Angels in Breadbaskets

While sitting, minding my own business at Panera yesterday, I had a conversation with an angel. I call this person an angel not because he possessed a set of guilded wings, or supreme spiritual insight, although obviously a very well studied man. I call him that because I believe that at times when you don't even know you need it, God sends people into our lives to heal the broken places with a word, encouraging smile or simple touch. Temporary angels, momentarily possessed with the precise words or actions that are like salve to the soul.

"He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners" that's from Isaiah 61 verse 1. Isaiah was not God, he wasn't the messiah, he wasn't a savior. He was just a man who allowed the message of God through his lips. A vessel. For whatever reason, God found a man willing to bend to His will enough to reach out to a stranger buried in her breadbasket and give her the words her heart needed to hear.

But how often do we let societal norms force our silence? Have you ever felt like reaching out a hand to touch someone? Like all the energy in the universe tells you that person needs human touch as much as their next breath? This man told me his studies have shown just how deep something as simple as a few fingers to the hand can stir a person. I don't mean that in a romantic context, so drag your head from the gutter. But I can think of a few occasions where I've seen someone who just looks desperate for a hug or a "how can I help you", but I don't know them, they don't know me, so I refrain. I hope I never do again. I hope the next time God shows me a person who needs him, I allow him to work. I want to be a vessel for that amazing grace and love. I want to be an Isaiah. I can't save anyone, but maybe I can give them the hope to keep searching for the Savior.

Only one more thought. If we're all angels, can we fly?

Diet

You ever notice how the first part of the word diet is "die"? I'm sure you have. The idea of being on any sort of diet just makes me want to eat. I hate the idea, always have. I was overweight in high school. Not obese, just a little too much me to go around. I tried every diet I could find until I decided it was easier just to eat whatever you wanted and then be sick. Then I decided that made me crazy so I began exercising instead. It took me about three years, but I eventually dropped the extra weight and got my eating under control.

So, you can imagine my dissapointment when I ran across a book that seems to have a handle on my specific symptoms that recommeds..nope, not strong enough...demands a very strict diet for folks like me. Basically, they postulate that if you won't take drugs for your brian malities (which we have established I will NOT) then you have to make the chemistry in your body function better. God has given us this amazing machine, and while it'll run on whatever junk we put in it for a while, it won't be running like it's supposed to. It like when the guy at the shop tells you your car needs a certain kind of oil, but it's $30 more than the regular stuff. He says your engine will thank you. You respond that if you need your engines gratitude you'll give it to him and go with the cheap stuff. And your car runs, so you think, bah! stupid mechanic. But you notice a few weeks later that it doesn't pick up and go like it used to and a few months later you notice you gas is shooting through your car like you've got a whole the size of North Dakota in your tank. Finally, a few years later your car is crap. When you take it back to the shop they give an "I told you so, you suburban no-nothing" and tell you it's time for a new engine or new car.

Well my brain has apparently been clogged for a while, so while therapy and prayer deals with some of the clutter, I've got put the right feul in my body to help the process and keep new stuff from sticking around up there. So we're back to the dreaded DIET.

BOO! I'll post later with exactly what I'm supposed to eat..and not eat.

A friendly tip from your local crazy

Talk to yourself. Sometimes the homeless dude's you see on the street do it and you think, "crazy guy". Well, yes, perhaps, but it helps. Recently I have done a lot more out loud. Prayed out loud, organized out loud "I just put my keys in the right side, zipper pocket, of my Mary Poppins -black-hole-of-a-purse."

Our brains are amazing things. They keep all kinds of info. But just like the files on your five year old computer, the more info you put in, the more gets lost. Saying the things you need to hear out load puts them in a more prominent place on your desktop.

So take a tip from your local crazy and say a verse, or a prayer, or where your keys are, out loud today. You'll be surprised you still remember by supper time.

BOO!

