Reckoning

"I have no idea what the long-term effects of discussing such issues so openly will be on my personal and professional life, but, whatever the consequences, they are bound to be better than continuing to be silent. I am tired of hiding, tired of misspent and knotted energies, tired of the hypocrisy, and tired of acting as though I have something to hide. One is what one is, and the dishonesty of hiding behind a degree, or a title, or any manner of collection of words, is still exactly that: dishonest. Necessary, perhaps, but dishonest. I continue to have concerns about my decision to be public about my illness, but one of the advantages of having had manic-depressive illness for more than thirty years is that very little seems insurmountably difficult. Much like crossing the Bay Bridge when there is a storm over the Chesapeake, one may be terrified to go forward, but there is no question of going back. I find myself somewhat inevitably taking a certain solace in Robert Lowell's essential queston, Yet why not say what happened?" - Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison, author of An Unquiet Mind

About three weeks ago I sat across from a consulting pyschiatrist at the Sleep Disorder Clinic to get the results of my second sleep test. I had spent the better part of the previous month in a quagmire of little sleep and general agitation and in the immediately previous two weeks, I had developed the unique yet not at all useful talent of being able to cry at the drop of a hat.

I remember my second sleep test vividly. Having had the benefit of the first one, I knew what to expect. Yet, I was uncomfortable and edgy and couldn't wait for it to be over. I had dragged my knuckles through the first week of what is ironically referred to as "springing forward" for Daylights Savings Time. This transition is pretty much hard on everyone. In terms of my sleep, it was apocalyptic. By the time my Friday night test came round, taking sandpaper to my butt cheeks seemed a more appealing alternative to an overnight stay in a strange bed and a bunch of electrodes stuck to my head with gummy ointment.

Only a couple of weeks before, life as I have known it had changed. Suddenly, things became possible for me. I was on top of things. Chores that had languished for months seemed and more importantly were, achievable. Activities I thought would take half a day took an hour to whip through. I woke up feeling like I had slept. I started contemplating things I hadn't thought of in ages, like perhaps getting some new makeup, because I felt I could get up a bit earlier for work to give myself time to deal with it.

Daylight savings combined with the end of my sleep medication brought my uplift to a crashing halt. I lasted two weeks, and not feeling able to wait another two before my check in, I called my specialist's office and asked for enough of the medication to tide me over, which fortunately, they agreed to give me.

But whatever ground I had clawed back was still eluding me and I felt hollow as the pyschiatrist began to review my file.

"So your test was a month ago..."

I was thinking about the doctor's appointment I had already made for two days later,

"...you indicated on your sheet prior to the test that you were irritable...."

that I couldn't take this anymore,

"...you had a headache upon awakening...."

that I couldn't continue to live with the feeling that my nose was continually pressed up against the glass of some knowledge that everyone else except me seemed to possess and that they had some secret I just wasn't in on when it came to enjoying life and living it competently.

"Blah blah blah blah blah blahdee blah."

She paused, sensing I think that the slipstream of her words had gone over my head, not even rustling a hair.

"And so we now feel that with a second set of tests result to review, that you are not dealing with a sleep dysfunction, but are in fact suffering from clinical depression."

And there it was.

My internal knot tying ceased and she now had my full attention.

When I saw my doctor a couple of days later I reported the conclusion.

"You'll get the results and formal write up early next week, but they're saying it's clinical depression."

My doctor smiled slightly and nodded. I got the feeling she wasn't surprised.

"They are recommending an anti-depressant." I said.

"And how do you feel about that?" she looked at me as if she was bracing herself. I suppose she's used to having to do a lot of convincing on this front.

"Bring it on." I said.

She seemed momentarily surprised, then relieved. And with that, we got to work on an initial treatment plan. I walked out, r/x in hand.

And now where am I?

Well, I'm not sure except to say that I feel like a fool, a damned fool.

Now that I've been on my prescription for two weeks I can easily say that I haven't felt such physical relief in years. It's as if life's sharp edges have been blunted back to normal. It's as if I can see myself in a completely different light, and I'm sad for the detours and lost opportunities, the denial of what was really going on.

I can only shake my head at all the money and time I've spent on what turned out to be useless.

On allergy free diets, supplements and Rolfing. Energy therapies of various descriptions, herbs and homeopathies, tinctures and tisanes.

What have I been doing? What the hell was I thinking? It's not that any of the above are bad or ineffectual. I think they're great. But ultimately they haven't been of much use to me in the absence of dealing with the essential issue. I just thank Christ I didn't go back to the guy who recommended drinking my own urine.

Here's the best way I can express how I feel. It's like I've been in a house all these years. I thought that if I could just get the living room in order, that would fix things. That didn't work, so I moved on to the kitchen. But that didn't work either, so I moved on to the upstairs bedrooms. And now, after all that, I've just stepped into the garden and realized that the problem wasn't in the house at all. The problem, has been the locusts eating away at the garden, and now here I am, fully aware of it, and surveying the wreckage.

I have a feeling of minor mourning, of acknowledging what could have been. But it's a nod to it, not a wake. I'm starting to feel more excited by a feeling of possiblity. That finally I can get on with things and make up lost ground, that I can taste again and for the longer term, what it was like a few weeks ago, to barrel through life and be excited by simple achievements and connections.

I'm tired of this short form life I've been living, of declining invitations and not seeing people because I'm just not up to it, of letting my real work suffer while I devote my full measure of energy to my day job. I need a more well rounded existence, one that has its compensations as well as its dues.

I am on a salvage mission for the life I have always wanted. I hope you don't mind my having shared the beginnings of it.