As you may recall, “courage” is one of my words for 2014. Courage requires the courage to be vulnerable, and I vowed that in 2014, I’d make every effort to do so. With that in mind, there is something that I’ve wanted to talk about for quite some time, but recurring thoughts of fear and shame always prevented me from doing so. The fear of admitting the truth to myself and especially others. What would they think of me? How would they react if they knew that I wasn’t as strong, as invincible, as I see myself, as they see me? Would they turn their backs on me, or view me with pity? Yet, the truth is what it is, and the truth is that I suffer from depression; it is a part of my life.
As a child, I was the anxious sort (My mother deemed me “nervous.”), so much so that my Mom actually brought me to a doctor who after examining me, prescribed what my mother referred to as “nerve” pills. (To this day, I have no idea what they were, but I remember that they were little orange pills.) I was 8-10 years old then, and I didn’t know what to make of the pills, so I took them for a short time and then stopped. The memorable thing about it all is that no one thought to ask me why I felt the way I did. In those days, it simply didn’t matter. These days, likely, I’d be referred to as a little girl who was acutely sensitive to the world about her.
My first bout with clinical depression came decades later after the death of my baby brother. At the young age of 23, my brother was diagnosed with non-hodgkins lymphoma. After about two years and a very rigorous course of chemotherapy and radiation, his doctors declared him cancer-free. Unfortunately, the cancer treatment irrevocably damaged his heart and as a result, he had a diagnosis of congestive heart failure. As a result, his death at a young age was inevitable, but its suddenness left the family totally unprepared.
As the oldest sibling, it was clear that I would undertake the task of bringing him home to New Orleans. At the time, he was pursuing a Master’s degree In Communications at the University of Oklahoma in Norman, Oklahoma, and I lived in Central Texas. Ironically, my husband and I moved him to Norman, and as fate would have it, I would move him out, and bring him home.
Throughout the ordeal, I remained detached and stoic. I journeyed through it in a hazy, sleepwalker mode. I went to Norman, began the arrangements to have his body cremated, cleaned out his apartment, and handled all the things required under the circumstances. To this day, I have only a fuzzy recollection of my actions and interactions because it was so surreal that I tried to shut out the pain by pretending it wasn’t happening. I did and ultimately, picked up my brother’s ashes, placed them into a carry-on bag, booked a flight to New Orleans, and began the trek to bring him home to our mother.
At that time, I travelled–a lot. This time was profoundly different. Although certain facts still elude me, I distinctly remember being on the plane, and being told by an insistent flight attendant, to stow my carry-on bag under the seat, and after a futile effort to hold on to it, I reluctantly did so. Afterwards, I recall taking in all the happy and laughing people surrounding me, who were oblivious to my circumstances and that they were in the hallowed presence of my brother’s ashes. I envied them their ignorance. I somehow made it to New Orleans, picked up a rental car and mindlessly drove the familiar streets to my childhood home where my mother was waiting. (To this day, I only remember walking seemingly long terminal from my gate, but I have no recollection of renting the car or driving the 30 or so minutes to New Orleans to the house that my brother and I grew up in.). The most heartbreaking moment of the entire event was taking the ashes out of the bag and placing it ever so gently into my mother’s open arms.
Afterward, my actions are a total blur. I know that I helped my mother make the necessary arrangements for burying him, which required trips to the cemetery and funeral home. My sister and I created a program for my brother’s mass.I did everything that I felt compelled to and afterward, well, that is when the impact of the preceding week hit me. I crashed and burned.
Having no experience with depression and all its gory details, I could not comprehend what was happening to me. I returned to my job as a lawyer for the State of Texas. Each morning I went to work and attempted to return to life as usual — that just wouldn’t happen. The harder I tried to return to life as usual, the more difficult it became. As a supervisor, I would call meetings and in the midst of them, break down in tears. It became a challenge to get through the day without breaking down. People would ask how I was doing and I found it easier to say “I’m fine, thank you,” and run to my office, close the door, and cry. I couldn’t tell them how I really felt — like I, too, was dying.