I've been terrible about blogging lately. I admit it's because I don't always want to think about my mental state, but I started this blog to help other people who are dealing with depression and anxiety, so boo on me for not helping when I can.

I'll start with the good news. Over the past few months, my depression has all but vanished in the wake of the terrible anxiety I had been having. Thankfully the anxiety attacks have lessened as well. I still get them, mainly at night.

They happen on the cusp of sleep. You know, that point when you are about to fall asleep where you feel like you've actually fallen off something and you kinda jerk awake and then fall back into sleep? That's when they happen. I jerk awake and start freaking out. Heart pounding, disoriented, legs and arms tingling. IT SUCKS! BUT, good news, God provides and after a quick prayer (my brain is too scattered for much more) I take a few deep breaths (a Xanax if it's a really bad spell) and drink a glass a water. I have also found that waking John just long enough for him to know it's happening helps even if he doesn't wake up with me. Just knowing he knows helps.

I am learning how to talk myself out of them to. The way I look at it if your brain is causing them, your brain can stop them. I have been saying things like.

"yep, this is another one, but it's okay, it's not too bad. It'll be over soon if you let it, so let it."
"Nothing happens, just this, so just let your body do what it's going to and go back to sleep."
"We're not doing this tonight. Tonight you are going to relax."

I know it seems silly, but honestly that silliness is exactly why it works. I feel like I'm chiding a 5 year old, but it seems to get through to the insecure part of my brain that gets all fired up in the first place.

I hate that I'm having them at all, but God is teaching me to rely on Him through them. I noticed a BIG difference when I let my prayer life slip or I get myself too busy or worked up over the little things. A lot of my anxiety is spurred by feeling of guilt I deal with, so to step back from the word for even a day gives that guilt a foothold to wreak havoc in my head.

I highly recommend anyone who suffers from anxiety get a good Christian counselor. Someone who will listen and pray with you and for you and help you discover your triggers. Mine seem to be guilt that comes from a deep seated notion that I am worthless. More on that another day. But, anyway, find your triggers. Figure out what happens before your attacks. Were you stressed? If so, about what? Did you have a fight with someone? Watch a scary movie? Break routine? Write it down and share it with someone who loves and supports you. If you don't feel like you have a person who fits that bill. God loves you , and I'll listen too, so email me :)

Who I am

I know it's been quite a while since I've last posted, and I'd appologize for it, but I needed to distance myself from my own insanity for a while. I have been doing much better, but still deal with anxiety and the occasional attack. On the plus side, the depression has not reared its ugly head in months. I no longer take meds other than the occasional Xanax and I feel much clearer (more on that another time). I still see my counselor once a week and we've started to make some real progress. She tells me that therapy works best once your mind begins the trek back to healthy. Recently, she asked me to tell her who I am. She asked that once before, at the beginning of our sessions, and she was met with a blank stare. At the time my first thought had been "I'm crazy".

She asked again, I amazingly, I felt the answer. I'm writing it down so I when times get rough I don't forget.

I'm a child of the King
a friend of the Son
I am friendly to many
but have few friends (and I'm okay with that)
I am a wife who loves her husband,
even his mess
I am a mother who loves her kids,
but "mother" is not my occupation,
it's my joy
I am passionate,
but my passion changes with the wind
I am routinely disorganized
I love music. I love to listen to it, dance to it, pray to it
I am a dancer,
even if it's mainly in my mind
I am a writer,
even if not a word ever gets published
I'm not fixed yet
because as it turns out, I was never broken
I think out loud.
I love romance,
but own no pink
I have flaws, lots of them
My weakness are his strength
because I'm a child of the King

Fight, Flight or Lie Down and Play Dead?

What happened to my fight. I'm a fighter, I've always been a fighter. I'm good at the flight part too, but I rarely back away from a good fight. I love to argue; always have. Just ask my husband. You may even be right. I may know that you're right, but I'll still challenge your point of view. It's fun for me.

