I’ve mentioned in some previous posts that I’ve been struggling for some time. At least I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned it previously…
Those struggles have included really dealing with depression and anxiety in ways that I never have before. This has been going on for months… nearly a year, really. The anxiety I blame on the pandemic and getting used to spending so little time in public with crowds of people. The depression… Well that runs deeper.
Which is why I’ve been seeing a therapist since February. Took me long enough to finally figure out that this was something that could be helpful. Even though I’ve been aware of this need for well over a decade. Clearly I am not one to generally practice what I preach.
In the time since I began therapy, I’ve actually been kind of proud of the progress I’ve made. I’ve managed to start unpacking a lot of things from my past, dealing with not only my current issues but the ones that I’ve repressed since forever. However, in spite of any progress I’ve made in counseling, I still find myself struggling with depression on a daily basis.
I can’t tell you how many days I just don’t want to get out of bed. I force myself to do so, of course, because I still have to pay rent and buy groceries and put gas in my car. But I hate it… I hate everything. I mean, wasn’t it just last week that I wrote about being in a funk and losing even my ability to care about keeping up with something as simple as this blog?
Another thing I’ve done, now that I can be considered an adult, is finally find a primary care physician. That’s right, I have a doctor. I’m on blood pressure medication. I’m putting my insurance to work for me for the first time in my life. After a rough weekend and an emotional discussion with my mother, I decided it was time to see about the possibility of trying out medication to help with my depression.
I’ll be honest… this is not something I wanted to do. When I was a teenager, back when I was hospitalized for that pesky eating disorder, I was on a cocktail of random anti-depressants that were changed at various times throughout my seven week stay. Toward the end, they even had me on Haldol, an anti-psychotic. When all of that medical experimentation resulted in my having a seizure (which they tried to blame on a magnesium deficiency… uh, yeah, right), well, let’s just say I look back on being prescribed psychotropic medications as a less than positive thing.
But I know how many people can be and are helped by these medications. And it’s time for me to see if they can help me, too. So I’ve been prescribed Sertraline, which I think is a generic form of Zoloft. That was one of the meds they had me on back in the day. No idea if it did anything for me back then or not.
The thing is… I was only hospitalized for seven weeks (only?) and it can take four to six weeks for the effects of an anti-depressant to really begin showing. So was my psychiatrist really giving my medications time to kick in? Or was he just rolling the dice once or twice a week to see what would happen?
At least, this time, I know what I’m doing. And I have a primary care physician who knows what she’s doing. So in four to six weeks, I could be a new man.