What is Friendship?

And what is love. I told you about my recent distress. Well, some of it. There are more details to it, some are too embarrassing to share even on an anonymous blog.

I mentioned my close friend who has given me support. I actually met her through this blog. She read a few posts and made some very thoughtful comments. I reached out to her personally and we’ve been friends since. This was years ago. We both struggle and occasionally lean on each other.

Well, I’ve leaned on her. To be honest, I can’t recall a time that she leaned on me. Shit.

Anyway, we have very different lives. I’ve never met her in person and I doubt I ever will. Despite that, she’s become an important person in my life. She understands chronic depression and she’s willing to listen to me.

I’m not sure if I have a point here.

You know I write this blog as a process of self-therapy, right?

I’ve lost a lot of friends. Mostly because I am not proud of where I am in life and I just pull away. I still have a few who know that I am sincerely trying and I love each one of them.

Maybe that’s my point. There really isn’t a difference between friendship and love. If I know that someone is a real friend then I won’t be ashamed to share my jokes, stories, failures, and pains with that person.

I tell these friends I love them. It’s almost always awkward, but I do. I feel like if I have someone in my life who is willing to listen to my bullshit and forgive my failings then they should know that someone loves them.

Chronic Depression is Boring

Essentially, chronic depression is uninteresting. Depressives realize this. We know that being sad and then being sad more is just not interesting. We reach out to our loved ones for a little bit, but we can feel them rolling their eyes because we are rolling ours. We're as bored by it as they are. Unfortunately, we are trapped in it.

Here’s what’s going on with me right now. A beloved pet died four days ago. It was rough for my wife and me. I’m mostly over the death, but it triggered me into a depressive cycle deeper than I’ve experienced for years.

My wife and a close friend have been trying to help me through it, but I can tell they are getting weary of carrying my weight. I don’t want to continue to burden them so I’m pulling back; I’m retreating into myself. How many times do they want to hear about how shitty I feel? The growing problem is that it makes me feel more alone and the darkness becomes greater.

This morning my wife pointed out that I haven’t been eating. She’s right. My caloric intake since the death has been roughly 20% than usual. I mean, I’m a pudgy fellow, but this might not be the best weight loss program. I’m trying to eat. It’s annoying. I don’t want to eat and I vomit about once a day so that eating feels like wasted effort.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t think I’m suicidal, but often my last thought when I’m going to sleep is that I hope I don’t wake up.

The Legitimacy of Emotions

Here's a small thing about me. Whether it was intentional or not one of the lessons that my parents instilled in me was to stay out of the way. By most physical measures I'm an average guy - not too tall and not too wide. However, I feel like a giant, hulking presence and am constantly shifting and adjusting to stay out of the way. If I'm sharing an elevator with someone I shrink into the corner and try to keep out of their way. Should a find myself sharing a bench I will do everything I can to make sure my companion has as much room to spread out as possible.

In short, I do everything I can to make sure that my shit doesn't spill over into or onto your shit.

I'm also that way about emotions. Good feelings or bad are closely guarded secrets for me. I will do everything I can to make sure that no one around me feels obligated to acknowledge or *shudder* do something about my feels.

I say that to say this. In a strange way, I also do this to myself. That stay-out-of-the-way dynamic somehow got rooted in my internal life. Maybe it's best explained as an ego v. id thing. My id has the feelings but my ego doesn't want to mess with them so my id does it's best to keep them in a bottle. I'm not sure if that's apt. It's certainly nothing revolutionary. I think it might be an oversimplification of what Freud was talking about a hundred years ago anyway.

It's worth exploring, though, because as a depressive my emotions come from two distinct places. First, there's the legit source, life, that buffets all of us around. The resultant emotions seem somehow more real. There's cause and resolution and dealing with the situations in between. The other source is depression. This second source is harder to process because there's no cause to resolve; there's only the dealing.

The point is that it's nearly impossible to distinguish the two, especially when I'm in the depths of it. Do I feel bad because life is serving me a bowl of rotten radishes or because my depression has taken over? When I'm really down the question doesn't even occur to me. I can only think of how much I want it to stop or, worse, simply how much it hurts. Meantime, my id is doing everything it can to keep ego from knowing or outwardly reacting.

Therefore, a cycle becomes entrenched whereby all emotions are considered illegitimate until proven otherwise. Not only are they bottled up they are also considered irrelevant until they become too big to ignore. The predictable result is an eventual explosion that either causes me to collapse to cancer of the id or overreact when the ego is forced to act as a pressure valve. Both results are horrible.

I wish I had an answer. Maybe seeing it this way will help to deal. I suppose a way to look at it is to accept each emotion as legitimate. They are, after all. Whether caused by life or depression they have to be handled or they become too much to handle.

Maybe another bit of light in the darkness.

Depression and Exercise

Tired topic, right? We've all heard that exercise might help fight depression. Most of us probably believe it, whether or not we practice it.

I came across this article published yesterday in the Washington Post - Exercise seems to help alleviate depression, but not for everybody. I like a big but and this has one. Exercise might not be for everyone.

It kicks off with findings from a study published in 2007 - Exercise and pharmacotherapy in the treatment of major depressive disorder. It found that 45% those who participated in supervised and monitored exercise programs for four months reported higher "remission rates." Compare that to  home-based exercise = 40%, medication = 47%, and placebo = 31% and there's something to talk about.

Back to the Washington Post article. The reporter talked to experts and cited a few anecdotes about the benefits of exercise. I won't get into it; you can read the article yourself. The conclusion is like those adds for cold cereal that claim their product may be part of a healthy breakfast. For best results, exercise could be a part of a mental-healthy diet of lifestyle, medication, and/or therapy.

Try it, you may like it.

I've tried it. Here's what my research has shown.

First, I hate exercising. There are active things I enjoy - biking, for example - but I generally hate the idea of a regular workout routine. I tend to do the things I like the least first so when I'm trying to exercise it's generally the first thing on my schedule. This makes getting out of my snug, depressive bed all the more difficult. Hating it also makes it so easy to skip. So, the thought that there's one more thing I've failed to do for the day inhabits my brain. This is not a good mood buddy for a depressive.

However, if I can stay with it for a while it does tend to improve disposition. I've never stuck to it long enough to say whether or not it helps with major depression, but the feeling of accomplishment and incrementally improving health does help stave off or lighten the load of the depressing episodes of life. Here's the rub though. I have to keep at it because giving in to the temptation of skipping one, two, three, and then all the days can toss me right back into the pit.

If you look at the numbers from the study, medication actually wins. It beats supervised exercise by two points and self-motivated exercise by seven. But that only looks at depression - pure, straight up, diagnosable depression.The point I'm trying to get to is that this is a narrow view and only over a short period of time. What about those studied after a year? Five years? I've ranted here before about the side effects of meds. One of the biggest ones for me was sexual. The few times I've tried the typical prescription depression meds I had a significant drop in my sex drive. There's no balance to strike there. Perhaps in time I could report "remission" in the major symptoms of depression, but that's a pyrrhic victory if the price is the loss of sex.

There are other downsides to meds. There's cost which is rarely brought up in studies like these, but it's a very real aspect. I don't have any polls at my fingertips, but I'd hazard a guess that for most people money is one of the top five causes of anxiety. Meds costs will always go up. Then there's the cascading effect of meds. Take the sex thing, for example. Sure, I could go back to my doctor and ask for a viagra script which is can lead to more cost and more side effects to worry about. Or I could grab my walking/running shoes and find the outside.