So where the heck is my fight. I start to panic. I have a thought that worries me and it just spirals. I go from "Huh, that was funny I feel dizzy" to "I'm dying of a brain tumor" in all of 2 seconds. Then my heart rate climbs and I worry I'll have a heart attack. Then I get dizzy and am sure I'll pass out. Then my limbs go numb and I start to sweat. That's it I'm dying.

This sucks don't get me wrong, but that really not the worst part. The worst part is that I JUST SIT THERE AND TAKE IT! I don't fight it. I don't stare the devil, the evil thoughts and my hectic body in the face and say "do your worst, I'm not moving!". What happened to my fight? Maybe that's the real evil in all this. Maybe the devil has captured my fight.

Okay, well, that's a low blow, but how bout this. My weakness is HIS strength. You wanna take away my fight, satan, have at it. You think I was pain, you ain't seen nothing yet. I'm hurt, but not helpless. I'm down but you don't get to dictate when I'm out. You can whisper lies, speak in half truths, and attack my sense of self worth, but He promised he wouldn't leave me nor forsake me. I don't know why I'm going through this right now, but I know this. What you mean for evil, He'll use for good. I was already good, can you imagine me better? How bout healed? How bout whole? You scared yet? You're heart racing? You're hands shaking? You sweating yet? That's called a panic attack, sucker. How do you fix it when you aint got Jesus? You don't? Sucks to be you.

In the Closet

Day 7 of no more meds. I wish I could write that I'm back to how I was before this roller coaster began, but I can't. What's more, I'm beginning to think that going backward is not the answer either. Then I'll just be staring at the ride again, in line, waiting to be flipped upside down. Maybe if I stay on this track, I'll get off the ride all together and walk away...go find the Teacups or the giant swings instead.

I haven't had a big panic in several days, but now I'm having anxiety attacks instead. I feel like I've ordered the Mental Illness sample platter. A taste of depression, a touch of mania, a side of panic attacks with an anxiety dip. I can't sleep because I can't shut down my brain and my brain keeps my body up by pumping me full of adreniline. The book I'm reading says that synapses in my brain are telling my adrenal glands that I'm in imminent danger and so my body goes into fight or flight...two things I don't really feel like doing at 1 am so my body just shakes instead. The book also says that if your thoughts can turn on the adreniline, it can turn it off too. Convieniently, it doesn't tell you how.

I'm pretty confident at this point that God has a purpose in this madness. Somehow I'm going to sit on the other shore of this ocean of confusion a better person. More in touch with God and myself, and therefore, hopefully, a better mom, wife, friend, daughter. I realize at this point that that might take some time, but I hate that I'm dragging others into the sea with me. They aren't dressed for a swim and they didn't sign up for the excursion. I just hope I'm fast swimmer.

I don't have any answers yet, but I'm trying to embrace the process. I'm not just going to bury things this time. I'm going to unpack this box and put things where they belong. I reorganized my closet yesterday. It needed it badly. Thing were falling out of drawers, I could no longer shut the door, and there were shoes I didn't know I had hidden under the mess. I spent two hours removing what I didn't use or didn't like, throwing aways things beyond repair and boxed up other items to give away. I opened every drawer and put winter clothes away and refolded and reorganized the rest. I can not only shut the door now, I could throw a party in there. It amazing how much room you save when you just put things away neatly (Mom's been saying that for years). That's how I'm looking at the rest of this process. My mind has gotten messy, and instead of just shoving the door closed hoping nothing else falls out, it's time to reorganize. Throw away the useless, give away what's not mine to begin with, put away the rest until I can see what I have again. If your like me, you have to repeat the closet clean out every few years, but it should get easier as you get used to the process. I didn't color code my clothes or arrange my socks with safty pins because that's what works for other people, not me. I like a little disorder. I think my brain will be the same way. I guess I'm aiming for healthy havoc. Happy cleaning!

