The beginning of the journey

So, as I've said, from here on out I'll be talking about my battle/journey with depression/anxiety.

To reiterate, I can't really tell you when I "officially" felt sick. I was around 16-17 when I finally admitted that I needed help, that I didn't like my life, I didn't like who I was and that I felt like I was drowning.

For most people, admitting you need help is the biggest challenge--and that was no different for me. I love my family, I really do, but my mom is a Licensed Mental Health Therapist, and all I remember from my low days are her treating me more like a client than as a daughter. Sometimes, you just need someone to tell you that it's okay to not be okay and that sometimes, it's just going to suck.

What shocked me the most when I began fighting depression was the stigma associated with it. Clearly, high schoolers are mean and ignorant to the fact that depression is an actual disease, but you don't really understand how mean and ignorant they are until you're left to your own devices on a daily basis.

I remember that I cried a lot. I remember that I wasn't quite sure what was going on and why I was so unhappy, when I seemingly had no reason to be so unhappy. I remember the first doctor's visit, my doctor doing her job by merely asking "Has your daughter ever been tested for Bipolar Disorder?" and my mother virtually coming out of her skin because, "No, absolutely not. She is not bipolar. She's just unhappy."

I didn't understand that depression was hereditary. I didn't understand the fact that other members of my family had fought this same battle, because it was a taboo subject in my family due to the different opinions on treatment.

I remember the arguments between my parents as I sat on the floor crying. Mom arguing that I didn't need poison (aka any kind of medicine) as my dad argued that it needed to be considered because clearly therapy wasn't going to go over well with me.

Courtesy of "Fighting Depression" on Facebook

I remember, at this young age, being put on Effexor. A medicine that flipped my world back to where I felt normal, but didn't understand how severe my doctor must have believed my depression was to put such a young person on 75 mgs of Effexor.

I remember the words from my classmates, as they pierced through my skin and heart and did nothing but make my fight harder.
She's just being dramatic. 
No one is that unhappy all the time, she's just looking for attention. 
Haha, she cuts herself? What a psycho. She shouldn't be trusted. 
Just leave her alone, it's better that way. 

Depression is like having leprosy. No one wants to be around you, for fear that they're going to be sucked into your feelings.

I have fought, every day, against this disease (of some shape) for seven, almost eight, years. I've seen, firsthand, the stigma attached to it. Doctors see that you've been diagnosed depressed or anxious, and they treat you differently--thinking that it's just the depression causing your illness. Friends who don't understand the ups and downs. Family members who judge your life and way of handling stress. Switching therapists because there's only so much reconstructing of your life that one person can do with another. Fighting with insurance companies about whether medications for depression and anxiety are actually necessary, just furthering the depression of those of us who are actually fighting.

It needs to end. All of the stigmas need to end.

Depression is a chemical imbalance in your brain. You cannot merely just say, "I'm going to get over this," and wave a magic wand to better yourself. You cannot re-balance your chemicals without help and it's okay to ask for help, and to keep asking for help.

There are different kinds of depression but, regardless, we are all silent warriors.

According to the National Institute of Mental Health, the average age of onset is 14 years old. 14. When your body is changing and you're already confused and now you have this to deal with.

Almost 20% of all adults suffer from some sort of anxiety disorder and of those, at least 4% are considered severe cases.

Enough is enough. 

We are not crazy people. We are not who society thinks we are. We are not "emo," we are not just "constantly sad" or have "persistent boredom."  These are all parts of the definition of depression on UrbanDictionary.com--a reliable source, of course not, but it gives you a pretty good idea of how society views this disease.

We are sick. We are fighting.

We are the silent warriors.

And I'm through being silent.

So here's the deal. 

Below the Radar has taken off. I mean, like, BOOM, taken off. 9 countries, a couple thousand views, two dozen+ subscriptions, and this just in...

Featured on WEGO Health Blog:

Health Activist Interview: Amanda Kasper & Katie Anthony

Sometimes, when you least expect it, shit kind of goes crazy--I think that's a good metaphor for my life.

So here's what I'm going to do. Here's what I think is going to help. 

I don't need a book to transform my life, I need me to transform my life. I need to overcome my demons to transform my life. And I will, because 1) I have to because I can't live like this anymore and 2) because I'm living for someone. I'm living in memory of someone. 

Sometimes, I think all we need is someone to validate that what we're feeling isn't crazy. Someone to say "we've been there, and it sucks, but it gets better." 