This is supposed to be about exercise, right? Is it the answer? Maybe. Maybe for you. I think it's probably more effective if your depression is life-episode based like a breakup or family death. For depressives like me it can be a little trickier. It's probably not my silver bullet, but it can't hurt.

It's a nice day. I should check the air in my bicycle's tires and maybe take a ride later on. We'll see...

Gardening, 2019

It's 2019. It's hard to believe this is really a year, I mean one that exists. I remember looking at a book in the school library during my early years that told all about how things would be in the year 2000. This is definitely not that future. In other words, where's my friggin' flying car?!

Okay, gardening. I'm a zone higher than I'm used to. I mentioned in the post Still Pursuing that I'd moved to a bigger city. That move took me from zone 5 to 6. This time of year in my old zone I'd generally be turning my dirt, tending any volunteers, and driving slow past the nurseries to check out what new plants were starting to show up on the shelves. Now I'm significantly poorer and there is still snow on the ground. Although I've secured a couple of gardening spots, I'm still waiting impatiently for the world to thaw. My internal rhythm says it's time to get ready to plant. My reality says it's barely time to get ready to get ready to garden. Being poor sort of helps. I can't afford to buy tiny plants so I've had to settle for seeds. The way this helps is that I got to scratch my gardening itch earlier this week by planting my indoor-start seeds. It won't be long before I see those two-leafed little seedlings pushing their way up through the soil and my soul will be lifted a little.

That's not really why I'm here today. On the depression front I took a pretty bad hit earlier this year. I just thought you might deserve a break from my normal whinging on before I got into that. Happy gardening done. Now, let's get into this.

I'm going to try to keep this one brief for two reasons. First, there's a lot and I don't want to burden you with every detail all at once. Second, I'm not entirely sure what happened and I haven't even begun to deal with it. It's hard to write about something one doesn't understand and hasn't processed.

Let's start here. In early January I nearly drank myself to death. This isn't a tale of a drunken night, this is the condensed saga of the months and years of self-medication with booze that landed me in the hospital in January.

I'm not sure how much I've talked about alcohol here but it's played a big role in all my adventures. For me there's no quicker solution to a depressive episode than the numbness that is readily available in any cheap bottle of vodka. I know, I know, alcohol is a depressive. I know it's the last thing a person with depression issues should turn to. However, it's also a beautiful temporary solution when the valleys get too dark. This isn't to advocate drinking, it's just my reality.

So, I'd been drinking and drinking. Then this and that happened and my pancreas shut down. By the way, this is where I'm going to start glossing over the events. For reasons you'll soon see, I'm not sure what happened to me during the last half of January.

So, I'd been drinking and drinking and I started getting sick. First it was vomit and lots of it. Then it was black vomit, which means I was bleeding internally. My wife forced me to go to the ER which tuned out to be the beginning of a nearly two week stay in the hospital. The nurses and docs took a look at me and declared I was staying. They put drugs and hoses in me then started asking questions. In my state my usual filters were down and I mentioned something that I soon regretted.

This is one of the things I'm sure of. I told them about my woman who isn't there. This is my joking way of referring to a very real thing that's been happening to me for years. It comes from the poem that mentions the man who isn't there that the poet keeps meeting on the stair. My woman who isn't there appears to me by peaking around the corner or doorway of wherever I am. She smiles at me and then is gone. It's never dramatic and never frightens me. I should mention that I don't believe in ghosts although I do think about them a lot. I think it's just my imagination that delivers this odd little haunting three or four times a year.

So, I mentioned her and they jumped on it. It's almost like I was feeding a need they deeply craved. A drunk with failing internal organs and hallucinations?! They were ecstatic! At least that's how it seemed to me. They peppered me with questions while I tried to downplay it. No luck. They had they teeth in my damaged psyche and they weren't about to let go of that morsel.

The next few days are a complete blank and the rest of my time there was spent in a crazy hallucination filled fog. From what I've been able to piece together they tackled the pancreas problem first, as that was an immediately life threatening problem. After that was resolved they tackled the mental stuff. They pumped me full of brain drugs that were supposed to help me stop seeing things. Instead I was tripping my eyes out and seeing people and monsters everywhere.

To add to the fun, I developed c-dif during my incarceration so I had to be quarantined.

I swear, I'm trying to tell this quickly.

My memory returns gradually from those first few days during which I didn't exist. It's full of confusing visitations by fantastic monsters, nurses, and impossible-that-they-would-actually-be-there people from my recent past. It's really hard for me to admit that last bit because the visits from those people seemed so real. Maybe I'll expand on this in a future post.

Soon I got enough of my brain back that I began to realize what the game was. More than anything, I wanted to go home where I could rest and there would be no one forcing me to take those mind scramble drugs. In order to get signed out, I had to act sane. Otherwise they were talking about transferring me to a more permanent situation. I don't remember what they called it but I was definitely picturing One Flew Over scenes when they discussed it. Time and my attendees' patience were working against me.

Once or twice a day the doctor who would ultimately make the judgement call against me appeared before me. While the monsters and phantoms danced behind him I would answer his questions. The month was January. The president was Trump. The state I was in was Missouri and I as in a hospital. I got to where I could recite the answers to his questions correctly and in order before he asked them. Finally he would ask if I'd seen any hallucinations recently and I would soberly say no. I was always careful not to oversell it nor giggle along with the creatures of my mind that were laughing hysterically at my lies just behind him.

I guess I was eventually no more fun for the staff and they finally signed off on my release. It had been 13 days, but it felt like the only reality I'd ever known. In fact, for several days after returning home I wasn't sure that I was actually there and not just dreaming in my hospital bed.

I'll stop there. You're a hero for having read this far. I have plenty more to tell you about this event and my - hopefully - recovery. There's my relationship with my wife which changed in a lot of ways as a result of all this nonsense. There's my perception of healthcare and my time there. There's alcohol. There's drugs. And on and on. Plus, more gardening as it progresses.

Keep fighting the good fight, sisters and brothers. We may never achieve pure happiness, but isn't there fulfillment in the pursuit? Well, I least I hope there is. I wouldn't know what else to do.

Depression: Two Triggers

 This one is probably going to sound a little uniformed and scattered. Admittedly, I’ve been living with depression for a long time, but I’ve done far less research on it than I should have. At least that’s how it feels. I’ve talked to a number of doctors and I’ve read a lot of research. I still haven’t cracked it so maybe that’s why I feel like I haven’t learned enough.

This blog isn’t about that, happily. It’s just about my journey and that’s comparatively easy to put down in print.

My experience has been that there is usually one of two triggers for a depressive episode – and I’ve had some doozies. The first is that impossible to fathom, internal tide of terrible that just wells up with chronic depressives. Trigger is an inaccurate word in this case. It just happens. I can be watching a tv show that I really enjoy, attending a social event, be at a job, or whatever and all of a sudden there’s overwhelming sadness. This is one of the biggest problems that I struggle with and it’s been getting worse. I don’t know the answer; my wife says it’s just chemicals and I think she probably has a point. Doesn’t make it feel any better, but at least it’s something I can tell myself. 

Second are external triggers. Everyone deals with these. Death of a loved one, financial problems, politics, the evening news – all these things can be depressing however I’d hazard a guess that they hit chronic depressives harder. Bad news can bring a person down for a bit, but they can usually dig down and figure out what they need to do to get past it. Chronics, on the other hand, wallow. It’s actually kind of comfortable. So when there’s an external trigger it provides an excuse to wrap oneself up in a big burrito of sad.