No more meds

Well, day 4 of NO MEDS. I spoke with my NP about it Tuesday and we decided they just weren't doing me any good right now. I've been on SSRIs and she now wants to starts a different type of drug, but I told her my head needs a rest.

The panic attacks are pretty frequent even without the meds, but they are more managable. I feel like I'm more in control of my own thoughts than I did on the SSRIs. Xanax doesn't help right now as it only makes me feel drunk, and I HATE that feeling (good news for my liver I suppose)

I'm not a therapist, but I think this all comes back to a control issue. I want to be in control of all things all the time. I want to control my thoughts, and how my body responds to things. I want to control this situation and I'm beginning to think God needs me to realize that I never have been and never will be in full control. But He is. Jesus take the wheel, I'm too drunk to drive right now.

What's so different?

You live by routine. You get up, have a cup of coffee, a bowl of cereal. You head to work. You come home. You eat, you brush your teeth, you go to bed. Life in the commas may vary, but by and large that's what you do each day. Then slowly you start to notice changes you can't seem to control. You're irritable. You're thirsty all the time. You start carrying water bottles everywhere. You start to pee like a racehorse before the derby. You drink less water. You have to wake up at night to pee. You don't feel right. You're tired from waking up to pee, so you drink more coffee. You have trouble eating. You ask your friends, your relatives, they tell you to drink less, or drink more, get more exercise, get more sunlight, relax. Weeks later you still feel poorly, you know something isn't quite right. You look fine to them, but you don't feel right. Finally, you head to the doctor. Your friends and family roll their eyes because you always tend to--gasp--go to the doctor when you're sick. You are just another hypocondriact. The doctor, on the other hand, tells you you're not fine. In fact, he gives you a one way ticket to the hospital and tells you you'll be there a while. Why? Your blood sugar is so high that you'll stroke out if you so much as sniff a candy bar from 50 feet. You have Type I Diabetes. That's why you don't feel okay. You're scared, but you feel better knowing what's going on. It's not in your head, you aren't overreacting. This is real. This is serious. Your family and friends show up to the hospital concerned. They feel terrible for not believing you. They tell stories of how other people had similar symptoms and were fine. They didn't mean to discourage you from getting help. They are wonderful about it now. They read up on Diabetes just like you do. They ask you about your insulin. They even change the contents of their own pantries so they'll be sure to have the right things on hand when you are around. They even join the local Diabetes walk in support of you. They understand your condition and will help you through it every step of the way....

... This is not how it works with Depression. The first steps are very similar. You don't feel right, you know something is off. No one seems to get it, but finally, hopefully, you get checked out. You get a diagnosis. You are scared, but feel better, almost justified that there really is something wrong, it's not in your head. But that is often where the similarities end. Everyone around you thinks it is in your head. Even if they've dealt with it, somehow it's not the same. You couldn't possibly have what they had. You seem fine to them. So you hide it. You stop telling people. You don't join a walk for Depression, neither do they. They don't ask what your triggers are or how your meds are working. They don't feel like you should need help forever. You can get over it. After all it's mind over matter, right?

Depression is an illness. It is a disease. It isn't crazy and it doesn't just go away. Like diabetes there are things you have to learn to stay away from, and there are drugs you may need to take for the rest of your life to stay healthy. Don't be fooled, Depression can be fatal if not treated. Just ask the %14 of people WHO WERE seeking help that end it every year. I would imagine the number jumps when you add those not seeking help or add those who medicate with illegal drugs, alcohol, sex, adrenaline. So if you have a loved one suffering from Depression;have some respect and show some support.

2 Week Mark

Finally...optimism. I was hoping to start feeling better at the two week mark, and thankfully, I do. Still not too sure whether or not I really want to be on this medicine, but today I'm okay continuing to give it a chance.

