Vanishing Into Oblivion, Part 1

For more than 15 years my family doctor, a very kind man I have known since before I was a teenager, has been trying to convince me that clinical depression is not unlike diabetes or any other genetic disease. "It is a real ailment," he has told me during countless conversations. He has also urged that I respect it as such and seek some form of treatment. However, I have never truly believed him. Not because I distrust his professional opinion, but mainly because I never wanted to. Perhaps it was denial, I'm not sure. But I always believed I could conquer this lingering darkness that I have felt for most of my life, that it was somehow false and I was just conjuring it in my head, like the daydreams I fabricate when trapped at my job wishing I could be anywhere else in the world. But that darkness has never gone away—ever. Sure, it has hidden itself for a few weeks here and there, and sometimes even seemed to disappear for months at a time. But it always always returns, often far worse and more debilitating than before.

When my doctor has urged treatment, his answer has often been medication. Continuing his diabetes analogy, he has likened anti-depressants to Insulin, saying that taking drugs like Paxil or Zoloft is nothing to be ashamed of, especially if they would help equalize my mood, make it less volatile. Once again, I did not believe him. And, once again, it had nothing to do with a lack of respect. But my experience with drugs had never been good. I was 14 years old when I was diagnosed with severe clinical depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD)—a crippling combination if you've ever experienced it. At that time, in the early 1990s, psychiatrists were still very quick to prescribe anti-depressants as a solution. This was before suicide rates spiked as a result of the "side effects" from drugs like Prozac, and before everybody and their mother was talking about how "overmedicated" we all are. In other words, this was the run up, and mental health institutions were hoping drugs would solve most if not all their patients' problems.

My first cycle of drugs was Prozac, doled out in varying dosages. To say it made me sick would be an understatement. I had unbearable acid reflux. Acne, in addition to the crop puberty had already dealt me, began appearing on my face, neck, and other weird locations on my body (i.e. back, legs, etc.). And, worst of all, it created dramatic mood swings. I began having masochistic thoughts (had a brief and painful infatuation with cutting myself), thoughts that had previously never been a concern. My mind even flirted with suicide. Medication was switched multiple times over the next four years, and several more cycles with varying dosages and mixtures of Paxil, Anafranil, and drugs I have forgotten the names of finally proved somewhat useful. However, medication always made me feel numb and detached, and I hated that feeling. Talk therapy was also attempted, multiple times over the course of these four years. But therapy never touched me. These therapists seemed like a joke. One therapist wasted hours of my time analyzing my clothing choices (she seemed to view baggy jeans and heavy metal tees as a cry for help). Another therapist probed about my "fascination" with graffiti after I, very stupidly, mentioned during one of our sessions that I enjoyed sneaking out late at night with friends to catch tags.

But none of these therapists provided me with real tools to fix my problems. And that is all I wanted. I wanted to fix the problem—the fact that I felt like utter shit all the time—and get on with my teenage life. That's what brings me to now, today, and this long-winded Wednesday morning purge. I still refuse to take drugs, perhaps partly because of past experiences, but mainly because it has always felt like using a Band-Aid to cover a wound that obviously needs stitches. Because of this choice, I'm sure I have made my life far more difficult than it needs to be. But I did so because I was looking for a real answer. Last November though, after having a series of panic attacks, I finally broke down and decided I needed to make a dramatic change in my life—find a real answer to this problem—or my future would be no different than my past.

To be continued in Vanishing Into Oblivion, Part 2.