At least that’s been my experience. I certainly would never claim a monopoly on depression. A facebook acquaintance of mine who happens to be one of the most upbeat people I know was recently diagnosed with depression. He’s in his fifties, an avid weight-lifter, great cook, hugger and all around happy dude. He went in for a regular check up a couple weeks ago and his long time doctor recognized some differences in his general demeanor. Doc asked him the standard questions then prescribed what I assume is a common depression treatment – my friend didn’t say what, only that he was comfortable with it. He shared that he’s recently lost some friends and family members. I’m sure he’s going to pull through pretty quickly. His personality and strong support network will see to that. 

Here’s another example of external triggers. I’m a bit of a perfectionist. You might not think so if you’ve been following this blog for a while. I try to write fast and honest here so I’m sure there’s more than a few grammatical errors. Otherwise, though, I’m pretty careful – as much as I can be – in my personal and professional conduct. Consequently, when I do screw up it bothers me. Most people, as far as I’ve observed, seem able to shake that kind of thing off in a few minutes, hours or, at most, a day. Me? It can destroy a week and, worse, if my mistake affects other people else it can destroy the relationship. Not from their perspective but from mine. I read or assign too much into their disappointment and find myself entirely avoiding them. 

I realize that, that can be more of a self esteem thing, but as far as I see it it’s all part of the same problem. More to the point, it can trigger a depressive episode. That’s the point I’m trying to make. If something happens that makes me feel bad about myself it seems to trigger the chronic. Instead of just fixing the mistake and moving on, I crawl inside of myself and spend too much time thereafter hating myself and everyone around me. 

I don’t have any answer or advice in this area. It’s just about where I live. 

Some Thoughts About Depression, Autism and Being an Introvert

I think I may have mentioned this before – I’m not going to go back and look – but over the last several years I’ve wondered if I have mild autism. It was once called aspersers, but I think they just say you’re on the spectrum now.

Here's a pretty good digestion of what Asperger's

 is or was, depending on your approach. It doesn't

 fit me exactly. For example, I think I'm a fairly

 sympathetic person, but I do have many of the other

 characteristics listed here; enough, at least to think

 that there's at least a light spritzing of Asperger's

 on my brain.

Semantics aside, I was thinking about that this morning. I definitely have depression. That’s well established. I’m certainly an introvert, again, something that takes no argument if you were to meet me. And I’m a pretty good candidate for autism. If one were to draw a Venn diagram of this mess there would be a big pile of me sitting right in the middle.

What does this mean? Well, if you subscribe to Temple Grande's way of thinking maybe - see below - I’m not damaged. Maybe I’m just on the spectrum of being a human. Depression, obviously, can cause damage in the form of self-harm and suicide. Being an introvert and/or mildly autistic, however, of themselves don’t cause damage. The problem with those two is how our society can make them harmful in the way individuals are treated.

In my head, all three are holding hands. It’s more than a Venn diagram; it could be called a coexistence. If I have low-grade autism it could lead me to be an introvert and that leads to the depression which further feeds the autism and being introverted. And, so, the snake continues to eat its own tail.

This doesn’t really produce any kind of solution, at least not for me, but it’s something to think about. If it’s a global problem – my depression – maybe there’s a global solution. If St. John’s Wort only helped for a while maybe I need to tackle all three problems at once. I don’t know what that looks like. I don’t even know if it’s realistic. Still, there might be something there.

All we can do is lie down and give up or keep looking. It's hard not to get tired. 

Stand-up Comedians

So, there’s a sudden gear shift, right?

I’ve been ruminating on this post for a while. I have loved stand up comedy for as long as I can remember. As a kid I loved to listen to my father’s LPs of Bill Cosby.

I know. But back then, who knew?…

Anyway, point is I’ve loved stand up comedy for a long time. I’m actually envious of stand up comics, which I know is a cliché. I’m a fairly funny guy in real life and wish I had the courage and mental organization to translate that onstage. I don’t.

If you look back at my posts on this blog you’ll see that I went dark sometime in 2012 and only recently started to blink back to life. That’s not because life got better or my depression regressed. Shit got way worse and in other ways shit got way better. We might talk about that later; probably not.

Comedy helped me survive. It really did. That might sound ridiculous, but it’s true. Without stand up comics…

Here’s the thing. I’m never surprised when a comic kills herself/himself, either actively or via self-destructive behavior: John Pinette, Greg Giraldo, Robin Williams, Richard Jeni, Mitch Hedberg and Maria Bamford’s very public struggle – happily she survived. Stand ups are very often broken people and when you look past the punch lines it becomes glaringly obvious. Once you realize that, it’s hard not to hear the pain in their performance. I sometimes find myself crying in the middle of an hilarious bit.

In that way, comedy helped me survive from 2012 something to 2017 something. I pretty much freebased stand up comedy during that time. The catharsis it provided helped me so much. Here were deeply damaged people suffering through the same disappointments of life. Laughter is the best – well, you’ve heard that one before.

I’m not saying this is any kind of solution to chronic depression. If I knew the solution I’d definitely tell you. But it helps. Comedy, specifically stand up, has been a balm for me my whole life and continues to be.

Find your place of retreat, is my advice. Figure out what fixes you in your moment of crisis and know how to get there when you need to. This works for me. 

Social Anxiety, Let's Talk About It

In my last post I promised that I was done talking about prescription meds as related to depression. Well…

This isn’t exactly that but it’s peripherally relevant. The point of this post is in interest of getting you caught up on where I am. It’s probably more important to me than you so just roll with it or skip it. Reader’s choice.

So, the problem was this weird sensation of feeling breathless, but actually being able to breathe fine. I never put it next to my depression. I figured it was just part of my generally declining physical health. I couldn’t eat. I vomited a lot. My weight went up and down 10 to 15 pounds a month. I was a mess. Still am. At my next doctor’s appointment I described the problem. He asked a few questions.

When does it happen? Usually mid to late morning.
Where does it happen? Work
What’s your work environment? [at the time] I have a private office but I tend to keep the door open because people often need me to help with their projects.

It went on like that. After a lengthy interview he said it sounded like social anxiety. I’d always been a little disgusted by this phrase. It just struck me as silly. Plus there was that stupid tv ad a few years ago where a pencil drawn cartoon circle with a cowlick lumped along feeling all blue because of social anxiety. Doc said that it’s not always quite so pronounced. Without even consciously realizing it, I could be experiencing the symptoms without understanding where they came from.

Here's a more exhaustive discussion of social anxiety

 from the National Institute of Mental Health (NIHM)

This doctor liked to talk. He also liked to brag. He told me a few stories about other patients with similar problems and how he saved them. Arrogant prick or not, he wasn’t wrong, at least in my case.

Propanolol. Apparently it’s a drug that’s been around for a while. Initially it was intended to be a heart medication. However, it’s been discovered as also useful for anxiety disorders. It’s been the only prescription drug that’s helped me in the head-space. When I feel an attack coming on I take the pill. A bit later I realize the attack never came on. That’s it.

This piece published by the Journal of 

Psychopharmacology, Oxford in February, 2016

 provides a great deal of research

 that's been done over the years on propanolol

 as it relates to mental and emotional disorders.