My counselor has asked me to write down what's going on in my head before going to bed each night. Night time seems to be the worst for me right now, so I suppose we are trying to find what triggers it. Last night I just got a pen and paper and really just let my brain write. Most of it makes absolutely no sense, but at some point this....I guess you could call it a conversation with myself, came out.

What do you want to know?
Who are you?
I'm you.
You're who?
You.
You can't be me if I'm me, right?
I can. I am.
What's your name?
Why do you ask?
Well, so I can identify you...or me...I guess.
Do you think identity is found in a name?
At its basis, yes.
Names explain nothing.
Your last name does anyway. Says who you came from.
DNA may make the instrument, but you choose the music.
Who are you?
You.
Okay, who am I?
Ah, now we're getting somewhere.
Where?
There. Here.
This makes no sense.
It's not supposed to. Sense comes from someone being there before. No one else has ever been you.
So where's "here"?
Here is "who am I"? You are always "who am I" until you become "what she was".
Stop speaking in riddles.
It isn't a riddle. The answer IS the question.
What about HIM?
HE knows the answer, but HE still wants you to ask.


Told you it was weird. I'm not sure I really understand where my head was going with this dialogue, but somehow I felt better after letting it play out. Like there really was an answer in there. There is a side of me that is always looking for approval. Looking for a place. Looking for a label to tell me who I am. There is obviously another part, a part that calmed me last night, that understands that there will always be questions about who exactly we are in all this and what God's purpose is. So therefore, there is always going to be a question "who am I" until the day we die. At that point they talk about "who you were". Those alive will stick labels on you that suit them and their memories of you, both the good and bad. You can't help that, so why try on this side of the grave. Why spend so much time labelling yourself and trying to live up to other peoples expectations? God knows the answer, but he still wants me to ask the question, and hopefully, regardless of what those I leave behind say about me, He will write the last label, the only one that matters and the only one that will stick...MINE.

Not Alone

This morning I am completely humbled. I've let several close friends know about what is going on with me and the support is amazing, but so too, are the stories they are sharing about their own struggles. Turns out a lot of people deal with depression and anxiety. While statistically I know that to be true, to actually have your friends spell it out makes it real. To all my like-minded friends, thank you for sharing your stories with me. It's helps more than I can express.

This brings up an interesting question for me: why don't more people share? Why are we living in a world where everything is supposed to be permissible (according to celebrities in CA anyway) but we are ashamed to open up about metal illness because of fear of being ridiculed. To use another celebrity correlation, Britney Spears has obviously had a bout with mental illness, but because of the negative speculation around it, she likely won't bring it up again...unless offered megabucks for book rights. (maybe I should write a book) When people are openly dealing with these issues it is usually because they have reached the point they can't hide it anymore. They've gone off the proverbial deep end. We all shake our heads, bless their hearts, and count them as crazy. Especially in the church where you can feel like your faith isn't strong enough if you don't constantly behave like your on spiritual Zoloft. Jesus wasn't always cheerful: "And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground" Luke 22:44
And yet, I can walk around church telling everyone "I'm blessed today, how are you?" When inside I might be a royal mess. Being sad doesn't mean you're not saved, we have to "work out our salvation" Phil 2:12 , meaning it a continual process.

I think to varying degrees everyone deals with depression. Doesn't mean we all need medication, but what I think it does mean is that we need to be a generation that can be open about these issues. Especially for women, talking helps, sharing helps. Our men, no matter how much they love us, can never fully understand because their brains don't work the same way (not to say they don't deal with this stuff too). So, if you've read this and have ever felt down, useless or just blah, don't be ashamed of it, share it, especially if you are standing on the other side. The world could use a few more stories of survivors. You don't know who you might help.

I found this verse the other night and it has become my mantra. Maybe it can help some else too.

"When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze." Isaiah 43:2

Day 6

It has been 6 days since my diagnosis and subsequent medication. Things were going pretty well for the first few days. I was feeling great and calm. Everything I figured the meds were supposed to help with. All around I felt pretty positive about the experience, perhaps this thing wasn't going to get me down after all. You get help early and life can continue as normal...