So, while I am encouraged by the readings and assignments from this app (Transform Your Life, I believe is what it's called), I'm going to be encouraged, instead, by the memory of someone who I cared (care) about. Brian Ray Littrell Jr. 

I will be writing about my fight with depression. My good days. My bad days. The stigma associated with depression and anxiety. How I fought my family with my depression. The family history with depression. 

All to prove to society that the stigma associated with depression needs to change. And it needs to change now...as in yesterday. 

I have fought depression since I was 16. My mom was "slipping me" St. Johns Wart (a known herbal remedy for depression, since I was 13). 

I have been on some sort of anti-anxiety or anti-depression medicine since I was 16. 

I am 23. I am living. I fight every day. I am here to break the stigma. 

I am sick of the stigma. 

I am sick of being a number, a statistic. 

Today, the battle begins against these beliefs. 

Today, we become ourselves again. 

Who's with me?         

Getting help

So I saw my psychiatrist on Monday after work--our conversation was quite interesting.

I want to preface this with telling you that if you're experiencing any suicidal thoughts or thoughts of self-injury to call your doctor or go to the emergency room. Someone cares, you just can't necessarily think of someone at the moment.

Anyway, she asked me if I was ready to come back to her office and in my exhausted state of mind, I told her yes, but she was, in no way, prepared for me.

By the end of appointment, I was put on an anti-anxiety medicine that I can take every 4-6 hours as needed and she wants me to continue the ambien in conjunction with the anti-anxiety medicine. I'll see her again after Christmas and New Year's, unless something happens in the meantime--which, by God, I hope not. 

“The punishment of every disordered mind is its own disorder.”
― Saint Augustine of Hippo, Confessions 

Now, I don't know if this is all stress induced or anxiety induced--or, hell, all of the above--but my migraines have become more frequent and I'm spending a lot more time in the bathroom.

Thank God for an understanding boyfriend and family (most of the time) and friends. Yesterday was really frustrating, though, as I ate lunch and immediately lost my lunch right after. I certainly hope this isn't starting up again. I've been so dizzy today, the mysterious rash on my stomach is back and I have one heck of a headache. It's my boyfriend's birthday on Saturday--I don't want to be sick.

His friend and his friend's girlfriend want to do dinner on Friday night--and while that may not seem like a huge deal to most, let me give you some background. When all of these symptoms began (the running to the bathroom, the anxiety with that, dizziness, etc.), I was afraid to go anywhere. I didn't see a movie for month. I could hardly work because the bathroom was in the back of the store. I have been with my boyfriend for almost a year (a year in January) and have yet to meet one of his best friends because I have such bad anxiety, I can hardly leave my apartment sometimes--or I'm just too tired to go anywhere--or I'm too sick to go anywhere (let's be honest, most of the time, it's a combination of all of the above). His friends get frustrated with that, and I can't say I blame them. My boyfriend, bless his heart, defends me left and right, but I can't imagine he wants to date a homebody his entire life--and I can't blame him. That scares me because after spending so much time with one person, it's hard to imagine your life any other way.

Going out to dinner is a big deal for me. It's so much easier and more comfortable for me to order food and eat it in my apartment. There's less anxiety of being around a lot of people and that way, if the food makes my stomach upset, I know where there's a bathroom and it's private. Going out with his friends means being socially acceptable for X amount of time and then who knows if they'll want to do something afterwards or if the food will make me sick--and if the food makes me sick (and it probably will, because everything makes me sick, I swear), how can I excuse myself from them for a long period of time without it becoming a big deal--especially if I need to do so multiple times?

In defense of these people, they are truly amazing people. They probably wouldn't think much of it, and if they did, they surely wouldn't say anything to me--but this is what my life comes to. If I go anywhere, I have to make sure that there is a readily-accessible bathroom near me at all times, in case something happens. And this has been my life for the last seven years.

My brother, sister and I went to rent movies over Thanksgiving break last week. We were gone for a half hour, tops, and on the drive home (10-15 minutes), I literally almost had an accident in the car. I am 23 years old, I should not have to consider wearing diapers (not to mention, that's just an entirely disturbing and slightly disgusting concept).

My point to this blog post is a little strewed today but here it is: Everyone struggles--whether you can see it or not. I know I've breached this topic before, but it's one that is close to my heart and one that isn't talked about enough. I have chronic pain, chronic illness and mental health problems--but can you see any of that? Okay, sometimes you can tell when I'm struggling with my mental health--but does the fact that you cannot visually see all of my problems negate the problem? No. It doesn't make it any less of a problem.

Please, consider that the next time you want to judge someone. Just because you cannot see something does not make it any less real.

