Shrugging off the stigma of depression

When you hear the word depression what do you think of? Maybe someone who sleeps all day and stops eating and showering. Or perhaps someone who only thinks about themselves and chooses not to be in a good mood. Worst case, someone who thinks about ending their life. 

Or maybe someone like me. 

According to Mayo Clinic, depression is a mood disorder that causes a persistent feeling of sadness and loss of interest. Now you might think, "well everyone feels sad once in awhile and you just need to snap out of it." Folks I'm here to say on behalf of those of us who suffer from depression -- mild or severe -- it's just not that easy. Depression can be part of your being, caused by biology, brain chemistry, genetics or hormones. It can be triggered by an incident such as a death in the family or other loss or trauma. For me it's a little bit of everything. 

There is no typical candidate for depression. I have suffered from it my whole life and only sought pharmaceutical treatment after my children were born. I noticed I was becoming very angry about everything -- other drivers, a missed goal at a children's soccer game,  my dog scratching a door. It was like the Incredible Hulk was lurking inside of me and busting out at the smallest of incidents.  

A mild dose of anti-depressant medication helped...for awhile. I also took hormone replacement therapy well into my 40s which also "took the edge" off and helped balance things out. During this time I was also self-medicating with alcohol which is probably one of the worst things you can do because both alcohol and drugs can make your depression worse. So I stopped drinking and that helped, even though now I had to deal with my feelings head on. No numbness allowed. I saw a therapist for awhile but never went to a psychotherapist or psychiatrist. I just kind of flew under the radar. 

Then the big one hit. My aging parents were struggling with health issues at the same time: Mom needing major back surgery and Dad trying to live on his own in their apartment with Parkinson's in her absence. Thankfully my younger sister lived near them and did most of the heavy lifting of coordinating care, stopping by after work and just being a good dutiful daughter. I flew down to Texas a couple times to help them. There is nothing more sobering and depressing than seeing your parents lose control of their bodies. Walkers, shower assists and catheters became common during 12 hour hospital visits. It was exhausting and emotionally taxing on everyone. Not having control of your loved ones in pain just frankly sucks. 

It was somewhere during that second visit when I felt my old pal depression sinking in around my shoulders like a heavy cloak. My urge to drink again became quite strong. I lashed out at my bed-bound mother for not "trying harder!" And I started having thoughts of ending my life and how I would do it. Running my car into a pole or off a bridge was a popular one. As was an overdose. But I knew deep down I didn't WANT to do it nor would it. Still the thoughts were there. 

Not wanting to freak my sister out, I did what we had told kids to do in my school district where I worked to do: call a helpline. So I did. I texted the national crisis line and within seconds I was paired up with someone who started calling me "brave" and "courageous" for reaching out. Those are words I have NEVER associated with my being, but it was nice to hear. We texted for awhile and I assured her while there was some suicide ideation going on, I did not have a plan to take my own life. I loved my life and my family, but regardless I was having these thoughts. I told her I would find a psychiatrist or therapist when I got home (Note: Working on this. It's hard to find folks who are taking new patients). 

Within a couple weeks of getting home, the cloud lifted. Maybe it was seeing my parents so helpless and closer to death; maybe it was menopause or a chemical imbalance brought on by exhaustion, stress and pain (during this time I was also facing a full hip replacement). Maybe it was repressed trauma from sexual abuse as a child and in college. Whatever the case, I was grateful to be free of the "dark thoughts," but still worry they will come back. 

I urge anyone who reads this to not keep your depression a secret. It's not your fault and it can be treated. I've come to realize it's just part of me and in some ways makes me who I am: a caring mom, wife and friend who is ultra sensitive to unhappiness around me; a successful professional who values relationships and is in recovery; and a person who suffers from depression but does not let it define her or keep her down. 

In a crisis or thinking about suicide: Text HOME to 741741 or call The National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255.