At first I hoped that, perhaps, social anxiety was the chief cause of my depression. I’m introverted. I was a shy kid. I avoid social situations as much as possible. It all made sense. If I’d built up emotional defenses to social situations over the years, I might not even be noticing problems that were right in front of my face. They built up then suddenly I’m having anxiety attacks that were leading to global depression. Unfortunately, propanolol wasn’t the magic bullet. It did solve one problem and I’m glad for that, but I still have a basketful of others.

I think, maybe, there might be a range of social anxiety – kind of like being on the autism spectrum or the Kinsey scale. For instance, say I’m a number 4 on the social anxiety ladder where someone having a harder time of it is a number 7. I don’t know. Just a thought.

That’s it, I promise. I’m done talking about prescriptions. Never fear, there’s plenty more to discuss. I have a whole list sitting here on my desk next to my mouse. If you like my whining there’s plenty more to come.

The Saga of Remeron/mirtazapine

I mentioned in my last post that, despite my distrust, I tried prescriptions, plural. But, I spent the whole post whining about Prozac. The other one I tried was remeron. Let's talk about that.

About ten months after my experience with Prozac, I was referred to a mental health clinic. I was well into my second year being unemployed so I had to go on the first available Sunday and their community clinic. In other words, I showed up for the first come, first serve, free service. You just try to find more depressing circumstances!

Anyway, the psycho-whatever guy took in my story. I know, sounds irresponsible to not remember for sure what his title/position was, but at this point in my life I was emotionally and physically exhausted. Also, I liked and trusted the doctor who referred me to him. We’ll talk more about her later.

I was so in the depths of it at this time that walking to the end of the block was a major accomplishment. Driving the fifteen miles or whatever to this guy’s office was nothing less than herculean.

So, I told him about my struggle with depression. In those ten months it had become so much worse. After Prozac, the episodes of heavy limbs, crying helplessly and days of endless sleep continued to come and go. I’d have a good week then two days of useless paralysis.

I put it to him plainly. I was ready to try another prescription. I had two conditions: 1) Don’t say the P word and 2) I wanted the meds that had the lowest incidences of sexual dysfunction associated with them.

Sidebar: Sex is incredibly important to my new wife and me. We met some months after my divorce and her separation on one of those hook-up apps. It was literally meant to be a one-night - well, one-morning - stand. Turns out, we’re still standing.

So, back to it. He, the psych-whatever guy, totally understood. He listened to my whining and worries and suggested Remeron (mirtazapine). Said it had one of the lowest incidences of sexual problems and was good at smoothing out one’s depression/emotional issues.

In an FAQ on the Mayo Clinic's website they list mirtazapine as one of the antidepressants with the lowest incidence of sexual problems. However, they don't go so far as to say that there are no sexual problems associated with it. A study published by the National Institute of Health in December, 2005 reported that patients suffering from sexual issues while on other antidepressants saw improvement when they tried mirtrazapine

We filled the prescription and, after staring at the bottle for about a week, I finally started in with the recommended dosages. I stuck to it for two weeks before my wife asked why we weren’t having sex anymore. I hadn’t even noticed but we’d gone from twice a day and ten on the weekend to maybe once a week. MotherFuck! (Well, actually, quite the opposite.) I hadn’t even noticed.

The standard information/disclosure information about mirtazapine says nothing about the possibility of sexual side effects. Whether it was real or some kind of messed up placebo thing, I'm obviously in the minority or their studies sucked. 

We tried paring it down. Half a day, then half every other day; no joy. Having no libido and disappointing my partner is no solution to depression. At least in my world it’s not.

So, I’ve let mirtazapine go, too.

Tried Prescriptions

I know. The original point of this blog was to chronicle my battle with depression without prescription drugs. Well, since we last spoke I broke down and tried a couple of prescription antidepressants. Let me tell you about that.

First, a few background details that may or may not be relevant and may or may not be further explored later. As you know, I’m not a big fan of prescription drugs. Obviously, they have their place but I think today’s western society overuses them. From antibiotics to emotional and mental medications, I think that patients and doctors alike are too quick to turn to them. This isn’t either parties’ fault, the system has simply been set up in such a way that there’s not enough time in the doctor/patient relationship to explore slower – even if more effective – solutions. Also, there’s the pharm industry… There are a lot of rabbit holes to fall down here. Point is, I’m more reluctant than the average patient to accept prescriptions. Let’s leave that there for the moment; maybe we’ll get into it later.

I may be a bit paranoid in this area. For a more balanced view of the issue of prescription drugs in the US, check out this article in the Washington Post from November 2015. It points out that, among other things, prescription drug use is up possibly due to increased advertisements and an aging population. Happily, it also mentioned a decrease in antibiotic use.

Second, my wife doesn’t necessarily agree with me on this.I’m not saying she’s trying to shove a pill down my throat every time I feel a little ouchy, but she’s seen antidepressants help people in her life before and she didn’t like to see how much I was suffering. Besides my natural proclivity to depression, having lost my job and my home left me in a pretty bad place. So, when I needed to get a prescription re-upped – heart thing, not gonna fight that one – she came along with me to the clinic to talk about these squishier issues.

The nurse practitioner we saw was compassionate and took the time to listen to my story. She patiently asked questions and encouraged me to tell her everything. It was painful. Anyway, after it was all said, she proscribed Prozac. Obviously I knew about the big P. It’s an old drug and I’ve heard a lot of people have been helped by it. After some convincing I decided to give it a try. (Not much convincing, mind you. When you’re as low as I was then it doesn’t take much.)

It was a disaster. I took the prescribed dose for three days. It shut me down. I mean it literally turned me off. I’ve told this to doctors since and, save one, I can see clear skepticism in their eyes. But that’s what happened. I stopped functioning. For a week I could only get out of bed to urinate or vomit. The rest of the time I slept all day and all night. I was in a black/grey fog. My arms and legs felt like great weights that were impossible for me to lift. Had it not been for my wife – then fiancé – keeping me hydrated I might not have come out of it. Dramatic, I know, but it was really that scary. Aside from a few auto and flying incidences, my lucid moments during this episode were some of the most terrifying I’ve encountered.

According to this study published in JAMA in June, 2018 "between 2005 and 2014, the estimated overall prevalence of US adults using medications with depression as a potential adverse effect was 37.2%.The adjusted percentage of adults with concurrent depression was higher among those using more concurrent medications (eg, estimated 15% for ≥3 medications)."

Obviously, I dropped the Prozac after this. The incident left me with a strange side effect. My left ear was completely plugged up. My right ear was, too, to a degree, but at least I could hear out of it. The left? Nothing. Strange, right?

Still Pursuing

It’s been a while…again.

A lot has changed in my life since I last published an honest post; although, to be honest, none of these posts are entirely honest. They may be more or less true chunks of my reality but to call them honest is probably a stretch.

But you already knew that, I’d wager.

Okay, to summarize: I lost my job, twice; I got divorced; I moved four(?) times; my car blew out its engine and the truck I bought to replace it was stolen a few weeks ago.

In other words, I now have legitimate real-life reasons to be depressed. No longer am I a guy with a chemical imbalance; I’m a guy with real problems and I honestly don’t know what to do about them.

For a while there St. John’s Wort was doing the trick. Regular doses kept my keel more or less even. When the ship started to list, however, it didn’t seem to be enough.

