A Hard Subject

I wrote this post about 7 months ago, but my anxiety about the subject matter has kept me from publishing it. Today I finally share it with you.

November 2019:
I haven't written a blog post in years. It's crazy to think it's been that long, because it certainly doesn't feel that long. Time is a funny thing. However, the good news is, I'm finally done with school! I've got my Masters degree!!! It only took a few years. And now I can return to documenting the oddities and nuances and thoughts of life.

I've been having a lot of thoughts about life lately. With so much turmoil in the world, there are a lot of conflicting views. Social media can be extra hard, especially if I'm already in a depressive spiral. And that is the introduction to today's topic. Depression.

Much like my PCOS, my depression symptoms are often different than many people around me. Less severe, usually. So I tend to stay out of conversations about it because I feel like maybe my experiences are invalid, so to speak. This is of course a ridiculous notion, but I feel it still. I see people who suffer severely, and think, "well, I'm not as depressed as them, what could I add to this conversation, people will think I'm stupid, or that I'm faking it." Yet it was only 5 years ago that I was on the verge of taking my own life. I no longer wanted to exist. And while I have recovered from that mindset, the darkness still affects my daily life.

Overall I recall having a very happy childhood. The funny side to that is I can't recall very many specifically happy memories. In fact, most of my specific childhood memories are of me feeling sad or lonely. I just know that overall I was pretty happy. I thought I was.

My first suicidal thought came at the age of 14.

Fourteen. How young. It wasn't a totally serious thought, but it came nonetheless. I remember being at a church activity with youth from multiple congregations. It was supposed to be an activity that mimicked life (like the board game, but we were handed tickets and told to go "live" at different activity stations). Well, at 14 I wasn't the most socially adept person, and I didn't have many friends outside of the few that I hung with frequently (ya know, 'cause I was socially inept, even if people didn't see it that way. I also call it social anxiety, but I didn't know that then). Of course for this activity they split us all up so we couldn't be around people we knew well, and I spent a good majority of that activity surrounded by people yet totally alone, but too anxious to initiate interaction with them. How I longed to joke and talk and laugh with them, but I couldn't. I was miserable. We were supposed to hit certain life "milestones" before we were sent to the chapel (aka, the afterlife). I had my life "tickets" still in hand, mostly unspent, and sat in what was supposed to be a peaceful and calm environment where we can spend time in reflection. Trying not to burst into tears, I already had thoughts that I may never make it in this world. That's when I decided I wished I had never existed in the first place. I knew that not many people would care if I hadn't. No one would be the wiser if I was just never born.

I always felt there was an important distinction between wanting to not exist, and wanting to die. I didn't want to die, I simply wanted to have never existed. Between my anxiety and the desire to stop existing, there are a lot of points I could bring up in this post. I'm going to focus on the depression here. The upside to this story is that I kept my head down, hid my emotions, worked hard, and actually became quite successful by my own standards. It only took me another 14 years and a huge learning and humility curve. Keeping my head down wasn't the upside to this story, in fact it probably wasn't a very healthy way to deal with much of this, but I still have a success story, and that's what matters.

When I was 16 I turned to exercise to help me. It did help. It didn't cure me, but it helped me keep the monsters at bay. I kept to the motto, "fake it til you make it." I was determined to put a smile on and leave it there until I felt happy again. The stupid part is that I believed it worked, because I wasn't depressed *every* day. I also fell into the cultural trap surrounding me that says anything can be fixed with more prayer and scripture study. I'll be honest, those things also helped me keep the monsters at bay, but they didn't fix me.

When I was 18 I thought I had a good handle on it. I had learned to navigate life with some mild depression, and it was okay. I could get through it. Sure, there were still days that I wish I had never existed in the first place, but I didn't have too many suicidal thoughts. Those commercials for depression didn't really define my average self, they didn't show people distracting themselves with phone and computer games, or having a constant brain fog, or the little me in the back of my head telling myself that I will never be enough. They did show people who felt sleepy often, but my sleep schedule was pretty whacked out, which *obviously* caused most of my problems. Therefore, via commercial advertisements, mine *must've* just been a mild depression.

