With A Little Help From My Meds

This year has already been full of celebrations. In January we celebrated our first wedding anniversary, one year of living in Charleston, and my 23rd birthday. Every time we hit a new milestone we look back and are again amazed at how the Lord has spoiled us over this past year. These days it's super easy to remember special days because of my handy-dandy TimeHop app! This month, I was pleasantly surprised when a picture popped up and reminded me of something huge that I should be celebrating. It was around one year ago that I had my first appointment with a psychiatrist and started taking an anti-depressant.

The super cute office of my psychiatrist, Dr. Linda Austin.

I consider this an anniversary worth celebrating, because the day I made the decision to get some professional help with my depression was truly a turning point. As many of you know, my journey with depression started at the end of my freshman year. Throughout college I battled through several seasons of severe depression, despite the fact that my actual life contained very few issues worthy of those negative emotions. Along with the depression came embarrassment, confusion, spiritual turmoil and bitterness. In these seasons I was constantly asking myself "Why do I, a young woman who has everything she could possibly want or need in life,  have the mental state of someone who's life is empty and hopeless?" 

It was embarrassing, and definitely nothing to waste people's time with. I had no reason to be depressed, so therapy would be a waste. Everyone else is able to deal with their emotions, so I should be able to as well. If I just become a better christian, I'll be more joyful. No-one wants to hear a spoiled little girl talk about how sad she is when there are real problems in the world and real victims to help. These were all of the thoughts and fears that kept me believing that I didn't need or deserve any help.

The depression would last a few months, and then there would be a few months of relief. Whenever I finally felt better, I convinced myself that I would not let it happen again. But alas, it always came creeping back. This is the best way I can describe how the moment of recognizing my depression feels... I am on a walk on a beautiful day. The sky is the brightest blue, the flowers have newly blossomed, birds are chirping, students are laughing together at a picnic table and I am completely disconnected from it all. The sounds, the feeling of warm sunlight on my skin, the wind, the peace... I know it should be there, but instead it all just feels empty. Life and all of it's beautiful moments pass me by while I watch and mourn.

Sophomore year of college: all smiles on the outside and all turmoil on the inside.

Luckily for me, we are not alone on this earth. In the depths of my despair, in the emptiness, in the moments when I believed God had forgotten me, He sent me help. At the time I wouldn't have called it help (because I was hell bent on believing that I had been abandoned by God), but I now recognize how my people were holding me up in those moments. I distinctly remember chatting with Jessica Riddle (my sorority big sister) at the student center Subway as she read me an old entry from her journal in which she had chronicled feelings very similar to my own. I remember crying with Megan in the basement of our parent's house the first time I ever admitted out loud that I was "depressed". I remember night after night of Austin holding me as I cried and cursed God for leaving me like this. Everyone needs people like that, people that remind you of who you are and what you believe when it all seems very fuzzy and uncertain.

Eventually I opened up to more people. I became more #authentic. And the fun thing is that when you decide to open up, other people open up to you too. Again and again I was shocked to hear other people's stories of depression, anxiety, fear, doubt, etc. For me, sympathy is nice, but empathy has the ability to heal. Empathy comes from those that deeply understand your hurt, because they've felt it too. They've been just as confused. They know what's up, and that's refreshing. Especially in the christian world, where joy seems to be the ultimate sign that you've got your spiritual crap together.

I spent several years knowing the realness of my feelings without acknowledging the legitimacy of my illness, and then senior year came along and I got a couple of pushes in the right direction. First, during a session of pre-marital counseling with our therapist, she told me that I had indeed been experiencing depression. She suggested that seeing a psychiatrist could be a good option for me if I ever decided that I wanted more help. Secondly, someone told me that they took an antidepressant. I had literally never had anyone tell me that before, and in this particular situation I was even more surprised. This girl is one of the peppiest and most positive people I have ever met, and she was sitting there telling me that she had been seeing a psychiatrist and taking antidepressants for years. Without an ounce of embarrassment or shame. I was shocked and inspired and forever changed after that conversation.

Thankful for a year of truly enjoying sunny Sundays on King Street.

Last February, just after some of the most joyful months of my life, I suddenly felt the depression creeping back. And I panicked, because honestly if I couldn't be joyful in those circumstances then there must be something medically wrong with me. Luckily, this time I knew there was nothing to lose. I found the best psychiatrist in Charleston, I prayed that the Lord would take care of me, and I went for it. After a 2 hour session I had a diagnosis and a game plan. It was such a relief to sit there with a trained professional and to hear her say "your emotions might confuse you, but they make a lot of sense in the light of depression". I translated that as "you aren't crazy, and your situation deserves your attention". We had a lengthy chat about the pros and cons of anti-depressants and determined that they could really be helpful in my case.

I started my medication the next day, and it was one of the best decisions I've ever made. One year in and I can count on one hand the number of days that I've dealt with depression. This year I experienced a whole lot of extraordinarily joyful moments, and a few that were almost unbearably devastating. But this time my emotions matched the circumstances. It seems like such an obvious decision to make now, but back then asking for help was terrifying. I cannot tell you how thankful I am that I finally overcame the ridiculous things holding me back from getting treatment.

Getting by with a little help from my meds (and my friends),
Kelly

P.S. One of the reasons I wanted to post about this is because of the "stigma" surrounding depression and anti-depressants. Thankfully a whole lot more people these days are talking about mental health in a compassionate way, but I have still run into people who literally say to my face "Oh, well I don't really believe in anti-depressants." They share horror stories about people taking certain medications, or give a spiel about the healing power of prayer, or they suggest exercising more to get those natural endorphins. The thing is that starting my medication was literally my last resort. I exercised like crazy, I ate healthy, I prayed endlessly, I slept more, I tried it all... but for me those things weren't enough. So, even if you "don't believe" in anti-depressants, maybe just don't use that as your response the next time someone talks to you about their problems. They are being courageous just admitting their issues to you, and your lack of belief in one of their last remaining chances for healing is not helpful and is kind of cruel. End of rant.

For more information on depression: https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/depression/index.shtml
Psychiatrists in Georgia: http://www.wellness.com/find/psychiatrist/ga
Psychiatrists in Charleston: http://www.wellness.com/find/psychiatrist/sc/charleston