Well, hang on. There are a few positives I forgot to mention. Most significantly, a few months after the divorce I met a beautiful woman. We hit it off and got married way too soon, but we’re in our forties and we know what we want and what we’re doing. So far, so good. And, one of those moves I mentioned took me out of the backwater village that I endured for over 20 years for my ex to a proper city where I’m much happier.

Anyway, back to the listing ship. When I was laid off from my first job I started to slip. I managed to hang on for a bit but after about six months of job searching it got bad. I went to the doctor and, for the first time in my life I went on prescription antidepressants. Prozac, to be specific, and it was a disaster – wouldn’t be the last. It completely put me on my back. For a week I couldn’t wake up, much less get out of bed.

That’s where it started…again. Looking back, some of the best therapy I got was from writing this blog. Maybe it can help me again so I’m going to try to pick it back up. I know I’ve made a lot of vague allusions here. We’ll get into to some of them later. Some of them, I’m just going to let drift. You’re welcome to take the ride with me.

Hi!

I'm thinking I'll take this up again. A lot has changed with me and a lot has remained the same. You can expect the same incoherent, navel gazing posts as before. Right now I'm just doing some housecleaning; this post is mostly just a test to make sure that everything looks ok. If you happen to notice any problems or have any suggestions for future posts, please let me know.

Following up...

This isn't a real post, just a follow up on the last one. That post was incredibly cathartic for me. Writing it was the last time I wept uncontrollably over the situation. I've squished out a few tears since but nothing like before. Clearly, I was angry at my wife over the situation and I still think that we had other options. But, that's in the past and I have to balance that against everything else. Dan Savage, who I think is incredibly wise in these things, talks about the price of admission. That is those things about your mate that you overlook or just get past in order to maintain the relationship. This has to be one of those for me. I'm not an easy person. But, I've found a person who is easy with me. I need to accept this price of admission. Actually, things have improved for me since I posted that last entry. Like I said, it was cathartic for me. My relationship with my wife has improved and I feel our bond is strengthening. Death happens. Life sucks.

Death and falling stars

I recently lost a close friend. Literally, as I typed that, a huge, fast burning, falling star appeared before me. I literally mean literally.

Let me tell you where I am as I write this. I’m in a suite – they keep calling it condo but, I’m pretty sure it’s a suite – on the beach in Destin, Florida. I’m on the balcony, smoking a rare cigar which I’m pretty sure is against the rules, listening to the surf. It’s just 5am and I’m recently awake. The sky is still dark so, instead of the gorgeous beach scene that I’m expecting any minute now, I’ve got the Milky Way which, is as good or better than most any terrestrial scene you can serve up.

I should be more content just now than I ever am. But, that’s not my MO. Looking back on life, thinking about some of the incredible things I’ve seen and experiences I’ve had, I know that at every moment I was always too much in my head. Look at me now. It only too me two an a half paragraphs to see a stunning falling star and then climb right back up my own ass.

I slept on the coach last night. When I went to climb into bed, after washing a good cry off my face, I found my wife on my side of the bed. Now, I’m not a dictator about things like this, but I’m also an extremely flawed man who has trouble dealing with change.

Oh, I said, I didn’t know we were switching sides, as I gathered my night-time things from the nightstand next to her head. She looked at me silently.

A sit-com rerun was on the TV so I tried to settle into that. No luck. I squirmed and flopped for about 30 minutes while she fell into a dead sleep.

I tried to sneak out without waking her. At the last moment she groggily asked what I was doing. Did I want her to sleep elsewhere? No. Okay.

Earlier last night, over dinner, her son asked why we had put the cat down. Her son, who is successfully carving out a career for himself in the Army, is treating us to this weekend. It’s my birthday now and hers in a week. It’s a sweet gesture that I don’t think he fully understands as his wife has been gently explaining the whole experience to him every step of the way.

My wife explained how Desi, a lifetime indoor cat, got fleas a few months ago. How? She’s not sure. (I brought fleas home from a temporary, outdoor job I had to take working with plants.) We tried and tried to get rid of them but nothing we tried seemed to work. The cat became more and more upset with the situation and stopped using his litter box. She decided the night that he peed in her gym bag, that he had to be put down. There was just no other choice.

His sister, Lucy, died a few years ago. She developed some sort of strangulation in her intestines and couldn’t eat. It was far too expensive and uncertain to risk surgery; she had to be euthanized. It was too much for me to take Lucy to the vet that day so my wife did. Later, she told me that she couldn’t bare to go with her into the room so Lucy died scared, confused, and alone in the arms of a man she’d never seen before. It broke my heart.

I vowed that when it came Desi’s turn, I wouldn’t let that happen.

It wasn’t Desi’s turn. There were still a couple of options that we could try. They would take time and patience and more cleaning supplies but I wanted to try. My wife didn’t. She was mad at him for peeing in her gym bag and was certain that he planned to ruin our couch, next. She woke me up in the middle of the night and told me that I had to take him to be put down the next day.

I explained the options we still had, she wasn’t interested. We argued. I pleaded for more time but, she said that if I didn’t do it the next day she would do it in three days. Three days wasn’t enough time for the other options to start working so, I knew that if I didn’t do it, she would send him back to the death room, alone like Lucy.

So, I got out of bed and went upstairs to the living room. I made a bed on the couch and Desi, as he usually did when I lay on my back, came and curled up on my chest. We slept like that. Then, the next day, I killed him.

As he lay on that steel table, being held down by me and one of the nurses, or whatever they are in a vet’s clinic, I scratched him in all his favorite places and bawled. I kept saying, Desi, my love, a thing I used to say all the time, and I’m so sorry, a thing I’d rarely had to say to him before.

He craned his neck around, looking at the room and trying to understand what was going on. Finally, he found my face and stared in my eyes while the needle went in and he quickly drifted away.

That was well over a month ago and I’m still not close to being over it. I thought I was until last night when I heard the situation described so breezily. It was all I could do to keep from bawling uncontrollably right there at the table in the highly recommended seafood joint that the daughter in law so carefully picked out for us.

I’m aware of the thing with pets and I hope and believe that most of you have stopped reading this by now. No one really wants to hear about the death of another’s pet. Desi wasn’t a special cat to the rest of the world. He only knew about five people and, as far as I know, only two have cried at his death, my wife and me.

My problem is, I don’t know how to get around this. I thought I was getting there but I’m not. I can’t forgive her for forcing the situation and I can’t forgive myself for allowing her to do so. I didn’t get up and move to the couch last night because I was on the wrong side of the bed. I got up and moved to the couch because, since Desi’s death, I haven’t been able to sleep in the same bed as her without chemical assistance.

I want to recover from this. I don’t know how.

Trying it the Nerdist Way

I've been away. Long time readers will know that I do that. I won't make any promises that I'm back to updating regularly. But, for now, here's a post.

So, my life has continued to crumble. Just when I think I can't mess things up any worse than they already are, I find another thing to ruin. I'm still married. I'm stunned that my wife puts up with me but she does. I am so not the person that I was when we met but, I can still make her laugh and I suppose that's something. Oh, and there's all that love and commitment stuff...

My book deal, the thing that defined and sustained me for quite a few months, fell through. It was mostly my fault; it was like I set myself up to fail in horrible slow motion just so I could watch the train wreck frame by frame. There were a few contributing factors that were beyond my control. I haven't really given the whole situation a good, hard study and I probably never will. Chances are I just used those factors as excuses. Anyway, I now owe the publisher my advance back so, yippee!, more debt.