Fast-forward to my college days. I had the most stellar roommates. These women were placed into my life for a reason. I continued to navigate through my depression. At the age of 22, halfway through the nursing program, I finally saw a counselor at the behest of my nursing school bestie. After many hours and a few small tests my official diagnosis became clear. I had ADD and anxiety. I've written about my ADD before, so I won't go much into it here. I was put on medication and began attending group therapy. As the anxiety improved, so did the depression. So I figured the depression stemmed from the anxiety and left it at that. My parents were in a bit of disbelief when I told them, but then I explained a few things and how my funny "quirks" were actually coping mechanisms, and explained how it may have gone undetected for so long. They were happy I was finally on a path that would help me succeed in life without the barriers I had previously faced. In that same year I also saw a doctor who diagnosed me with PCOS (poly-cystic ovarian syndrome), another hidden ailment that when diagnosed helped me make sense of so much of my life, and regain some control or at least acceptance over my emotional well-being. PCOS is also strongly linked with depression.

Naively I thought that was it. I thought that was the year I would cure myself. I had diagnoses and I could fix myself. I only wish it were that simple. I wish that the medications and diagnoses could help me feel like people liked me, but the nagging voice in the back of my head never went away. To this day I have to override that voice with my own logic and remind my self that there are people in this world that DO like me. People who actually enjoy my presence. For most of my life, starting at that young age of 14 - I felt like people only tolerated my presence politely. I wasn't the worst person in the world, but I wasn't "fun." I just figured at that point I'd never grow a fun personality, and I came to terms with that. Typing this out makes it seem absurd, but as I said, the nagging voice is there even now. It doesn't tell me I'm worthless, it doesn't tell me I'm ugly, or mean or dumb. It just tells me that I don't fit in, that I'm boring, that I'm not "enough" of whatever it is I want to be, and that the people around me are just being polite to me.

I got married when I was 24. We had been together for the past 4 years, and he knew me and my depression/anxiety well. Right after the wedding I up and moved to Chicago with him. I was nervous, of course, but also excited. The first few months out there were hard. I wasn't homesick like I thought I would be, but I wasn't good at making friends (social anxiety and all). My first friends were the sister missionaries. It was really cool to be going on splits with them at least a few times a month, feeding them frequently, and hosting lessons at our apartment at least twice a month. However, even this immersion into the gospel didn't cure me. I still had plenty of happy days and moments, but the darkness of depression continually lurked in the back of my head. Making a few other friends in the ward was great, yet I continued feeling depressed. I was also having panic attacks almost daily. They weren't shaking, sweating, freaking out moments, but rather times where all of a sudden I couldn't function. The only thing that kept me breathing was the fact that I would sit and focus on my breathing. And for maybe 30 minutes at a time, that was all I could do. Sit and breathe. Because anything else was too overwhelming (literally, anything else). The hardest part of this time in my life was that I didn't know why I was feeling this way. I didn't know why I was having these panic attacks. The first time I cried after Rhett and I were married was about three months in, and I lost it over some stupid comment Rhett made about not needing curtains on the windows when I wanted some. It's actually a really funny story and I like to share it, but this was also around the time that my depression overtook me.

The world got very dark. Literally and figuratively. It was nearing the end of fall and being farther north than anywhere in Utah, the sun rose later and set earlier. It was often dark by 5pm. I struggled to get out of bed. I didn't have a job yet (on purpose, we wanted to fly home for the holidays and then I would look for a job), and I was going a bit stir crazy. Here's the problem. I could barely make it outside. I would get up, and it would take so much energy just to brush my teeth that I would have to go lay back down for at least 30 minutes. I felt nothing except exhaustion and sadness for days, or maybe weeks, I'm not sure. I had battled depression in the past, but nothing like this. It was confusing because there was no reason for me to be so empty and void of emotion, I had (and have) so many blessings and I spent time counting them. By all accounts I had nothing to be sad about, and I knew that at the time; My brain was able to pull that from it's logic. Even counting my blessings couldn't pull me from this darkness. I could remember that I had felt happy before, but I couldn't conjure up the emotions from happy memories during that time the way I normally can. It was so bad that even though I knew I had been happy before, I couldn't remember if it was 2 days or 2 years prior to that moment. I still have an image in my head where I was just standing in my closet, trying to find an outfit, and I began to finger the pull cord on the closet light. A previous tenant had tied a garbage bag to the bottom of the metal chain to make the cord longer. By the time we moved in, the garbage bag was in small strands, but still connected by knots at the bottom. That's when I began to think, how easy would it be for me to just stick my neck in this, and relax my legs? So as I played with a stupid light cord (which likely wouldn't have held my weight anyway, but I obviously wasn't rational enough to realize that), and I thought about how easy it would be, and I thought about how I couldn't be happy, I was overcome with fear. More like terror. I was terrified of what might happen should I continue this way. This was the first time I had felt anything other than exhaustion or sadness in who-knows-how-long. That's when I really began to cry. I was as close to grateful as I could get that I felt another emotion. It was the fear that pulled me back and let me finally ask for help, and it may have been the only thing that saved me that night.