Depression is insidious. It eats away at the very essence of who you are. At its worst, you forget that pre-depression picture of yourself. I know that I did. The things that I used to do, no longer interested me. Except for work, I couldn’t muster the energy to do anything. Depression sucked the joy out of all the people and activities in my life. My children were teens, and although Christmas was and still is, my favorite holiday of the year, I couldn’t bring myself to celebrate it as it was my brother’s favorite as well. For this reason, they largely had to forego the first Christmas after my brother’s death.
Even then, I kept denying the truth of the matter. My increasingly concerned husband kept taking me to my doctor, to whom I continued to proclaim, in tears mind you, that nothing was wrong with me. Over and over, I refused his attempts to give me a prescription for antidepressants. As depressed as I was, I was adamant against taking prescriptions for depression, and branded crazy and unstable. I, like many others, viewed them as for the weak and pitiable creatures, and I thought that all it required was strength of will and determination. I also feared that should anyone learn that I had a diagnosis of depression, it would affect my job. I wanted nothing to do with it. Finally, after one too many visits to my doctor, and relentless sobbing, he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer and gave me a script for an anti-depressant, which my husband filled. I was really too apathetic to care.
Naturally, I resisted taking the medication. At that time, I had no interest in vulnerability and subject to my friend’s pity or their ridicule. After much denial and pleading from my husband and others, I relented and began taking the antidepressants. It took weeks to show any effects, but slowly the medicine began chipping away at the seemingly impenetrable wall of depression. As time went by, every once in a while, I caught myself smiling, I began to venture out from my self-erected prison and started the slow process of re-engaging with those around me, and ever so slowly, I returned to the things that brought me joy in the past, especially my family and friends. It was if I’d arisen from the dead or at least a long, deep sleep.
As I came back to life, I realized how deep-seated my depression had been. In my case, while in the grips of depression, I could not recall my life pre-depression. The joys, the passions, the loves — none of it seemed real. The only reality was the depression and how effectively it burrowed and insinuated itself into every area of my existence. It seeped into every facet of my life and made depression seem the norm. I think that is what makes fighting against it most frightening; you lose the will to fight it. Depression lulls you into a false sense of inevitability. Although I lost my will to fight, I remained determined to hold on and not allow it to completely overtake me. I took the antidepressants for at least 1 1/2 years and I think that they saved my life.
I came away from the experience more informed, enlightened and able to recognize the signs of a subsequent depression. I also learned that, like millions of other people, my notions and ideas about depression were harmful and antiquated. Depression is no less an illness than cancer, diabetes or other diseases that are readily tested for, verified, and accepted. It has nothing to do with a person’s strength, will power, or fortitude. It has no regard for race, class, education or wealth. In the past, the presence of mental illness has sunk a potential Presidency, and many a career. It was swept under the rug, relegated to the shadows and whispered about behind closed doors. Although much has changed, there is more to be done in order to encourage those who need help to step forward and seek it without fear of losing respect, their jobs, marriages, friends, or lives. For this reason, I’ve found the courage to stand up to say that, “I am Lydia and I suffer from depression.” If my story helps one person, than I have served my purpose.
All Will Be Well, ~ Julian of Norwich
Just last night, I spent over $1250. at Anthropologie, over $800. at the art supply store Dick Blick, and well over $1000. at various Etsy stores, and this was a slow night. Now, I am sure, your mouth is hanging open and you are thinking about how shallow and offensive I am to flaunt my wealth. Well, let me explain. Last night, I went on my version of ‘window shopping’ and I didn’t spend a cent, which given the state of my bank account is a good thing. Please be assured that it is only in my wildest dreams that I could afford such opulent displays of wealth; however, I have been going on such ‘online’ shopping excursions for years.
First, I must confess that I hate malls — hate them with a passion. I’ve always been that way. Perhaps, it began because I grew up poor and we had no money to go to the mall anyway, so why go. As I grew older, I had friends whose weekly ‘to-do’ involved a trip to the mall — every single weekend. They had no more money than I did, and rarely bought anything, but going to the mall was their form of entertainment. As if they were inviting me to a get together at their house, they would routinely invite me to go with them on their mall excursion. Even though I politely declined, and had a big, sincere, smile on my face, It embarrasses me to admit that inwardly I was thinking that I’d rather stay home and clean toilets, which remains my least favorite household chore — ever. Drastic I know, but I told you that I hate malls. Once, I questioned how they could afford to go shopping every week and they looked at me askance and replied, “We can’t. We’re ‘window shopping.’