"We’re invisible because we look perfectly well.  It’s not always clear by looking at us that we’re severely ill.  We’re often invisible because we’re at home.  We’re not seen; we’re not out in the world.  But we’re also invisible because the medical conversation leaves us out of the picture.  In recent years things are changing, but back in the ‘80s and ‘90s there was virtually no medical language to talk about a chronic, persistent illness like chronic fatigue syndrome.  And that renders a kind of invisibility." 

-Encounters with the Invisible: Chronic Illness, Controversy, and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome by Dorothy Wall

Struggling

Clearly, it's been a difficult month.

Other than the time that I've taken off for my grandmother's funeral and then time for Thanksgiving--I haven't missed work. Even when I was out of town for the visitation and funeral, and even surrounding Thanksgiving, I was working. I'm constantly thinking about work and I'm constantly worried about work--what am I worried about, work related, you ask?

I'm worried that I'm going to lose my job. I'm worried that the fact that I'm struggling right now and that I've made mistakes, that I will be looked at as incompetent and I'll get that call into the office and "the talk."

Anxiety has consumed me, as of late. Will I keep my job? Will I be able to sleep tonight? If I don't start getting any sleep, I'm going to get sick again. I have another appointment with my psychiatrist tomorrow--do I tell her that I think I need to be put on an anti-depressant, instead of just something for my anxiety and deal with the consequences from my family? Or do I just bite the bullet and hope it gets better? Can I deal with this any longer without the medicine? Does that make me weak? Do I actually run to drug therapy like someone says I do?

I can tell you what I do know.

I'm tired. All I want to do is sleep, but I can't. If I don't take some sort of sleep aid, I will not sleep. The ambien isn't helping anymore--so that medicine is going to have to be changed. Every step I take feels like a million pounds--I feel a lot heavier, and I have no willpower to do anything. Taking a shower is exhausting. Going to work and sitting at my desk and working my eight hour shift is exhausting (and I'm just SITTING and looking at a computer!). The thought of going to the grocery store and cooking dinner just feels unrealistic in the sense that I just have no desire to do it--I just want to sit. I want to sit and do nothing. I love my coworkers and (most days) I love my job--they keep me going most of the time--but going out with them on a Friday after work is socially terrifying to me--and that's not me. I was always called the "social butterfly" growing up, and now I don't even want to go out with some of the closest people I have in Des Moines--and I can't really tell you why.

I think about going back to school to get my masters or above, and I can't do it. I talk myself out of it, even though I've always known, going into journalism, that I'd want to get my masters. But it's expensive. It's time consuming. I can't make my schedule work with it. I don't think I'd get in. I don't think I'd pass. Bottom line: I would fail and I cannot handle failure right now.

I haven't been this low in awhile, and I'm definitely going in between being high and low--and that scares me. The people in my life are only going to be so patient with me, and I feel like their patience is already running thin. I can already hear it now...

I mean, honestly, who actually suffers that much loss? 
I can't handle being around her anymore, she's suffocatingly depressing. 
What is wrong with her? Why is she so upset now?
Why can't she just get over it? 
She's not herself anymore and I just don't like to be around her anymore. 
She's being so dramatic about everything. She needs to just grow up and get over it--it's time for her to face the reality of being an adult. 
She didn't know Kelley and Mary extremely personally like she did her grandmother, she shouldn't be as upset as she is. 

I can go on...and on....and on. Why? Because I've heard it all before and it would not surprise me if I heard it all again.

I apologize for the pessimism in this post...with everything I've endured this month, it's hard for me to see optimism or a positive end result.

*sigh*

I think it's time for me to get help. If you can do it, so can I, right?

A battle that never ends

**Edit: I wrote this while on Ambien. I'm making changes now so that it actually makes sense....those of you who know me and have read this, I would hope that you know I have better grammar than how this was initially written. My apologies!**

I apologize to those of you who actually read this for my absence. On November 2, 2012 at 11:55 PM, my grandmother whom I loved and cherished more than life itself passed away. Alzheimer's Disease finally won, and I am broken. I sat with her in her final moment prior to dying, crying and crying--telling her that it was okay to go see God and that we loved her and we so proud of her for everything she was fighting, but that she could stop fighting. 

It has been almost 15 full days since I got the notice that my grandmother passed away, and I'm left going through the motions. I met hundred of people at her visitation, telling me how special she was and what an impact she had on their lives--and that was truly touching. Many of them hugged me, including her best friend, and they shared my pain. I carried grandma's ashes up to the alter for the funeral mass and by some miracle was able to sing "In This Very Room"--which I had sung for her for two different Christmas masses previously, and it was one of her favorite songs...but I still feel stuck.