So I told Rhett. I don't remember what I told him, but I told him something. Then I made an appointment to see a doctor.

And yet, in those few months of being emotionally void, I was still able to fool the outside world by putting on a smile, showing up to activities, and there were days in that period that I know I was genuinely happy. I might have started my day off feeling neutral, gone out with the missionaries and been happy, called my mom or my sister on the phone to share my happiness, then gone home to a sudden panic attack and a crushing darkness. Sometimes my day started with that crushing darkness and it wasn't until 6 or 7pm when Rhett and I ate dinner together that I would start to feel lighter and happier. There appeared to be no rhyme or reason to my panic attacks or my dark depression.

Funnily enough, by the time I saw the doctor, I had yet again convinced myself it was all just related to my stupid anxiety. So I told my doctor about my panic attacks, without mentioning the depression. I shared my concern that I have never had panic attacks in the past, even with a previous diagnosis of anxiety, and I couldn't find a specific trigger for them. I also told him that I was hesitant to go on any medication because I didn't want to be dependent or addicted to the benzo's that are often prescribed, but I feared I may need to. He talked to me about how frequently the panic attacks were occurring and how my personality is in general, then prescribed me a low-dose daily anti-anxiety/anti-depressant. It's not a benzodiazepine (Xanax, Ativan, etc.) This was a much safer medication that's been well studied and is non-addictive. It takes about 6 weeks to take full effect. I was to expect an upset stomach during the first 2 weeks of taking it.

Then we got a dog.

This is where I get really choked up in my story. I always tell people how Roxie saved my life (she did save my life from a peanut allergy one night), but not as many people know that she also saved me from suicide. We got Roxie the same week I went on my new medication. I was dealing with an upset stomach and a nervous dog. Once she came to trust us (took about 48 hours), we bonded quickly. We needed each other. She needed a person she could trust when she was scared (and at first she was ALWAYS scared), and though I didn't know it yet, I needed her to survive.

A few weeks into having her in our lives, the suicidal thoughts came back with a vengeance. I was applying for jobs and trying to be productive, but it was hard because the depression was exhausting me. This time, I was more logical about it. I knew how I would do it. For probably 3 straight days while Rhett was at work I would contemplate death. I held off because my only thought was--Roxie will be alone and confused and not know where I went and why I wasn't coming back and she will be even more scared. I couldn't do that to her. My poor, sweet, scared, shy, little girl. No. I really didn't want Rhett to have to find my body, but it was not a strong enough feeling to really stop me. I didn't want to cause any pain to my family, and I knew that my death would cause great pain to them, but I also kind of thought that they would all be able to deal with it over time, their pain wouldn't stop me. However, Roxie would never come to understand, and that stopped me. While Rhett went to work, I stayed home and let myself bond with Roxie. Taking myself out of this world seemed to me the only way that I would ever feel okay again. However, I knew if I died my family, Rhett, and my dog Roxie would all be devastated.

Simply ceasing to exist without causing pain and confusion is impossible, but I longed for it anyway. Not death. I never wanted death. I just didn't want to exist.