Finances are a huge problem for me at the moment. When the book deal collapsed, I started looking for work in earnest. I had been casually dipping my toe in the job pool before then but, when it all came down in December, I cranked up my job hunting dial to eleven. Even so, it took me until the end of April to land a job. It's seasonal work and ends in June. Luckily, I found another job that I start in a week so that's something. Still things are eye-ball poppingly tight and everything feels like an upstairs stumble to the next payday. Plus, this is not where I was supposed to be at this point in life.

I'm still writing. Financial desperation makes it difficult to keep a positive voice. Magazines have stopped buying my work. No doubt the editors can smell my desperation in my pitches. I've still got my regular online gigs which pay pretty well. The jobs I took, both the seasonal and the new one, are part-time so I've been able to keep up. So, I'm hoping that in a month or two my finances will be back in shape and my writing won't stink quite as much.

Which brings me to the title of this post. I'm reading my first self-help book. It's called The Nerdist Way. I didn't set out to find a self-help book as most of them seem like hooey to me. I came to it simply because I'm a fan of the author, Chris Hardwick. As you may have guessed, he is a self proclaimed nerd and one of the guys out in front of the nerds-are-cool movement. I'm pretty nerdy myself - I know, shocker, right? - and am pretty tuned into most of what he talks and writes about. In many ways he's like me except successful. So, when I learned about his book I thought I'd give it a try.

It's pretty good. I'm only a few chapters in but I have to admit that I'm feeling a little inspired. The book isn't about depression; it's about embracing our nerdly qualities to succeed in life. And I could do with a little success just now as it seems like everything in my life is covered in an oily, black sludge of depression.

It's going to be a long and horrible road up out of this pit. I don't know if I can do it but, with the new job and a bit of nudging from Hardwick, maybe I can turn this train wreck around. (I realize the metaphor makes no sense whatsoever but just roll with it, okay?)

Lame update with a quote...

It's been a while since I said anything. Things have not been good for me personally or professionally but I'm surviving. I have no patience for people whining about their life's circumstances so I won't bore you with mine.

So, here's a quote I stumbled upon:
"You can accept or reject the way you are treated by other people. But until you heal the wounds of your past, you will continue to bleed. You can bandage the bleeding with food, with alcohol, with drugs, with work, with cigarettes, with sex, but eventually, it will all ooze through and stain your life. You must find the strength to open the wounds, stick your hands inside, pull out the core of the pain that is holding you in your past, the memories, and make peace with them." ~ Iyanla Vanzant

I don't know if I can do that but it sounds pretty good.

Folic fail

I finished off my fourth bottle of the mmthff-whatever a couple of days ago. Apart from the first week which I chalk up to a placebo effect, I saw no change over the many weeks while I took it. This doesn't mean that it doesn't work for anybody, JL and Melanie have clearly benefited from the stuff. It just happens to be that I don't.

So, what now? A reader asked that question back when I started trying the folic solution and I didn't have an answer. I still don't. Maybe I'll look into JL's meditation. Maybe I'll give walking another try. Or, most likely, I'll just sit here and keep self-medicating with booze. I really wish I could afford a therapist.

--------------

My father in law visited yesterday. He lives 1100 miles away so it's kind of a big deal when he stops in. On the other hand, we see him two or three times a year so it's kind of not a big deal. Anyway, we had lunch at a BBQ place downtown. I live in an old river town on the Mississippi. Downtown is right on the river and is bisected by a railroad. After we were done eating, we sat around and chatted. I quite like this restaurant and even have a bit of a history with it but, yesterday they were blasting the worst of the '70's and '80's so, after a while, I just had to get out of there.

I left and wandered out in the street, aiming to sit on a quiet park bench near the railroad tracks. As if on cue, a train came screaming up on me. I couldn't sit through that so I stood up, as if in some sort of respect. After the engine passed with it's blasting horn, I was confronted with what seemed to be miles and miles of train cars rumbling past with horrible, magnificent noise. I could only stand and watch.

I wondered how hard it would be to time it to dive under the cars, between the wheels, and put my head on the tracks for a quick and, mostly, painless death. I watched a rusty old car come rumbling up to me as it swayed back and forth on it's unstable wheels and secretly hoped that it would tumble over and take me. In short, I had one of the more suicidal moments that I've had for some time. And, I must say, it was a bit refreshing. I actually feel better now for having had it.

Living with depression

This is something I really haven’t given much thought to. If you were to look back at this blog, which constitutes pretty much all my thinkinhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifg about depression since I started it, you’d probably find that around 75% of it are posts featuring me whining about my self-diagnosed chronic depression, around 20% about one or another alternative cure I’ve considered, 5% about miscellaneous stuff, and the remaining 37% about how bad I am at math. But, actually coping with depression, living day after day with this dark companion, is something that I’ve avoided altogether both in my head and on this blog, at least as an explicit topic of conversation. I’ve been so concerned about how much it sucks and how great it will be when I get over it that I’ve missed the obvious. To quote Jack Nicholson’s line, “What if this is as good as it gets?” What then? How have I coped and survived until now and how will I continue to do so?

A few weeks ago, I got an email from a teenager in Australia. Let’s call him Tom. He is also depressed. It appears to be chronic and he’s getting help. He’s not hiding it and, under the Australian health-care system, he has access to real help. So good so far, right? He emailed me because he felt that I, being someone more than twice his age with roughly the same set of problems, could provide some insight that the best of his counselors haven’t so far. To paraphrase because I didn’t ask permission to quote him, he basically had two questions based on the single premise that, since he seems to be stuck with this depression thing for life: 1) Is it really worth it to go on? 2) If so, then how does he cope with it because all the meds and counseling in the world, though they can help, might never make it really go away.

I didn’t ask his permission because I didn’t know if I would respond at all. I’m still not sure, as I type this sentence, if I can come up with something worth saying. I’ve been pretty flummoxed since I got his email. Given that I’ve never really considered question 2, it gave me a lot to think about. How have I coped? Do I really know or do I plod through the day, fearful of the alternative? I’m still not entirely sure.

Let’s tackle question 1 first. We’re talking about suicide although he never said it. It’s something to talk about. Most professionals and patients seem to treat suicide as the no-no, hush-hush alternative that we must never speak of or even allow ourselves to consider. I don’t really have a problem with it, I really don’t. Who’s to say that a person in a severe depressive episode is in any less pain than something who’s body is failing from a terminal disease. Your conclusion about whether or not someone in the latter situation should be given the ability to kill herself may be different from mine but, in the post-Kevorkian world, I think that we can all agree it’s something that should be considered and discussed. Ah, you say, depressive episodes pass and the person has the chance at life beyond it. True, but a life punctuated by random, unpredictable depressive episodes may be too much for one to deal with. Ultimately, the moral positions on suicide are not unlike abortion – they are too wrapped up in personal ethics, religious beliefs and societal mores for there to be a clear, universal answer. I believe it should be a personal choice. I do not consider someone who commits suicide to be immoral or even wrong. (The exception in my mind is when one commits suicide when he has obligations, financial or otherwise, to his friends or family. It is condemnable to leave behind someone to clean up the mess that he was too cowardly to clean up himself.)