Monday night, after a great Memorial Day with the boys and family I went to sleep thanking God for blessings in my life. I woke up around 12:50 confused and disoriented. I made my way to the bathroom thinking maybe I just needed to shake off the reminents of a bad dream..I couldn't remember dreaming, but that seemed the logical conclusion. I got back in bed and tried to take some deep breaths to quell the uneasiness in my stomach. Bad move. I immediately got dizzy and had to hold onto the bed for support. I starting breathing irratically and my heart began pounding. I tried for several minutes to calm down and get my breathing under control. I told myself I was just worked up and to calm down, but the side of my brain that control my impulses and negative thinking was in hyperdrive and I couldn't shut it down. I couldn't concentrate to pray over the roar in my ears and the pounding of my heart.

After about 10 minutes I woke John up. I told him I didn't feel right and the look on my face must have read "PANIC PANIC" because he immediately gripped my shoulders and tried to tell me everything was alright. I was not okay. I couldn't breath right and I couldn't calm down. I asked for a glass of water and a paper bag (remedy for anxiety attacks from when I was a kid). While he was gone I lost feeling in my hands and my legs started to tingle. I was doing everything I could not to pass out. Freaking out does not begin to describe how I felt. I'd never felt so out of control and paniced. I thought for sure I was about to die. I told him to call 911. He resisted...bad idea..don't say no to a crazy person or we'll need two ambulances. I firmly made the request again (add in screams, rants and swear words) and he complied. I spent the next 4 minutes (way to go Murfreesboro response units!) rocking, trying to breath and not pass out. By the time the paramedics arrived, my lips had gone numb and my speech was slurred. They loaded me onto the stretcher and off I went to the hospital while John called my mom to come stay with the boys. By the time I got to the hospital I had the shakes from the adreniline high I had been riding (why the hell people choose to drug themselves to that state is beyond me) but I was breathing normally and could feel my hands.

The doctor explained that I had had a full blown panic attack, which shouldn't be caused my the meds. He said it was probably another stress trigger. Um, like what, a dead sleep? I took the seditive he gave and they let me go with a prescription for Zanex.

So let's recap. I go to therapy on my on free will to make sure I'm being responsible and dealing with my depression. I finally agree to drugs and end up going balls out bonkers. The panic attacks have continued over the last few days I have never felt less sane. I went for help and I only feel worse. I am told by all those logical and reasonable that I just need to give it some time. Does anyone have any idea how long even a minute is when you are in abject fear? I am trying to pray through it and it's helping some, but my brain feels like it's been taken over by all the negativity I've been "dealing with" for years. I'm trying to remain positive, but this negative turn is a tough pill to take. So now I'm on anti-depressants and sedatives (anyone seeing the paradox?)

Please pray for me.

Background Check

A little background info. Anyone who knows me would probably be shocked to hear what is going on in my little 'ol world right now. Anyone who knows me well would probably wonder what took me so long to get help.

I am a 26-year-old, wife, mother of 2 little boys, full-time professional, active member of my church, athlete and sometimes writer. Most of the time I would consider myself a pretty happy person, but contentment has always managed to escape me.

I had self image issues in high school that came complete with eating disorder. When my parents found out I was immediately sent to therapy. At 17 therapy was excruciating. The therapists didn't seem to want to know anything about me, just who was to blame. The first time I was diagnosed with depression and subsequently prescribed meds, I, in the fashion of a typical teenager, adamantly refused. I met Jesus my Senior Year and decided if He could heal the sick and raise the dead, He could certainly fix whatever was malfunctioning in my head. (I still believe this by the way, but I also believe God uses lots of different people and methods to heal us and I think that inlcudes medicine)

I began to pray and exercise and I tried to surround myself with more positive people. This worked for nearly 10 years, but recently my house of cards has started to topple card by card. The depression for me is like a cloud. I could see it rolling in. My vision would darken for a few days and then it would roll out again. I would feel tired, uninterested and way too intraspective, so by the time the cloud would lift I be on a mission as if Lucifer himself was on my heels. I would make drastic changes to my life or my looks (whichever was handier at the time) and within a week start to come back to "normal" and wonder what the heck just happened.