Naturally,there were those times when I needed to buy something, and way back then, (You know, before Al Gore created the internet and Amazon took over the world of shopping. In the event that you don’t get the ‘Al Gore comment, you’re too young and I’m too old. :)), malls were the only alternative. My perfect idea of a trip to the mall involved, and still does, an anchor store wherein I had no need to enter what I called ‘mall hell.’ I could park my car right outside the store, go in with definite ideas about what I needed to buy, find it, (If it was an item of clothing, I didn’t even try it on.), pay for it, race walk to the parking lot exit, and within minutes, I was in my car breathing a huge sign of relief that my mall excursion was over.
Sometimes, things did not go according to plans, and I’d have to venture into the mall to find the store that I needed. Invariably, the store that I wanted was as far away from where I parked as it could be. In addition, it did not help that I didn’t, I mean don’t, have the best sense of direction, and within 5 minutes, I was lost in a sea of people ambling along like they were at some intriguing tourist attraction. It also seemed that the timing of my mall forays always coincided with maximum foot traffic, so there were, in my mind, millions of people standing between me and my destination.
Anyway, time passed and the internet opened to mere mortals like me. In addition to loathing the entire mall environment, I travelled for work constantly. It was difficult to shop for that special gift for someone else or that beautiful sweater that I’d seen in an ad. Then miracle of miracles, a friend introduced me to the joys of internet shopping. At first, I used it sparingly because I had no idea what I was doing and what it could do. It was years before I understood the beauty of online shopping, but when I did most of my shopping nightmares evaporated.
It was ingenuous. No crowds, no getting lost, no fuss, no muss. All that it required was a computer and a credit card. I was able to drop the mall visits, in favor of shopping in my pajamas, when I chose, even in the wee hours of the morning.Wherever I was, I could simply log onto my computer and within a short period, I’d completed buying the gifts on my list. I loved the idea of not bothering with gift wrapping the item and, all too often, trudging to the post office to mail it. On more than one holiday season, I managed to complete all of our Christmas shopping on-line without a single trip to a brick and mortar store. Things couldn’t be better.
Everything was perfect until my health forced me to stop practicing law. I felt that I’d lost a part of me, and to fibromyalgia, no less. I was heartbroken, angry, in lots of pain, lost, and, you get the picture. My way of coping with the totally unexpected and unfortunate turn in my life, was shopping therapy and the internet made that all too easy. I shopped, and shopped, and shopped. The purchases gave me a temporary high and allowed me to forget the reality of my circumstances.
Finally, I arrived at a point where shopping didn’t make me feel better, it made me feel worse, and I realized that it had become a problem. In addition, I had a mountain of stuff that I didn’t need. Admitting that shopping was simply my way of dealing with my disability and loss of a career that I loved, was a turning point for me. Little by little, I cut back my online shopping to a more healthy and manageable level. I devised ‘online’ window shopping as one way to satisfy my shopping urge without impacting my bank account or mental health.
There is no doubt that I still loathe malls. I still shop online for things that I need because I appreciate its ease and convenience, and besides, I have Amazon Prime! But at times, like when I receive, among others, the Anthropologie, Free People or Garnet Hill catalogs, I get that urge for shopping therapy. Now, all that I need is my laptop, comfy clothes and time to browse. NO credit cards allowed. I shop until I drop and at the press of a button, I’m done, walking away excited by my “purchases” and not feeling the weight of incoming credit card bills, and thinking of all the money that I saved. No more guilt about adding to the mountain of stuff that I already own, and don’t need. Yes, ‘online’ window shopping is therapy for this shopper’s soul. You should try it sometime.
All Will Be Well, ~ Julian of Norwich
You got me. I am a sucker for the Kindness Blog’s post. This is the type of story that I love to read about, the everyday heroes who for no reason other than their compassion and a need, take action and as a result, make a difference in the lives of hundreds perhaps thousands. The story paints a picture of how one person can and does make all the difference.
All Will Be Well, ~ Julian of Norwich
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