But, none of that really addresses Tom’s question, does it? Is it worth it to go on? Here’s the answer that seems to have evolved in my life. Yes, for the most part, it’s worth it to go on. I have more good days than bad and, most of the time, I’m hopeful about the future. I’m also curious about the future; I really want to know how things will turn out. It seems a little silly to base my mortality on seeing the plot through but it works for me, somehow. I’m also damn scared of killing myself. At my lowest moments, the thing that kept me from doing the deed can only be described as pure cowardice. So, is it worth it to go on? As I said before, so far, for me, it beats the alternative.

Okay, then, on to Tom’s second question. How to cope with it? This is the bit that really stymied me. I really don’t know how I’ve coped. As I turned this question and the answers I could think of over in my head I began to realize that I was writing a commencement address – seek your happiness, be true to yourself, love your family, blah, blah, blah. Like I said, Tom’s a teenager and he’s set to graduate soon enough. I’ll leave the platitudes for the C-list actor who happened to graduate from Tom’s high-school and gives that speech the year he graduates.

So, I tried harder to come up with real answers. The thing about depression is that it is our problem. It is fairly well defined and we kind of have a list of things it does to us. However, everyone has problems, right? I heard of a study a few years ago that says that babies and toddlers feel the same level of anxiety over their little dramas as we adults do. It seems silly to consider that a missing toy leads to the same amount of stress as trying to figure out how to pay the utilities on a limited budget but, apparently, it does. My point is that I think humans tend to look for and focus on points of tension in our lives. We depressives are lucky in a twisted way in that we know the source of our tension and we sort of know what to expect from it. Other people with a different set of less definable problems are trying to deal with them as best as they can. I’m not sure if I’m making my point very clearly here or if I even really had one to begin with. Let’s move on.

As I’ve stumbled through life, I seem to have settled to two key points that guide me.

The first is to know your depression. This means that it’s important to learn when depression is making you feel a certain way or real life circumstances are. Rage, anxiety and sadness are all occasional symptoms of depression. They are also symptoms of the human experience. Whenever you feel extreme emotions, take a beat and try to identify if it’s a result of real life or some meaningless, internal storm. I’ve lost friends and alienated family members over not being able to tell the difference. Innocent comments can be misinterpreted when observed through a depressive filter and turned into insults.

My second best bit of advice is never blame your depression. I’m talking about both externally and internally. Externally is easy. Just don’t do it. Never use your depression as an excuse for your actions. If you are an ass to your best friend because you misinterpreted an innocent comment while you were having a particularly low day, don’t say you did it because you are a depressive. Your depression might have influenced you but final decision to lash out was yours. Apologize, hope he accepts it and move on. This isn’t to say that you never talk about your depression – your friends might be a great source of support for you - just don’t rely on it as an excuse for your bad actions.

More importantly, never tell yourself that you acted a certain way or made a bad decision because of your depression. Once again, depression might have influenced you but, ultimately, you are responsible for what you do. Blaming depression becomes a crutch, relieving you of all responsibility and that can become a vicious cycle: I’m even more depressed now because my life sucks because I made bad decisions because I was depressed at the time so now my decisions are going to be even worse and my life will suck all the more. Depression may be a part of who you are until the day you die but never let it define who you are.

I tried to avoid platitudes but that last sentence came dangerously close, didn’t it.

So, Tom, there’s my answer. I’m sorry it took so long but you really threw me on that one. You gave me a lot to think about and I hope I gave you a little insight, too. Best of luck, brother!

This blog post contains a sponsored link.

Fabulous Folic Acid? - A folic acid update from another perspective.

This is a guest post from my buddy JL. She discovered folic acid around the same time that I did and has had much better success with it. So, to avoid yet another gloomy "things still suck" post from me - which is the case - I asked her to tell us about her experiences with it. And, when you're done reading this, go subscribe to her blog, From Manic to Mindful.
-Ray

In my 32 years, I can say with full confidence that depression has dominated over ¾ of my life: I was an incredibly angry and sad little girl (oh, how the therapists love to hear that!) , who grew to become an overly eager-to-please, must-be-perfect-at-all-times teenager, who finally came down hard at age eighteen, only to be kept afloat on a cocktail of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medicine until about eight weeks ago, when I stumbled onto the blog I’m writing for now. Through this blog I found another blog, (Methodical Musings of an Unbalanced Woman) and I discovered Folic Acid- specifically, 5-MTHF.

I’ve spent a lot of time on anti-depressants. To name a few: Lexapro, Cymbalta, Zoloft (thank you very much for landing me in the hospital), Paxil…and those are just the ones I remember. I spent my longest time on Lexapro, and I was pregnant with all three of my children while taking it (after my doctor’s decided that the “benefits” outweighed the “harm”. So far so good with my little ones, but I guess time will tell). Here’s the funny thing about anti-depressants: I was never really not depressed while taking them. I was cushioned and functioning better, for sure, but I still always fought that depression. So when I had the epiphany, if you will, that the anti-depressants were not really doing much for me and acting as a placeholder solution, at best, coupled with increasing difficulties with health insurance to even GET said anti-depressants, I needed to finally go on that search to nip my depression in the bud, or at least keep it in check, on my own.

I knew that an answer must be out there.

When I stumbled on the information about 5-MTHF, all I had to read was “there are studies that show that a large amount of the population cannot properly break down and absorb Folic Acid, and those who are unable to do so are prone to depression, anxiety, and anger (among other diseases and issues),” and I was sold. I emailed said bloggers about it and asked them for more information. As a girl who loved her illicit drugs while in high school and college, not to mention her booze, (NOT ENDORSING that behavior, just being honest with you…) I had zero problem with taking a vitamin supplement I ordered over the internet.

Methylated Folic Acid, in it’s L-methylfolate form, is already broken down so that, basically, the work has already been done for those people who are not able to do so because of their genetic deficiency. I can’t say whether I have said genetic defect or not, since I have not been tested, but I do know that depression runs very heavily in my family, and not only has it been obvious that my maternal grandmother was/is severely depressed, so is my mother, me (obviously,) and I see it in my seven year old son ( a little more about that in a bit). I readily ordered my methyl-folate and anxiously awaited its arrival.

In its early days, (and still, today, because I guess we can still say it’s still early since almost none of the physicians that I’ve discussed this with have any clue about it…though evidently research about this began FORTY YEARS AGO…) methylated folic acid was (and still is) prescribed to go WITH anti-depressants, to make them more effective. I can confirm that this was the case for me, right away. Happy, Joy, Grateful-wow. A whole new world opened up for me immediately. I attributed this to the folic acid and (combined with the fact that I was so desperate to be off of my meds) quickly made an appointment with my doctor to discuss coming off of my antidepressants (Cymbalta. 20 mg twice a day)-I am not one to wait around for things to happen. We agreed on a plan (well, she told me a plan and basically forced me to agree, though in my many years with anti-depressants I knew that “her” way to come off of the pills was too fast…) and I began decreasing my dosage of anti-depressants, and kept with the 5-MTHF (which she knew nothing about, but because she had heard of folic acid, said was “fine”.)

Coming off of those first 20 mgs a day was unusually easy. MUCH, much different than coming off of anti-depressants had ever been before: I was still very much content and yes, even happy. This was a very new experience for me. But I guess I should also stick in a disclaimer: along with the 5-MTHF, I began practicing mindful meditation and using the Silva Method of Meditation, which I have committed myself to doing once a day. I also stopped drinking alcohol as much as I did before- only about a glass a day. This wasn’t so hard, though, because something interesting happened: I didn’t WANT to drink. I don’t know if it’s the folic acid or the meditation or what, but I can’t write a truthful post without putting those other parts in as well.