I'm battling scarlet fever right now, so I'm exhausted. At the beginning of me feeling terrible from the fever, I heard Grandma saying "honey, I'm always praying for you. Your grandpa and I are constantly thinking about you. We're always here. We're always so proud of you and love you so much." But not even that can bring an excess of comfort...I want her back..her hugs...her kisses..her calming and giving presence. 

So, I think it's only fair that this topic breach depression. Now there's clearly a line between grief and depression--but the social stigma that is associated with depression is what really bothers me. 

“Grief is depression in proportion to circumstance; depression is grief out of proportion to circumstance.” 

As grandma was getting sicker, with the transition of starting my new job, etc, my anxiety started to increase and I felt that my depression was getting worse. I've battled depression since I was 15, but I didn't admit that I needed help until I was cutting myself and I was 16. Why, you may be asking, did I wait?

My mom is a "licensed mental health therapist," and while that may seem like ideal when you're battling depression--it's the opposite. Because to her, I was no longer a daughter--I was a patient. She did what any mom would do and believed that she knew what was right for me and fought for that--but she did that without asking me. And honestly, we all know our own bodies best. This is clearly a sore subject, still.

Depression is a hereditary disease. My grandma struggled with it, my dad does, too. My aunt has really bad anxiety. My sister struggles. I have cousins who struggle--it's in my lineage. The imbalance of brain chemicals is literally programmed into my system. But what most people don't understand is that it's not just being sad. It's not a matter of "oh, I'll get over it. I'm stronger than this. I can battle this."..your brain chemicals are NOT RIGHT. 

Andrew Soloman, author of The Noonday Demon (which is a fascinating read and I highly recommend it), tries to explain it like this: "You are constantly told in depression that your judgment is compromised, but a part of depression is that it touches cognition. That you are having a breakdown does not mean that your life isn't a mess. If there are issues you have successfully skirted or avoided for years, they come cropping back up and stare you full in the face, and one aspect of depression is a deep knowledge that the comforting doctors who assure you that your judgment is bad are wrong. You are in touch with the real terribleness of your life. You can accept rationally that later, after the medication sets in, you will be better able to deal with the terribleness, but you will not be free of it. When you are depressed, the past and future are absorbed entirely by the present moment, as in the world of a three-year-old. You cannot remember a time when you felt better, at least not clearly; and you certainly cannot imagine a future time when you will feel better.” 

When I was at my absolute lowest, nothing made sense to me. I thought everything went wrong because of me and there was no telling me any differently. I slept a lot, I cried a lot, I started a lot of fights with people just to avoid talking about anything else. In actuality, I didn't want to do anything. I wanted to sit, alone, and just be. 

The day that I "confessed" about my depression and told my parents that I needed help--I'll never forget. I was sitting on the step that went into my living room, holding my arms because I had just cut myself (parents didn't know that, I don't think) and I was crying harder than I'd ever cried before. All I could say was "I think it's time I get help. I'm not okay. I need help. I'm not okay. I'm not okay."

To which I got the following responses: "We knew you weren't okay, we just wanted you to admit it. But now you're just being dramatic."

Turns out mom had been slipping me St. Johns Wart (basically an herbal remedy for depression for over a year, without telling me). 

Fighting between mom and dad commenced on if I should go to therapy or if we should do drug therapy. Mom is anti-drug therapy because "those chemicals are poison," (and she's clearly never felt like this before and had to "make a choice") and dad said that I needed to go to a doctor and let them make the decision. 

I didn't get much say in the matter. Welcome back to being 16, right?

To make a long story short, I've been on some sort of anti-depression medication or medication for my anxiety since I was 16. I've been on some pretty intense medicine and some of the lower stuff and all of it resulted in me not being able to sleep. I also was in counseling pretty steadily for the remainder years of high school and then sporadically throughout college.

That's the interesting thing with depression and especially when you're coping with medication--it can trigger other things like insominia. 

After doing a lot of reading on the subject ad I've spoken to many people, and while I've been blessed that my depression hasn't required hospitalization, many doctors and professions have considered my depression to be severe. I would either binge eat or not eat. I didn't want to go anywhere. I just wanted to sleep and I just wanted to BE. I wanted people to leave me alone, I wanted people to stop asking me questions and to just leave me alone. 

