Bell Jar Days

Most days without my medicine are just fine. Yesterday was not one of those days.

It comes on like a distant tremor. A herd of buffalo stampeding in the distance, and I am that lone rabbit. Frozen. Listening. Doomed. She may not be a creature equipped with rational reasoning, but she is one packed with instinct. One who knows in every fiber of her body what that faraway rumble means. One who knows she doesn’t have a chance.

If you’ve lived with depression, you know exactly what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, you may be rolling your eyes. I spent many years trying to explain it to Dave, but he’s one of the blessed ones. He could never for a minute understand. Don’t get me wrong - he’s sweet, and he’s empathetic, and by now he takes it seriously, but he will never understand it. I pray our girls are the same way.

The rest of my family has been screwing Lady Depression on the side for years. I can name three family members off the top of my head who have, at one time or another, locked themselves in a room with a shotgun. Holiday gatherings are impromptu AA meetings, and half of us are medicated. It’s made for some gut-wrenching moments over the years, but it’s also created a group with an immense capacity to love unconditionally. There is no petty drama in my family. There is no way to do any wrong. There is no one who hasn’t “been there”, and no one takes it personally if you need to spend Thanksgiving skulking in the corner. No one enters - or leaves - a room, without hugging every single person in it. Ironically, there’s a whole lot of laughter. When we come together, it is out of respect and love and a genuine desire to see one another. We may have our skull-crushing moments individually, but as a group it’s all straight-up joy. You tell me which is worse.

It hit about 2:00pm yesterday. I felt it the way an old man feels a storm coming in his knees, but I had no umbrella in sight. I knew I should find shelter for Emma at least, but I couldn’t do it. I sunk down into the couch and I didn’t move for four more hours, until Dave rode in on his white horse. I did nothing, except, interestingly enough, blog.

The aforementioned vodka in yesterday’s post was poetic license. When it hits, I’m paralyzed. In those moments, smothered beneath a damp, mildewed blanket, I couldn’t pour a drink if I wanted to. And the worst part, when you’re trapped inside yourself like that, is the piss-poor company. The bitter voice coldly listing off your failures for you. Chastising you for your laziness, your inability to cope. Screeching about your poor parenting skills, beseeching you to look at your daughter over there, half naked, glazed eyes riveted on Spongebob, fingers greasy with chips. You know what you should do. You should get up. Take a walk. Do one simple yoga stretch. Shower, for chrissake. Engage your child, she might make you laugh. Do something to break the spell. But you can’t, and that’s why it’s a disease.

By now, you must be ready to wring my neck. If this is all true, why don’t you take your goddamn medicine then?? I know. I can hear you. But, strangely enough, on this my own inner voice is silent. She doesn’t know what’s right.

The God’s honest truth is the medicine makes me fat. YEAH, I SAID IT. Shake your head. Cluck into your lap. But until you’ve been the places I’ve been with weight, until you’ve had your head inside the toilet bowl, tears mixed with vomit, until you’ve known just how awful it is to hate your body with such vehemence, you can’t say it isn’t worse to be depressed than fat. You can’t truly weigh what’s worse for my sanity.

(I’m sorry, Harriet. I know I signed that pledge. I guess I lied. I’m not ready.)

There’s other stuff, too, but I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t the main reason. It is what it is. So I do this, I cycle on and off. Maybe six months off, I have one of these episodes and say enough, and call the doctor. We try another one, one they say won’t cause weight gain, and I go through all the crappy side effects that come part and parcel with trying a new medicine, and, usually around week three, I start to feel good again. Then, another six months - and thirty pounds - later, I’ve had it and I quit, suffering again through the crappy side effects that come part and parcel with drug withdrawal. And then most days are OK. Sure, maybe I’m stressed more readily, or I might be quicker to snap in anger, but I’m fine and I feel mostly normal. Except for those Bell Jar days….

I would like to publicly apologize to my parents for this post. I know you worry, but you shouldn’t. I’m not suicidal, and I never have been. For every Bell Jar Day there are twenty good ones, and even a handful of great ones. Certain things help; last night I finally read a book, after a long dry spell (you know how long) and it was lovely. I even stayed up til Midnight reading. I woke this morning and I felt good. I showered and everything. And then I sat down here, to write these words, because this feels good too. This blog is good for me. Writing is good for me.

Today is a new day, clearer without the dull prism of the dusty, diamond-cut glass. No Bell Jar here.

November 16th’s gratefulness: Today I am grateful that Dave does not have mouth cancer. (YEAH, that’s totally another blog.)