We all have our “bad” times, but some of us feel like we’re having fewer and fewer “good” times, or even “just okay” times. There comes a point when you need to evaluate how you feel and ask yourself if you need to seek help.
February 2016 was the worst month of my life. It felt like everything bad that could have happened, did. I was always so sad. School became far more tedious than it had ever been before. Working long shifts, which were vital to me staying at college, were difficult to get through. Fits of crying and hopelessness woke me every morning far before I needed to wake no matter how tired I was or how many sleeping pills and sleep techniques I tried. I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Still, it never crossed my mind that I could be depressed.
I finally took the first step and started therapy sessions. The Counseling and Wellness center at school supported me. Once a week, I met with someone and we worked through what was causing me to feel this way. The sessions were hugely beneficial. I was able to discover parts of myself that I didn’t know about. I could better understand my dreams. I got coping mechanisms to deal with the times that the sadness was too much. I learned how to work through my feelings.
Eventually my sessions at school ran out, so I started seeing a therapist in the city. The work continued, and by work I mean work. Therapy is no walk in the park. It’s intense and uncomfortable, and I ended up crying through most of my sessions. While therapy was helping, it wasn’t curing the sadness. That’s not what therapy does.
My therapist suggested early on that I seek the help of a psychiatrist. She thought antidepressants could help. Initially, I thought against this. I didn’t want to validate that my sadness was caused by a problem with my brain. I wanted to believe that my problems were because of my inability to cope with my life. I wanted to blame myself.
There came a morning—the time when I tend to feel the worst—where I laid awake from 2:00AM on feeling utterly hopeless. I couldn’t sleep despite my best efforts. I knew I couldn’t continue to live like this. I found a psychiatrist that accepted my insurance. The next thing I knew, I was saying yes to all the symptoms that he said were signs of major depressive disorder.
I was officially diagnosed and prescribed antidepressants. I was nervous. Starting new prescription drugs is always a little nerve wracking, but ones that change how the brain works are especially daunting. The first two weeks were rough. The side effects like nausea, dizziness, and changes in appetite really threw me off. The doctor told me that I may not feel the depression lighten up for up to six weeks, but I still was disappointed when I didn’t see any change in my sadness quickly. I kept to it though, and now it’s been a few months.
I’m finally sleeping better (still not good, but better). I don’t feel so hopeless all the time. I’m still pretty exhausted from all the work I do, but I’m handling it so much better now. I remember back in February, when people would ask me how I’m doing, I’d have to lie and say fine when I actually felt absolutely awful. Now when someone asks, I can honestly say I’m okay. I’m not quite where I want to be in terms of emotional health, but I’m getting there. I’ve only been on antidepressants for a little while, so it’s going to take some more time.
If you’re struggling, then I highly suggest you seek out therapy and medication if necessary. It’s helped me immensely, and it can help you too.
artwork by Keith Negley