Depression hurts

I had a student once who came to me with the idea of writing a paper over how she doesn't believe in anti-depressants. Upon talking to her further, it became clear that she actually didn't have much of a clue as to what she was talking about, but it's attitudes like hers that may have kept me from the help I needed for so long.

I've suffered from depression for well over a decade, but have only taken medicine for a couple of years. I was depressed, but I was really good at hiding it, and my parents apparently explained what they did see away as normal teenage angst. So I never got help, and somehow I convinced myself that I could think my way out of it-- if I just got really into religion, if I started meditating, if I had a different personality-- I wouldn't be depressed anymore.

Everything came to a head about 3 years ago, though. I had just gotten my M.A. and didn't have a job, so I moved back in with my parents, which was... an adventure. I love my mother dearly, but she also has her share of crazy, and her crazy and mine don't mix very well. Plus, I was substitute teaching and working a night job, and basically hated life. My symptoms also got a lot worse. I would fly into rages at the least provocation, start crying for no reason, and try to make a martyr of myself. It was past time to see a doctor.

And the truth is, life is much better now. The pills didn't turn me into some zombie; I'm still myself. I still feel sad, but I'm better able to deal with it now. My dog has finally gotten to a point where he doesn't automatically hide when I start to cry for some reason. I still sometimes feel guilty about trying to manage my feelings with chemicals, but I'm still so fucked up in other ways that life seems a bit more manageable now.