Dee dum dee dum...

I don’t normally talk about my depression. It’s not really the done thing, I suppose. But I was talking to a friend of mine yesterday, and realised that far more people have it than is commonly thought. The stigma attached to “mental illness” is unfair and does far more harm than good. For example, my ex boyfriend thought that having depression meant that I was inherently cuckoo. I tried to explain that it was an illness in the same way that asthma is- you take the medication (or asthma inhaler) and then it is as if there is nothing wrong with you. Although, being a rational person, he was completely capable of understanding this, he chose to dismiss this theory. Instead he would call me “mental” whenever he wanted to win an argument. Or he would ignore my opinion on something that differed from him, saying that I was crazy, and what would I know…

That kind of attitude to mental health- in this apparently enlightened day and age- is very worrying, not to mention completely counter-productive.

I’ve now reached the point where if I don’t talk about my own depression, then it just perpetuates the whole cycle I despise so much. Depression really isn’t uncommon. I am twenty-one.

I have had depression for about ten years now. It wasn’t diagnosed then. I first went to the doctor when I was fifteen. At sixteen I was sent to therapy by my school. At eighteen I went back to the doctor and started my first anti-depressants. Since then I’ve taken six different types, as well as beta-blockers.

The first time I went to the doctor, they told me that it was just a teenage thing, and that I should basically just get over it. I’ve been self harming since I was about twelve. Then at sixth form, a teacher noticed my arms and told my senior tutor, who sent me to see a therapist. I really didn’t like the therapist; she was incredibly patronising, and kept her room far to warm, so all I felt like doing was falling asleep. I stopped going, but continued self harming. I started taking beta blockers to deal with the signs of my nervousness. In the summer before I went to university, I realised that I had a problem. At the time, I was standing on a bridge- a footbridge- and thinking how I should probably just throw myself off. I went to the doctor, who put me on the first of the many SSRI’s I have taken.

When I came to London, in September 2002, I started to lose the plot even more. I started going out with my ex, and we took a lot of drugs together. I was sleeping about ten hours a week, and keeping a diary of everything I was eating. I was completely convinced that no one liked me, and cried a lot of the time. I went to the university doctor. I was told that I had clinical depression and severe anxiety disorder. They gave me Venlafaxine to deal with my depression and Diazepam to help me sleep. I started seeing a new therapist, who was also patronising, but less so than the last one. But I kept taking all the other drugs, and I didn’t get any better. I vividly recall lying in my bed in halls, and thinking how much effort it would take to get up and walk across the street to the A&E department. In the end I didn’t, I just took a packet of pain killers instead.

Fast forward a year and I was no longer living in halls, and had stopped taking the anti-depressants as I couldn’t see any benefits. I’d also stopped taking the Diazepam, but only because I couldn’t get them to prescribe me any more. I was still pretty fucked up, and eventually went back to the doctor, fearing I was losing my mind. They put me on some other SSRI’s. I had to take a high dose to feel anything, and then I really suffered with the side effects. Well, one side effect really. I completely lost my sex drive. As if the doctor doesn’t think you’re mental enough, I reveal that I’m actually a nymphomaniac. After that I tried yet another SSRI.

Like a kid in a candy store, picking out penny sweets.

In the spring of 2004, I started at a new doctor. The doctor I had was the nicest doctor I have ever had. He really took the time to listen to me, and was just lovely. He decided that I should try Venlafaxine again, but a modified release version, which would mean only taking one tablet a day. I am sure that some people have had positive results using Venlafaxine, but I had a terrible experience. Soon after starting on a high dose, I developed some of the nasty side-effects you get when you mess around with these drugs- namely agitation, anxiety, disturbed sleep and mania. I felt crazier than had I not been taking anything. I went back to the doctor and was sent to the psychiatric hospital. They put me back on SSRI’s, and then a month later, doubled the dose. I’ve been on 100mg- which is double the recommended maintenance dose, but half the maximum dose- for 18 months.