(The most recent major change after depression bought was my enlisting in the Navy...thankfully I needed my husband's permission to join, and he ain't giving it)

I can't deal with this on my own anymore and I'm too busy to be bummed all the time. I've got a husband and two small kids and I refuse to see depression ruin my family. It can. I've seen it first-hand. I come from a long-line of depression, bipolar disorder, OCD, alcoholism, drug addiction, sex addictions. You name it, someone in one side of my family has probably been diagnosed with it. They are all brilliant people, but the same brain that makes them geniuses at whatever they do, also makes them do terrible things to themselves and those they love. I may be genetically disposed to this illness, but that doesn't mean I have to be a victim to my DNA. I'm going to take the medication, but I'm going to decide what I want from it first.

Goals for medication:

Less noise- my head is filled with voices, it's my voice, but the thoughts are all so different. So many of them don't come from a place I like to visit. I'm hoping this medication shuts them up or at least teaches them to behave.

More good days than bad

The bad days are just days, not days that turn into weeks then months

No more revelations- no more enlisting in the armed forces on a whim, no more haircuts, tatoos, new careers, etc. that I just jump into without being in my right mind.

Spend more time in my right mind. Only visit the left on occasion for purposes of creating characters for stories. The left mind is like L.A., it's an interesting place but sane people don't live there.

Some things I don't want to do on meds

I don't want to rely on them completely

I don't want to feel like I have to be happy all the time for them to be working

I don't want to use this illness as a crutch or an excuse.

Man, can you tell I'm nervous about taking these stupid pills? Enough talk, here goes. Cheers, let's make a toast to the return of sanity. Salut, see you on day 2.

Diagnosis

It's official, I'm depressed. Not today actually, but overall it would seem. Today I got the official diagnosis from a trained medically professional that I have servere depression and anxiety. It was somewhat surreal to sit in her sunny office with the paintings of pictureseque landscapes decorating the white walls and hear the word Depression. I felt like laughing, who doesn't get depressed? Show me a person who is never depressed or anxious and I'll show you the ON switch because that person couldn't possibly be human. We all have our bad days, we all have days we just want to go back bed. She said the fact I want to back to bed isn't the issue its the thoughts I have that I don't want to ever wake up that cause the concern. This very nice physiotherapist (what a title, try putting that on a business card) explained to me that while everyone has bad days, my particular brand of bad is a cause for concern. I'm not really sure why that is yet, but maybe as I begin to feel "better" I'll be able to figure it out. She and my therapist (ugh, writing this down is making me feel like I should be a mafia member living in Long Island stretching out on my therapist's couch and telling her about my latest hit) have decided I need medication to control this illness. That was when it hit me...I have been diagnosed with an illness, an actual disease and I'm going to need medication, probably for the rest of my life, to control it. Suddenly it wasn't just a succesion of bad days, or strange thoughts, it was a "condition" a "mental illness". You see Lifetime movies about women with mental illnesses. I don't think my life would make a very good movie..even for Lifetime...so how did I get here? and what next?

I'm writing this all down because I'm hoping that as I take this journey, I'll notice some differences along the way. Maybe even if I don't feel better all the time, maybe it will show up in the entries here. My biggest fear in taking medication is losing the essence of who I am. Hopefully I can prove that's not the case. I'll still be me, just less noisy (more on what I mean by that later). And maybe if you've found this blog you've been where I've been or maybe you need to go where I'm going. Either way, you're welcome along for the ride, all of my personalities say it's okay :)