But my mom decided that that wasn't "healthy," so after a few counseling sessions (the first one didn't go so great), I just got to the point that I was so busy I didn't have time to think; I didn't have time to feel, to get upset. But that just made my lows lower when I finally slowed down. 

It's always a Catch-22 with depression. 

I'm currently 23, I've been on a lower-ish dose of an anti-anxiety medicine for about three years and the insomnia is beginning to be a problem again. Don't get me wrong, I'm tired. But I'm not resting well. I'm getting, maybe, five hours of sleep a night.

Most people would consider that a significant amount of sleep, but with my already depleted immune system--well, I've already said it. Two months of the 5 hours maximum and here I am fighting off "potential scarlet fever." Bottom line: my body doesn't like it when I don't get at least 8 hours of sleep and this is what happens. 

I'm back on a prescription sleep aid, but not without my mom finding out and giving me her infamous "you're sleeping FINE. It's probably just stress but you're being dramatic and it's all in your head. You do not need this medication. Stop overreacting. We've been around you, we know how much sleep you're actually getting and it's more than what you think."

Oh yeah? You stay up with me all night and watch me when I sleep? Get a hobby.

Game, set, match. 

My mom is in the wrong profession. When I have four or five doctors telling me that I need to get more/better sleep, clearly she's wrong, but I'm not allowed to argue because "she's qualified."

Anyway, I'm off topic. That's another soapbox, and probably my next post.

What I don't understand is WHERE and WHEN did the negative stigma become an attachment to those who are needing the assistance of medicine for mental health? 

Why can we not applaud them and say "good for you. we are proud of you for getting help." 

Instead, we belittle them and judge them for the medicine that they need. Yes, I said need. You can't just hit your head really hard into a wall in hopes that your brain chemicals will go back into balance--it doesn't happen that way. You need an MAOI or an SSRI to help your brain. 

If you feel depressed, you are not crazy--no matter what anyone says. This is a disease. It's a disease that needs to be, and should be treated with respect. Since I began my battle with depression and anxiety, I've heard...

"you're crazy."

"you're just sad."

"get over it."

"stop being so dramatic."

"just FIX it and be happy. clearly you're dumb if you can't figure it out."

"why do you cry so much? your life isn't that miserable, suck it up."

"You take everything so personal, just leave us alone. We don't want to be around you because you bring the whole group down."

I will fully admit that I don't know how to act in public anymore when I'm with friends because I've sheltered myself from them. 

Yes, I have friends, most of them know about my past, but they don't see my constant internal struggle. Such as...

"Katie, you've really been teetering lately. Do you need to get off of your anxiety medicine to focus more on your depression?"

"Katie, you've been apologizing a lot to everyone--these people aren't out to get you, so you don't need to apologize so obsessively."
"You know if you get back on depression medicine, Katie, your mom is going to harass you about it and say you're just being dramatic and you jumped the gun--medicine can't solve everything..."

Living with depression, and I will live with it for the rest of my life, is like being in a itty-bitty house, that's crowded with about 200 in it. There's no room to breathe, no room to think...if you put one toe out of line, you've pissed someone off. If you move an arm, you've disappointed someone else. Even if that's not true (about pissing someone off or disappointing someone, good luck convincing yourself differently).

The pathetic thing about the stigma that's associated with depression is that I'm one of the ones who thinks by the stigma. Sure, I'll talk about it--I'll tell you my history. But to say "I think my depression may be coming back..." I can just hear it now...

Mom: "No honey, it's not depression. You're just grieving and it'll go away. You always want medicine to fix everything for you and that's not it in this case. You're not showing the same symptoms you were last time when you were clinically diagnosed with depression. (which was six years ago, after two of my close friends had committed suicide a week apart, and a year later, one of my closest friends would shoot himself). 

My mom, and a few others, make me feel ashamed for wanting to ask for help. For telling people that I need help and that doesn't feel right inside me and I think that I'm spiraling out of control...they just tell me I'm being dramatic. Sometimes, I think dramatic is the only way to get their attention. 

So I'm stuck. I'm not sure where I'm going to go from here because I do not feel, especially as of late, one ounce like myself. And there aren't very many people I can turn to and say "I don't feel like myself anymore," without getting the "you're just tired and grieving, you'll be fine" response that I know I'll get from at least my mom. 

Bottom line: If you think you have depression or if you're struggling, SEND ME A MESSAGE. I understand. I understand what it's like to not be able to sleep and to cry yourself to sleep because you don't think it's ever going to get better...I understand. You're not alone. You don't have to be alone anymore.

Together, we can change this stigma. 

“Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair.”
― Andrew Solomon, The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression