for a severe shopping addiction that was threatening to destroy her family, a homeless alcoholic that was transitioning from upstairs, a few older drug addicts that used the program to stay on the straight and narrow, and one other "just depressed" older man. We spent time sharing stories and learning how to apply cognitive behavioral thinking to the things we've already been through to prepare ourselves for similar situations we'd be faced with. I met with a handful of doctors. I was diagnosed as having a "Depressive Personality" and increased chance of addition because of my depression. I was put on prozac. I cried a lot. I sat crossed armed through a lot of classes where people tried to explain to me how I was feeling things when I didn't really believe they could know why or how.
I didn't stay on the prozac at the end of the two weeks. I didn't remain friends with any of the people I had spent hours laughing and crying with. I did from that point recognize the fact that I was going to probably always struggle with depression, and that yes, I was probably drinking too much for a 19 year old girl. Other than that, I was resolved to just try harder. Try harder to be less sad, and keep it together a little bit better. It didn't fix me though.
Here I am now, 25 almost 26 years old. And in the past few months the dark, in-explainable sadness had crept back in just like it so frequently does. Only this time, that 19 year old girl with a lists of reasons of why the world seems to be falling apart is looking at me telling me this isn't shocking or something you didn't know would happen. The world is kind of falling apart again. And I maybe haven't worked out all the kinks from long before as much as I have ignored them or blogged them out of me as best I can. I am a chemically imbalanced person. And right now I don't want to do the things I normally like doing. I don't want to go and hang out with friends at the bar. I don't want to leave my couch when I don't have to. I don't want to have sex. I have a hard time falling asleep at night and I'm having a hard time waking up in the mornings.
This is depression. It isn't always. But sometimes it is. And there will always be more times. I am going back to the doctor in a few weeks. I am ready to stop thinking I can fight this entirely on my own. I do want to get back into therapy and I do want to relearn and learn the things I can to combat the way my brain seems to process things. Which sometimes is brighter and better than I even know how to feel. But the other times, the times where it's not, it's scary, and hard to explain to people, and most importantly is it's my least favorite version of myself.
I don't know if I would have recognized the importance of writing this blog or forcing myself to read these words back if it wasn't for the brilliant writing of Jordan Holmes over the past 2 weeks.
You can read his blog at www.craptrap.net
