My experience of depression.
I’ve got a strong family history of mental illness on both sides of my family (bi-polar, depression, suicide). The true extent of it was never explained to me until I told my parents I had depression and then all the skeletons came tumbling out of the closet. I always knew my gran had been a ‘manic-depressive’ and that she stuck her head in the oven on occasion, but that had always seemed like such a distant and unrelatable thing until I experienced it myself.
I became depressed in my final year at university. I think I was depressed before Christmas, but I hadn’t realised it by then. That Christmas I felt like I was always putting on a fake smile and something inside me kept thinking, “I should be enjoying this more.” I carried on completely oblivious until March when uni work cranked up a notch and I couldn’t cope properly any more. I was sleeping nearly all day, I desperately avoided socialising with housemates by cooking in the kitchen at strange times, and nothing seemed to make me happy any more. I felt dead to everything. Someone close to me told me they recognised what could be symptoms and that I needed to make an appointment with a doctor because I wasn’t functioning normally. So I did, the next day.
I went to the doctor. I remember sitting down and saying, “I don’t feel very happy.” The doctor asked me to explain, and I told them about my lethargy, not wanting to socialise, thinking about ending it all, how cold I was all the time, how even my favourite song couldn’t cheer me up, how I felt I was losing close connections with my family and how I was beginning to think even people who I ‘knew’ loved me really hated me. It all came out as a torrent. The GP asked me to think about the last time I was happy. I was unable to say. The GP asked me to keep a diary for a week of my mood in the morning, afternoon and evening and any times I thought “bad thoughts”. I did. I was shocked. I hadn’t realised how abnormal my mood and my thoughts had become. When I returned I told the GP about my diary (which described a total lack of positivity, perspective and rationality – but I didn’t realise at the time of course). I was put straight on anti-depressants.
My care was pretty shoddy, really. I was whacked on the pills and told to go the university for counselling. I went to the university nurse and she made an emergency appointment for me. It was poxy and useless. I’d had unsuccessful counselling before which may have had an impact on my attitude to it. What I needed was support. Things got progressively worse – the pills I were on didn’t help and I had to change 2-3 times to others. And of course each takes 2 weeks to kick in. Then suddenly I just couldn’t do it any more. After trying I buckled under everything and just stopped. I was told that evening to go home for 2 weeks and have a break – to forget about work (not easy in your final year) and get sorted after. The 2 week break went quickly and I can’t say anything much changed.
After my break, though the university deliberately made appointments for me to see people every single day to check in with them. The nurse gave me her home phone number and told me to ring any time of day or night should I need to. The offer was comforting, but I knew I’d never take it up. They helped re-structure my work so I could cope with it better. Unfortunately I was bottling up more and privately I was staying up late, crying my eyes out, ringing my boyfriend at all hours in the morning saying I was going to kill myself, calmly rationing that really there was no point to my life. Thinking back to those times scares me and makes me very sad. I wasn’t me, I was scared of my own personality. I was scared of what I was going to do to myself. It was the blackest, deadest, most horrific feeling inside. I think it was like anything good or sustaining inside me had been killed by this terrible, overwhelming, possessive and evil emotion. I can’t even begin to explain it in any way that resembles how it was.
As a big deadline approached, I tried to kill myself. It was probably a pretty lousy and impulsive attempt, but it scared me. I really felt like noone gave a **** about me in the hospital and I didn’t want to go out like that. Seeing my notes with words like “severe depression” and “high on suicide ideation scale” and the like really hit home that I was in trouble and needed more help. But then I didn’t tell anyone at university about the attempt, just that I’d “been to hospital” when I didn’t go to a lecture and they all worked it out I suppose. At this time my medication started to work as I felt less numb to positive things. I called the Samaritans twice during my whole depressed period and they did help, just as a listening ear. They helped unravel my ridiculous logic that my life wasn’t worth living. Their job is not to talk people out of depression or suicide, but a detached person can make a difference, I found. I was so glad my attempt failed. My biggest piece of advice to a depressed person considering doing something “stupid” would be to stop, go to sleep. You can’t really have any perspective when you’re depressed. You wind yourself up, become overwrought and you work yourself into a bit of a frenzy of false logic and irrationality. Suicide seems like a good idea. I no longer think it is. Postpone. Wait till your emotions have subsided and it’s the cold light of day. 99.9/100 there will be the relief that you didn’t do anything.
What was my turning point? I don’t know. It just sort of lifted. I think with my projects in, that burden raised and the need to focus on my finals my situation changed and my extreme stress shifted. I could finally see the end, see past the here-and-now and see a bit of future if I let myself. I dug my heels in, did my finals (I was told I could defer for a year if I wanted), graduated and carried on taking my tablets for 4 months. Too short, really. But I’m stubborn.
I’m of the opinion that my depression stemmed strongly from the stressful situation I was in. That was over a year ago now. I’ve had a few times where I’ve started to feel hollow, started to rant about not living and promptly gone to the doctor. As a result, I’m back on the tablets again and I intend to take them properly. At some times I’ve just sat and tears have filled my eyes up and I’ve just thought, “I’m feeling sad again”. Maybe I can keep it away by simply not letting it in. Luckily those “feeling sads” and even my suicidal rants haven’t slipped beyond my control. I’m scared for if they do, I don’t want to be the out of control person who was terrified of themselves.
I do feel hopeful for the future, but I know I have a strong chance of having depression again, having suffered it before and having a strong family background. I’m apprehensive about one day having a child and the chance of post-natal depression. However, worrying about being depressed again doesn’t rule my life, but it’ll always be in the back of my mind. Depression has proved to me that I am a strong and determined person and that I want to keep that up and not be the weak and hopeless person I was in the worst times.