Three days ago Jenny posted this. I tweeted this in reply.
My depression began innocently enough 18 months after Turtle was born. To be more accurate, I remember standing at the patio doors clutching at the curtains and screaming at Hubs while a red haze blinded me. I was angry. Six years later I can't remember why I was angry. I know now that that was my low point. The point where I realized, Hubs realized, that something was wrong.
Thus began my cycle of medication. Medication that, six years later, my doctor and I have nearly figured out. I say nearly because I make a point of going to see the doctor at least every three months. These three month checkups are vital for me, for my family. If my medication isn't working, for whatever reason, we have to fix it. Usually we have to change the dosage. Anyone who has taken antidepressants knows that changing your dosage is somewhat of a crap shoot. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the dosage makes you a zombie, other times the dosage makes you a raging lunatic bouncing off the walls and talking like an auctioneer. Can you guess which one I'm currently experiencing?
I've come to realize that my depression is a living breathing part of me. It's not who I am, just a part of it. A part of me that I've identified as the dragon I must slay for the rest of my life. A pitch black dragon with glowing red eyes, which with the right medication, will curl up in my mind sleeping peacefully. With the wrong medication it roars to life clutching at everything, tearing, burning, destroying.
It helps, more than I realize until I need it, that there is a whole community I can turn to and say, "Help." Even when I don't actually say it, even when I spend most of the day reading blogs, watching Twitter.
I am depressed.
I am not alone.