I have to say that the final 3 (that’s right. A mere THREE mgs) of the Cymbalta were the worst. I felt like a crack whore coming off of the hooch (I have a really good imagination). It was awful and I began to wonder if the folic acid really helped at all. But I had to remind myself that I have been on anti-depressants for MORE THAN A DECADE, and that my adult self has never existed without them, so of course it would be incredibly difficult and that I really needed to cut myself some slack.

Here’s what kept me going during that (not so long ago) time:

My son, who I mentioned before, is seven and has displayed anger and anxiety ever since he was three. Part of me always chalked it up to my divorce from his father when he was one, and his anger about my re-marriage and the two baby sisters he got as a result of the remarriage. But after four years, I finally confronted my excuses for his behavior and accepted the realization that he is probably a “depressive,” just as I am. I do not want this kid on prescription, synthetic, medication, especially at such a young age, and yes, he has been to therapy. Still willing to give 5-MTHF a fighting chance, I decided to see how he would do on it.

In my research and discussions with other people who take the 5-MTHF, I learned that this is one of those supplements that have almost no side-effects, and that it benefits basic human functions on so many ways that it is just fine for almost anyone to take, even children (but I would definitely research that more before you give our two year old methyl-folate.- or anyone for that matter ) My son is a big 7- at 85 lbs I felt okay with giving him 2 mgs of the 5-MTHF a day. Not right away, but after a few weeks my son slowly evolved into being a happy kid. Finally!!! As a parent, this is the one thing you want for your child. Seeing my guy like this is such an incredible relief for me. He still gets angry at times and is as difficult as any other 7 year old boy I hear about, but for the most part our home is so much better. He even told me himself that he “feels so much nicer when he takes his medicine.” (Of course, we have many discussions about how it isn’t really a “medication” but a food supplement…) Just knowing, and seeing what the folic acid has done for him really got me through those incredibly tough days I spent ridding myself of Cymbalta.

Now, I come from a family of researchers- my father has his PhD in Chemical Engineering, as does my brother. Most of my parent’s friends are either chemists or physicians of some sort. I am merely a graphic designer, who has a passion for all things psychological (does it matter that my minor in college was in psychology???) but I do love to do my own research-and empower myself by doing so. I strongly encourage others who are considering anything like this to do their own research as well. My father has been so impressed with what he has seen from both myself and my son (we are all very close) that I have had the fortunate experience of being surrounded by my own personal research team. Therefore, based on my own experience, I feel really confident with my personal dosages, method of coming off of anti-depressants, and giving the supplement to my son. I am not telling anyone to do the same without doing their own research, attempting to discuss this with THEIR doctors, etc. etc. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that depression is an extremely serious disease, so please view this blog post as food for thought but not the official go-to place for information. Be your own responsibility and look into it yourself.

That said,

A couple of key points I would like to mention:

1. Research shows that pretty much everyone can benefit in some way from taking Folic Acid. However, those who are not able to absorb the folate (genetically) vs. those who are will react differently and have very different experiences. For those who CAN’T absorb it, and who take the 5-MTHF, it will work drastically better than those who CAN absorb it naturally and whose depression is not biologically based but perhaps more psychologically or experience based instead.

2. As with any supplement or drug, amounts are key. One person (and these are “random” amounts I’m naming) might “need” 15 mg a day, another 7, and yet another, 5. I have been playing around with quantities (DANGER! YES! I’M NOT A DOCTOR!) and it seems that I do best when I take twice as much as I initially thought (based on my research) I would need.

3. Many physicians have no damn clue about this. And it’s really frustrating but hopefully through blogs and other word of mouth, more doctors will become interested and look into it. But I have to admit I get really annoyed at people who say “okay, I’ll discuss it with my doctor” and then the doctor has never heard of it and the idea is dismissed. I am not “pushing” the 5-MTHF here so much as I am encouraging people to be their own health advocates. After I looked into and actually READ the 42 pages of disclaimers of Cymbalta, I was shocked that the stuff is on the market. And yet, doctors wanted to keep me on it.

4. Traditional blood tests might not show that you do not absorb the folic acid. It might show up, yes, because it’s in your system, but the indicators will not be there whether it is actually being fully absorbed and processed correctly or not. So you can’t really see whether you can or can not genetically absorb the folic acid by saying “oh, I had my blood panel done and my folate levels were fine.” It goes deeper than that, folks. You'll need the actual genetic testing.

5. NOT ALL FOLIC ACIDS ARE THE SAME. Chances are, you will not be able to find the proper L-methylfolate in your local healthfood store. The “L” is the important bit here, which is the folate in it’s “purest” form. Yes, taking folic acid is good. But there is a “good, better, and best” and it turns out, for the “extreme” cases, ie, the people who don’t absorb it, that the “L” is the way to go.

6. There is an entirely different discussion to be had (which I don’t really understand) that has to do with Folic Acid and the B-vitamins. Turns out that it is HIGHLY recommended that you take a B12 with the folic acid (I found a methylated one that both myself, my husband, my mother in law, and my best friend now take because it is AWESOME and the energy you get from it is amazing.) Just thought I’d throw that in there.

7. The drug Deplin is a prescription of methyl-folate and comes in 7.5 mg. and 15 mg pill form. I am mentioning it because it comes up a lot when researching MTHF. I am honestly on the fence about it and can’t entirely trust that it just is what it says it is or whether it has some of the synthetic neuro-transmitters in there that the other antidepressants have, which, of course, is what I’m trying to avoid. There seems to be different information on it all over the place so it’s left me stumped-which means I won’t take it. I’m sure it’s fine and completely legit but I after coming off of the Cymbalta I am so wary of anything prescription anymore.

I know this has gotten pretty long so I need to wrap it up, but I want to everyone to know that right now you’re reading something from someone who has had a pretty rough time. I’ve had the world tell me that there is no reason for my depression, that I have everything to live for, blah blah blah. Yes, this is true, but there is this little thing called CLINICAL DEPRESSION that is very real and still exists no matter how smart you are, or pretty you are, or tall or short or thin…or if you have a loving family or not, a supportive spouse or dog or whatever. It’s like cancer-it can get anyone. To say that I am thrilled to find 5-MTHF is an understatement. Wonderdrug? Probably not. Nothing comes without work: you’ll have to stay on it, to find the dose that works for you, and also be willing to examine your life and make whatever changes that are necessary in order to help yourself. No pill will do that, but it might motivate you to.

I can’t pretend that I know everything about folic acid, and my life isn’t 100 % (or even 90 or 80 percent) rainbows and butterflies since I’ve started taking it, but to me, it is an incredibly huge step and I am so grateful to Ray for this blog, and to Melanie from Methodical Musings of an Unbalanced Woman, for introducing me to this supplement (and also being my depression support group, in a way). My life (and my son’s) has taken its most drastic change to date and it’s really exciting for me. I actually feel like, for the first time ever, that life might be worth living after all. Go figure.

In my own blog, From Manic to Mindful, I write about my experiences with depression, with coming off of antidepressants and how I did it (and my struggles with it), and all of the proactive steps I’m taking to rid myself of depression-without the “aid” of the medical community. Some of it is helpful, I’m sure, but admittedly, some days I just b*tch about how I hate Costco milk containers and how I get so angry at them that I want to throw them across the kitchen. After all, I might take 5-MTHF now and meditate daily, but that doesn’t mean I’m not human.