But not any more. And boy, I am suffering. For those who’ve never had SSRI withdrawal, I will attempt to explain how it feels, and why the hell I would want to do this.

You know that feeling on a rollercoaster, where you feel like you’ve left your head at the top of a loop, and your stomach somewhere else? That’s how I feel, all the time. If I move, it’s worse, but it happens even when I’m sitting down, staying still. It’s like walking in the funhouse. Add to this the feeling that your legs aren’t really attached to your body. And aching muscles through clenching too much, a sore head and always, always being too hot, except when I’m unbearably cold. That’s pretty much how I’m feeling right now.

I didn’t mean to come off them. Not now anyway. Not after my little crazy episode the other week. But the truth of the matter is, I ran out of money and I can’t afford to get my prescription. I’m carrying it around with me, waiting until pay day when I can stop this out of body experience.

In a way, it’s nice not to be taking them, even though I know that I should really get back to taking them again before I throw myself under a bus or similar (already I’m thinking about jumping out of windows). But it’s nice not taking anything, not being reliant on anything. The drugs companies are cunts. I read an article in the Guardian on Saturday about SSRI’s. I’ll try and link it to this blog, though it might not work- I’m not overly technical. Basically it said that SSRI’s didn’t have great results in trials versus placebos and that they caused suicidal feelings, as well as being “more difficult to come off them than anticipated”. I’ll fucking say. And while it’s nice to not be taking anything, and not lining the pockets of some pharmaceutical company, I now that I’m on a much thinner tightrope than when I’m taking my pill of sanity every morning.

I so want to cure this through sheer willpower. I keep looking at the prescription in my bag and contemplating throwing it away. But all I want to do is get my drugs and take them, and make everything okay. I’m so hooked on these things. An SSRI junkie.

In other news… I’m sure absolutely no one is reading this now, seeing as I have just decided to share my medical history with the world…The HR department at work have finally stopped making pension deductions from my pay. I have no intention of building up a pension at the moment. Let’s take into consideration the huge amount of debt I’m in. Does it really seem like I have spare cash so when I’m 85 I can go to Waitrose and not Asda? I don’t understand all the fuss about the retirement age going up. I’m going to working until I kick the bucket. I don’t think I can afford not to. Though if there are any rich men out there reading this, then offers off marriage to the following address…. (I may not be able to get rid of my debt, but I have no qualms about getting other people to do it for me)

What else? I haven’t forgotten that I need to lay out my new philosophy, courtesy of A (T's housemate). You’ll have to wait for that one though.

I’ve made a list of things to do this week. So far it’s going well. The list is:

- Sleep in my own bed every night this week. This is instead of anyone else’s sofa or random people’s beds. I didn’t buy these bed covers just to look pretty, you know.

- Take a packed lunch to work every day. I managed that today, and made enough tonight to take in tomorrow.

- Don’t use the vending machine at work. Smarties chocolate bars are not your friend.

- Apply for my Masters course. Going well so far. I’ve even emailed my old tutors to get references.

- Get a haircut. Haven’t managed that one yet, but it is only Monday after all. I’ve called my hairdresser but I don’t think he’s returning my calls. Yes, hairdressing really IS that lame!

- Go to the bank. And grovel. Nuff said.

- Finish reading that sociology book I started ages ago. I really should stop being so lazy.

- Stop obsessing about the fact that certain people haven’t texted you back. I’m not naming names as that would reveal the shameful depths of lameness I’ve sunk to.

I’ll give a progress report at the end of the week. I’m sure I will have done fabulously.

Right, time to have a ciggie out of the bedroom window.

I just realised that I no longer talk to people about what I’ve been up to or how I feel as I write it all down here. I hope that means that I have more time for fun, rather than the other interpretation, which would be that I have no friends and these people are just happy to have got away. You’d think it would be an easy decision, but I’m actually scuppered on this one.