I started seeing a therapist, I kept taking the medication, I talked to Rhett, I got a job and I held onto Roxie. Truly, Roxie was the one who stuck to me like Velcro. Eventually, I pulled out of the darkness that overwhelmed me. It wasn't an easy journey. I don't remember a switch going off where I was suddenly okay again, it was more gradual than that, but I got there. I stayed on the medication for a year and a half. And I did well. I did more than well, I began to thrive. I weaned off seeing a therapist, and then weaned off the medication. My doctor was very kind and told me we could restart it at anytime if I feel I need it. I wasn't cured, but I was content with my life again, and dare I say...happy (mostly).

Now I can skip forward about 3 years to when I was 27 years old. Roxie was diagnosed with cancer, and in dealing with that I reached out to my doctor almost immediately. I didn't want to, but I knew I needed to be prepared for the worst. Roxie would pass about 3 months later, the day after my 28th birthday. That was 14 months ago. I think I'm ready to wean off the medication again now, but I can't imagine where I would be right now if I didn't have it working effectively in my system when she passed. Her passing alone was hard enough. It tore a hole in my heart that I don't think will ever fully heal. I've been racked with feelings of guilt for not being able to save her life when she saved mine, more than once. She was such a fighter, too. It was so unfair. She deserved so much more than what this life threw at her and I kick myself all the time for not doing better for her. By the time she got to her cancer diagnosis she had such a zest for life. She loved us, she loved going the beach, and car rides, she loved doing whatever we were doing. She loved life! She was still nervous about new things, but she had overcome her crippling fear and she fought to live. I felt like I was betraying her when we put her down, but she couldn't even walk anymore because it spread to her spine. Luckily her back didn't break. I truly feel that her purpose in this life was to save mine, but it seems so unfair that I couldn't give her the love and comfort she deserved for a whole dog-life in repayment. Her lot in this life was brutal and unfair, and it kills me to think about it. She deserved a calm and happy long life with a warm bed and ample treats. I sometimes still pray that God will give her some good ear rubs for me; She loved those.

14 months later (now 21 months) and I miss her every day. I know there are people out there who perhaps think I'm a little nuts, that I'm over-amplifying my bond with her. All I can say is, have you ever had a dog save your life? She was my reason to exist for a time, my only source of happiness in a time when it was nearly impossible for me to be happy at all. She did for me what no one else in the world could do, not even my human family members. She was a part of the family. When I tell people that I miss her still, it comes from a deeper place than most could ever imagine. To be honest, animal cruelty and pain is a very big depression trigger for me. Animals are often altruistic, and loving, and forgiving, and we don't deserve their goodness. They don't understand pain or abuse, but they still give everything they have anyway. It hurts my heart to see them in pain, even emotional pain. Humans have an understanding and have therapy to come to an understanding of life's hardships, animals do not.

9 months after Roxie's passing, we adopted Chelina, our Spanish Galga. I felt really guilty about it at first, but now I like to think Roxie is proud that we're taking in another abused, scared, and shy dog. I love my Cheli-bean. I love my Roxie. I recently read that grief is just love that has nowhere to go, and that touched my soul.

I'm grateful to feel love again. To know unconditional love. That love does come from family, but it comes from dogs in a form that is inexplicable. I know this will be a life-long battle, and I am prepared for war. I now know I have the tools, the know-how, and the dogs to weather this stormy life.

Today I was happy. Yesterday I was happy. I was happy even the day before that. I'm a generally happy person. I think. This is often why I don't feel like I can contribute to talks about depression. Some days are easier than others. Some days I just exist, survive, and some days I truly and thoroughly thrive. The darkness is always there. Sometimes it is a little ball that I can imagine holding in my hands, I know it's there and I feel its presence, but it doesn't really feel like I "have depression." Yet sometimes I'm inside of the ball, with no grasp on the edges and no escape in sight. Those are the moments I no longer want to exist. They don't come as often in recent years, but sometimes they do. That's just how it is, and how it is going to be. And you know what? Right now, that's okay. I have pushed on, become successful in my career and my education despite all of this. Because Roxie taught me to be a fighter, no matter how bad life gets. Life doesn't even have to be "bad" to feel scared or shy or overwhelmed or alone or sad, sometimes those feelings just come anyway. We can still fight to survive, though. We can still fight to feel happiness again.

And I will fight for it. For Roxie. For Rhett. For Chelina and Danni and all my future dogs. For my family. For me.