I was diagnosed with clinical depression, a generalized anxiety disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder in February of 1995. I knew I was depressed even before my psychologist told me. I was in my sophomore year of high school and things started to drag. I wasn't having fun anymore, I didn't really want to even hang out with my friends, I started skipping classes (which is something I never would have done before), and I felt hopeless. My life seemed pointless. I tried to think of my future and how things would be but it didn't make any sense. "Why am I here?" was one of the many thoughts that ran through my mind. I wanted to sleep almost all the time, because when I was asleep nothing bothered me. I wanted to live because I was afraid of dying, but I was so sick of the way I felt and scared that I'd feel that way for the rest of my life. I started coming home from school crying and curling up in my mother's lap. I remembered reading something about depression in a magazine I had gotten awhile ago so I decided to look it up. I went through my huge stack of magazines that I had kept from years passed and found the article in the issue of 'TEEN, October 1993. This little article might have saved my life. I read the symptoms and knew they were talking about me. I told my mom what I had found and we went to a psychologist. I started having regular meetings with my psychologist but things weren't getting better. Infact, I felt worse. I had these awful feelings of derealization and it scared me. I spent many nights sleeping on the floor in my parent's room. When I wasn't getting better my psychologist suggested that I see a psychiatrist and maybe start taking some anti-depressants. At first the thought of taking medication for the way I felt bothered me, but I was desperate and hated the way I felt. I saw a psychiatrist who put me on Zoloft and also Xanax for my anxiety. He told me that it could take over a month to take
effect and that bothered me. Why couldn't it just start working now? I guess I was looking for some kind of miracle pill, but there is no such thing. And there is also no such thing as a fast recovery from depression. Following the start of my meds I still skipped class, felt awful, cried often, and hated everything. I didn't think there was any hope. My high school band had been planning a trip to Myrtle Beach, S. Carolina and it was time. I had been anticipating this moment since my seventh grade year but the night we were to leave I started crying. I told mom I didn't want to go, but somehow I got on that bus anyways and I am so glad that I did. That trip was the best time of my life. On my way to Myrtle Beach and while I was there I felt wonderful. I didn't feel like I had been feeling and the ocean was the most calming thing ever! Knowing I had to go back home to the same old thing, the awful routine of being depressed, made me upset. On the ride home I actually cried cause I didn't want to go home, but I had to. I got home and things were a bit more up, but I missed being in Myrtle Beach already. I can't tell you exactly when I started to feel better (I refuse to use the word "normal" because I have yet to figure out what normal really is) because it happened so gradual that I really didn't even notice it. It took a long time, I won't lie to you, but now I feel better. I still have my good days and my bad days. I still have a few days when I feel that awful hopeless, pointless feeling again, but I say to myself, "I've gotten thru this before and I can do it again." I'm still on my Zoloft to help from a relapse back into depression but I don't care. If that pill will keep me feeling alive then I will gladly take it for the rest of my life. I don't think I'll ever be totally free of depression, but at least now I can deal with it. Suicide is not the answer-that's too permanent. You can work through it, I made it, and so can you.
